C'mon Dad! You're better than that!

I've said it before, but parenting is a humbling business. You can do a gazillion things right, and the one time you screw up, it comes back to haunt you. Take my word for it.

I have a lot of experience screwing up.

My latest parenting hiccup occurred during an otherwise cheerful trek to the park yesterday. It was one of those after-school special afternoons, with the sun shining brillantly amidst a crisp blue sky. Michael and I were enjoying a "please Lord let me remember this forever" time together. I stood by giggling while watching Michael fiercely pump his legs on the swing. The poor swing hardly moved, but Michael didn't care.

"Wee, look Dad! Look how high I'm going all by myself!"

"Yeah," I responded. "You're getting up there .... Hey, do you want a push?"

"No!" he answered. "I can do it myself!"

After several minutes of Michael's valiant "swinging," we took off for a journey up the "mountain." The park near our home has a rather large hill where kids (and their goofy Dads) can hike to the top, hoist their arms into the air and scream "I'm king of the world!" Or at least that's what I've, ahem, heard other people say.

We reached the summit and gazed upon the vast kingdom of Eagle. We looked down at the numerous rooftops and waved to the tiny cars passing by. Over in the distance sat Bogus Basin (the local ski resort) along with the rest of the gorgeous foothills.

"Look how high we are Michael!" I said with fatherly pride.

"Yeah, we're so high!" Michael responded. He followed with his patented "We're so high up here" ritual of spinning and laughing.

If only some moments could last forever.

A few minutes later we descended down the mountain and Michael quickly ran to the playground, joining a group of about 20 screaming kids.

Here is where Ole' Dave screwed up.

It was a rookie mistake. I know better. I do! Here's what happened:

I positioned myself on a bench letting the sun shine directly on my face. It's been so long since I've felt the soothing hot rays on my skin, and this sun worshipper instantly found himself in a state of bliss. I pulled out my novel of the week, "The Known World" by Edward P. Jones, and settled in for a little reading. Before I knew it I was completely entranced by Jones' tales of slavery in the South during the 1800's. So entranced, actually, that I completely forgot to check on my five-year-old running wild on the playground.

A long time passed and still I failed to check on Michael. When I finally came up for air, completely fascinated and horrified at the idea of free African American citizens owning slaves (which apparently actually occurred in the South), I glanced around the playground and failed to see Michael.

Any parent knows that you never actually see your child on the first glance. Kids have a natural camouflage forcing parents to "work" when locating their kids at parks, stores, school playgrounds and county fairs. It's nature, man.

Anyway, I kept searching without any success. A feeling of dread hit my stomach as I realized that Michael was gone. He was not on the playground. The little guy was gone, gone away.

Now, I've screwed up before so I knew better than to actually panic at this stage. The park is extremely large and contains a vast network of fields behind the playground. I mustered my best casual walk and strolled over toward these fields, desperately trying to conceal the fact that I lost my kid in front of the Super Moms.

A few moments later I spotted three little dots moving quickly in the far corner of the fields. One of the little dots was wearing a black t-shirt and red pants. That little dot, kiddies, was my son.

I quickly ran over to Michael and scolded him for leaving the playground without telling me. He was very remorseful and promised not to do it again. I spent the next several hours scolding myself for such a rookie mistake. It says in plain English on page 34 of the Official Parenting Manual: "Parents shall not forget to check on their children while said children are playing at the park. No matter how great the novel they are reading is. No matter how warm the sun feels. No matter how sleepy they might feel." I would add: "And that means you DAVE!!!"

So that was my Thursday, kiddies. How was yours?

- Dave

She's got everything she needs. She's an artist, she don't look back.

Gather around friends. Put down your Emily Dickinson and your Robert Frost. Take one last sip of that espresso, one last hit of your cigarette, and settle in.

I've got an announcement to make that will blow your mind.

We have a new musician in our midst, friends. An angel with a voice descending from heaven and long brown hair flowing like an endless stream. She smiles, clutching your heart in her hand, leaving you gasping and yearning for more. I believe Saint Bob said it best, "She can take the dark out of the night time."

It's quite a trip.

She calls herself April, but what is in a name? Her beauty shines past all limitations. To see her is to love her is to be at one with joy. Ya dig that?

After spending a lifetime conquering the vast lands of academia and business. After holding my heart captive and giving the world a beautiful wonder named Michael. After lighting hearts everywhere in every possible way, she's on to new horizons friends. And the journey has just begun.

The angel who calls herself April swooped up a guitar not long ago, and brought out its magic. She opened a little novel called "Alfred's Basic Guitar Method" (perhaps you've come across it while searching for Kerouac?) and revealed its mysteries to all. A short wink later the Angel mastered several chords of music and a little something called destiny.

