Shut up and Drive

My Dad and I are hitching up the wagons for a little road trip tomorrow. We're heading down to Logan, Utah, to watch the almighty Boise State Broncos tackle the Utah State Aggies.

We plan to shove off at first light. Okay, more like 10 a.m., but that's still way early in my book. Stay tuned for a full recap next week.

LET'S GET 'ER DONE BRONCO NATION!!!!!!!!!!!!

(This photo was from Darin Oswald of the Idaho Statesman. So don't sue me!).

Leaping for Joy

April and I had a wonderful dinner with our friend Nicole last night. The subject of having kids popped up during the course of our conversation. Nicole and her husband Scott are preparing to make "the leap" and have kids of their own. They've been married for nearly two years and they both want to start a family. If, that is, they can get past the fear of having a family!

Nicole expressed her fears about parenthood. All of the usual terrors that everybody secretly harbors in their minds when first contemplating creating and caring for actual human life. Whether they admit it publicly or not.

"What if I'm not a good parent?"

"What if I lose my identity?"

"I can't take care of myself, how am I going to raise a child?"

I found this conversation fascinating, because I had forgotten all about these pre-parenting terrors. I've been so immersed in raising Michael for five years that I have completely forgotten what it was like to be me P.M. (Pre Michael). All of the anxiety. All of the stress. All of the uncertainty.

It all came rushing back in our living room last night. April and I are currently planning on having another child, and even though I should know better, I found myself succumbing to some of these fears yet again.

"You're right," I thought, "What if I am a bad parent? What if my kid turns out to be a serial killer? What if I ruin this poor helpless child's life? Oh me! Oh my!"

Panic stricken, I gulped for air. It was at this exact moment that I noticed a certain brown-haired and smiling 5-year-old watching "Angelina Ballerina" on the computer. He was laughing to himself and filled with a joy that comes so easy to little tykes. A joy we should all emulate.

I realized while watching him that I have raised Michael for five years now without any clue what I'm doing. I've never been around little kids or babies before, and you can be sure that parenting has not come "naturally" for me. Yet Michael has persevered through my lack of parenting expertise with flying colors. He's a smart, loving, caring, respectful young man who designs computer web pages and snuggles with his "Wuff Wuff." I have no idea how this happened, but it did.

I truly believe that the best advice I can give couples contemplating "the leap," is to keep it simple stupid! Give your kids love. Give them support. Give them security. Give them freedom to be themselves and to grow.

If you focus on this, you'll be just fine.

Besides, I'm the same guy who once drove through Pocatello going the wrong way on a one-way street (not realizing it and honking at all of the "stupid idiots" I thought were going the wrong way). I've also microwaved a hot dog that was wrapped in foil (oh the sparks and the flames. It was so beautiful!). So If I can do this parenting thing, anybody can.

Trust me kiddies!

- Dave

P.S. If you're reading this Nicole and Scott, I have total confidence that you guys will be amazing parents.

More than a feelin'

I am coming to you live from my new Lazyboy recliner. That's right, the bad boys have arrived and I am snuggled deep within their cushy coziness as I type this. It's an experience that defies explanation. Few words in the English language accurately portray the sheer bliss within these pillows of the Gods.

Luckily the world has Will Ferrell. I believe it was the master of Saturday Night himself who coined the term "scrumtrulescent." That will do. Yes that will do nicely.

Sitting here amidst this haven of softness is simply and utterly scrumtrulescent! I am born anew in the genius of the Lazyboy. It appears I am not the only one who appreciates these glorious recliners. Jordan is currently napping in the recliner next to me. His little puppy body softly snuggled into the cushions and perfectly at peace.

You know, a wise man once said that everyone should own a recliner. If we all relaxed in the plush wonder of the Lazyboy, there would be nothing to get upset about. Okay, okay. Nobody actually said that. But they should have, don't you think?

Now if you'll excuse me (yawn), I simply must sign off. All of this (stretch) typing is making me sleepy. I feel a nap approaching and I don't ... want ... to ... miss it ... zzzzzzz

Scrumtrulescent indeed kiddies!

