the 4th of july

Well, it's the Fourth of July and I'm excited. I mean come on, it's not only a day off from work--it's a day of fun and relaxation and food on the grill. At least, that's the plan for me and my family. Oh, let me tell you it's going to be fun. We're going to have picnics, we're going to cook all sorts of meat on the grill--possibly all day long depending on how long the propane holds out. In between meals, maybe we'll take the kids swimming at the beach. Then again, now that I think about it, maybe we'll just fill up one of those little wading pools with lukewarm water and let them sit in that--sure, they can't go underwater or swim or really even get their whole body wet at the same time, but I won't have to carry four hundred pounds of towels and toys and beach chairs over burning hot sand. And besides, if we stay home rather than head out to the beach, that will give me more time to lay in the hammock, read books, listen to the Tigers and eat bunches of food off the grill.

Eventually, the day will move towards evening and maybe we'll finish it all off by taking in a fireworks show somewhere. Or . . . if I'm too tired, maybe we could just watch one on tv--I think I made a video of the show last year . . . . We could throw some blankets on the floor in the living room, turn out the lights and crank up the surround sound--the kids won't know the difference.

Anyway, that's what our Fourth of July looks like. And chances are, it's what your Fourth looks like as well--except you'll probably take your kids to a real fireworks show. And if you want to know something interesting, that type of Fourth of July is exactly what John Adams would have desired. You see, John Adams, our second President and one of the Founding fathers of this country--a man who with Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin played a sigificant role in the writing of the Declaration of Independence--wrote a letter to his wife about the Fourth of July saying "I believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the Great Anniversary festival." And then it goes on to say that "It out to be celebrated with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other from this time forward forever more."

Well, reading that . . . reading about the pomp and parade and the guns and the illuminations from one of the country to the other, it's not hard to picture our current celebrations with the fireworks and the parades and the fun and excitement. So, in practice we seem to be celebrating the Fourth just as the original founding fathers would have celebrated it.

But are we really? Or are we so removed from the original Independence Day, that the meaning is lost on us? Well, I can only speak for myself, but I can tell you that I don't think I put as much thought into the celebration as I probably should. You see, I've been thinking about this for a while now and I've come to the conclusion that while I take part in the celebration of the day, I'm more celebrating a day off from work and time spent with my family than I am celebrating freedom--celebrating the fact that I live in the greatest country this world has ever or probably will ever see.

So this year I'm going to encourage you to do what I'm going to do. Let's take some time this fourth of July and give it some thought. Let's think about the remarkable blessing--some would say coincidence, but I find that a tough word to swallow. Think about the remarkable blessing that our Founding Fathers--all those great men with incredible minds for politics and government supplemented nicely by healthy doses of character and honor--think about the remarkable blessing that those people all found themselves together at the right time, in the right place.

Let's remember that all those years ago, they risked everything they owned--they risked their lives and the lives of their families--to pursue a course that has brought our country to where it stands today--easily one of the greatest achievements in all of history. You've heard it a hundred times, I'm sure, but stil take time to remember that when they put their names on that Declaration of Independence, they knew that they were betting on success because failure meant a hangman's noose.

Sure, they had their disagreements and they fought and squabbled with eachother just as our congress does right now. Don't be duped into thinking that politics was different back then. It was the same world of opposing ideas, heated arguments and debates as we have today. The big difference was that that group of men, in spite of their differences and in spite of the ferocity of their disagreements, still managed to produce results. And not just results--but the most tremendous results the world has ever seen a government produce.

So take some time this 4th of July and think about the blessings that have been bestowed upon this nation. Think about the men and the women behind them who forged ahead with their experiment in democracy. And don't let the voices of the world we live in now sour you on what they accomplished. Hang out your flags, take the time to tell the story to your children and constantly remember that America is, as Abraham Lincoln said, the last, best hope of earth.

Don't be embarassed to say it. Don't be embarassed to believe it. Have a great 4th of July.

the watermelon story

There are a lot of fourth of July's that I remember, but there's one that stands out from the crowd as my favorite. You see, it all started with one of those early-bird-special sales at Meijer Thrifty Acres on the North Side of Holland--you know, on River ave? Well, according to the advertisement in the Sentinel, if you got to the store before 5:00 am, you could buy twelve packs of pop for 1/2 price.

Now, you've got to understand that growing up, we only had pop on special occasions. Like weddings and funerals. For some reason, we just never had it in the house. Well, dad decided that since it was a holiday, it'd be fun to splurge a little. So he announced the night before that he was going to go to Thrifties and get some of that 1/2 price pop. Of course, my sister and I begged to go along. We heard all the standard warnings--you're going to have to get up early and all that stuff--but we stuck to our guns and mom and dad soon caved in.

Before morning actually dawned the next day, dad was shaking us awake and throwing us into clothes and into the car. Our little sleepy brains didn't really understand what was happening, but there we were, on our way to the store. Well, when we got there, dad grabbed a cart and headed straight for the pop. As we followed, I remember noticing that his cart had a squeaky wheel. Sometimes that happens, but this one was worse than any I'd heard before . . . it almost hurt your ears, the squeak was so sharp. Anyway, dad made his way to the pop section and loaded up his cart with the maximum number of cases he could purchase and still get the 1/2 price deal. As he made his way toward the register, his cart squeaking and protesting all the way, he happened to see a big crate heaped full of huge watermelons.

Now, I don't remember dad being a big fan of watermelons, but apparently he had visions of picnic lunches and other 4th of July festivities and apparently those visions included a gigantic watermelon. So, he dragged his pop-laden cart to a halt and stood for a long time in front of that big watermelon crate, digging with singular passion through the pile. Now, I have no idea what he was looking for and I'm sure he didn't either. But that didn't stop him from thumping and touching and squeezing every watermelon he could get his hands on. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he spotted the prize--the most perfect watermelon in the crate--the holy grail of all watermelons. It was maybe three or more layers down, but if he just pulled hard enough, he figured he could yank it to the top and roll it into his cart.

Well, as was bound to happen, he yanked one too many times and suddenly the entire pile began to shift. We put out our arms to stop the avalanche, but there were just too many of them. They were coming at us from every direction--big green watermelons rolling wildly toward the edge. We caught as many as we could, but one particularly large watermelon--not the prize, but one nearly as large--rolled past our defenses. In slow motion, we watched it hop off the crate and plummet nearly four feet to the floor below where it landed with a sickening thud. It split open and showered us and everything around us with watermelon juice.

