Letter to my oldest

This is going to sound like a corny cliche, but it's the truth. It seems like just yesterday that your mom went in to labor with you. I remember everything about that day. It was a Sunday. Your mom and I had lunch at your aunt's house earlier, like we always did on Sundays. Now we were home, watching The Sopranos on t.v., like we always did on Sundays. And we were both inhaling Mint Girl Scout cookies, like we always did on Sundays during The Sopranos. Other than it being your mom's birthday, it was just like every other Sunday of the year.
Then, every other Sunday turned into the best Sunday of my life. Your mom told me she thought "it was time", and we loaded up the bags and headed to the hospital. The next day the most gorgeous little girl in the world was born, and my life would never be the same.
And now you are turning the big thirteen. It's crazy to me how time slowed down and even seemed to stop on the day you were born, but it has gone by so fast in the last thirteen years. I'm so mad at myself because even now when I'm trying my hardest, I can't remember the first step you took, or the first word you uttered, or how old you were when you gave up the bottle and pacifier.
Anyway, let me get to the point of the letter. Some of what I'm going to tell you, I've already told you a hundred times. Some of it will be new to you. And I know that as a teenager, you aren't going to be happy being a part of my column anymore. So I'll make you a deal- if you promise to cut this one out and save it, I'll make this the last one that is solely about you.
Okay, first of all I want you to know that over the next few years you will have tons of firsts- first time driving, first time going to a teenager party, first love, etc.
And at times, it will all seem like a roller coaster for you. You will have the time of your life one day, and be lower than low the next. Unfortutnately, the lows are just as much a part of life as the highs. You will get your heart broken, but it will only make you appreciate real love when you find it. You will lose a friend or family member along the way, but it will only make you appreciate the friends or family members that you still have. If you remember anything from this letter, remember this- almost nothing in life is ever as bad, or as good, as it seems to be at the time. There will always be a way to get out of a jam, or to get something done. The level-headed will always be more likely to find it. So learn the difference between being passionate about something, and being emotional.
Remember that you carry our last name with you wherever you go. Your mother and I have worked hard to earn a good reputation, so don't screw it up. I'm not saying that you shouldn't have fun, because you should. But always conduct yourself as if you are being watched at all times (knowing your mother like I do, you probably are).
And finally, know that some people will let you down from time to time. Everyone makes mistakes, even those that you put on a pedestal. Hold them accountable, but try not to judge them too harshly.
I wish I could promise you that your teenage years will be all butterflies and hearts, but I can't. Here's a few things that I can promise you, though.
I promise that your mother and I will always have high expecations for you, butt into your business, read your text messages, and just overall get on your very last nerve from time to time. I promise you that we aren't just being mean or nosey. From the first day that your mom knew you existed, every single decision that we've made has been to help you succeed in life. Every single one. No matter what, that won't change.
And finally, I promise that you will get a job as soon as it's legal for you to work. Someone has to pay for all these birthday parties.

And now my holiday begins...

Shhshsh. Do y'all hear that? That, my friends, is the sound of piece and quiet. The holidays are finally over, and my kids are mercively on their way back to school. I swear, I don't see how you home-school parents do it.
Look, save the hate mail and phone calls. Nobody is saying that I don't love my kids. It's just that, well, I love them even more when they are in school.
Now that I'm pretty much only working one job, I've got a lot of free time on my hands. My schedule now is seven on, seven off. And I love my seven off. When I tell people my schedule, they usually say "Wow, it's like having having a vacation every other week." And that's true, that's about how I feel about it, also.
But you know what ruins vacations more than anything? Kids.
Usually on my days off I'll sleep til about 7 or 7:30 a.m., get up and eat a little breakfast, then if I have any errands to run I run them. If not, I sit and watch a little t.v. The bottom line is this- when I'm off, I usually do what I want to do, when I want to do it. During the holidays, however, all that goes to Hell.
When they are home I have to worry about what they are going to eat. There are empty soda cans on the counter, the trash is always full, and someone will without a doubt leave their plate on the table for me to pick up.
If I try to go watch a little t.v., I have to wrestle the remote away from some little person that is watching Drake and Josh, or Phineas and Ferb, or some other silly little show like that.
And if I do manage to steal the remote, I've got about 30 minutes before my son starts yelling at me. "Hey Dad, what are we gonna do today? Let's go do something, Dad. What can we go do? Let's go do something."
The only time I really have to myself is if I happen to wake up really early, because they usually stay up late. Too late.
I, like any other red-blooded American male, enjoy a good old fashioned Rated-R show every now and then. Nothing too bad, get your mind out of the gutter. I'm talking about movies that use cuss words, like regular people. And ones with a lot of blood. And, if there is a sex scene or two, well, that's just the price you have to pay to watch. Who am I to complain? Because I married who I did, the only time I get to watch good movies like that is at night, when everyone else is asleep.
But not over the holidays when the kids are awake. Hell, when they are in the room I can't even watch re-runs of Two and a Half Men. You ever tried to watch a good action movie with all the blood and guts and cussing taken out? It sucks. Someone with a bazooka blowing things up should never utter the phrase, "Ah, shucks!"
But all that is over now. My wife is back to work, my kids are back in school, and it's just me and the dog here in charge of the remote. And now, if you will excuse me, I believe Pulp Fiction is on the tube.