- Dave

Get 'er done

Renovation madness is alive and kicking at the Ward castle these days. For months now April and I have relentlessly renovated every nook and cranny of our happy home. We've installed three glorious skylights, replaced every single window with energy-efficient bad boys, and bestowed upon the royal puppies a brand-spanking-new doggy door! It's been a labor of love really. A gigantic hug to our quirky house with its quirky quirkiness.

I can hear you asking, "Did you really do all this yourselves? I thought you guys were a bit unqualified for such work!"

Well, first of all I am insulted! How dare you imply that I am incapable of such manual labor. But now that I've calmed down a bit, I'll answer your question - Heck no we didn't do this ourselves! Are you crazy!! If you put me in front of a saw I'd hack my arm off. I'd fall off the roof. I'd pound nails into my thumb ... You get the point.

We may not be weekend warriors, but our brand of "checkbook handywork" gets the job done every time. And all it took was a nice sizeable loan we'll be paying off for a few decades or so. It's the American way! (We will get a nice tax return, so thank you Obama!).

The final installment of our renovation madness will take place tomorrow. And it will be fantastic! April and I spent several hours yesterday moving book shelves into a rather unique room in our home. This room has rotated between a TV room and an indoor hockey room over the years. We've finally decided to make it a small library with books and everything. Just the thing that "grown-ups" would have in their home! So now we've got book shelves (with books!), a nice rug and a small end table. All that is missing are chairs.

Boy do we have that covered! Tomorrow a delivery truck will pull into our driveway. Smiling movers will emerge from this truck and proceed to move two large, plush, cushy, cozy, dreamy Lazyboy recliners into our little library! Oh yes, we bought some Lazyboy's baby! Time to hibernate for the winter.

So now I'm sitting in this extremely uncomfortable wooden chair in my kitchen, dreaming of my cozy, comfy recliners. I just have one question - Is it tomorrow yet?

Sit back and relax kiddies!

- Dave

Soy un perdedor ....

I found myself at one of April's lavish company parties again last night. Or, as I like to call it, "Hell on Earth for a stay-at-home Dad." These grandiose affairs are always held at some yuckety muck's haughty mansion out on the edge of town. It's filled with the usual tan walls, tan carpet and tan or red furniture. To top it all off, the McMansion is packed to the gills with 30-something health professionals armed with graduate degrees and enough self assurance to kick-start a revolution. I stroll in with my lack of a job, lack of a career direction and toting a 5-year-old, just waiting for the first question - "So, what do you do?"

It's a simple question, and these rulers of the health care universe don't really mean any harm, but these four words are crushing for a guy like me. It brings back all of my insecurities. Places them on a platter for me to stare at. There is nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

It gets really interesting when all of the good-looking, successful, wealthy and charming guys that April works with come over to rub my nose in it. I've dreaded large crowds in small spaces my entire life. Throw in the fact that I can't make small talk and I have nothing interesting to talk about anyway, you might as well shoot me and get it over with.

Needless to say I ended up watching cartoons in the back room with the rest of the children.

On a completely unrelated note, I had the weirdest dream last night. I needed to mow the lawn, but there was a bomb attached to the mower. If I hit a rock, or made a wrong move, the mower would blow me to pieces. While mowing, I noticed April sitting on the patio with Michael in her lap. She was sitting with a large group of ultra-suave guys that she works with. She kept yelling out to me how good looking and awesome these guys were. All while I was pushing the mower with the bomb attached to it around the yard.

Whatever could this mean kiddies?

- Dave

I never would have thought of that

I'm struggling for inspiration today. Perhaps it's my oh-so-terrible seasonal allergies wreaking havoc on my sinuses and leaving my brain somewhat mushy. Or perhaps it's the midweek doldrums. Whatever it is, I'm searching in vain for something meaningful to contribute to this here blog.

So, like I always do, I'll leave it to my son the "quote machine" to give us all a jolt of genius. So here goes:

April drove home yesterday in a rain storm. Her jacket was noticeably wet from Mother Nature's display when she entered the house. Michael gave her a hug, noticed the wetness, and promptly asked, "Did somebody pee on you Mommy?"

