You think you had a bad day today? You’ve got nothing on me.
It started out great. Not much traffic on the way in to work. My boss took the day off leading into the long weekend. I took a long lunch, got caught up on some projects, and snuck out of work a bit early.
So far, so good.
Great drive home as most of the traffic was headed the other way, out of town for the weekend. Weather is fabulous, some great music on the radio. I’m thinking of what we’re going to do over the long weekend. I’m feeling fantastic.
The instant I walk in the house it starts to go wrong. I suddenly feel nauseous. I get dizzy, almost fall down. Intense paid shoots up both legs. My chest feels like it’s going to explode.
I fall to my knees, crawl forward. What’s happening? A heart attack? Now my head starts to pound, my ears are ringing like an overloaded call center. I lurch into the living room, fall flat on my face. I struggle to roll over, sure I’m going to die. I can’t do it. Not wanting the last thing I see to be our (somewhat dirty, I notice) carpet, I gather every last bit of strength I can muster, close my eyes, grit my teeth and am somehow able to roll over onto my back.
I can feel consciousness slipping away. I open my eyes; everything is blurry. I see shapes moving, I hear voices. Two figures in white coats are looking down on me, conversing. I stain to hear what they are saying. Are they angels? Is this really the end?
They lean closer, staring at me. I could swear their brows are furrowed.
White coats…could they be…doctors? In my house?
I squint, straining to see. They seem young, too young to be doctors. And now I’m staring to pick up bits of conversation.
“He needs a shot.”
“We have to cut off his legs.”
“Let’s try some medicine.”
The next thing I know I’m being given about 50 shots, all over my body. Most of them are directed into my belly button, but some go to my neck, my ears, and a couple in my nose. Someone is sawing at my leg with a plastic saw, and I’m being force-fed a handful of colorful pills that taste suspiciously like M&Ms.
Despite the unorthodox treatment, I’m starting to feel better. I’m able to sit up. Now someone is taking my blood pressure – around my neck. Not the best way to do it, perhaps, but hey, I’m feeling even better. I might actually pull through!
The crisis is eventually averted. Dad will make it, and none the worse for where. Thanks to the spectacular treatment provided by Doctor Chris and Doctor Tommy, Dad will live to provide tickles at bedtime.
Doogie Howser has nothing on these two child prodigies, I can tell you that!
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Reminiscing
I’m sitting on the back deck after work watching Chris and Tommy play in the sandbox. It’s a beautiful spring evening; warm sunshine fills the back yard. The dress shirt and slacks have been replaced by a t-shirt and shorts. The boys are playing together nicely, sharing the sand toys and getting along. My wife is across town enjoying a visit with her sister.
Life is good.
Sometimes when I watch my kids play I think back to when I was their age. This is one of those times. Everyone tells me Chris, nearly five years old now, looks just like me. I guess I’d have to agree. I’ve looked at some of my old pictures and he certainly looks like I did when I was five. We share many traits – some physical, some behavioral. Sometimes, when watching Chris, it’s like going back in time and seeing myself so many long years ago.
That leads to thoughts of my father. Did he sit on a back deck in New England, where we grew up, watching me play on a warm spring evening? I would guess yes, but I don’t have a specific memory of that. I am less like him than Chris is like me. I don’t really resemble him physically, and we have a different personality type. Still, I find that as a father I am more like him than I was growing up.
It has occurred to me a few times that I know little about my dad before he was, well, my dad. He has a whole life story, a wealth of experiences, which took place before I was born.
Of course I have asked him about his life before me, and he has shared some things. He loved Maple Walnut ice cream as a kid. He loved to play golf, but could not afford to do that very often. He played high school football.
Yet other than a few stories or anecdotes, I know little about what it was like to be him growing up. He had a life before marriage, before kids – before me. What was it like? What were his dreams, his aspirations? His hopes, his fears? What experiences did he have that were meaningful, profound, extraordinary that I know nothing about, yet influenced the man he became – the man who would become my dad?
I can only hope they were good. I hope he did many things and had many good times. Perhaps some day we’ll talk about them a bit more.
I think of these things as I watch Chris. He knows nothing of who I was or what I did prior to his birth. Nor should he, at this point. But there are times like this, when I have a moment to contemplate life, that I think back to the days before I had kids, before I became The Family Man, and realize that those years were a life in and of themselves.
Specifically tonight I’m remembering another warm spring evening almost 15 years ago. I was The Single Man then (though no blog exists to record those days – which is probably a good thing). I was dating a very attractive woman, a local television reporter, who was often recognized when we were out. I was driving a bright red convertible. We had no particular place to go that night, and were just out for a drive around town, the top down, radio playing, enjoying each others’ company.
At that moment in life I was riding high, personally and professionally. I was single, carefree, debt free. Life was good. And as we were driving around I noticed the occasional glace from other guys, looking at my girlfriend, my car, and I knew that at that particular moment in time, they wished they were me.
That was a good night. In fact, that was a good year.
I slowly drift back to the present. My boys, remarkably, are still playing nicely together. I see them sharing, smiling, and laughing as they move piles of sand back and forth. I’m happy that my wife is getting a chance to visit with her sister without any distractions.
These days I drive an SUV with two car seats. I have a mortgage, college funds, mutual funds, bills like you wouldn’t believe. I’m pressed for time, stressed at work and don’t cut quite the dashing figure I did many years ago.
I look out over my backyard, watching my two little boys who know me only as Dad. I’m pleased they have a safe place to play, a warm, loving home to grow up in. They are, in fact, growing up too fast. I know that what I have today, what my wife and I have built together, is something special. Memories are great – but it’s good to have something tangible in the here and now.
Yes, it was good to be The Single Man.
But it’s great to be The Family Man.
Life is good.
Sometimes when I watch my kids play I think back to when I was their age. This is one of those times. Everyone tells me Chris, nearly five years old now, looks just like me. I guess I’d have to agree. I’ve looked at some of my old pictures and he certainly looks like I did when I was five. We share many traits – some physical, some behavioral. Sometimes, when watching Chris, it’s like going back in time and seeing myself so many long years ago.
That leads to thoughts of my father. Did he sit on a back deck in New England, where we grew up, watching me play on a warm spring evening? I would guess yes, but I don’t have a specific memory of that. I am less like him than Chris is like me. I don’t really resemble him physically, and we have a different personality type. Still, I find that as a father I am more like him than I was growing up.
It has occurred to me a few times that I know little about my dad before he was, well, my dad. He has a whole life story, a wealth of experiences, which took place before I was born.
Of course I have asked him about his life before me, and he has shared some things. He loved Maple Walnut ice cream as a kid. He loved to play golf, but could not afford to do that very often. He played high school football.
Yet other than a few stories or anecdotes, I know little about what it was like to be him growing up. He had a life before marriage, before kids – before me. What was it like? What were his dreams, his aspirations? His hopes, his fears? What experiences did he have that were meaningful, profound, extraordinary that I know nothing about, yet influenced the man he became – the man who would become my dad?
I can only hope they were good. I hope he did many things and had many good times. Perhaps some day we’ll talk about them a bit more.
I think of these things as I watch Chris. He knows nothing of who I was or what I did prior to his birth. Nor should he, at this point. But there are times like this, when I have a moment to contemplate life, that I think back to the days before I had kids, before I became The Family Man, and realize that those years were a life in and of themselves.