Now, that was memorable, let me tell you, but it was nothing compared to what happened next. You see, my sister and I started to laugh a nervous, shocked laugh--because it was dad who had done this horrible thing and not us--but then we saw the look in his eyes. They were crazy with a mingled fear and excitement and humor and horror. Before I could even try to comprehend what that look meant, he shouted out one single word: "run!" And then he took off like a bolt, pushing his little cart that was heaped to overflowing with cans and cans of 1/2 price pop. My sister and I stood there for a split second watching him disappear down an aisle, all the while listening to the loud squeeks and screams of the shopping cart wheels as they sped away at a speed they weren't built for. And then we shot off in different directions, running like mad through the empty 5:00 am aisles of Meijer Thrifty Acres.

Now, looking back on the whole thing, it's funny. Back then though, it was honestly quite scary. Before you laugh and ridicule me, think about it. Our brave leader and moral compass, our father, took off running quicker than either of us. He was supposed to guide and lead and he took off like he was scared to death, leaving us to fend for ourselves.

Well, hearts pounding, my sister and I finally found dad hiding out in the sporting goods department. That's when we realized he wasn't scared at all--he was having the time of his life. Sure, he was out of breath after pushing nearly 130 pounds of pop at high speed all the way across the store, but he was happy. He said something about this being the best fourth of July ever and here it was, only 5:30 in the morning.

My sister and I weren't quite as comfortable with the situation as he was--after all, there was still that little mess with the smashed watermelon and we wanted to get out of the store before the Thrifty-Acres staff pinned the whole thing on us. The way dad took off leaving us standing there, we were pretty sure he'd sell us out to the store authorities if they approached us about it. But no matter how much we wanted to leave, dad wasn't done yet. He still wanted that prize watermelon.

So, with my sister and I slinking behind his squeeky cart, our clothes still splotchy from the watermelon juice, we made our way back to the scene of the crime. And as we neared the spot, we saw a worker surveying the awful mess with a look of disgust. He was shaking his head and mumbling under his breath and my sister and I cowered behind dad. We felt guilty. We felt we had blood on our hands. And we felt that everybody in the store knew we were the perpetrators of this horrendous tragedy.

But dad just walked up to the man and looked at the mess on the floor. "What happened?" he asked the man as our jaws dropped open. "Well," the guy said, "somebody came through here and tossed the watermelon off the rack and smashed it on the ground--made a huge mess."

Dad shook his head as he grabbed his prize watermelon from the rack. "Probably kids. Kids do all sorts of stuff like that--don't care about others. Probably comes from having parents that don't care." Then he looked at us and nodded before turning back the guy, "Well, we better get going--having a big picnic today--hope you catch whoever did it. Have a good 4th." And then he walked away as the guy told us to have a great fourth of July as well.

The whole way home, we laughed and laughed and realized that while mom was spending all her time teaching us the right way to act, dad was showing us how scary it was to do the wrong thing. Together they made quite a team.

thanks God, I got the message

I'm sure you've put this together before this, but just in case you're not aware, I've got FIVE kids. Yes. Five of them. And even though I've really only been a parent for less than 8 years, I've learned a lot. In fact, I like to think that contained in my brain . . . rolling around in my head . . . are piles and piles of parenting knowledge.

Sometimes when I'm wandering through a store and I see a screaming child, I think that maybe I should . . . you know . . . pull that poor mom aside and speak a few words of wisdom to her--you know, put her on the right track and help her out with her little screamer. Yes . . . I actually think these things sometimes. Oh, I never do it--I'm never THAT arrogant . . . but, I'm sad to say, I once in a while think that.

And usually, at the height of my inner arrogance, that's where God steps in and brings me down a peg or two by showing me how little I really know about parenting. This current week has been one of those weeks.

See, we're putting our house up for sale and suddenly I realize there are about 307 little jobs I have to accomplish before I can do that: Trim needs to be touched up, a wall or two needs a coat of paint, this has to be fixed, that needs some work, and on and on. Well, this weekend, I cracked open my toolcases, opened my cans of leftover paint in the basement and went to work. Not too long later, the kids started crowding around me, asking me stuff. Oh, I was patient for a while, but eventually, I just wanted to be left in peace so I could work . . . so I didn't pay too much attention when Caleb said he needed to borrow my drill so he could do some work. I gladly sent him on his way and even . . . because I'm stupid sometimes . . . put a newly charged battery in.

Well, after a few hours of work, I took a break and was standing in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water and looking out the window. I was seeing the kids at play on the yard, but I really wasn't seeing them . . . you know what I mean? I had so many little things going on in my head that I paid no real attention. I kept thinking that I needed to do this and that and then when those things were done I'd move on to something else. All of that was floating in my brain as I watched Caleb working by the best tree in our yard--the one Maple that is the strongest and the healthiest--the crowning achievement of our yard. And suddenly it all sank in and I asked myself a question that I should have asked two hours ago: Caleb's seven. What kind of work could he possibly have that needed a drill? I looked out the window again and I screamed and frantically tried to claw open the window so I could holler at the boy. It was locked and my fingers were wet and I couldn't get it to open, so I just ran through the kitchen and out into the backyard to that only good tree in our yard--that tree that Caleb had managed to drill 2 hours worth of holes into. Yeah . . . all sorts of little holes everywhere. He was standing in a pile of sawdust, smiling at me when I took the drill away and told him not to do that anymore.

I didn't say too much more--mainly because I was too tired to argue or yell at him. I just looked at the tree and figured it'd probably be ok and I went back to work. Now, that alone was a good way for God to tap me on the shoulder and say "Hey, Dan . . . you don't know everything there is to know about parenting yet--if you had, you wouldn't have let Caleb run off with a drill. Afterall, he could very easily have put out an eye . . . ." Yeah, that incident alone would have been enough to take me down a peg or two, but that wasn't the end. Not a chance.