Always be observant kiddies!

- Dave

Yeah it looks pretty sweet. It looks awesome. That lamp, it's ... it's incredible!

It's a cold, gray, blah kind of day here in the burbs, and I'm feeling a little cold, gray and blah myself. I need a little pick-me-up. Something to bring a smile to my face and joy to my bosom. I'm not even sure if guys have bosoms, but it sounds kind of dramatic don't you think? And when it comes to writing it's much better to be dramatic than factual, I always say.

I've got just the thing to make our bosoms joyous indeed.

You may have noticed the photo at the top of this posting. The thing that looks like something out of a 1950's, "We've just dropped an atom bomb in the desert, and now giant tarantulas are storming the city!!" movie. Well, this little beauty is our new lamp!

I know what you're thinking so don't even say it. You're wondering how we came upon such a beautiful work of art, right? How this masterpiece of form and function fell down from the hands of angels and into our living room, yes?

Some people just have all the luck. It's as simple as that.

This little beauty was crafted by my Great, Great Uncle. Family legend states that while working on the contstruction of the Hoover Dam, my Great, Great Uncle felt inspired to build lamps out of cactus. He painted scenes of the Hoover Dam on these lamps and gave them to his sisters. My Great Grandma (his sister) received this lamp and cherished it. It has since been passed down from my Grandpa Bob, to my Mom and now to me.

And I just have to say ... it's absolutely fantastic! April and I simply love unique stuff. We have a unique house. We have a unique bright-green Jeep. We have a unique child. And now we have one of the most unique lamps I've ever seen! It even came with a homemade match box and ash tray. I love it!

So ignore the gloomy-gloom-gloom outside and take a gander at this fantastic creation. It lights up a room. It starts many a conversation. And, if we're lucky, someday it will dance around the room singing show tunes.

You just never know!

Smile kiddies! Smile!

- Dave

Come on over

I've just finished playing my favorite game and boy am I tired. Exhausted really. It's a fun little game that perhaps you've heard of. I like to call it, "Dave has invited people over so now he must frantically clean the house so they don't run away in horror."

Ring any bells?

April and I are members of a small group that meets periodically throughout the year. We sit in a circle and discuss highbrow subjects such as the definition of God, the role and art throughout history and the meaning of life. At least for the first five minutes. After that the conversation usually drifts to more important matters such as our children, favorite TV shows and Facebook.

I love it. There is usually coffee and cookies, and I get a chance to discuss something besides the letter of the day and Ruff Ruffman's latest conquest. April and I try to have serious discussions on our own, but it always includes a five-year-old tugging on April's sleeve and yelling, "Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY!!!!" We can usually tune out the first two "Mommy's!", but when he starts screaming in all capital letters, well there is simply no hope.

So it's our turn to host a meeting tonight, and that leaves me with the daunting task of making our house look presentable. You know, like two dogs, a kindergartener and a chips-and-salsa addict don't live here. I've been vaccuming, straightening and dusting all afternoon and I do believe I've accomplished my goal. It may not be the royal palace, but it will suffice. The servants are on holiday, after all, and one must make do.

I am always amazed at the sheer amount of dirt and fur our house accumulates over a short period of time. Whenever I get the vacuum out and disengage the storage thingy to throw out the dust and stuff (Sorry if my technical descriptions are too complicated. Just try to keep up) I find enough dirt to start a garden. It looks like I just take the vacuum out into the backyard and turn it on. I really wouldn't categorize our family as "slobs," but it's a rather remarkable sight.

There is, however, a happy ending to all of this. Whenever my little game is finished, and I've had a chance to catch my breath, I get the joy of sitting in a wonderfully clean house. Take in the fresh air and marvel at how the wood floors are supposed to look. This lasts for all of 10 minutes until our little Yorkie dog Jordan drags in a mud-covered stick and begins rubbing it all over the floor.

I sure hope our group gets here soon!

Keep it clean kiddies.

- Dave

Look out below!

I do believe I've gone and jumped off the deep end.

There. I've said it. I feel much better now.