 

On the run
 
  About a month ago I stepped on a scale at work.  It read 242 pounds, the heaviest I've ever been, by about a ton.
  "I've got to do something," I told myself.  Besides being my heaviest, I've never felt so bad physically.  I'm supposed to take one Prevacid pill per day for my acid reflux.  I was up to two pills a day, and a roll of Tums.  And still waking up in the middle of the night a few times a week throwing up whatever I ate for dinner.
  Add to all this the fact that over the last three months both my mother and father died in their 60's, and it was enough to wake me up- I needed to get myself in better shape, fast.  I needed to start exercising more.  Hell, I needed to start exercising, period.  I needed to set some kind of goals for myself.  
  Now, I can't stand running, I'd rather ride a bike because when I run I get shin splints from Hell.  The problem is, every time I buy a bicycle some little baggy-pants thug in the area steals it.  So I made my mind up to run in the 5K at the Bremond Polish Pickle Days in June.
  This isn't the first time that I've set this particular goal for myself.  A few years ago, a lady I worked with at the newspaper and I agreed to participate in this 5K.  I can't remember what happened to derail the plan.  I think she somehow hurt her leg, or ankle, or knee.  And I got switched to a different shift at my main job, so I couldn't get myself ready to run 3.1 miles.  To tell you the truth, my heart probably wasn't all the way in it, either.
  This time has to different, for my health's sake if nothing else.  I needed to recruit someone that could be tough on me and keep me committed.  On days when I don't feel like running- and rest assured, there will be many- this person has to be able to push me and make me go.  They have to be persistent, relentless; maybe even get on my nerves a little.  I had the perfect person in mind.
  I came straight home and told my son about the run.  You tell this kid that you're going to take him fishing in two weeks, and he'll remind you once an hour until his hook is in the water.  I asked him if he thought he could run 3.1 miles with me.
  "Pshh, yeah," he said, way too confidently for my taste.  The truth is, while he probably can't run three miles right now, he'll get there way before I will.
  Because make no mistake about it- I'm starting from scratch.  Somehow, I've got to get myself able to run 3.1 miles in six month's time when I can't run the .1 right now.  I've made smaller goals to get me there.  By mid February I want to be able to run a mile, by mid April two miles, and mid June three miles.
  To help myself out, I've started eating healthier too.  When I say healthier, what I mean is the POWs here at Camp Hearne probably ate more than I've eaten lately.
  Other than Christmas Eve and Christmas day (after all, I am human) I've had nothing but chicken and salad and salad and chicken.  I've had grilled chicken, baked chicken, broiled chicken, grilled chicken salads, crispy chicken salads, and mushy chicken salad sandwhiches.  I haven't had a good greasy burger, or a nice crispy pound of bacon in over a month.  But as bad as that's been, I have to admit that I've had only six heartburn pills and zero Tums in a month.
  The sad part?  I'm still not sure if it's a good trade-off or not..

It’s Christmas rhyme

‘Twas a couple of weeks before Christmas
and yes, holding true to form
I haven’t done a bit of shopping.
Don’t be surprised, it’s the norm.

Christmas after Christmas, year after year,
it always comes down to time.
Everyone else is done with their shopping
and I’m just getting started with mine.

My wife wants jewelry, my son wants guns,
one daughter wants make-up and cash.
My youngest daughter wants margarita mix,
WTH? I tore up her list up in a flash.

My dog Chuy wants more bones
and a warm blanket, that’s for sure.
And he’d never say it, but I know the truth,
he wants it made out of cat fur.