Specifically tonight I’m remembering another warm spring evening almost 15 years ago. I was The Single Man then (though no blog exists to record those days – which is probably a good thing). I was dating a very attractive woman, a local television reporter, who was often recognized when we were out. I was driving a bright red convertible. We had no particular place to go that night, and were just out for a drive around town, the top down, radio playing, enjoying each others’ company.
At that moment in life I was riding high, personally and professionally. I was single, carefree, debt free. Life was good. And as we were driving around I noticed the occasional glace from other guys, looking at my girlfriend, my car, and I knew that at that particular moment in time, they wished they were me.
That was a good night. In fact, that was a good year.
I slowly drift back to the present. My boys, remarkably, are still playing nicely together. I see them sharing, smiling, and laughing as they move piles of sand back and forth. I’m happy that my wife is getting a chance to visit with her sister without any distractions.
These days I drive an SUV with two car seats. I have a mortgage, college funds, mutual funds, bills like you wouldn’t believe. I’m pressed for time, stressed at work and don’t cut quite the dashing figure I did many years ago.
I look out over my backyard, watching my two little boys who know me only as Dad. I’m pleased they have a safe place to play, a warm, loving home to grow up in. They are, in fact, growing up too fast. I know that what I have today, what my wife and I have built together, is something special. Memories are great – but it’s good to have something tangible in the here and now.
Yes, it was good to be The Single Man.
But it’s great to be The Family Man.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Slipping the Surly Bonds
There comes a point in life when everything changes.
A point when boundaries are crossed, shackles are broken, limits are no more. A point from which, joyously, there is no going back. A point from which, where you once were, you no longer are nor will ever be again.
A point from which the sweet nectar of freedom is delicious, intoxicating, and flows from a bottomless fountain.
A point arrived at by the acceptance of a challenge, the undertaking of a mission, and the swift, sure accomplishment of something so monumental, meaningful and profound that it changes you, and those around you, forever.
An accomplishment of such magnitude that these mere words almost disrespect it, simply in their feeble attempt to describe its significance.
Today the training wheels came off the bicycle of my four-year old son, Chris.
With every revolution of his pedals I could see the transformation. The confidence, growing with every turn. The sense of possibilities, once so remote, now so near. The pure joy in the Right of Passage.
God help us all.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
A point when boundaries are crossed, shackles are broken, limits are no more. A point from which, joyously, there is no going back. A point from which, where you once were, you no longer are nor will ever be again.
A point from which the sweet nectar of freedom is delicious, intoxicating, and flows from a bottomless fountain.
A point arrived at by the acceptance of a challenge, the undertaking of a mission, and the swift, sure accomplishment of something so monumental, meaningful and profound that it changes you, and those around you, forever.
An accomplishment of such magnitude that these mere words almost disrespect it, simply in their feeble attempt to describe its significance.
Today the training wheels came off the bicycle of my four-year old son, Chris.
With every revolution of his pedals I could see the transformation. The confidence, growing with every turn. The sense of possibilities, once so remote, now so near. The pure joy in the Right of Passage.
God help us all.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Bed Check II
I’ve mentioned before in this journal that, as I am the last one to bed in my house most nights, I always look in on each of my two boys to make sure they are okay before I go to sleep. I’ve done it every night since my oldest was born – coming up on five years now.
Occasionally I will find one or the other with all covers kicked off, or half hanging out of the bed. I have found each boy completely on the floor on a couple of occasions. Most nights I simply watch them sleep for a moment, adjust their covers slightly, gently kiss them on the forehead and head off to bed.
Lately, however, my oldest boy Chris will tell me as we’re tucking him in that he intends to sleep “upside down” in his bed, meaning his feet on his pillows and his head at the other end. It goes something like this:
“Goodnight, Chris.”
“Dad, I’m going to sleep with my feet here,” pointing at his pillows, “and my head here,” pointing to the foot of his bed.
Doing my best to put a stern look on my face, I say, “Chris, you’ll sleep with your head here,” pointing at his pillows, “and your feet there,” pointing the other way.
“Dad, Dad, okay, let me tell you,” he says, grinning mischievously, “My head here,” pointing to one side of his bed, “and feet here,” pointing the opposite way.
“Head here.” I point directly at the pillows. “Feet here.” Pointing down.
“No, Dad,” he laughs, “Head here, feet there,” he says, pointing in about eight different directions.
I wrestle him under the covers and tuck him in tightly, saying “I’ll just hold you here all night then!”
We wrestle a bit more until I finally subdue him with tickles. I kiss him one last time and say goodnight. Pausing at his door, I look back at him, already starting to doze off.
Two hours later, making my rounds, I check on him.
Sleeping soundly.
Feet on his pillows, head the other way.
Smiling.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Occasionally I will find one or the other with all covers kicked off, or half hanging out of the bed. I have found each boy completely on the floor on a couple of occasions. Most nights I simply watch them sleep for a moment, adjust their covers slightly, gently kiss them on the forehead and head off to bed.
Lately, however, my oldest boy Chris will tell me as we’re tucking him in that he intends to sleep “upside down” in his bed, meaning his feet on his pillows and his head at the other end. It goes something like this:
“Goodnight, Chris.”
“Dad, I’m going to sleep with my feet here,” pointing at his pillows, “and my head here,” pointing to the foot of his bed.
Doing my best to put a stern look on my face, I say, “Chris, you’ll sleep with your head here,” pointing at his pillows, “and your feet there,” pointing the other way.
“Dad, Dad, okay, let me tell you,” he says, grinning mischievously, “My head here,” pointing to one side of his bed, “and feet here,” pointing the opposite way.
“Head here.” I point directly at the pillows. “Feet here.” Pointing down.
“No, Dad,” he laughs, “Head here, feet there,” he says, pointing in about eight different directions.
I wrestle him under the covers and tuck him in tightly, saying “I’ll just hold you here all night then!”
We wrestle a bit more until I finally subdue him with tickles. I kiss him one last time and say goodnight. Pausing at his door, I look back at him, already starting to doze off.
Two hours later, making my rounds, I check on him.
Sleeping soundly.
Feet on his pillows, head the other way.
Smiling.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Trailer Trash
It started in February 2004. It was a cold, snowy weekend and we were looking for something to do with the kids. My wife had been talking to one of her friends earlier in the day, and this friend happened to mention they were going to the RV show. My wife said, “Maybe that would be something to do this afternoon.”
So we loaded up the truck and went to see RVs. 5th wheels, Motor Homes.
Chris and Tommy loved it. When we walked through the door into the convention center Chris stopped dead in his tracks and said, “Look at all these Camping Machines!”
Thus the name was born. We spend a couple of hours there that day, and over the course of that time I thought maybe this would be a fun way for our family to spend time together – get one of these ‘camping machines’ and explore our part of the country. After all, we live in a place with fantastic access to mountains, lakes and National Parks within a day’s drive. What better way to spend quality time as a family, away from the city, TV, video games and the normal routine?
I spend the next year doing research on RVs, tow vehicles, and the whole camping lifestyle. The more my wife and I talked about it the more we thought it would be fun to give it a try. I spend hundreds of hours online (rv.net is a great resource) looking at trailer specs, reading message boards and asking questions. It took some time but I started to understand what would be a good fit four our family, our travel plans and our budget.