This cat was fortunate enought to catch April's world premier performance, and let me tell you, this angel does indeed fly gracefully. The gig began with an original "Old Mac Donald Had a Farm," and quickly swung out "Jingle Bells." Before I could light another cigarette, the soothing tones of "Shoo Fly" floated through the room like a feather in the wind.

It was a performance sending Dean Moriarty gleefully skipping along a sidewalk filled with hope. It was life, laughter and love. And it was glorious to behold.

So lets all take a moment to salute our angel named April, as only we know how. Pull down the shades. Slip on your darkest sunglasses. Nod your head. Snap your fingers. Put this little ditty, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HH46sruy-XE, in your line of adventure, and enjoy one of the coolest Dylan tunes dedicated to the coolest Angel I know.

Dig that kiddies!

- Dave

Crazy awesome is the life I lead!

I wish to inform the Office of Spectacular Parenting that April and I have completed our latest and greatest challenge. A task so harrowing that April and I nearly lost our sanity on several occasions. It took guts. It took skill. It took lots and lots of snacks and a strategically placed DVD player, but April and I hosted our first sleepover with Michael and a friend and we are still here. Barely.

We will be expecting our Spectacular Parenting merit badges in the mail post haste.

To call it a crazy and wild time would not begin to scratch the surface. There was screaming, running, lots of laughs and a few tantrums. And that was just the first half hour. It was a night we'll never forget at the Ward castle and it was crazy awesome!

I kept thinking about Mr. Banks from Mary Poppins during the entire ordeal. How he would stride militantly around his home singing lovely verses like:

"It's 6:03 and the heirs to my dominion
Are scrubbed and tubbed and adequately fed
And so I'll pat them on the head
And send them off to bed
Ah! Lordly is the life I lead!"

If only the old man could witness the mayhem at our house that night! Each time Michael and Josh ran by me clutching guitars, racing toy fire trucks or engaging in serious indoor-hockey battle, I chuckled to myself and thought, "Well, Mr. Banks wouldn't approve of that at all." In fact, I believe he would have suffered one of those "conniptions" Bill Cosby used to joke about. Yes, I believe a conniption would have been just the thing.

I never waltzed around my house singing about the heirs to my domain being "scrubbed and tubbed and adequately fed," but like all newbies to the sleepover game I did have a few somewhat unrealistic expectations.

Before Josh arrived I remember calmly thinking, "I'll make them some dinner, and we'll sit down and eat. Then I'll let them play a bit, before they watch a movie and get ready for bed." Well, as most of you know, I might as well have added, "And then we'll all skip side by side whistling 'Just a spoonfull of sugar.'"

Yeah, my plans might have been a wee-bit unrealistic.

The moment Josh arrived a tornado swept through our home. In a flash the boys were out in the back yard cruising along on Michael's toy John Deere tractor and laughing. Seconds later they were back inside with guitars in hand and singing at the top of their lungs. When I took another breath they moved in front of the television and began "pew-pewing" away on the V-Smile.

I glanced up, saw that less than a half an hour had passed, and realized I was in for an extremely long evening.

The rest is a blur, kiddies. There were glo-sticks, hockey nets, fire trucks, movies and lots of popcorn. It was wild, wacky, crazy, wonderful fun and I loved every second of it. Michael and Josh achieved Nirvana for 5-year-olds and the smiles on their little faces melted my heart.

Even Jordan caught the sleepover fever. Our little Yorkie courageously fought off being oh-so-tired to hang with the fellas late into the night. He followed Michael and Josh around in a sleepy stupor with a look of "What's going on guys? Where are we?" Jordan usually crash lands into a comatose state sometime around 9:30 every night, so you can imagine the dedication this took.

I believe it was around 11 when we finally forced the troopers to bunker down in the tent set up in Michael's playroom (cool right?). We had a small TV in there so the boys could watch movies while "falling asleep." We heard giggles and talking over the next hour. I'm not sure what happened next. I was out cold.

So please mail those merit badges. April and I definitely earned them. Our first sleepover is in the books and what a learning experience it was. Like all of life's great treasures, Michael's first sleepover was nothing like I envisioned. Which makes sense. I never could have envisioned having that much fun!

Party on kiddies!