An hour later or so, Andrew showed up and asked for my hammer. I am not making this up. He said he had work to do. Well, that made sense to me--somehow--probably because I was tired--and I gave him the hammer. I continued my work and listened to Andrew pounding away for about 30 minutes until once again, that same thought that belatedly went through my head with Caleb suddenly flew through my brain with Andrew: Andrew's four. What in the world kind of work can a four year old need a hammer for? I sprinted around the house, following the sounds of hammering until I found him hunched over in the driveway. I watched him as he swayed back and forth, holding the hammer with both hands and seeming to aim it at something before suddenly and violently bringing it crashing down on the cement with a loud thud. I walked over to him to see what he was doing and wow . . . the carnage was impressive and disturbing. Like a vast killing field, the driveway swept out in front of me, littered with hundreds and hundreds of crushed ants--the big black ones. Hundreds of them. Andrew had a crazy look in his eyes and I wasn't comfortable letting him hold the hammer any longer, so I took it away and told him not to kill stuff just for fun.

Well, I was even more tired as I went back to work and that same voice--probably God's voice--echoed in my head: "What kind of parent lets their FOUR year old run off with a hammer? He could have smashed his fingers . . . or worse, he could have chipped stones straight into his eyes and you know what that would mean, right? Yep, he'd put an eye out."

Now, I'd like to say that the experience and the lesson ended there. That I learned that I wasn't God's gift to parenting and that I also learned to pay more attention to what the kids were doing. But, sadly, that would not be true.

The next day, Caleb had to do some work again and I let him go to work on our good Maple tree with an axe. Oh, I didn't know he wanted the axe--he just said he needed help getting something out of the barn--he didn't tell me what--and asked for help. I just told him to find a way to get it himself--that I was busy. I found him a half our later trying to lift the axe and chop down that tree . . . what did he have against the tree?

Sadly, even that experience wasn't the end. Tuesday night, I painted our front porch with oil based paint. I wrapped the brush up in saran wrap when I was done--I didn't clean it--I meant to use it again on wednesday--and I left it outside by the back door. I didn't want to haul it into the house and stink up the place with paint fumes, so I wisely left it outside.

Later that night, the kids went outside and I sat in the living room resting and watching the Tigers. Caleb came in at one point and told me that Tessa was doing some work. I was too tired to care, so I just said "Good for her--it's about time." I thought that was funny and laughed to myself until Caleb came back about an hour later and said, "I know you thought it was good that she was working . . . but did you know she was working with your paint brush?"

Oh man . . . . I ran outside and found Tessa standing by the back door with the brush in her hands. There was no paint on her hands--as I had feared--and no paint on her dress. The brush was still wrapped up and I had avoided a tragedy. I took them all back into the house and went back to the Tigers.

And then Wednesday morning, I was leaving for work and I stopped dead in my driveway. Oh, Tessa had been working. I hadn't noticed it last night because it was too dark, but Tessa had managed to paint something quite nicely: our van. The van that we just officially purchased last week. That van. She painted that van with oil based paint.

As I stood there looking, that same old voice came into my head . . . "you know, if you knew everything there was to know about parenting you wouldn't have . . . ."

father's day

Dad always had a belly button lint collection. Oh, I know that’s bizarre . . . believe me I know—and it’s also kind of gross. Well, alright, it’s really pretty disgusting, but it’s the truth. He really had one and he kept it in a little wicker chicken on the fireplace mantle. See the chicken was kind of like one of those pantyhose eggs things—it’d open up and you could put stuff in it. Well, apparently one night, when he was bored beyond belief, he must have opened it up and thought—as any right thinking adult man would think--“hey, this is a great place to collect belly button lint.”

Anyway, whatever his particular line of reasoning—whatever random thoughts and bizarre ideas led him to do this, he did it. And he kept doing it until mom found out—which, I think was his goal all along—he kept doing it until mom found out and was, of course, thoroughly horrified and disgusted and absolutely let him have it. Yeah, mom didn’t see any humor in the 40 or so little balls of lint with an occasional hair popping out of them . . . but we did. We were little and unsophisticated and let me tell you, that was funny stuff.

Dad also had an invisible friend. His name was Bob. Eventually, as time went by, Bob came to inhabit the body of a stuffed Alf doll—you know, that old tv show about the alien? The hairy brown puppet that liked to eat cats? Anyway, dad found an old Alf doll in our basement one day and started carting him all over the place—wherever dad went, Bob went too. Bob ate dinner with us, he sat in dad’s chair with him at night, when dad was out on the road overnight making sales calls on the East side of the state, Bob went with him, buckled safely in the passenger seat of dad’s van. When dad called us at night, the first thing we’d hear when we picked up the phone was the thumping of Bob’s little furry, stuffed hand against the receiver. Then, we’d have to ask how Bob was doing and dad would fill us in. And let me tell you, Bob lived it up. Dad always said Bob spent the nights at the Hootchie Kootchie establishments. I didn’t know what those were until a few years ago. And you know what, I’m pretty sure Bob was just making it up—I mean, he always talked a good story, but that’s usually all it was with him—talk. Afterall, he was stuffed.

When winter came, dad started getting excited for Christmas. He absolutely loved Christmas when we were growing up . . . and he’s passed that on to me. The whole magic of that day was something that dad lived all year for. In fact, I remember waking my sisters up at 5:30 am on Christmas morning when I was in High School with the words “Get up—Santa’s been here.” Oh, we none of us believed it, but it was all part of the way Dad talked and thought about Christmas. I don’t know if I remember once dad ever taking credit for presents purchased—they were always brought by Santa in dad’s mind.

In the Spring . . . when the weather started to turn and those warmer, windy days of March came sweeping through, dad was always the first guy anywhere to buy a kite at Meijers. Then we’d take to the front yard, standing in the sun that wasn’t quite warm enough to be without coats, standing surrounded by melting snow, surrounded, but still standing on patches of green grass as we stared up into the sky, following a slowly curving white kite string until we found dad’s kite way, way up there—a long tail made from mom’s good dish towels hanging down and keeping it steady. Dad could do that for hours. And he did. And we helped—sometimes holding the string, sometimes just watching, sometimes looking out for planes that we were sure were going to hit the kite—after all, dad usually had it up there 2 or 3 rolls of string high. In fact, if you squinted just right, you could see the little end rolls way up in the air where the string had run out and dad had tied a new roll on.