Every year our list of names change
of people that we give presents to.
We have a rule- once you have kids,
Christmas is no longer about you.

We have our kids, a couple of nieces,
and maybe a nephew or two.
If you aren’t on that list, I’ve got bad news,
Christmas is going to be blue for you.

I’ve always wanted to send Christmas cards
but for some reason they never get sent.
We get a few from folks in the mail every year
and love learning how someone’s year went.

What do I want, you ask? How nice of you.
I want what everyone else does, you know.
Peace on Earth, good will towards men,
then sit and watch my loving family grow.

Bah-ha-ha, I was just joking.
Get out your notebooks and pens.
I want clothes, cash, tools, headphones,
and something to help me lose my two chins.

Or you can all come together and donate
to my iPad 2 fund that I’ve started of late.
I’m saving the money that I win from poker,
But the way it’s going, I’ll get the iPad 8.

Have a Merry Christmas, everybody. Thank you so much for reading.

Stirring the pot

Oh yeah, it’s getting a little chilly out there now. Or maybe I should say, it’s getting chili time.
I said at the end of last winter that I was going to start making a pot of chili every year, once I found the right recipe. I think it would be cool for my kids to grow up saying “It’s getting cold outside. Almost time for some of Dad’s chili!” Or their kids asking “When does Grandpa make his chili?”
Well I’ve been looking online lately, and have got the list narrowed down to about three recipes. “As long as you don’t make it too hot for the children to eat,” my wife said.
I was standing in the kitchen thinking about it last night when an idea hit me. My mother, for years, made a big ol’ pot of chicken and dumplings for me on the first cold weekend of the year. Maybe instead of chili I could take up her chicken and dumpling cause. I just didn’t know if that would be considered manly enough.
Shannon ’s Chicken and Dumplings doesn’t sound nearly as tough as Shannon ’s Three Alarm Chili.
“What do you think?” I asked my wife.
“Sure it’s manly enough,” she said. “But I still think you had better stick to chili. Chicken and dumplings is a little out of your league.”
That stung a little, so I asked her to explain what she meant.
“Well it’s hard to screw up chili, there’s like two or three ingredients and it’s mostly just throw things in until it tastes good. Chicken and dumplings is a little harder.”
I asked her if she knew how to make chicken and dumplings.
“Of course I do, you know that. Although we all know they are not as good as your mother’s.” I detected a good bit of sarcasm there, but let it go for sake of staying on course.
“Were you born knowing how to make chicken and dumplings, or did you learn how to make them?” I asked.
“I found the recipe in a cookbook, and started making them.”
“Okay,” I ranted. “So you are telling me that you can learn how to do something, but I can’t. What you are saying is that if we both sat down and took an IQ test, you would be so far ahead of me that your score would blow mine right out of the water. Is that what you are saying?”
She got this really tired look on her face, like she had been down this road too many times. Then she sighed, “Look, this is what I’m saying. Can you tell me what all is in chili?”
“Sure I can. Meat, beans, maybe a little tomato sauce, a little cayenne pepper, can of beer…”
“Okay, okay,” she stopped me. “So you pretty much know what all goes in there. That’s half the battle. Now, tell me what all is in chicken and dumplings.”
“Um, well there’s a couple of chickens… some dumplings…salt and pepper?”
“A little more to it than that. Can you at least tell me what the dumplings are made out of?”
“Bread?”
That conquering smile that I’ve come to know well in eleven years appeared on her face, and she said “Thank you for making my point.”
“Now,” she said, as she turned toward my girls. They were at the table to do homework, but were listening and laughing to every word that was being said. “Raise your hand if you would like to eat some of Dad’s chicken and dumplings.”
All of a sudden, they were so busy reading and doing math problems that they had no time to take part in any of our discussion. Neither raised their hand, and it was as if nobody had even heard the question.
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” I said to them all. “But just for that, my first pot of chili is going to be five alarm.”