- Dave

Slippin' and a slidin'

It's Saturday and I don't usually turn my brain on during the weekend hours, but I wanted to record an observation that will only interest me. So here goes:

It appears I am the leader of the Bummer Brigade when it comes to athletes at the Winter Olympics. I'm not really big on skiing, snowboarding, figure skating, or whatever the heck the event is where dudes put on skis and start shooting guns, but I have watched a few minutes of action here and there. And I swear to you, each time I start watching an event some world-class athlete does the whole "slip on a banana peel" routine.

A couple of days ago I walked into the great room as April and Michael were watching speed skating. About two seconds later a dude slipped and fell on his rump. The next day I caught a few seconds of figure skating. The poor guy on the television screen fell once, fell again, and by that time I couldn't take it anymore and left the room. Yesterday, you guessed it, some poor chap rumbled head over heels down the mountain during the skiing competition. This guy had the moxie to get up and give himself a mock cheer, which calls for a few bonus points in my book.

So I'm not watching any more of the Olympics. Shattering the hopes and dreams these athletes worked their entire lives for is so not awesome, ya know?

That is all. Happy Saturday kiddies!

- Dave

Talkin' I.E.P. (Ya You Know Me!)

I'm quite proud of myself. Quite proud indeed.

This morning April and I attended an "I.E.P" meeting at Michael's school and I didn't cry or yell at anyone or anything. It appears I'm actually maturing in my old age. Or at least beginning to resemble a "grownup."

So hats off to me! Get Pops a medal!

These annual I.E.P., or Individualized Education Program (yes, I had to look this up), meetings always wreak havoc on my already sensitive parenting confidence. April and I sit around a conference table in a cold and sterile room with Michael's teacher, his two therapists, the school special education teacher, the school nurse and the principal for a little heartfelt "chat." Each specialist delivers a five to 10 minute "presentation" outlining their accomplishments with Michael, their struggles with Michael and their basic plan for his future. They might mention a few of Michael's strengths, but the core of the presentation revolves around his weaknesses.

This is perfectly understandable when approached with a rational mind. Of course they are going to concentrate on his weaker areas. Their job is to pinpoint them and work toward improvement. That is what therapy is all about. It all makes sense, as long as you approach this rationally.

Unfortunately, my mind is far from rational (as I'm sure you already know). When they say things like, "Michael has been struggling with his handwriting and still needs to learn the proper way to grip a pencil," my mind doesn't exactly process this correctly.

Instead my mind hears, "YOU ARE A HORRIBLE PARENT! A DISGRACE TO THE HUMAN RACE! I CAN'T BELIEVE MICHAEL CAN EVEN WALK, LET ALONE WRITE WITH YOU AS HIS MENTOR. YOU DISGUST ME!!!"

So a few minor details get lost in translation. And I may react a wee-bit irrationally on occasion at these meetings.

But for some reason this meeting was different. I found myself actually hearing their comments without any colorful editing. I actually heard these comments and, gulp, they actually made sense. I agreed with them.

Lord help me, I agreed with them.

I also found myself glancing around the table and realizing something. These people REALLY care about Michael. They've fallen for his charms just like I have. They're cheering for him just like I am. They just happen to be smart and know that they're doing, so they've got an advantage over dear old Dad.

There are times in life when you can really feel positive, loving energy overtake a room. And boy that conference room was absolutely overflowing with it this morning. For the first time in a while I didn't feel alone and overwhelmed. I realized I've got allies here. Experts on the front lines that love Michael and are working hard for his future.

I am truly grateful for this experience. I know without a doubt that Michael is growing and thriving in kindergarten. I have full confidence that my little superstar will continue thriving next year and beyond.

Thanks to a little help from our friends.

Here's to Daddys acting mature and stuff, aye kiddies?

You might be my lucky star

February means inversion season here in our little Camelot. The skies fill with smoke, smog and other unmentionables creating a foggy mess. These inversions are an absolute nightmare for me. I lose the ability to catch my breath, which sends me into a drowsy stupor. Forming simple thoughts becomes nearly impossible and I just want to lie down and sleep.

Other than that it has no effect whatsoever.

Today featured a particularly nasty little inversion. I awoke to find the air quality hovering somewhere between Sleepy Hollow fog and a forest fire. My first thoughts were something resembling, "Boy so foggy, so sleepy ... what?"

Unfortunately my mental state has not improved. I tried engaging in a conversation with a fellow Dad while picking Michael up at kindergarten this morning, and for all I knew the dude was speaking some long extinct Mayan dialect. The language recognition thingy in my brain was not registering. All I could do was nod and try to stay awake.

I've been on a roll with this blog lately and I don't want a little dirt in the air to ruin my streak. So I'm posting here despite the fact that I can't remember my name and I keep misspelling every other word (I usually type at least four words before a misspelling). This should be great fun to read later!