When summer hit, Dad took to the outdoors once again and this time, there were basically only three things he needed: a baseball, a glove and me. And we’d spend hours in the yard, throwing the ball back and forth. He’d throw grounders and I’d dive for them. He’d throw pop-up and I’d dive for them. He’d throw line drives and I’d dive for them. All the while, as I was diving, making big league catches left and right, dad would tell me to stay on my feet—that I’d make more plays from my feet than I would laying on the grass. I tried to listen, but man, I loved to dive . . . .

When we got tired of catch, we’d get out a bat and he’d pitch to me . . . somehow finding energy that only now, when I’m a father myself, I’m amazed he had. He’d pitch ball after ball and just let me pound them all over the yard. Then we’d walk around and pick them up and do it again.

Of course, from those days on the yard, as I got older, we transitioned into little league and dad found time to be the coach—every year of little league that I played, he coached. And he was great—I mean, he never really played baseball himself—he always said he rode the bench on the high school team—but he understood something that so many folks seem to forget: that baseball’s a game and that a game, above all else, is supposed to be fun. Sure, it’s a skill to learn, but above all else it’s a game. And dad made sure we had fun playing it. He’d get all of the kids on the team together and somehow, he’d turn those summer days into the most exciting, most hilarious experiences I’ve ever had. The other kids always thought he was tremendously funny and when I wasn’t busy being embarassed because of the goofy things he’d do, I was laughing, too.

Well, after all these years, I now find myself with a family of my own and I realize that the burden’s on my shoulders to be that same guy for my kids. To find the time to play even when I’m tired, to find a way to step outside of myself and maybe talk to an invisible friend when we’re standing in a restaurant—you know, just for laughs. Or maybe to start my own belly-button lint collection. (I’ll have to look and see if we’ve got a wicker chicken or something like that)

Anyway, whatever I do, whenever I’m out with the kids, laughing and having a blast, I always think back on those days from my childhood and I realize how much I owe to my dad. Oh, he taught me how to have fun and how to laugh at everything and all that, sure, but he taught me more important things, too. He taught me that there’s nothing more important—no job, no career, no toy, no car—that there’s nothing more important than your family and what you do for them and with them. All our years growing up, dad never had a fancy job or a big salary. Never. I’m sure he’d have welcomed it—I mean really, who wouldn’t like to be successful in the eyes of everybody looking at you? And he could have pursued all of those things—he could have chased success—at least that kind of success--down. But he chose to chase a different kind of success—a success that lasts way beyond the trinkety success he could have had. He chose to pour himself into us. He worked his job—and he works his job now to the absolute best of his ability—putting more into his effort than many folks I know. But his heart has always been somewhere else. His drive through life has been to enjoy his kids and enjoy his family and to make sure that we grew up enjoying life. And that’s a success far greater than a couple convertibles parked in a 4 stall garage. That’s a success that lasts for generations. Because he’s taught me, by his actions, not so much just with words, he’s taught me what’s truly important and what truly matters. And I plan to pass that same thing on to my kids.

Thanks dad for everything you’ve done. It’s not something I say often enough, but you’ve made me who I am—good or bad, belly-button lint collection and all. Thanks and Happy Father’s Day.

i can't believe i'm saying this

Ok, something short tonight, but nevertheless, something potentially profound. Or at least disturbing.

Probably just disturbing.

Anyway, I was yelling at Caleb the other night and when I finished yelling at him, I stopped and thought to myself: "I can't believe I actually am saying this." Well, that got me thinking back about all those types of incidents we've encountered with the kids. Here's my top 10 list of things I can't believe I had to say--some with commentary and some without.

Here we go:

10.
"Caleb, it's time to take your dress off, wash the make-up off your face and get your pajamas on . . . it's bed time." (Probably about 3 years ago when Caleb went through his dress and make-up stage. Mercifully it ended. As far as I know.)

9.
"Tam, are these really my underwear?" (One year ago. After I groggily went to my underwear drawer one morning and pulled on the first pair I found. Turns out they were Caleb's. Turns out it's a good thing I asked--I'd have lost all circulation to my torso by the time I reached the highway. And we all know it's tough to drive when you've got no blood flowing to your torso.)

8.
"Tam, what do you think that is? Yeah, that thing . . . floating over there?" (About 3 years ago when our sewer backed up. At first the job was horrible and disgusting. Then kind of interesting as we found all kinds of things that could sometimes be identified and sometimes not. It was like a CSI episode. With less death. And more stink).

7.
"I'm going to let him take 5. He looks tired and I think it'll be more fair if I let him get his strength back." (Had to be about 9 years ago--before we were even married. We were hanging out at our newly purchased house on a date, watching tv and enjoying each other's company when out of the blue the biggest moth we'd ever seen swoops into the room. Then we discovered it was a bat. I chased it around the living room with a broom for about 20 minutes while Tami ran back and forth to the bathroom to scream and . . . well, probably just to scream. Anyway, after about 20 minutes of fighting with the bat, I started to bond with him . . . to feel his pain and his concern. I could see he was tired and at one point, when he hung from our crown molding, his little bat chest heaving up and down, I decided to give him a minute. Tami appeared out of the bathroom and screamed something like "hit it" or "kill it now" or maybe even "send it back to the pit from whence it came." I just shook my head and let my little bat buddy rest. When he was ready to go again we continued and eventually, he zipped out the door and out into the wide open spaces of the outdoors.)

6.
"Andrew, if I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times . . . don't hit yourself in the Wee Willy Winkie." (Ongoing. This is a strange habit of Andrew's. When he's excited or excessively happy about something, he hits himself in his special place. Now, lest you misunderstand . . . he absolutely pummels himself. It's like a fight in an alley and he's doing everything he can to come out alive . . . . It's disturbing to watch and I have no idea why he's not rolling around on the ground in pain whenever he does it. At least he's building up a tolerance and if he ever gets hit there with a baseball, he might be able to stay on his feet. I guess there's an upside to everything).

5.
"Who's packing heat? Tessa? Andrew? Caleb . . . go smell Tessa and Andrew and see who did it." (2 years ago or so. Yeah, I can't believe what I've been reduced to as a parent. When we first started this gig 7 years ago, we were proper and polite and we didn't talk about potty stuff out loud. Now, all these years later, we're routinely telling the other kids to actually get on all fours and put their faces to the backsides of the other kids, to breathe deeply, and then to report their findings. Oh, the shame! But honestly, the worst thing about all of this is that the other kids always did it without even taking their eyes off the tv . . . .)