Alone time

My oldest daughter is growing up so fast, it’s like she’s a whole different kid. I don’t know if every parent goes through this or not, but it seems like I’m always hanging out with my son and don’t get much time with my daughters.
Not on purpose, mind you. It just so happens that my wife usually takes the girls to practice, shopping, etc. And if my son and one of the girls happen to have a game or something on the same day, it usually works out that I take my son and my wife takes the girls.
I’ve been thinking lately that I need to be closer to my girls, like spend more time with them. The numbers don’t lie- girls who grow up with dads that play a big role in their lives just do better with grades, teen pregnancies, drugs, stuff like that.
The problem comes when I try to get that time with them. First I have to explain to my son why I’d want to hang out with one of the girls instead of him. He would take that as a slap in the face. Then I have to convince one of my girls to spend time with me for no reason, and actually talk to me instead of texting nonstop, or listening to terrible music through headphones. That’s not easy. The only person that likes to spend time alone with me is, well, me.
But I got my chance to be alone with my oldest daughter this week. She had a dentist appointment, so I picked her up at school and took her myself.
As we walked from the school to my jeep, I saw her taking her headphones out and thought to myself “Here’s your chance.”
“Hey,” I told her. “Let’s leave the headphones off and talk a little on the drive there.”
“Am I in trouble for something?” she asked.
“No, just thought we’d talk.”
“How come? I mean, like, about what?”
“I don’t know. Just stuff I guess.”
So we get going, and immediately I can tell that talking will be a problem. I forgot how loud it is inside my jeep with the big tires and the plastic top. There’s nothing worse than trying to have a normal conversation, but having to scream everything.
“So how was your day?” I asked.
“Sir?”
“I said, how was your day!”
“Fine.”
“Huh?”
“Fine!”
“What did y’all have for lunch today?”
“What?”
“What did y’all have for lunch!”
“Chicken! Or something like chicken. Dad, my throat hurts. Please don’t make me scream, okay?”
I had to admit, she had a point. It was like watching two old people with bad hearing aids talk to each other over short wave radios. Neither one has a clue what the other one is trying to say, and it just makes you mad after a while.
Guess we should have just texted each other.

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Rubber ducks and house shoes…

At some point in the near future- and probably for some years to come- I will be seen walking down the street wearing pajamas, a full length robe, and house shoes. My hair will be a mess, I’ll have at least two weeks of stubble on my face at all times, and chances are I’ll be muttering incoherently for no reason whatsoever. Sort of like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man… “Welcome, to People’s Court. Of course I’m an excellent driver. Hot water burn baby!”
Do you want to know why I’m going to be walking down the street wearing a robe, with messy hair, and babbling like a crazy person? It’s because I’m a parent, and these kids are driving me bananas.
Take for instance my bathroom. When you walk in there, thirteen rubber ducks are staring at you right in the eye. Thirteen rubber ducks. People, I’ve got thirteen rubber ducks lined up along the edge of the tub watching me do… whatever.
And I don’t know why there are thirteen rubber ducks in there. Hell, I don’t know why there are any rubber ducks in there at all. My youngest kid is nine years old, which in theory is way past rubber ducky age, right?
Speaking of the bathroom, it’s like Bed, Bath and Beyond in there. My son and I are embarrassed to even walk in. You’ve got almond and shea butter shampoo, vanilla strawberry body lotion, sweat pea body lotion, and orange hand scrubber. I’m telling you, if my two daughters walk in the same room together it smells like a dang fruit basket exploded.
And how on Earth those two girls leave the house looking so pretty in the morning is beyond me. I’m surprised they could find any clothes at all in that room. I’ve seen footage of war-torn countries that don’t look as messy as my daughters’ bedroom.
The worst thing about being a parent is that I’m so insecure about every decision I make now. I didn’t used to be this way. I used to be confident, sure of myself, maybe even a little cocky. Now I’m doing everything but flipping a coin to make important life decisions.
Should I be strict? Or should I be the cool dad that changes with the times? Should I jump in when I see a kid being taken advantage of? Or should I stand back and let them learn the hard way? Should I push them in school and sports, so they know what pressure and competition is like? Or should I let them find their own way, in their own time?
Every year you will see some great kid on Good Morning America or the Today Show that saved their allowance or kept their money from their lemonade stand all summer, and they’re donating it to a food shelter for Thanksgiving dinner or something like that. Man, I want one of those kids. How do you raise a kid like that?
Meanwhile, my oldest daughter’s whole entire day was ruined beyond devastation Monday because she had to wear her sister’s knee pads during a volleyball game. And the youngest daughter? She acted like we were asking her to donate a kidney… to a stranger. I’ve seen these two fight like deranged cats over a hair brush in the mornings.
Speaking of that, it’s time to wake them up for school. Geesh, I hope I can find a robe that matches my pajamas and house shoes.

Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.