While I'm struggling a bit at the moment, Michael's charmed life continues to flourish. Check out his list of recent accomplishments: Appear on a television show holding a giant Q-tip? Check. Have your picture appear twice on the front page of the "Life" section in the newspaper? Check.

Now he can add one more accomplishment to that list. The little guy has been named the "Star Student of the Week" in his class. My son is a "star." It's officially in writing and everything.

He gets to create a super-sized poster filled with facts about himself and oodles of pictures that will hang prominently on the "honor wall." Michael will also have the honor of a "super share" during show and tell time. He'll share five of his favorite toys and answer questions from his adoring "fans" and classmates.

How cool is that?

I'm happy to report that Michael's celebrity status has not affected him. He's still the same happy and loving kid. Although it appears the ladies have taken notice. Yesterday a beautiful little girl wearing an adorable red coat waltzed up to Michael and smothered him in a huge bear hug.

Michael absolutely beamed with delight. So the saying is true. Some guys have all the luck.

Reach for the stars kiddies.

- Dave

These visions of Amherst occ-U-py my miind!

The fiddler, he now steps to the road
He writes ev'rything's been returned which was owed
On the back of the fish truck that loads
While my conscience explodes
The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain
And these visions of Johanna are now all that remain
- "Visions of Johanna" by Bob Dylan (Wha?)

I received a rather unexpected and exhilarating gift from my subconscious the other day. I was happily dozing in my comfy bed, dreaming the usual. You know, quarterbacking Boise State to the Master of the Universe Bowl Championship. I was standing alongside Coach Pete on the victory podium as he hoisted the trophy, which depicted He-Man stabbing his mighty sword high toward the heavens, and proclaimed, "This one, once again, is for you Bronco Na-tion!," when my pesky alarm clock ruined everything. Suddenly I was ripped away from a victory celebration in front of thousands of adoring fans and plopped down in my dark bedroom where two extremely excited dogs waited to greet me by jumping up and down on my belly.

I was wiping my eyes and trying to gather my senses when it happened. In an instant my mind filled with crystal-clear images of a house, a playroom, a backyard, a swing set. Each image flashed through my mind in slideshow fashion. My drowsy self struggled to identify these images. What were they? Why were they so familiar?

Suddenly it hit me.

My mind was showing me pictures of our old house on Amherst Drive. The house I lived in as a little boy. The house where I learned to ride a bike, discovered the Transformers, and spent hours dressing up like Boy George (don't ask). The house where I spent my kindergarten and early elementary school days. It was all right there in my mind's eye, as clear as if we lived there yesterday. I could suddenly picture it all.

And I couldn't believe it.

My early childhood memories have always been fuzzy at best. I remember a bike here, a clubhouse there, but nothing substantial. I've always struggled to remember exactly what the house on Amherst looked like. What the rooms were like. The yard. My old bedroom. It's all gobbledygook in my brain. Unlike April, who remembers everything she's ever experienced or said since she was three years old, I've always struggled to remember anything about my early childhood. It's not like I had a terrible upbringing and my mind is repressing anything. I had a tremendously happy childhood with two of the greatest parents of all time (in my biased opinion). I just have a terrible memory. Plain and simple.

But for a few moments that morning I was there. I saw it all. Every breathtaking detail.

I saw the front yard with a giant evergreen tree (although I'm sure my little boy perspective is making the tree seem much larger than it really was). Walking in the front door, I saw a living room on my right. You go down a step (watch out for the large plant that shocks you silly should your arm graze its leaves) and enter the room featuring two large orange recliners and massive open windows letting rays of sun shine through. This was my Star Trek room. I transformed this unassuming little space into the bridge of the Starship Enterprise and used one of the recliners as the captain's chair, because it swiveled just like Captain Kirk's.

Stepping out of the living room and back into the main hallway, I walked through the kitchen and into a large playroom. Homemade shelves and a bench line the back wall. This was the Boy George room. I would dress up like Boy George and Elvis Presley and sing along with the records. My sister Melissa, who was just a toddler at the time, would listen and clap when I executed my rousing finale. I would toss scarves to her just like Elvis and she would pretend to swoon.

A door in the corner of the playroom leads outside to the back yard. I could see my beloved swing set, along with the shed. It was a small yard, but I remember running through the sprinkler and playing in the clubhouse Dad helped me build. I could see it all. I was there.

There were other visions, but I wasn't able to secure them all in my sleepy state. They faded back into my subconscious. I sincerely hope they reappear some day for another slideshow down memory lane.