4.
"Andrew . . . ANDREW!!! What's wrong! What's WRONG! For the love of Pete, WHAT'S WRONG!!!!???" (Probably about 2.5 years ago at Great Wolf Lodge. In the pool. We had forgotten Andrew's swim diaper. He was playing and having fun and then all of a sudden, in the middle of the pool, he stands up with an agonized look on his face. Suddenly, he was bent over double, both hands firmly clenched on his bottom, his mouth contorted in pain. He squirmed and wiggled and shifted from foot to foot. I ran in what seemed like slow motion across the pool, mouthing out the words above as I tried to get my hands on him. All I could imagine was the montone voice on the loud speaker saying "everybody out of the wading pool. I repeat, everybody OUT of the wading pool. We have a code BROWN. Yes, send your thank you's to the Dan and Tami Hansen family staying in room 114. Again, everybody out . . . ."

3.
"Where's Tessa? Oh . . . that's her. I think." (About 2.5 years ago at Great Wolf Lodge--that one outing produced a number of fun episodes. Anyway, this time, we were standing in the wading pool, talking--Tami and I--while the kids scuttled around and played. Tessa was just barely walking. Well, at one point, the kids wanted to go down the water slides, so Tami took them and left Tess with me, in my capable hands. I watched her bob around by my legs for a while, splashing at the water and laughing and then I turned to watch the kids on the slide. Then I watched some other stuff. Then the big bucket of water poured down and everybody cheered and I watched that for a little bit. Then the kids went down the slide again and came back to me, laughing and smiling. As Tami walked up to me, I happened to look down and Tessa was gone. Frantically, I asked where she was . . . and then I saw her, floating peacefully, face down in the shallow water, about 10 feet away. My heart stopped. I ran over, picked her up and set her on her feet, hoping she was still working. She blinked her eyes, rubbed the water out and kept wading. It had no effect on her at all, though now, we're wondering if her long lack of oxygen then might have something to do with her incredible, unquenchable rage. I don't know . . . I've got no scientific evidence to back me up, but I think it may have something to do with it.

2.
"Let me get this straight. Boys are chasing you at school? And they're trying to kiss you? And you think it's fun? Caleb, that ain't right, buddy . . . it just ain't right." (About 3 months ago. I picked the kids up from the bus stop and asked them how their days had gone. And then Caleb--Caleb, not Madi--told me that the boys chase him around on the playground and try to kiss him. I had no idea how to respond to that. I remembered his dress-wearing days and wondered . . . . But then I shook my head and made a face and said, "Buddy that's gross . . . right?" It was a probing question by a concerned and deeply-in-over-his-head father. "I think it's fun!" It took a long time, but I think I figured out that the fun part was the chasing and the avoiding getting kissed. I don't know. It's been a long time since I was a kid. I know now, as an adult, I wouldn't have fun if the guys in the office chased me around and tried to kiss me . . . but maybe as a kid that's fun . . . maybe . . . . I'm still looking into it.

1.
"Caleb, don't stick Maple Tree seed spinners in your butt." (Two nights ago. Yes, this was the statement that I made that instantly had me thinking "I can't believe I've got to say this." See, Caleb was running around on the yard in his underpants the other night and suddenly, he hollers to Andrew, "Hey, watch this!" Then he scoops up one of the whirly bird seed spinners, whips his underwear down in the back and . . . well, down the hatch. Then he jerks around and yells "ow! ow! ow!" as he scratches at it trying to get it out. And of course it comes out in pieces and of course, I get this thought in my head: "what if it's not all out?" And as much as I didn't want to . . . I figured I'd better check. Man. Being a parent is rough. I just kept telling him as I made sure he was good to go that that spot was not for stuffing stuff. It was exit only. Exit only. Remember that. Exit only.)

a skip and a jump from deceased

A while ago I wrote a post about how I'd become fat over the winter. Yeah . . . don't know how it happened or when, exactly, but I do know that I woke up one morning and I was fat. Well, because of that, I've been trying to watch what I've been eating for the past few weeks. I've been trying to exercise a little more and I've basically been trying to get a little more fit.

And then, the other day, the UPS man brought us a special package. It was something we'd ordered a few weeks ago--a present Tami had actually requested for Mother's Day. And finally a couple Wednesday's ago, it arrived.

What it was was this: our very own Wii Fit. Ok, maybe that needs a quick explanation. Now, I'm sure most of you out there know what a Wii is (and if you don't have one, just a quick (blatant) plug for RepcoLite: We're going to be giving away 5 of them this summer. The contest starts on June 16 and I'll have instructions on the website (www.repcolite.com) very soon). Anyway, as I was saying, I'm sure most of you know what a Wii is. And now, Nintendo, trying to capitalize on their already monstrous success, has released a new "exercise game" called Wii Fit.

It's a game that comes packaged with a big balance board that you put on the floor and stand on. The board registers your center of balance and incorporates those readings with different exercises and yoga poses you can do that are contained in the game. The basic idea behind it is that by making exercise fun, people like me will be more likely to do it.

Anyway, as I mentioned earlier, Tami has been wanting this thing ever since she first heard about it several months ago--she's into that weight-loss, exercise kick and she thought it'd be fun. So, being ever the attentive and thoughtful husband, I ordered it for her for Mother's Day. (Of course, though, being a guy, I was more than just a little nervous to buy an exercise present for Tami. Buying something that says, "Honey, I love you, but you're fat. Please exercise" is a little daunting. I've been in trouble before when the "Do you think I'm fat?" question's come up and as a result, I was kind of scared to buy Tami exercise equipment--even if it was in the form of a video game--for Mother's Day. But she wanted it and promised not to yell and cry and lock herself in the bathroom and say that she's just a fat blob (or to say that I said she was a fat blob--which I never have and never will) when it came in the mail. She convinced me she was telling the truth. So we ordered it).

And it arrived last week Wednesday, as I've said, and we were all giddy to open it up and try it out. As I ripped open the box and smelled that wonderful new electronics smell, I thought about how odd this was. Here I was, excited about exercise. I've never been excited about exercise before, (unless you count walking to the kitchen to get more food), but if you roll it into some kind of video game . . . well, you never know.