This past February we went back to the RV show. Three times in two days. We narrowed our selections to four models. The week after the show I went to the dealers and looked at each one more carefully. Two weeks later we ordered the one we liked best from the factory.
Today we picked it up and drove it home.
Out two boys couldn’t be more excited. We ate lunch in the Camping Machine – in the driveway. We ate dinner in the Camping Machine. In the driveway. And right now they are both sleeping in the Camping Machine. In the driveway.
And I’m writing this in the Camping Machine. IN the driveway. Before I, too, will go to sleep in the Camping Machine. In the driveway.
My wife is in bed already. In the house.
Maybe next weekend we’ll go camping.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
So we loaded up the truck and went to see RVs. 5th wheels, Motor Homes.
Chris and Tommy loved it. When we walked through the door into the convention center Chris stopped dead in his tracks and said, “Look at all these Camping Machines!”
Thus the name was born. We spend a couple of hours there that day, and over the course of that time I thought maybe this would be a fun way for our family to spend time together – get one of these ‘camping machines’ and explore our part of the country. After all, we live in a place with fantastic access to mountains, lakes and National Parks within a day’s drive. What better way to spend quality time as a family, away from the city, TV, video games and the normal routine?
I spend the next year doing research on RVs, tow vehicles, and the whole camping lifestyle. The more my wife and I talked about it the more we thought it would be fun to give it a try. I spend hundreds of hours online (rv.net is a great resource) looking at trailer specs, reading message boards and asking questions. It took some time but I started to understand what would be a good fit four our family, our travel plans and our budget.
This past February we went back to the RV show. Three times in two days. We narrowed our selections to four models. The week after the show I went to the dealers and looked at each one more carefully. Two weeks later we ordered the one we liked best from the factory.
Today we picked it up and drove it home.
Out two boys couldn’t be more excited. We ate lunch in the Camping Machine – in the driveway. We ate dinner in the Camping Machine. In the driveway. And right now they are both sleeping in the Camping Machine. In the driveway.
And I’m writing this in the Camping Machine. IN the driveway. Before I, too, will go to sleep in the Camping Machine. In the driveway.
My wife is in bed already. In the house.
Maybe next weekend we’ll go camping.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Talk Dirty to Me
I am a great believer in the power of words. I am absolutely convinced that the right combination of specific words, uttered in the manner and tone of voice, will accomplish things that cannot be done if those words are not spoken.
For example, when changing a flat tire, the rusted lug nut can only be loosened by combining brute strength and a steaming tirade of four-letter words.
My two boys, while not yet equipped with those particular phrases (thank goodness) have entered that period in their lives where they are beginning to discover that certain words or phrases, said at the right times, can make interesting things happen.
Example #1 - Want to turn Mom’s face red AND make your brother laugh hysterically? When standing in the grocery store check-out line, announce in a very loud voice, “I just made a big stinker!” This generates a look of alarm from anyone standing nearby; the immediate ‘shushing’ from one or both parents, and sighs of relief from those standing upwind from the group. This will also cause your brother, between peals of laughter, to respond with, “I just made a REALLY big stinker,” at which point both boys become helpless with laughter.
When they’re on a role this can go on for 5 excruciatingly long minutes. Sometimes longer.
This is not dependent upon actually farting, of course. The fart, real or imagined, is not material. It’s the phrase, said loudly in public, that makes the magic happen.
Example #2. There is almost never a bad time to say the word “Poop.” Everything from, “I have to poop” to “I smell poop” or even “He’s poopy” (referencing the other brother) will cause a chain reaction of events – racing to the bathroom, severe admonitions from parents to stop saying that, and startled glances from anyone standing nearby. There is actually a term, ‘Poop-fest’ which describes the spiraling circle of death that occurs when both boys use ‘poop’ as an insult to describe each other:
“You’re a poop!”
“No, you’re a poop!”
“You’re a STINKY POOP!”
(Laughing) “You’re a really stinky poop!”
(Laughing really hard) “You’re a nasty stinky poop!!!”
(Laughing so hard he has to pause) “You’re a poop (laughter) WITH CORN IN IT!!!!!”
At this point both boys will be so far gone with laughter it will take 20 minutes to get back to normal. I’m talking rolling on the floor, gasping with delight laughter. Parental involvement is limited to trying to avoid one or both boys’ deaths from asphyxiation from laughing so hard.
It’s even funnier to them if they can pull this off at the dinner table. Which they have.
Believe it or not, Poop is also a term of endearment.
I was tucking Chris into bed the other night. He was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. “Goodnight, Chris. I love you.”
“You’re the best Poop ever, Dad,” he said softly.
Somehow I don’t think I’ll try that line on my wife.
It’s Great to be The Family Man.
For example, when changing a flat tire, the rusted lug nut can only be loosened by combining brute strength and a steaming tirade of four-letter words.
My two boys, while not yet equipped with those particular phrases (thank goodness) have entered that period in their lives where they are beginning to discover that certain words or phrases, said at the right times, can make interesting things happen.
Example #1 - Want to turn Mom’s face red AND make your brother laugh hysterically? When standing in the grocery store check-out line, announce in a very loud voice, “I just made a big stinker!” This generates a look of alarm from anyone standing nearby; the immediate ‘shushing’ from one or both parents, and sighs of relief from those standing upwind from the group. This will also cause your brother, between peals of laughter, to respond with, “I just made a REALLY big stinker,” at which point both boys become helpless with laughter.
When they’re on a role this can go on for 5 excruciatingly long minutes. Sometimes longer.
This is not dependent upon actually farting, of course. The fart, real or imagined, is not material. It’s the phrase, said loudly in public, that makes the magic happen.
Example #2. There is almost never a bad time to say the word “Poop.” Everything from, “I have to poop” to “I smell poop” or even “He’s poopy” (referencing the other brother) will cause a chain reaction of events – racing to the bathroom, severe admonitions from parents to stop saying that, and startled glances from anyone standing nearby. There is actually a term, ‘Poop-fest’ which describes the spiraling circle of death that occurs when both boys use ‘poop’ as an insult to describe each other:
“You’re a poop!”
“No, you’re a poop!”
“You’re a STINKY POOP!”
(Laughing) “You’re a really stinky poop!”
(Laughing really hard) “You’re a nasty stinky poop!!!”
(Laughing so hard he has to pause) “You’re a poop (laughter) WITH CORN IN IT!!!!!”
At this point both boys will be so far gone with laughter it will take 20 minutes to get back to normal. I’m talking rolling on the floor, gasping with delight laughter. Parental involvement is limited to trying to avoid one or both boys’ deaths from asphyxiation from laughing so hard.
It’s even funnier to them if they can pull this off at the dinner table. Which they have.
Believe it or not, Poop is also a term of endearment.
I was tucking Chris into bed the other night. He was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. “Goodnight, Chris. I love you.”
“You’re the best Poop ever, Dad,” he said softly.
Somehow I don’t think I’ll try that line on my wife.
It’s Great to be The Family Man.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Playing Hooky
This afternoon our entire office went to see Revenge of the Sith.
Without giving anything away, here are a few comments.
The opening scene is a gigantic space battle featuring more spacecraft than any other space battle scene ever filmed. It’s almost too much to follow.
Some of the dialog, particularly between Anakin and Padme’, is wooden and stilted.
In addition to some bad dialog, Anakin does some very, very bad things.