I want to thank my subconscious for a truly remarkable experience. I've struggled all my adult life to recall those images, and in a few breathtaking seconds I saw everything and more. My childhood came back to me in all its wide-eyed wonder. It was beautiful.

In this case, I guess those annoying commercials are right. Some gifts truly are priceless.

Hang on to those special memories, kiddies.

- Dave

Holding hands with greatness

Well I'm back safe and sound after a brief hiatus yesterday. It appears Mr. Seriouspants went and hijacked this blog with a bit of old-fashioned ranting and raving. Not that I mind. I think everyone should let their version of Mr. Seriouspants grab the conch and speak his piece now and again. They say confession is good for the soul. I would add that a little venting never hurt either.

So onward we march on this somewhat dreary February afternoon. Let us switch gears now and examine the charmed week my son is currently having. You may not be aware of this, but Michael has become somewhat of a celebrity in these parts. It all started innocently enough. The little guy donned a t-shirt labeled "Ear Wax," stood in front of television cameras for a show called "D4K" on PBS and clowned around with a gigantic Q-tip. Pure television gold baby!

Since that fateful afternoon Michael has appeared in his school newsletter and several, ahem, Facebook postings by his father. Yesterday the Ward family opened the local newspaper and found Michael's picture plastered all over the front page of the "Life" section. There was a large article detailing the show and Michael appeared in two large color photos. The experience was mindblowing for your's truly. It's not every day you see your son on the front page of a newspaper donning an "Ear Wax" shirt and a giant Q-tip.

Michael took his newfound celebrity status in stride. When I showed him the pictures, nearly hyperventilating with excitment, Michael merely glanced up from his computer game and said "Yeah, that's great," with the same amount of enthusiasm he displays when I show him my BCS National Championship trophies on the playstation. Two seconds later he was back to his computer game.

Icewater in his veins, that one. I suppose some people are just born to handle the pressures of fame.

This morning Michael was fully engaged in his ritual of running haphazardly around the school playground with several other screaming kindergarteners when one of the teachers approached him with a huge smile. "Michael, I saw you in the paper yesterday. That was great!," she exclaimed gleefully. Michael looked up at his "fan" and said, "Yeah,I'm famous."

Icewater baby. Icewater.

The moment of truth arrived this afternoon at 2 o'clock. Michael and I sat down and watched the magic happen. "D4K" aired in all its glory, featuring several shots of Michael and his giant Q-tip. It was a wonderful experience for dear old Dad. The room got kind of dusty and my eyes started watering a bit. It's strange how that always seems to happen when Michael works his magic.

I can now say with full confidence that I know greatness. I've talked with greatness. I've shared meals with greatness. And best of all, I get to hold hands with greatness every single morning while walking to school.

Just living the dream, kiddies. Just living the dream.

- Dave

Anyone seen the light switch?

So here it is again
Rape and pillage proves
To win the public vote

Someone tell me who will take the prize
And who takes the fall

So confused when you're lost in the groove
So confused when you're lost in the groove

- "The Groove" by Muse
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uIqzqg1MoMc


I've been thinking about this song all day. It's a B-side from Muse that I happened to stumble upon a couple of weeks ago while cruising through YouTube videos of these British rock gods. This particular song lacks all of the usual showmanship and flare that define the majority of Muse's music. In fact, "The Groove" is simply a straight-forward rocker directly out of the Jimi Hendrix vein. A powerful and catchy opening riff channeling a "Purple Haze" vibe in all it's glory, followed by lead singer Matt Bellamy pouring out his heart in a haunting chorus.

"So confused (oooohhh) when you're lost in the the groove."

The emotion in Bellamy's voice is unmistakable. Listening to this song you can feel every ounce of his confusion, his anger, his outrage. You get the sense he is royally pissed off about something that he doesn't quite understand. Something violating his very sense of right and wrong.

Boy can I relate to this song.

I ask you to bear with me here for a few minutes. I'm about to enter uncharted waters. I want to make a statement, and I figure I should just come out and say it. So here goes:

I really don't like where our society is headed and I have serious concerns regarding our future.

There, I've said it. I feel better. At least somewhat.

When I began this blog about three years ago, I made the conscious choice to avoid the pitfalls of politics. I figured the internet, and the entire mass media universe, is filled with negative portrayals of doom and gloom. Everywhere you look somebody is shouting at the top of their lungs about something. Usually something they believe will spell the end to the human race and make us all hide in fear with our blankies and our bottles.

I really want to get away from that. My main goal has always been to use this space as an escape. A chance for me to goof off a little bit, making jokes about my silly life and my wonderful family. Revel in the everyday magic of doctor's visits, trips to the grocery store and hanging preschool masterpieces on the fridge. I hope to bring a chuckle and a nod of recognition from anybody who happens to come across this blog.