Anyway, we got it out of the box and read the instructions. We were supposed to, after the whole things was initialized--we were supposed to stand on it and set up a saved profile of ourselves. This profile would contain our starting weight--our starting body mass index--basically, how fat we are--as well as our goals for the next couple of weeks. When I told Tami all of that and told her to step onto the measuring board and start enjoying her Mother's Day present in front of all of us, she got a little nervous. She wanted to see how it all worked first, so she had me go before her.

That was fine by me--at first. See, I stepped onto the little balance board on the floor--the scale if you will, and suddenly a little computer voice on the television said "Ohhhhh." The voice sounded startled and slightly in pain or maybe just awestruck. Either way, the little "oh" didn't sound terribly flattering and I started to get a little nervous that maybe my three weeks of exercise and eating better hadn't trimmed me down to the lean form I imagined I was.

After that initial "oh," a few more tests followed. I had to tell the computer my height and my age and then I had to stand still while it told me it was measuring me. When it was done, there was a drum roll and then the television loudly proclaimed to everybody in the house that I was . . . OVERWEIGHT. And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, it showed a little computer person--something that on the Nintendo system is called a mii--a computer representation of me. It's a little guy I've made who looks kind of like me and who I've named Danny Boy. Anyway, as if it weren't bad enough to hear that I'm overweight, suddenly poor Danny Boy--my lean and trim self on the screen--suddenly Danny Boy pudged out. Just like me this winter. One second he was trim and fit and smiling and the next he was pudgy and doughy and lumpy and standing with his head down. A big colorful scale to his left showed that I was deep in the orange--the overweight section--and was only a few clicks from the dreaded red section that was simply and morbidly titled "obese." I believe there's just one category above that one and it's black and labeled "deceased." I'm a click away from obese and just a skip and a jump away from a pine box.

Well, when my character on tv got fat, the kids started laughing and hooting and hollering. When we saw that I was just a few clicks under obese, Tami started laughing. When I saw I was approaching the "deceased" category, I felt a little better. At least I wouldn't struggle and be fat for long. Death would take care of that.

Oh, the family though, they didn't care about my impending death--they were all having a great time making fun of fat Danny Boy and laughing when the little nag on the Wii Fit game started trying to tell me all about proper eating habits and healthy snack habits.

I stood there on the scale, letting the television berate me and letting my familiy laugh at me. I didn't yell at them to stop. I didn't act indignant and hop off the Wii Board and threaten never to go back on. Nope. I was an adult--a class act. And the reason I carried myself so well was because I was remembering something Tami had forgotton: she still had to go.

With that warm little thought in my head, I endured the humiliation and the pain and did my first little set of prescribed exercises before finally clocking out. By the time I was done, I'd spent a good 45 minutes doing different yoga poses, running in place, doing push-ups and rowing squats (which is a very awkward pose) and all kinds of other stuff. I was sweating, my legs were sore--almost numb--and I had pain everywhere. It was great. I don't know if this whole thing will really work, but it was fun and I felt like I'd done real exercise. We'll see how it pans out.

Anyway, when I was done, I jiggled my fat self off the little board and made room for Tami. Nervously, she stepped on and, to my delight, the same little agonized computer voice groaned "oh." It ran her through the same battery of tests and then came the big drum-roll. We waited. I was ready to cheer when I learned that Tami was overweight and Tami was getting ready to cry. (And I've got to confess, I didn't care. I hoped that little computer nag let her have it--they had ridden me so hard, I figured it'd be fair). Then the results came and it was a gigantic kick in my flabby, jiggly stomach: Tami was informed that she's in the normal range. Her little Mii jumped up and down and held her arms over her head before rushing off to stand on the screen next to my dumpy, pudgy little character. Danny Boy just stood there looking doughy (and sweaty) and Tami's Mii kept hopping around, looking like she'd just won the world series. This started everybody laughing again.

The real me just watched for a second and then I scuffled off to the bathroom and locked myself in with a box of ice cream sandwiches, a 2-liter of Diet Coke and a handful of granola bars. Of course, any sobs that leaked out of my throat were drowned out by the laughter from the living room. "A couple clicks away from deceased and they're still laughing." I munched on my snacks and chewed quickly (mainly because the computer nag had told me to chew slowly) before taking a big gulp of Diet Coke straight from the 2-liter. "Yeah, we'll see who's laughing when I'm dead." A smile started to creep up the corners of my face and I was just nodding my head when I realized that I was talking about my own death. I paused for a second before finishing off 2 more ice cream sandwiches and I started making notes on the back of the ice-cream sandwich box. Notes about my funeral. I'm choosing Pall Bearers. Tami's going to be one. So is Caleb--he laughed so hard at me he wet himself. And I'm going to request, in my will, that the Pall Bearers walk my sarcophagus (can you call the coffin of a really, really fat guy just a coffin? It doesn't seem . . . massive enough). Anyway, I'm going to request that my sarcophagus be hauled around the cemetery--like a lap. Maybe I'll request two laps of the cemetery.

I smiled as I munched down my last granola bar without even taking it out of the wrapper. I could hear them in the living room . . . exercising with their little Wii Fit . . . and I nodded to myself. "Keep exercising Tam. Keep exercising children. You're going to need to be pretty fit when I go . . . pretty fit, indeed."

ducks on the pond and other problems

I've been coaching a little league team comprised of 7 and 8 year olds and let me tell you, it's been an eye-opening experience for me.

Now, in the past, I've always thought of myself as a decent communicator--you know, someone who could make even the most confusing thing simple and understandable, but with this little league thing, I'm starting to wonder if maybe I might have held to an overblown idea of my own abilities. See, the other night we had a game and I'm pitching to my team. Before long, the first little kid gets a hit. (Which isn't unusual because most of the kids get hits and, in this particular league, most of them stay on the bases, moving one base at a time until they eventually score--which of course is not counted, which is another story.) So anyway, the first kid gets a hit and then so does the second kid. That means, in baseball talk, that we've got ducks on the pond. So I said that to batter number 3.

I said, "Hey Pete, come on bud, we've got ducks on the pond."

And he put his bat down and started looking around. "What pond?"

"I mean we've got runners on the bases . . . . I called them ducks because . . . ." (why do we call them ducks? And what's up with this pond thing?) "Ahhhhh, just get your bat ready, I'm going to pitch."

He looked at me and blinked. "What pond?"