The final light saber battle between Anakin and (I won’t say who, but you can guess), is edge-of-your-seat stuff. Very gripping.
Finally, the physical transformation that turns Anakin into Darth Vader lives up to expectations – mine at least.
This reminds me of a cartoon I saw in the New Yorker when the movie Titanic first came out. A couple is exiting the theatre as other people are waiting in line to see the next screening. On their way out the woman says to the man, “I still cried when the ship sank.” The couple waiting to go in says, “Thanks for ruining the show!”
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Without giving anything away, here are a few comments.
The opening scene is a gigantic space battle featuring more spacecraft than any other space battle scene ever filmed. It’s almost too much to follow.
Some of the dialog, particularly between Anakin and Padme’, is wooden and stilted.
In addition to some bad dialog, Anakin does some very, very bad things.
The final light saber battle between Anakin and (I won’t say who, but you can guess), is edge-of-your-seat stuff. Very gripping.
Finally, the physical transformation that turns Anakin into Darth Vader lives up to expectations – mine at least.
This reminds me of a cartoon I saw in the New Yorker when the movie Titanic first came out. A couple is exiting the theatre as other people are waiting in line to see the next screening. On their way out the woman says to the man, “I still cried when the ship sank.” The couple waiting to go in says, “Thanks for ruining the show!”
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Ambush
The second I walked into the house after work today I knew something was wrong. There was stillness, an eerie quiet. Normally I’m greeted with the shouts of my two boys wanting to tell me all about their day.
Tonight – nothing.
Warily I walked through the kitchen, tense, alert. I saw nothing, heard nothing. Where was my family? What was going on?
Moving slowly, carefully, quietly, I crept into the living room, straining to hear or see anything that would give me a clue as to what was going on, when I was suddenly, brutally cut down but a fusillade of…
Pillows!
War cries erupted from Chris and Tommy as they leapt over the back of the couch, the attack on, the ambush successful. They were on me in a flash, I had no chance. Still reeling from the pillows, I turned to flee but they took me down like a tiger takes a gazelle. Pulling me to the floor, they proceeded to pummel me senseless with the same pillows they used to cut me down. Gamely I struggled, but it was hopeless. It was over. I was lost.
Triumphantly they sat on my chest, looked down on me, and with wild, happy smiles they said, “How was your day, Dad?”
It’s great to be The Family Man.
NOTE: This story is in no way meant to make light of the dangers faced by the United States Armed Forces in Iraq, Afghanistan and other areas of the world. In fact The Family Man and his family are grateful for the sacrifices made daily by our troops, giving us the security to worry about little more than a pillow attack. God Bless our troops.
Tonight – nothing.
Warily I walked through the kitchen, tense, alert. I saw nothing, heard nothing. Where was my family? What was going on?
Moving slowly, carefully, quietly, I crept into the living room, straining to hear or see anything that would give me a clue as to what was going on, when I was suddenly, brutally cut down but a fusillade of…
Pillows!
War cries erupted from Chris and Tommy as they leapt over the back of the couch, the attack on, the ambush successful. They were on me in a flash, I had no chance. Still reeling from the pillows, I turned to flee but they took me down like a tiger takes a gazelle. Pulling me to the floor, they proceeded to pummel me senseless with the same pillows they used to cut me down. Gamely I struggled, but it was hopeless. It was over. I was lost.
Triumphantly they sat on my chest, looked down on me, and with wild, happy smiles they said, “How was your day, Dad?”
It’s great to be The Family Man.
NOTE: This story is in no way meant to make light of the dangers faced by the United States Armed Forces in Iraq, Afghanistan and other areas of the world. In fact The Family Man and his family are grateful for the sacrifices made daily by our troops, giving us the security to worry about little more than a pillow attack. God Bless our troops.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Little Big Man
Tommy, my two year old, came up to me this morning and said, “Dad, I’m not short. I’m a big boy!”
I asked him, “Who said you were short?”
He didn’t answer, but simply reiterated, in no uncertain terms, “I’m a BIG BOY!”
In fact, Tommy is not that tall, even by two-year old standards. Added to that is his primary standard of measure, his four-year old brother Chris, who is taller simply by nature of being two years older. Chris can reach things and do things that Tommy just can’t reach or do as well. Every day Tommy is confronted with the reality that he is not quite tall enough or fast enough to do the same things his brother can.
He is occasionally frustrated at this, and responds in typical two year old fashion – crying or throwing a fit. Occasionally he’ll react in other ways, like punching or kicking Chris – and he packs quite a wallop for a ‘little’ kid.
Usually he gets over it quickly and moves on, because he’s fundamentally a good-natured, happy boy.
It turns out the whole ‘short’ conversation resulted from my wife telling Tommy to hold her hand in the parking lot because he was too short for the drivers of cars to see him. Clearly a reasonable request and statement.
But I love his spirit. He refuses to see himself as short. In his mind he’s as big as anyone, as big as Chris – he’s a big boy. And no one is going to tell him otherwise.
I’ll tell you this much – I’m damn proud of my Big Boy.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
I asked him, “Who said you were short?”
He didn’t answer, but simply reiterated, in no uncertain terms, “I’m a BIG BOY!”
In fact, Tommy is not that tall, even by two-year old standards. Added to that is his primary standard of measure, his four-year old brother Chris, who is taller simply by nature of being two years older. Chris can reach things and do things that Tommy just can’t reach or do as well. Every day Tommy is confronted with the reality that he is not quite tall enough or fast enough to do the same things his brother can.
He is occasionally frustrated at this, and responds in typical two year old fashion – crying or throwing a fit. Occasionally he’ll react in other ways, like punching or kicking Chris – and he packs quite a wallop for a ‘little’ kid.
Usually he gets over it quickly and moves on, because he’s fundamentally a good-natured, happy boy.
It turns out the whole ‘short’ conversation resulted from my wife telling Tommy to hold her hand in the parking lot because he was too short for the drivers of cars to see him. Clearly a reasonable request and statement.
But I love his spirit. He refuses to see himself as short. In his mind he’s as big as anyone, as big as Chris – he’s a big boy. And no one is going to tell him otherwise.
I’ll tell you this much – I’m damn proud of my Big Boy.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Brown-eyed boy
The Family Man is color blind.
My son Tommy has big brown eyes. They are lovely, luminous eyes, just like his mother has. One day not too long ago a woman stopped me in the grocery store just to tell me Tommy must take after his mother, specifically because his brown eyes don’t look anything like my blue eyes. I’m not sure why she felt compelled to point that out – I think she just noticed Tommy’s eyes, which really are beautiful.
Chris, my older son, has green eyes. Go figure.
Anyway, a few nights ago Tommy was sitting in my lap, face to face with me, when he suddenly said, “Dad, I wish I had blue eyes like you.”
“Why? You have beautiful brown eyes.”
“Brown eyes are not nice,” he said solemnly. “I like blue eyes.”
“Tommy, your eyes are wonderful,” I said. “They’re the same as Mommy’s eyes. Don’t you think Mommy has lovely eyes?”
“I just like blue eyes,” he said stubbornly.
He’s brought it up again three or four times since then. I don’t know what brought this on, and I don’t know what, if anything, to do about it. The last time he said it I made a joke of it and began to tickle him. “I wish I had blue eyes,” he said.
I made a stern face and said, “Brown eyes.” I tickled him.
He tried to make a stern face in return. “Blue eyes,” he said, but he began to smile.