I'm not ignorant of the world around me. I don't have my head buried in the sand. I just prefer to leave serious issues such as the disaster in Haiti and our country's devastating recession to the experts. Me, I'll tackle the "issues" regarding my Yorkie running away and my son's freaky ability to remember everything I've ever said, thank you very much.

But a funny thing happened the other day prompting this posting. April and I discovered our insurance plan changed with the new year. It's still the same company, but the insurance plan is dramatically different. We've discovered all of our doctors (including our family physician, Michael's wonderful allergist and April's OBGYN) are no longer covered on our new plan. I would understand if a couple of these doctors were no longer covered, but all of them? Really?

Michael has been seeing Dr. McMullin since he was 2-years-old. She was the doctor who finally diagnosed his food allergies, transforming a screaming and sick baby into a healthy and happy child. She's been with us every step of the way, always getting him in for appointments when his allergies flared up badly and always following up with a personal phone call.

Now we can no longer afford to see her.

It's a similar story with April's OBGYN. April simply loves Dr. Self. We are currently trying to have another child, so we were counting on Dr. Self playing an integral role in our lives during the coming year.

Now that is also up in the air.

I'm not trying to sound like a spoiled and whiny American. I realize April and I are extremely lucky to have health insurance at all in this recession. It just grates on me. The fact that insurance companies can do whatever they want, dropping people at will for "preexisting conditions," and dramatically altering coverage so that a family with young children suddenly lose coverage for ALL of their doctors. There are no restrictions on these companies. They can simply make the rules up as they see fit.

And I for one just don't understand why people support this.

I would never pretend to be an "expert" regarding our government policies. I speak only as a typical layman citizen who is probably too ignorant and misinformed. My ignorant self cannot understand, however, why people are adamantly opposed to fixing a system that is spinning out of control. Rising costs, plummeting coverage and zero regulations make for a very scary system in my opinion.

My concerns extend well beyond our current health care "debate." I have noticed a prevailing attitude among our general population that scares me. There seems to be a belief that greed is good, selfishness is commendable, and compassion is grounds for treason.

The very lessons of sacrifice and lending a helping hand that we all instill in our children are ignored by the "grownups" among us. In Idaho our government has responded to a deficit crisis by slashing education funding to the bone and eliminating most, if not all, state funding to crucial programs such as the Idaho Human Rights Commision and Idaho Public Television.

Programs giving a voice to minorities, educating our children and insuring a diverse and prosperous future. All of these programs are in a serious fight for survival. Our government argues that times are tough and these programs must find ways to fund themselves. They conveniently ignore the fact that these very same programs simply cannot "fund themselves." They need help that the government is designed to provide.

My main outrage is not the government's proposals to slash funding for these programs. This is a predictable move. Especially in Idaho. My main outrage is that there is no outrage. That people seem to accept this without question. They shrug their shoulders, scan the fine print to make sure there are no new taxes, and move on.

What happened to compassion? What happened to taking care of each other? What happened to the concepts of community and human decency?

Terms like "socialist" and "government handout" run rampant within the media and everyday conversation. It is accepted thought that we must not sacrifice anything to help anyone in need. People in need are below us. They don't deserve our help. A line I hear often is, "Why should I have to pay for (schools, libraries, roads, the homeless, healthcare for others, etc.)?" People are not horrified by this question. They don't scream out, "Because you're a decent human being and helping others is the right thing to do!!!" People actually nod in agreement, content in their "me-first" outlook.

Let me remind you, I am no expert on anything. I'm just "Joe Citizen" here rambling incoherently on his blog. But I do see a vast shift in our society.

If you've made it this far, I thank you. I'll close here by asking one simple favor - Take a moment to look around and really ask yourself if you like what you see. If you don't, please spend a few minutes each day bringing light into your little corner of the world. Be kind to your neighbors. Extend a helping hand to a friend or relative in need. Read to your kids. Give to a charity. Get the word out that greed is not good and compassion is not un-American. If you can make your little spot in the unverse brighter, then at least you've accomplished something. And who knows? If enough of us offer a little light, then we just might illuminate others along the way.

It's worth a shot, right?

Let's end with a happy song, shall we? Sing along with me kiddies: "This little light of mine. I'm gonna let it shine. Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!!!"

- Dave

Steppin' out

Happy Friday everybody. I'm coming to you live from my winter home away from home known as Rafiki. It's an indoor playground that comes complete with a coffee bar, wireless internet and seemingly hundreds of screaming little Ethans and Isabellas.