His bat was still down and he was looking around, standing on his little cleated tip-toes, looking for the pond, so I walked over to him and told him it was just an expression--a cliche--and that all he needed to think about was hitting the ball. He seemed to understand and soon he had is bat hoisted on his shoulder.

I walked back to the "mound" and got ready to pitch. I was in my wind-up when he put the bat down and pointed at the trees just beyond the fence.

"Is the pond out there?"

Oh, mercy. "Yep! You got it bud. The pond's out there. Now, get ready."

"And there's ducks?"

"Loads of 'em."

That seemed to satisfy him and he hoisted his bat back up and got ready to hit. I tossed him the ball and he swung, hitting a slow dribbler back to the kid fielding the pitcher's position.

The little pitcher scooped it up and tossed it to first. The first baseman caught it and poor Pete was out. Finally. However, while it took forever to get to this point, I still wasn't done coaching good old Pete. See, while that whole at bat took place, I noticed something. I noticed that when Pete hit the ball, he started running down the line to first and then he pulled up and stopped halfway when he realized he was going to be out.

As he was walking back to the bench, I took that moment to impart a little of my baseball knowledge to him--you know, to coach him in the ways he should go. (I should have known better after the Ducks-on-the-Pond fiasco . . . but I'm a slow learner).

So I said, "Hey Pete! Good hit, buddy. But you gotta keep running, ok?"

Pete's head snapped up as he was nearing the bench and he looked at me with a weird look in his eyes. "I've gotta keep running?"

"Yeah. Keep running--even when you think you're out."

"Even when I'm out?"

I kept thinking what's that weird look in his eyes for? But I dismissed it and simply said, "Yep, keep running."

Well, Pete's a no-nonsense kind of kid. He turned on his heels and shot off down the base line straight towards first. He hit the bag going like sixty and made the turn to second. People started screaming at him--parents, grandparents, kids, coaches--and the other team didn't know what to do. I was yelling at him, telling him to stop running. As his little legs were kicking up infield gravel on his way to second, I shouted that he needed to run AFTER he hit the ball, but BEFORE he was out--and then I stopped and corrected myself and told him to run even when he thought he was out, but not to keep running after it was finally official that he was out. But that when it was official, I told him to officially stop running and return to the dugout. It was, to say the least, confusing. And surprisingly, it did nothing to slow Pete on his trek around the bases.

In fact, by the time I finished that convoluted explanation, Pete was almost to second and was getting ready to pass the runner who was legitimately there. Well, that kid, seeing Pete approaching at full speed, decided he'd better run too. I'm sure he figured he'd missed something and he shot off like a deer. Now, both of them were barrelling side by side down the line straight toward the poor little kid standing at third base who was waving at his parents in the stands. Suddenly he looked over and his eyes get huge as he sees two kids bearing down on him and he took off toward home plate.

All three scored at once, but, as I said earlier, we don't keep score.

When the game finally ended, we all wandered off toward our cars. I was kicking myself the whole way--frustrated about my inability to communicate what was in my mind to the kids on the field. And then I heard Pete talking to his grandpa, telling him about his homerun. His grandpa was eating it all up and patting Pete on the back and congratulating him and I was wondering if the old guy had fallen asleep and missed the whole fiasco or if he was just being nice to Pete. Before I could figure it out, I heard Pete shift gears in his conversation.

"Grandpa! There's a pond over there," he said, pointing at that line of trees just beyond the fence.

"There is? Well, let's go! I bet there are ducks!"

"Coach says there are tons of 'em . . . ."

Pete's voice faded away as he and his grandpa trudged through the long weeds toward the pond I doubted even existed. I just got in my car and drove home.

I'll deal with Pete's complaints about the lack of a pond next week.

mother's day

Years ago, when I was about 8 or so, mom was driving my sisters and I home from the 16th Street Meijers. It had been one of those fun, summertime trips to the grocery store: my sister Laura and I fought and argued and bickered up and down every single aisle and Jeanne just sat in the cart with the food, wailing and sobbing because she had been forced to leave the light of her life--a stuffed Donald Duck--in the car. Basically, by the time we were done, had paid our bill and had some poor sap load our stuff in the car, I think God was even getting a little sick of us.

Well, mom tossed us into our seats and peeled out of the parking lot with every intention of getting home as quickly as possible. As the car lurched and raged through the little maze of stop signs and turns looking desperately for open road and a straight shot home, Laura and I smoothly transitioned into Phase 2 of our fight. This was the "make derogatory, deeply personal remarks about the other person and follow them up with slapping" stage. I was very good at this part of the fighting process and I was just getting into my groove when mom boiled over. She turned around quickly, the vinyl seats of her little Gremlin squeaking with the sudden movement, and she looked us all in the eye for a second and said, "I don't want to hear another word . . . not even a breath . . . out of any of you the rest of the way home or there's going to be BIG trouble."

Well, normally threats didn't work on us, but this time she seemed serious--and honestly, a little crazy. Her right eye was twitching and her left shoulder kept jerking up toward her ear involuntarily. It was kind of scary and we thought for a second that maybe we had broken her. But eventually the twitching slowly stopped and we decided not to push things any farther. Despite our intentions of finishing the fight with a grand finale on the ride home, we settled quietly into the back seats and clenched our mouths tightly closed--even though we continued throwing angry glances back and forth at each other.

During the remainder of that ride, the only one that made any noise at all was Jeanne--and she was making happy sounds. See, once she got in the car, she was reunited with her stuffed Donald Duck and she was all babbly happiness. As I've mentioned before, that toy was the light of her world. It was a toy upon which, in Jeanne's estimation, the sun rose and set. Without that drool-stained duck tucked under her arm, Jeanne couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't laugh. Now, with that toy back in her possession, she wasn't quiet, but at least she was happy.

In fact, she was a little too happy. She was in that babbling stage where kids say all kinds of stuff you can't quite understand and you get tired just listening and trying to figure it out. You know that stage, right? That stage when they wear parents down to little nubs of the people they had once been simply by dribbling a non-stop stream of unintelligible questions out of their mouths. Anyway, Jeanne was in that stage and she sat in the back seat and beat mom into a coma with unending nonsense. In fact as we pulled away from the stoplight on James and 31--right by Dutch Village, heading North, Jeanne was really going and mom's eyes were glazed over. Jeanne was gabbing a garbled mouthful of things in which mom could only understand snippets. However, as her little Gremlin maxed out at a shaky 55 mph, two lines of clear speech snaked their way through the jumble and into mom's brain. Two simple lines cleared the glazed film off mom's eyes and sounded warning bells in her head. Two simple fragments of a single sentence: "Donald's a good flyer" and "he really likes the wind."