“BROWN,” I said, tickling harder.
“BLUE,” he screeched, laughing.
“BROWN BROWN BROWN!” I said, and he collapsed in a fit of giggles.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
It’s great to be The Family Man.
My son Tommy has big brown eyes. They are lovely, luminous eyes, just like his mother has. One day not too long ago a woman stopped me in the grocery store just to tell me Tommy must take after his mother, specifically because his brown eyes don’t look anything like my blue eyes. I’m not sure why she felt compelled to point that out – I think she just noticed Tommy’s eyes, which really are beautiful.
Chris, my older son, has green eyes. Go figure.
Anyway, a few nights ago Tommy was sitting in my lap, face to face with me, when he suddenly said, “Dad, I wish I had blue eyes like you.”
“Why? You have beautiful brown eyes.”
“Brown eyes are not nice,” he said solemnly. “I like blue eyes.”
“Tommy, your eyes are wonderful,” I said. “They’re the same as Mommy’s eyes. Don’t you think Mommy has lovely eyes?”
“I just like blue eyes,” he said stubbornly.
He’s brought it up again three or four times since then. I don’t know what brought this on, and I don’t know what, if anything, to do about it. The last time he said it I made a joke of it and began to tickle him. “I wish I had blue eyes,” he said.
I made a stern face and said, “Brown eyes.” I tickled him.
He tried to make a stern face in return. “Blue eyes,” he said, but he began to smile.
“BROWN,” I said, tickling harder.
“BLUE,” he screeched, laughing.
“BROWN BROWN BROWN!” I said, and he collapsed in a fit of giggles.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Puddle Jumpers
The Family Man get wet.
It’s been raining quite a bit the past few days where we live. After having had a taste of Spring, being chased back indoors has been tough on the boys. Stir crazy, cabin fever, call it what you will – we have it and it’s not fun.
This evening the rain let up a bit, so I quickly got the boys into their coats and boots and we headed outside. First we patrolled the sidewalk looking for worms, and found quite a few. Fat, wriggly night crawlers are interesting to little kids. My boys aren’t squeamish at all about picking them up, holding them or waving them in each others’ faces. That was good for about ten minutes. Then we moved on to the main objective – finding some nice puddles to play in.
I’m sure it’s not news that kids like puddles. We were all kids once and I’m sure we all played in puddles at one time or another – I know I did. It’s interesting to me now, as an adult, to watch my kids have a grand time stomping and splashing around. At first glance it’s hard to se what the attraction is – the kids wade in, see how deep it is, stomp around a bit, come out, find some stones to throw in, stomp around some more; find a stick to sail around the puddle, find more stones to throw at the stick, wade in and stomp on the stick; aim your stomps so the splash goes all over your brother, kick the water back at your brother as hard as you can – until you are completely drenched, soaking, dripping wet.
And yet there is beauty in the simplicity of it all. These two boys can be bored with a houseful of toys, gadgets, games and books; yet can go outside and have an hour of fun with a puddle of water, a stick and a few stones.
And after all that, it’s time to come inside and get in the bathtub,
It’s great to be The Family Man
It’s been raining quite a bit the past few days where we live. After having had a taste of Spring, being chased back indoors has been tough on the boys. Stir crazy, cabin fever, call it what you will – we have it and it’s not fun.
This evening the rain let up a bit, so I quickly got the boys into their coats and boots and we headed outside. First we patrolled the sidewalk looking for worms, and found quite a few. Fat, wriggly night crawlers are interesting to little kids. My boys aren’t squeamish at all about picking them up, holding them or waving them in each others’ faces. That was good for about ten minutes. Then we moved on to the main objective – finding some nice puddles to play in.
I’m sure it’s not news that kids like puddles. We were all kids once and I’m sure we all played in puddles at one time or another – I know I did. It’s interesting to me now, as an adult, to watch my kids have a grand time stomping and splashing around. At first glance it’s hard to se what the attraction is – the kids wade in, see how deep it is, stomp around a bit, come out, find some stones to throw in, stomp around some more; find a stick to sail around the puddle, find more stones to throw at the stick, wade in and stomp on the stick; aim your stomps so the splash goes all over your brother, kick the water back at your brother as hard as you can – until you are completely drenched, soaking, dripping wet.
And yet there is beauty in the simplicity of it all. These two boys can be bored with a houseful of toys, gadgets, games and books; yet can go outside and have an hour of fun with a puddle of water, a stick and a few stones.
And after all that, it’s time to come inside and get in the bathtub,
It’s great to be The Family Man
Bad Medicine
The Family Man gets no ‘spoonful of sugar.’
My two-year old son Tommy has asthma. Each night before bed he takes medicine from his inhaler and also a pill. It has helped him a great deal this winter – he hasn’t had any of the congestion or the wet coughing he had last winter.
Tommy takes his medicine after we’ve read the nighttime stories but before we brush his teeth. Tonight I gave him his medicine while my wife got Chris ready for bed. As usual, Tommy took his medicine without a fuss.
After the medicine went down we began to play tickles. I had him laughing pretty good and he was having fun. Lying on my back on our bed, I lifted him directly above me. We were both laughing at this point when suddenly he stopped, his eyes grew huge, and he threw up.
Right into my open mouth.
I’d like to tell you that it happened in slow motion, that I saw it come out of his mouth, flowing down toward my face, knowing with horror what was happening but absolutely unable to do anything about it.
But it wasn’t like that.
One instant we’re both laughing and having a fun moment, the next instant my mouth is full of vomit that is not my own. If you’ve ever thrown up, you know what it’s like to have that taste in your mouth. It’s disgusting. You want to brush your teeth for 20 minutes and drink a gallon of Listerine.
Take my word on this one. It’s much worse when it’s someone else’s puke.
Of course, it didn’t ALL go in my mouth. There was plenty on my shirt, the bedspread, the pillows. Oh, and yes, there was some on his ‘blankie.’ And that’s what he noticed. I’m choking, gasping, trying not to throw up myself, and Tommy says, “Dad, wash my blankie! It has throw-up on it!”
It’s usually great to be The Family Man. But I’ve had better nights.
My two-year old son Tommy has asthma. Each night before bed he takes medicine from his inhaler and also a pill. It has helped him a great deal this winter – he hasn’t had any of the congestion or the wet coughing he had last winter.
Tommy takes his medicine after we’ve read the nighttime stories but before we brush his teeth. Tonight I gave him his medicine while my wife got Chris ready for bed. As usual, Tommy took his medicine without a fuss.
After the medicine went down we began to play tickles. I had him laughing pretty good and he was having fun. Lying on my back on our bed, I lifted him directly above me. We were both laughing at this point when suddenly he stopped, his eyes grew huge, and he threw up.
Right into my open mouth.
I’d like to tell you that it happened in slow motion, that I saw it come out of his mouth, flowing down toward my face, knowing with horror what was happening but absolutely unable to do anything about it.
But it wasn’t like that.
One instant we’re both laughing and having a fun moment, the next instant my mouth is full of vomit that is not my own. If you’ve ever thrown up, you know what it’s like to have that taste in your mouth. It’s disgusting. You want to brush your teeth for 20 minutes and drink a gallon of Listerine.
Take my word on this one. It’s much worse when it’s someone else’s puke.