It's awesome baby!

There is a playground area with slides, huge rubber balls and a basketball hoop. They've got an arts and crafts table, an indoor sand box, a little-tyke kitchen and even a corner filled with costumes and cool disco-type mirrors. What more could a kid want? Answer me that.

For the "grownups" we've got the aformentioned coffee bar area, several cushy couches and just enough space to prevent any, "This is way too crowded, get me out of here right now!" panic attacks that certain parents named Dave sometimes experience. Some people have space issues. What are ya gonna do?

So here I am lounging in a cushy chair, blogging away on this here laptop while the squeaky voice of Buddy Holly croons away on my headphones. By the way, is there anything cooler than Pandora Radio? I mean really, just type Jerry Lee Lewis, the Beatles and Fats Domino into the menu and away you go! Two hours later you're still dancing. Love it!

Now, since I'm here with my, "What I'm doing must be very important, because I'm seriously typing away" face (hey, these Super Moms don't need to know that I'm really up to), I guess I should think of something to write about.

Let's start with a Jordan update. After all of Kiki's guilt trips and all of the pain I put myself through, here's how everything went down this morning - Michael and I drove down the hill to the vet's office. We walked in the front door. The nice lady at the front desk went back into the office and a few seconds later emerged with a happy, energetic Yorkie dog.

Jordan burst through the door with an emphatic, "Hey Dad! How's it going? It's great to see ya! Great day isn't it!" His little stump (the breeders cut off his tail for some reason when he was born) wagging away. Happy as ever. No worries Dad!

Oh to be oblivious to it all. We all talk about living in the moment, but it appears my little Yorkie actually pulls this feat off. Jordan never seems to think anything beyond, "Boy that was awesome!" or "Man that sucked!" and then it's on to the next moment. I envy the hell out of the guy.

So there you have it. The secret to life as brought to you by a fluffy, barky little bundle of joy named Jordan. Just be warned that this same prophet also chases the "evil water monster" every summer night when our sprinklers come on. I'm just saying.

Well, I feel that is more than enough inpsiration for one lovely Friday afternoon inside the screaming confines of Rafiki. Now, if you'll excuse me I see an opening at the air hockey table. There's usually a lot of crying after I inflict my wrath upon the unsuspecting kiddies. But don't worry, I don't cry very long. The kids always let me win eventually.

Get out and play kiddies!

- Dave

Oh, one more thing. I opened my mail box this afternoon and discovered the official Fiesta Bowl DVD (Go Broncos!), a Mad Men Season 2 DVD (Netflix), and the lastest Fringe Season 1 DVD (Netflix). No bills in sight. Best mail day ever!

Snip! Oh the guilt! Snip!

I've got to hand it to Kiki. Our old husky dog really knows how to execute a good guilt trip. She's not speaking to me right now. She's spent most of the day sulking on our bed sighing whenever I enter the room in a, "I can't even look at you," manner.

And I don't I blame her. No, I really don't blame her at all.

I've participated in something terrible, you see, and I need to fess up. Confess my sins and seek retribution from my 11-year-old guardian angel who walks this Earth disguised as an ordinary dog. I'm sorry Kiki! So very sorry!

So here is my confession:

Last week April and I took our other dog, Jordan, to the vet. Jordan is a feisty Yorkshire Terrier born with a slight heart murmur that initially forced us to decide against having him "fixed" as a puppy. The doctor feared Jordan might not survive the surgery. Last week the doctor announced that Jordan's heart murmur is officially gone. He's one hundred percent healthy.

Jordan didn't know it, but this was actually bad news for the little guy. You see, April and I have discovered that when you don't have a male puppy "fixed," it grows into a male dog that spends every waking second chewing things up, breaking valuables, barking incessantly, and trying to run away. Sometimes several of these things simultaneously. It's really remarkable actually. And by "remarkable" I mean "gawdawful horrible."

After spending the past two months chasing Jordan around the neighborhood, trying to get him to stop barking in the middle of the night and using our furniture as chew toys, we seized an opportunity to calm the little guy down. Ahem.

This morning April snagged Jordan's leash from the closet and executed the ultimate act of betrayal. Little Jordan obliviously jumped into the car and off they drove. Reality eluded Jordan in until he spotted the vet's office, but by then it was too late. His date with destiny sealed.

I missed all of this. I was sleeping peacefully in my comfy bed until a shockingly cold husky nose burrowed deep into my back. I jumped out of my superhero dreams and slowly opened my eyes. Kiki sat mere inches away from my face, her brown husky eyes staring at me coldly.