Why would I make such a grandiose statement, besides the obvious reason that it just sounds really cool? I'll tell you. Last Friday I completely purged myself of my church-going obligations. I quit the Sunday Services Committee and I resigned from the Board of Directors. All within a 30-minute time span to boot.

And I've got to tell you ... I feel great!!

I've spent the past four years in a serious identity crisis. As I relayed in this blog last week, I struggled with my role as a stay-at-home Dad and constantly searched outside the home for some sort of identity. I ended up placing the majority of my energy and enthusiasm in church related activities. This is not a bad place to focus your energy. You are, after all, helping to nurture a community and working toward peace and justice in the world. The problem wasn't that I gave my time and energy to the church. The real problem was the amount of time that I gave.

I joined every committee imaginable, signed on with the Board and also volunteered to lead the church's pledge drive. I get tired just reading that last sentence! Not surprisingly, I absolutely flamed out and desperately needed to come up for air. I was a super-awesome Board member and stuff, but I was completely overwhelmed. I needed to make a change and fast.

This, however, would require facing my lifelong nemisis. The dreaded "Q" word - Quitting!

I am constantly haunted by that horrible word. It seems like my life has been one long quitting fest. I quit football in high school. I also quit drama my senior year. I quit my first job as a journalist. I quit my second job. I eventually quit the journalism profession altogether.

Quit. Quit. Quit!!

Well, I finally realized something last week. I may have quit all those things, but I did it for very good reasons. Basically I was miserable. So why would I continue being miserable? The same logic applied to my church burnout situation. Why would I continue making myself miserable simply because I was afraid to quit?

When I thought of it this way, everything made sense. I knew what I had to do.

I fired up the laptop, sent off a couple of letters of resignation, and set my soul free. I've been flying high ever since. I know I'll return to church service in the future, but for now I'm content to sit on the sidelines. Recharge the old batteries for a while.

Before I sign off for today, I'd like to share one last epiphany with you. I may have "quit" a number of unimportant endeavors, but I never quit the things that truly matter. I never quit being a husband and I never quit being a father. I'm very proud of that. It's quite an empowering moment when you realize your priorities are exactly where they should be.

So here I am, jumping off the deep end and having a blast. Come in and join me. The water's fine.

Find your bliss kiddies!

- Dave

Cleaning up my act

Merry Sunday evening to one and all! I sit here refreshed from a weekend of manly leaf raking, football watching and consuming pulled-pork sandwiches. Just a little slice of the American dream in my little burb.

I am happy to report that the germs have yet to find me. Michael has recovered from his three-day tummy-hurting marathon, and I am unscathed (You bet your caboose I'm furiously knocking on any form of wood I can find right now). The little guy is feeling all better. As a matter of fact, Michael is running around the house with our oh-so-expensive digital camera shooting impromptu documentary videos as we speak. I caught a sneek peek of his latest work - an extensive closeup of my nose that lasts for around 10 minutes and features bonus shots of Michael spinning around and around in the kitchen. It's bloody brilliant!

Michael is feeling so much better today that he has continued embarking on a nearly impossible mission. A mission he began several weeks ago. The little guy vows to clean up his parents' dirty potty mouths. That's right. Michael is repremanding April and I every time we slip up and utter words like "God," "crap" and other zingers that I probably shouldn't print here.

I never realized the staggering number of instances I utter naughty potty mouth words during a typical day until my 5-year-old began sternly repremanding me.

"Daddy, don't say that word! You shouldn't say that word!"

Oh the shame!

There is no arguing. No protesting, "But I didn't mean to! Honest!" Little Michael will hear no excuses. He simply demands perfection and will not rest until our potty mouths are fully clean and ready for inspection. I would complain, but I've got to admit it's nice to have a little discipline in this house for a change.

Keep it clean kiddies!

- Dave

I'm waiting!

I sit here on a rain-soaked November morning (cue Axle Rose), sipping coffee and waiting for my turn. Every parent knows the drill. Little tyke starts to sniffle. Then his tummy hurts. Then he loses his cookies on the hallway floor, and the great wait commences.