Of course, it didn’t ALL go in my mouth. There was plenty on my shirt, the bedspread, the pillows. Oh, and yes, there was some on his ‘blankie.’ And that’s what he noticed. I’m choking, gasping, trying not to throw up myself, and Tommy says, “Dad, wash my blankie! It has throw-up on it!”
It’s usually great to be The Family Man. But I’ve had better nights.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Bedtime Stories
The Family Man listens.
It’s 9:15 p.m. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, updating reports from work on my laptop, when I hear soft footsteps coming downstairs. Tommy, my two-year old, pads over to me in his footy pajamas, dragging his blankie. Rubbing his eyes, he says, “Dad, I can’t sleep.”
I lift him up onto my lap and say, “How about if we go back up to your room and rock for awhile,” I say.
“Okay, Dad.”
I carry him back upstairs and we sit in the rocking chair. We begin to rock, ever so gently. I think back to the many nights when my wife or I would sit in this chair and rock him for hours, trying to get him through a bad night. We haven’t had one of those for a long time, and I’m thinking this one won’t be like those either. He’s not sick tonight, and he’s tired. He just needs a bit of comfort.
“Tommy,” I say, “let’s talk about the things you like.”
He smiles. He likes this conversation, one we’ve had many times before, but not recently. He starts, “I like candy.”
Predictable. He does, in fact, like candy, but he had some when we read books just a short time ago. “What else do you like?” I ask.
Pause. “I like pizza.”
“What else does Tommy like?”
A furrowed brow. “I like swinging in the park. I like soccer. I like rainbows.”
“What else do you like?”
He goes on to list a few more things. Riding his scooter, playing with Play-Doh, petting the cat. All things he did today. A couple come from nowhere – ‘camping machines,’ a memory of the RV show we went to last fall. Swimming, something we have not done since last summer. I wonder what prompted those memories to surface just now.
He pauses. I’m sensing he’s done. “Tommy, are you ready to go to sleep now?”
He nods. “Yes,” he says quietly.
He pulls his blankie close. I rise up from the chair and lay him gently in his bed. “Goodnight, Tommy,” I say.
“Dad – I like you, too,” he says as he closes his eyes.”
It’s great to be The Family Man.
It’s 9:15 p.m. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, updating reports from work on my laptop, when I hear soft footsteps coming downstairs. Tommy, my two-year old, pads over to me in his footy pajamas, dragging his blankie. Rubbing his eyes, he says, “Dad, I can’t sleep.”
I lift him up onto my lap and say, “How about if we go back up to your room and rock for awhile,” I say.
“Okay, Dad.”
I carry him back upstairs and we sit in the rocking chair. We begin to rock, ever so gently. I think back to the many nights when my wife or I would sit in this chair and rock him for hours, trying to get him through a bad night. We haven’t had one of those for a long time, and I’m thinking this one won’t be like those either. He’s not sick tonight, and he’s tired. He just needs a bit of comfort.
“Tommy,” I say, “let’s talk about the things you like.”
He smiles. He likes this conversation, one we’ve had many times before, but not recently. He starts, “I like candy.”
Predictable. He does, in fact, like candy, but he had some when we read books just a short time ago. “What else do you like?” I ask.
Pause. “I like pizza.”
“What else does Tommy like?”
A furrowed brow. “I like swinging in the park. I like soccer. I like rainbows.”
“What else do you like?”
He goes on to list a few more things. Riding his scooter, playing with Play-Doh, petting the cat. All things he did today. A couple come from nowhere – ‘camping machines,’ a memory of the RV show we went to last fall. Swimming, something we have not done since last summer. I wonder what prompted those memories to surface just now.
He pauses. I’m sensing he’s done. “Tommy, are you ready to go to sleep now?”
He nods. “Yes,” he says quietly.
He pulls his blankie close. I rise up from the chair and lay him gently in his bed. “Goodnight, Tommy,” I say.
“Dad – I like you, too,” he says as he closes his eyes.”
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Doctor Stinker
Both my boys are very into superheroes right now. Actually they have been for some time. Chris, my four year old, likes Superman and Spiderman. Tommy, the two-year old, thinks Batman is cool. They have a fair amount of superhero gear. Chris has a full superman outfit, complete with cape. Tommy has a Batman plastic mask and a utility belt. They think it is great fun to gear up and run around the house, chasing ‘bad guys’ and putting them in jail.
Usually that bad guy is me.
One evening while playing this game, as I was led off to jail, Spiderman (no costume for him yet) said to me, “What’s your name, bad guy?” Wanting to stay in the spirit of the game, I growled, “I’m Doctor Stinker, and I’m going to get out of jail and get you, Spidey!”
Thus a legend was born.
Now when I walk in the door after work each night I never know if I’m going to have two little boys run up to me yelling “Hi, Dad!” or whether I will be accosted by two scowling superheroes saying, “You’re going to jail, Doctor Stinker!”
It’s grown beyond a simple character. It’s now a game in and of itself. Chris, who now takes great pleasure in using the telephone, called me at work one afternoon and asked me, “When you get home, can we play Doctor Stinker?”
The game Doctor Stinker is really little more than the Character Doctor Stinker chasing the boys around the house and, upon capture, tickling them silly. The capture of one boy requires the other to attempt the rescue, which is usually successful; whereupon we chase and capture again.
The superheroes have found a unique way to delay bedtime. When being tucked in for the night, one or both boys will say, “Goodnight Doctor Stinker” instead of “Goodnight, Dad.” A comment like this cannot go unpunished by tickles, which gets them all wound up and prolongs the time until they fall asleep. Much to the dismay of my wife.
I just can’t help myself. Or, more correctly, Doctor Stinker just can’t help himself.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Usually that bad guy is me.
One evening while playing this game, as I was led off to jail, Spiderman (no costume for him yet) said to me, “What’s your name, bad guy?” Wanting to stay in the spirit of the game, I growled, “I’m Doctor Stinker, and I’m going to get out of jail and get you, Spidey!”
Thus a legend was born.
Now when I walk in the door after work each night I never know if I’m going to have two little boys run up to me yelling “Hi, Dad!” or whether I will be accosted by two scowling superheroes saying, “You’re going to jail, Doctor Stinker!”
It’s grown beyond a simple character. It’s now a game in and of itself. Chris, who now takes great pleasure in using the telephone, called me at work one afternoon and asked me, “When you get home, can we play Doctor Stinker?”
The game Doctor Stinker is really little more than the Character Doctor Stinker chasing the boys around the house and, upon capture, tickling them silly. The capture of one boy requires the other to attempt the rescue, which is usually successful; whereupon we chase and capture again.
The superheroes have found a unique way to delay bedtime. When being tucked in for the night, one or both boys will say, “Goodnight Doctor Stinker” instead of “Goodnight, Dad.” A comment like this cannot go unpunished by tickles, which gets them all wound up and prolongs the time until they fall asleep. Much to the dismay of my wife.
I just can’t help myself. Or, more correctly, Doctor Stinker just can’t help himself.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Dancing Music
The Family Man gets down with his kids.
Tonight after work Chris, Tommy and I headed down to the local garden center to get some mulch for the garden. We hooked up the utility trailer to the SUV (Yes, the one with the personalized license plates – check the archives) and we were on our way.
We had barely cleared the driveway when both boys simultaneously said, “Turn on the dancing music, Dad!”
