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.)