The wait for the evil virus to sear its way into your happy little system. When you're taking care of a sniffly, sneezy, coughy, germy little 5-year-old, it's not "if" you're going to get sick. It's merely "when."

So here I sit waiting patiently. Let's get this over already.

Turns out I jumped the gun on the "Great Bacon Caper of 2009" in my posting yesterday. Although it's still relevant reading to rehash the thousands of food allergy goof-ups we've experienced over the years. So the bacon may have been okay after all (Sorry Burger King. I never should have doubted the home of the Whopper!). Usually Michael blows chunks (Party on Wayne!)and then he starts to feel better. The offending allergin gets a quick escort out of Michael's tummy and everything returns to normal.

Not so this time. Michael's tummy continued to feel icky long after all traces of food made their exit. The little guy spent the entire day walking through the house proclaiming, "My tummy hurts!!" He couldn't lay down. He couldn't sit still. His discomfort forced him into constant movement, and all I could do was follow him around and try to empathize.

This Daddy thing is a tough gig when your sole male heir's tummy hurts and you're powerless to stop it (I've been reading Phillipa Gregory novels again).

Thankfully he seems to be feeling better today. He broke his fast with Cream of Rice and sorbet (Long live the king!!), and the Motrin seems to be helping. Right now he's snuggled up on the couch watching Clifford the Big Red Dog. So it looks like he's going to pull through.

Which just leaves the waiting game. I've got my Boise State jersey on (Coach Pete shall protect me!) and two bottles of hand sanitizer at my side. Bring it germs! Let's do this!

Fight for your kingdom, kiddies!

- Dave

You can call me Superman

Confidence can be a dangerous thing when it comes to parenting. If you ever get that, "Hey, this is easy. I know exactly what I'm doing," feeling, then you know trouble is lurking around the corner.

Trust me on this.

My topsy-turvy experiences over the past 24 hours serve as a perfect case in point. It all started innocently enough. April and I walked over to Michael's kindergarten for our first parent-teacher conference yesterday afternoon. I was honestly curious about the verdict. Would Michael's teacher jump up, arms raised, and exclaim, "You are the greatest parents I have ever seen! They should build statues to your brilliance!" Or would it be something like, "Oh my goodness! What are you doing to that poor child! I can't believe he can even speak! You are the worst parents ever!!"

Well, as you might have guessed, the verdict was somewhere in the middle. Michael is a borderline genius when it comes to language (as anyone who has ever spoken with him can vouch for), yet he struggles with simple motor skills. He can tell you detailed information about dinosaurs and how the human kidney works, but he struggles to write his name.

Mrs. Hymas, who Michael has a huge crush on already, ended the conference by saying, "Michael is a wonderful kid and you guys are doing a great job with him."

Naturally I let this go straight to my head.

I left the classroom beating my chest and strutting like any respectable "SuperDad" would. We have several friends who spend every waking minute enrolling their children in music classes, language classes and quantum physics seminars. It was good to see my particular parenting style, which basically includes none of those things, validated. Turns out my kid is a smarty-pants just like his Mom, and even I can't ruin that!

We celebrated with a trip to the super-awesome Burger King playground. The one with the huge net-world-thingy that you climb up endlessly and shoot down numerous slides of death. I watched Michael embark on his journey into the net jungle with several other screaming kiddies, partaking in the traditional Daddy dinner of champions - A whopper, fries and a coke. Life was good.

April and I nodded knowingly to each other, content in the fact that we were brilliant parents doing brilliant work here.

This is precisely the moment we screwed up. Again.

For those new to this blog, Michael has several severe food allergies. His long list of no-no's includes nuts, eggs, wheat, milk, soy and strawberries. His diet consists almost entirely of fresh meat, fresh fruit, fresh veggies and rice milk. Any violation of this strict diet ushers forth tummy aches, crying, tantrums and sometimes what Wayne and Garth refer to as "blowing chunks."