I have a CD in the player that is a compilation of some of the songs I’ve been listening to lately when working out. It’s an eclectic mix, mostly upbeat tunes that cross genres. It’s come to be called ‘dancing music’ because one afternoon when we were going somewhere it was playing and I was bobbing my head along with the music. From the back pipes up Chris, my four-year old – “Dad, you’re dancing in the car!”
From that moment on that collection has come to be called ‘Dancing Music.”
Each boy has their favorite song on the CD. Tommy likes ‘Juke Box Hero.’ Chris likes ‘Wild Wild West.’ Right now I’m partial to ‘Men in Black’ and ‘Talk to You Later.’
So I fire up the Dancing Music and off we go. We pull up to the first stop light. The windows are down and ‘Wild Wild West is booming from the speakers. The SUV is rocking and all three of us are shaking like bobble-head dolls in a California earthquake. A Ford Taurus with a young, serious looking couple pulls up next to us. They look up at me, look over and see the boys, roll up their window and snap their heads forward.
I look back at my boys, having a great time. The light turns green and we’re off, just three guys on a road trip, having fun.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Tonight after work Chris, Tommy and I headed down to the local garden center to get some mulch for the garden. We hooked up the utility trailer to the SUV (Yes, the one with the personalized license plates – check the archives) and we were on our way.
We had barely cleared the driveway when both boys simultaneously said, “Turn on the dancing music, Dad!”
I have a CD in the player that is a compilation of some of the songs I’ve been listening to lately when working out. It’s an eclectic mix, mostly upbeat tunes that cross genres. It’s come to be called ‘dancing music’ because one afternoon when we were going somewhere it was playing and I was bobbing my head along with the music. From the back pipes up Chris, my four-year old – “Dad, you’re dancing in the car!”
From that moment on that collection has come to be called ‘Dancing Music.”
Each boy has their favorite song on the CD. Tommy likes ‘Juke Box Hero.’ Chris likes ‘Wild Wild West.’ Right now I’m partial to ‘Men in Black’ and ‘Talk to You Later.’
So I fire up the Dancing Music and off we go. We pull up to the first stop light. The windows are down and ‘Wild Wild West is booming from the speakers. The SUV is rocking and all three of us are shaking like bobble-head dolls in a California earthquake. A Ford Taurus with a young, serious looking couple pulls up next to us. They look up at me, look over and see the boys, roll up their window and snap their heads forward.
I look back at my boys, having a great time. The light turns green and we’re off, just three guys on a road trip, having fun.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Weighty matters
It’s 11:05 p.m. I’m at the gym, just wrapping up my workout. Not my best session, but I finished strong and I’m reasonably pleased. As a bonus, I hit the scales when I walked in and I’m exactly where I wanted to be.
None of the usual crowd was in the gym tonight, except for Philly Cat. He’s a wiry Southeast Asian guy who I’ve seen many nights for the past 18 months. I notice he’s gotten pretty chiseled lately. He’ll never be big, but he’s gotten stronger and more defined. I think of him as Philly Cat because most nights he wears a black t-shirt that says Philly Cat baseball.
I’m wrapping up my last set of bicep curls when I notice a huge guy walk over to the leg press machine. I’ve never seen him here before, and believe me, he’s a guy you’d notice. About 5’8” or so and huge – huge arms, huge legs, huge chest. I watch him load up the plates on the leg press, and he just keeps stacking them, one after the other. He finally stops only because he’s run out of room; the machine cannot hold any more plates. He has 11 plates on each spindle, or 495 pounds per side – 990 pounds total.
That’s nearly half a ton.
He proceeds to press this weight 15 times on his first set, and I know that’s just a warm-up.
I’m wondering exactly what else this guy’s going to do here tonight, and I half-thing about hanging around just to watch. There are some strong guys at this gym that I’ve seen put up some impressive lifts from time to time, but I’m thinking this guy would best any of them. If it weren’t so late I might hop on the treadmill and run a couple of miles and see what he can do, but I really need to get home.
As I walk out the door I’m feeling a bit out of sorts. I could work out every day for the rest of my life and not get anywhere near where he is in terms of pure strength. And I don’t want to, really, but I’m a little depressed that what I considered to be a pretty good effort just 15 minutes ago would be a joke to this guy. In the grand scheme of things, my efforts were insignificant.
But then I remember what I told Chris, my four-year old son, a few days ago. He was sad because a buddy of his in pre-school could run faster than he could. “Dad, I run as fast as I can, but Jackson still beats me every time,” he said. I told him as long as runs as fast as he can and doesn’t quit, and gives his best effort, that’s what counts. In most things in life, you really are measuring your performance against yourself. There will always be someone bigger, stronger, and faster – the goal is to be the very best you can be.
As I told him these things I know I’m telling this to myself as much as to Chris. And tonight is a night when I have to listen to myself. Did I do the best I could tonight? Am I achieving the goals I set for myself? Do I feel good about my effort tonight?
I did. I am. And I do.
Not only that, but for every guy like Adonis (I have to give him a nickname) in the gym who is immensely strong, there are 20 fat guys at home on the couch or in bed at 11:05 p.m. on Wednesday night. At least I’m in the gym.
Thanks, Chris.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
None of the usual crowd was in the gym tonight, except for Philly Cat. He’s a wiry Southeast Asian guy who I’ve seen many nights for the past 18 months. I notice he’s gotten pretty chiseled lately. He’ll never be big, but he’s gotten stronger and more defined. I think of him as Philly Cat because most nights he wears a black t-shirt that says Philly Cat baseball.
I’m wrapping up my last set of bicep curls when I notice a huge guy walk over to the leg press machine. I’ve never seen him here before, and believe me, he’s a guy you’d notice. About 5’8” or so and huge – huge arms, huge legs, huge chest. I watch him load up the plates on the leg press, and he just keeps stacking them, one after the other. He finally stops only because he’s run out of room; the machine cannot hold any more plates. He has 11 plates on each spindle, or 495 pounds per side – 990 pounds total.
That’s nearly half a ton.
He proceeds to press this weight 15 times on his first set, and I know that’s just a warm-up.
I’m wondering exactly what else this guy’s going to do here tonight, and I half-thing about hanging around just to watch. There are some strong guys at this gym that I’ve seen put up some impressive lifts from time to time, but I’m thinking this guy would best any of them. If it weren’t so late I might hop on the treadmill and run a couple of miles and see what he can do, but I really need to get home.
As I walk out the door I’m feeling a bit out of sorts. I could work out every day for the rest of my life and not get anywhere near where he is in terms of pure strength. And I don’t want to, really, but I’m a little depressed that what I considered to be a pretty good effort just 15 minutes ago would be a joke to this guy. In the grand scheme of things, my efforts were insignificant.
But then I remember what I told Chris, my four-year old son, a few days ago. He was sad because a buddy of his in pre-school could run faster than he could. “Dad, I run as fast as I can, but Jackson still beats me every time,” he said. I told him as long as runs as fast as he can and doesn’t quit, and gives his best effort, that’s what counts. In most things in life, you really are measuring your performance against yourself. There will always be someone bigger, stronger, and faster – the goal is to be the very best you can be.
As I told him these things I know I’m telling this to myself as much as to Chris. And tonight is a night when I have to listen to myself. Did I do the best I could tonight? Am I achieving the goals I set for myself? Do I feel good about my effort tonight?
I did. I am. And I do.