The import of what Jeanne was saying sunk into mom's brain and her eyes darted from the road to the rearview mirror and her mouth fell open. Sure enough, windmilling down the center of US 31 behind our non-eco-friendly, oil-burning Gremlin, was Donald Duck.

Mom whipped around in her seat for a better view--probably hoping that what she had seen in the mirror was just a mirage--a hallucination produced by the stress of having children with her all the time. Anyway, she whipped around in the squeaky vinyl seat and continued pushing her Gremlin toward home, all the while watching Donald flip over and over on the concrete. It was about that time that Jeanne realized Donald was gone for good. Her eyes crackled and she threw her curly red head back against the seat and sounded a long, mournful, ear-piercing wail like a wounded rabbit.

Of course, when that started, everything escalated--isn't it funny how that added touch of shrieking can lace even the most simple scenario with a feeling of impending doom, of hellish torment, of razor-edged tension? Yes, children know this and they use it to their every advantage. As an aside, smart parents know this as well. I, for example, if I have to return a particular electronic thingy I've purchased--and if I believe it's going to be one of those episodes where the "customer service" people argue with me about the return--if I know that's possibly going to happen, I bring one of the kids--usually the crabbiest one at the time--along with me. Most often it's Tessa. Well, if I put my little package on the counter and the tattooed and pierced high school girl beyond the counter looks at my receipt and says "this has only a 14 day return policy", I instantly pull the candy bar Tessa's been holding since we got there, out of her hands and there you go--instant anger. She'll start to wail and I have to say "what? I can't hear you" to the girl behind the counter while I point at my ears and shake my head. Then she repeats herself and I just shake my head and point at my ears again and pretend to tell Tessa to keep quiet. Eventually, the girl gets sick of repeating herself and the ear-splitting wails eventually wear her down and she just punches through the return and gives me my money back. Tessa always leaves the store--after a successful return--with a candy bar or two.

Anyway, all that to say children can really crank things up a notch or two when they start the screaming. And that's what Jeanne was doing at that exact moment that Donald was cartwheeling along the dashed lines of Northbound 31.

Well, with the screaming, mom was having a hard time thinking--a difficult time working out a plan--so she did what comes natural to parents across the ages: she turned on the other kids--on us. Pointing a crooked little finger at Laura and I, she asked "Did you see her throw Donald out the window?" We both nodded.

"Well, then, why didn't you say something?"

Oh, let me tell you, that even as a 6 year old kid, this was a sweet moment that I thoroughly enjoyed. Well, I cleared my throat, paused for effect and said, "You know, you told us to keep our mouths shut the whole way home." I'm surprised I'm still alive. I guess she had too many other things going on to worry about pounding me into next week.

After a few seconds delay--a moment of biting her lip and trying to decide on a course of action while Jeanne continued shrieking in the back seat--mom set her jaw and swung the car violently into a Michigan turn. She hit the gas, moved through the light, heading South now and then hit another Michigan turn. Our tires squeeled and before too many seconds had passed, we were sitting at the light, heading North once again.

In front of us, sprawled on the highway, lay Donald. When the light turned green, mom hit the gas and I'd like to say that the car peeled away from the rest of traffic. Yeah, I'd like to say that, but mom was driving a Gremlin. Still, it was moving faster than we were accustomed to and I remember our overly-large little kid heads sinking deep into the backs of our seats. Then, before we knew what had happened, mom hit the brakes and yanked the car into the median. Next thing we knew, her door flew open and she was gone, booking it across the highway, dodging and running at a full sprint straight toward the oncoming traffic. It was like a suicide run--like an extreme game of chicken--and Laura and I had never seen anything like it. Horns were blaring, mom was dodging, Jeannie was crying and we were cheering. We knew right then that if mom was going to die today she was going to do it with style.

Way too soon, (as far as we were concerned), mom was back in the car, panting and sweating and shaking. She tossed Donald into the back seat--into Jeannie's open arms--and leaned back to roll Jeanne's window all the way up. She didn't say a word as she nosed the car back onto the highway--she was breathing too hard. She had faced near certain death to recover a stuffed toy that we could have bought again at Meijers for 10 bucks. Why? I have no idea. All I can think is that she did it because she's a mom. And that's what moms do. They bend over backward for their familes and they do whatever it takes to please them, protect them, or sometimes, just to shut them up.

Today's Mother's Day and I thought I'd take a minute to say thanks to all the moms out there and to a few who've impacted me in particular.

Thanks mom for all you've done to "raise us in the way we should go." Thanks for doing everything in your power to protect us and teach us and love us and thanks for doing the crazy stuff like running onto the highway, straight at a semi-truck, to grab that stupid little stuffed Donald for Jeanne. It made a great story--(though think how much better it would have been if you'd been clipped--just winged, mind you--by one of those trucks . . . . Oh, well, we can't rewrite the past . . . .)

Thanks to Tam's mom for doing all she's done to raise Tam and to be there for us.

And finally, thanks to my wife--the mother of our (gulp) 5 kids. Tam, you're the best mom I've ever seen. When God put your heart together, He had to be thinking "I've got one thing in mind for her--one thing that will be the pulse of her life." That one thing is motherhood.

In a day and age when so many people look at that job--at being a mom--as something you do and then move on from as quickly as you can . . . in a day when so many people are primarily concerned about keeping their careers . . . in a day and age when being a mom is cool, but where we're constantly telling women you can (and should) be much more than a mom . . . in a day and age like that, you're a breath of fresh air. You're amazing to me because you don't believe any of that garbage. You've figured things out and you know that there is nothing more important--no higher career or bigger calling--than the job you're doing right now: raising our kids to love God, to follow Jesus and to love life and each other. Years and years down the road, I don't think we'll look back and miss the money you could have made. I don't think we'll look back and wish you had spent more time furthering your education so you'd be more marketable in the business world. I think we'll look back and thank God that He put that special something in your heart when He made you--that special love that makes you the most remarkable mom and woman I've ever had the privilege to know.

Thank you from all of us--from Caleb, Madi, Andrew, Tessa, Hannah and me.