Reveling in the glee of our celebration, April and I decided to strip off a piece of bacon from our sandwiches and give it to Michael. This would have been fine ... if it was actually bacon! We forgot that fast food restaurants often use, oh let's call it "mystery meat" in their products. They also fry anything and everything in vegetable oil (which is entirely soy). This was a rookie mistake on our part. We should know better than this!

So this morning Michael promptly wakes up and announces "My tummy hurts!!" Around 20 minutes later the blowing of chunks commences. So much for my "SuperDad" status.

When I tell Michael about the bacon, and apologize for my stupidity, the little guy unleashes yet another quote to remember. "It's okay Daddy," he says with a serious look. "And when Mommy comes home, I'll say, 'I forgive you.'"

Here's to forgiveness kiddies!

- Dave

I am what I say I am

There are times in life when a great book will simply fall out of the heavens and into your lap at exactly the time you need it most. This book will answer questions you never even knew you had, and provide peace where inner anxiety and depression used to rule. It's a gift from a high place and all you can do is raise up your arms and shout "Thank You!!!!" to the unnamable forces that make these gifts possible.

My great book that fell out of the sky and into my lap is entitled "The Daddy Shift: How Stay-at-Home Dads, Breadwinning Moms, and Shared Parenting Are Transforming the American Family," by Jeremy Adam Smith. This remarkable book absolutely changed my perspective on every single aspect of my life. Before I read this book, I was caught in a never-ending search for an "identity." I began each day with the same questions: "Who am I? What am I?" I longed for a title. Any title. Something to validate me and give me a seat at the great table of society.

I spent a year preparing for a career in ministry. I had great plans, you see. I would attend seminary, earn a prestigious degree, lead a congregation, deliver sermons, write books, blah, blah, blah. There was just one problem. Doing so would force me to leave my hometown, abandon my relatives, force my wife to uproot her career and basically push my son Michael into a life of full-time daycare and constant movement between schools. It didn't make sense for my family, but I was going to be somebody damn it!! I was going to have a title and everything!!

Making the decision to postpone, at least for now, my ministry ambitions plunged me into a huge void of loss. I no longer had a plan. I no longer had answers to my questions. I no longer knew who I was, or who I was going to "be." I felt empty and useless. I no longer had a reservation at society's table. I was just a guy without a job and no earthly idea what the future held.

Well, after reading Smith's remarkable book, I know exactly who and "what" I am. Do you want to know "what" I am? I'll tell you.

I'm a Father.

For the past five years I have helped raise the most remarkable miracle I have ever been associated with. There have been ups, there have been downs, but there has always been love. I have watched a crying and helpless baby grow into a wide-eyed and laughing toddler. This toddler has since grown into a loving and caring kindergartner who has recently begun reading books, creating computer webpages, and taking care of his clueless old man. All with a smile and a sense of wonder that we could all learn from.

I've experienced this miracle, yet our culture never actually let me fully embrace it. I was too preoccupied with what I was going to "be" and where I was going to go in the future. The question I am most asked by well-meaning people is "What are you going to do after this?" It's a fair question, but it frames my experiences with my son as something temporary and less important than my aspirations in the "real world."

I'm not falling in this trap any more. I am a father. I am a damn good one. I don't know what I'm going to "be" after this, but I know it will never bring me the joy and love that comes with spending my days with Michael.

I want to thank Jeremy Adam Smith for showing me the error of my ways. For sharing stories of stay-at-home Dads from all over the country. Fathers experiencing the exact things I have experienced, and feeling the exact things I have felt. Fathers that are emboldened enough to feel pride for their role in raising their children and contributing to society at large.

We are living in changing times. Women, such as my remarkable wife April, are flourishing in their careers. In doing so, many of them are taking on the "breadwinning" role traditionally held by men. This requires a shift in the family dynamics. This requires new roles for women and men to raise children in the 21st century. This requires a true partnership. A true loving commitment by both parents to give their children the love and support they need to grow into the wonderful people we know they can be.

I get this now. Fatherhood is a title. For me it's THE title. Not just something I'm doing while searching for my seat at society's table.

You can have your table. I've got a my own table here in my kitchen. True, it's got crayons, Power Rangers and "High Five" magazines spread all over it, but you know what, I like it that way.