Not only that, but for every guy like Adonis (I have to give him a nickname) in the gym who is immensely strong, there are 20 fat guys at home on the couch or in bed at 11:05 p.m. on Wednesday night. At least I’m in the gym.
Thanks, Chris.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Permission Granted
The Family Man is given a gift.
The other night my two-year old son did not want to go to sleep. After my wife and I did the ritual, initial ‘tuck-in’ complete with goodnight kisses, sweet-dream wishes and the correct placement of covers and ‘blankie,’ my wife went into his room two additional times to gently coerce him to stay in his bed and go to sleep. When he began calling for a third time, it was my turn.
I walked into his room. “You’re not Mommy,” he said accusingly.
“You’re right,” I said, “I’m not.”
“Sometimes I let you tuck me in, and sometimes not,” he said.
“How about tonight?” I asked.
He paused. I swear he actually furrowed his brow as he contemplated his decision.
“Yes. Tonight you can,” he said at last.
So I made the most of it. Kisses, tickles, covers positioned just so. One final kiss on the forehead, and I said, “Good night, Tommy. And thank you.”
He closed is eyes, and with the slightest hint of a smile he said, “You’re welcome.”
It’s great to be The Family Man.
The other night my two-year old son did not want to go to sleep. After my wife and I did the ritual, initial ‘tuck-in’ complete with goodnight kisses, sweet-dream wishes and the correct placement of covers and ‘blankie,’ my wife went into his room two additional times to gently coerce him to stay in his bed and go to sleep. When he began calling for a third time, it was my turn.
I walked into his room. “You’re not Mommy,” he said accusingly.
“You’re right,” I said, “I’m not.”
“Sometimes I let you tuck me in, and sometimes not,” he said.
“How about tonight?” I asked.
He paused. I swear he actually furrowed his brow as he contemplated his decision.
“Yes. Tonight you can,” he said at last.
So I made the most of it. Kisses, tickles, covers positioned just so. One final kiss on the forehead, and I said, “Good night, Tommy. And thank you.”
He closed is eyes, and with the slightest hint of a smile he said, “You’re welcome.”
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Dirty White Boys
The Family Man can get down and dirty.
Tonight after work my boys wanted to go to the new subdivision where new homes are being built. The roads have just gone in, smooth as glass with virtually no traffic – perfect for learning to ride a bike or a scooter. There are also several large pies of dirt, perfect for climbing and sliding.
We got there shortly after 6:30 p.m. and spent all of five minutes riding bikes and scooters. After that it was all about the dirt. We spent the next hour climbing up, sliding down, throwing, digging, pushing and running around big piles of dirt. The boys had an absolute blast. By the time we were done we were all filthy, and they could not have been happier.
Finally it was time to go home. The boys piled into the back seat, still laughing and talking about the fun they’d had. I turned on the radio for the short ride home, and happened upon a classic hit from the 80’s. My boys were oblivious to the lyrics, but I couldn’t help but smile as I drove home, listening to Foreigner sing ‘Dirty White Boy.’
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Tonight after work my boys wanted to go to the new subdivision where new homes are being built. The roads have just gone in, smooth as glass with virtually no traffic – perfect for learning to ride a bike or a scooter. There are also several large pies of dirt, perfect for climbing and sliding.
We got there shortly after 6:30 p.m. and spent all of five minutes riding bikes and scooters. After that it was all about the dirt. We spent the next hour climbing up, sliding down, throwing, digging, pushing and running around big piles of dirt. The boys had an absolute blast. By the time we were done we were all filthy, and they could not have been happier.
Finally it was time to go home. The boys piled into the back seat, still laughing and talking about the fun they’d had. I turned on the radio for the short ride home, and happened upon a classic hit from the 80’s. My boys were oblivious to the lyrics, but I couldn’t help but smile as I drove home, listening to Foreigner sing ‘Dirty White Boy.’
It’s great to be The Family Man.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
The Family Man learns from his children.
Today my four year old son played third game in our local city Under 5 soccer league. This is his first experience with organized team sports, and he’s having a ball (no pun intended). My son is not the fastest, most talented, or best soccer player. He didn’t score a goal today and his team lost.
What he did to was give his best effort when he was out on the field. He ran hard, tried his best, cheered his teammates and had fun. When the game was over he said, “That was fun, Dad! Next time I’m going to score a goal!” While disappointed that his team did not win, he felt good that he had shown up, played hard, and given his best.
I got to the gym tonight about 10:15 p.m. At that time on a Saturday night the place is mostly deserted. Only the hardcore guys are there – the ones who come by themselves, know what they’re doing. The college guys, wannabees, the ones who stand around talking and posing, they don’t go to the gym at 10:15 on Saturday night.
I recognized a few of the guys there tonight – I don’t know their names, but I’ve seen them there enough and I’ve given them nicknames. The Aussie – a barrel-chested, tremendously strong guy with a perpetual smile. The Cop – a ripped, powerful guy with huge shoulders and a narrow waist. Their going through their workouts, focused and concentrated. These two, and the others there tonight, are all lifting huge amounts of weight and look like they’ve been doing it for years.
I’m not in their league. While by no means weak, I don’t have the defined muscles these guys do and the weights I lift are warm-ups for them. I really don’t even want to be there tonight – I’d just as soon stay home and watch a DVD or something.
But as I get started I think of my son – showing up, playing hard, and looking forward to improving and getting better. Giving his best, not caring about how good he compared to others, only that he becomes the best he can be.
So I suck it up and go through my routine, putting everything I have into my lifts. And as I go along I realize I am like The Aussie and The Cop. By showing up, working hard, giving my best, I have separated myself from the wannabees and posers. And I feel good about that.
I’ve learned something from my four-year old. Perhaps, too, he has learned something from me.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
What he did to was give his best effort when he was out on the field. He ran hard, tried his best, cheered his teammates and had fun. When the game was over he said, “That was fun, Dad! Next time I’m going to score a goal!” While disappointed that his team did not win, he felt good that he had shown up, played hard, and given his best.
I got to the gym tonight about 10:15 p.m. At that time on a Saturday night the place is mostly deserted. Only the hardcore guys are there – the ones who come by themselves, know what they’re doing. The college guys, wannabees, the ones who stand around talking and posing, they don’t go to the gym at 10:15 on Saturday night.
I recognized a few of the guys there tonight – I don’t know their names, but I’ve seen them there enough and I’ve given them nicknames. The Aussie – a barrel-chested, tremendously strong guy with a perpetual smile. The Cop – a ripped, powerful guy with huge shoulders and a narrow waist. Their going through their workouts, focused and concentrated. These two, and the others there tonight, are all lifting huge amounts of weight and look like they’ve been doing it for years.
I’m not in their league. While by no means weak, I don’t have the defined muscles these guys do and the weights I lift are warm-ups for them. I really don’t even want to be there tonight – I’d just as soon stay home and watch a DVD or something.
But as I get started I think of my son – showing up, playing hard, and looking forward to improving and getting better. Giving his best, not caring about how good he compared to others, only that he becomes the best he can be.
So I suck it up and go through my routine, putting everything I have into my lifts. And as I go along I realize I am like The Aussie and The Cop. By showing up, working hard, giving my best, I have separated myself from the wannabees and posers. And I feel good about that.
I’ve learned something from my four-year old. Perhaps, too, he has learned something from me.
It’s great to be The Family Man.
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