"He's gone. What ... have... you... DONE!," those eyes demanded.

I rolled over, trying in vain to return to my dreamland escapades with Wonder Woman, when a cold husky nose assaulted my back once again.

I sat up and gave her a consoling pat on the head. "It's alright Kiki," I lied. "Jordan is with Mommy. He'll be fine."

Kiki and I have been living together since college and she knows when I'm merely humoring her. She is far above such childish antics. She jumped off the bed in a flourish, seeming to say "I know he's gone, I know something bad is happening, and it's all your fault!!"

That's when it hit me. Crap! I've just committed the ultimate guy sin. It's right there in the bible - "No man shalt send a fellow man off to have thoust manhood slane."

Guilt rushed through me like a tsunami. How could I do such a thing? I cringed every time I thought about it. Thought about little Jordie and the snipping and the cutting. It's too horrible! Make it stop!

I wish I could say the guilt has subsided this afternoon, but I'm still feeling like I've betrayed my fellow man. I know it's for the best. The last time Jordan ran away, after chewing off his tag collar, I went to Michael's school to ask if anybody had seen him. The school is located right next to our house.

The nice lady at the crosswalk responded, "You mean that cute little Yorkie? No I haven't seen him today."

So Jordan has become somewhat "known" by the neighbors. That is never a good sign. I know April and I are doing the right thing, but I can't get over the guilt. And Kiki is not helping.

Not helping at all!

Guard those jewels kiddies.

- Dave

Lost in my thoughts

Good morning. In honor of the final season of "Lost," I am blogging live inside the tent we've set up in Michael's playroom (how cool is that?). To truly achieve the spirit of "Lost" I should probably take my laptop outside and pontificate in the elements. But hey, it's cold out there all right?!

We're three episodes in now, and I would like to take a moment to share my thoughts on the various plot twists. First I would like to say "what?" And let me also add "huh?" Finally let me end by stating "eh?"

That about sums it all up for me. Yes indeed. I realized sometime during the third season that my mortal brain is not equipped to handle the intricate goings on when it comes to "Lost." I simply stare at the television screen and take it all in, offering witty commentary such as "hey that was cool!" and "I'm confused, I thought he/she/it was dead/in the past/a ghost."

What a show!!

I did have a few thoughts, however, during last night's triumphant return of the mysterious Claire. Namely, I got to thinking (which you know by now is never a good idea) about alternate realities and whether there is an alternate-reality me out there. What would he look like? What would he do? What is his favorite minor league hockey team? Important stuff like that.

I was thinking that alternate-reality me probably wouldn't spend mornings blogging about television shows inside a tent in his son's playroom. He probably wouldn't grow beards every few months out of boredom. He probably wouldn't have weird allergies to bananas and beer. He probably wouldn't run panicking to the window every few minutes wondering if his yorkshire terrior had just run away again. And he definitely wouldn't wear Boise State football jerseys to the grocery store. In February.

No, I picture alternate-reality me wearing cool suits like Mr. Big and drinking scotch. He most likely speaks in a really cool husky voice like Jack Donaghy. He probably starts conversations saying suave things like "Hello there. You look lovely this evening." He probably laughs confidently at all of the appropriate moments and has a strong handshake. He probably drives a black Lexus and definitely doesn't put magnets of blue turf all over the bumper.

You know, the more I think about alternate-reality me the more I realize something - Alternate-reality me is kind of a jerk, don't you think?

What was I talking about again, kiddies?

- Dave

You gonna eat that?

Michael brought home this fascinating book the other day from his school library. It's entitled "A Giant Surprise," by Eve Feldman and boy is it ever a page-turner. This harrowing tale descibes the plight of dear Ms. Keel, who is simply working at home and minding her own business, when her daughter Eve comes home with a giant named Duke. Without even asking! Duke is not just tall, he's an actual giant.

So Duke proceeds to rip off Ms. Keel's roof and "then he pushed out the walls, and he made the house wide," the book explains. But that's not all. Duke the giant plopped himself down on Ms. Keel's rug, placed a sheet around his neck, grabbed a shovel-sized spoon and "he ate and he ATE."

"He ate beef, he ate beans,
He ate corn on the cob.
Ms. Keel went on cooking.
It was such a big job!"

This fantastic piece of literature speaks to my soul in a way I've rarely experienced. Boy can I relate to poor Ms. Keel! You see, my dear 5-year-old son has become just like Duke. He eats and he EATS.

And then he eats some more!

I know all about the teenage eating rampages. I remember well the days of ordering two Big Macs and a large order of fries at McDonalds, and then going right home for dinner. But nobody told me these food barrages would begin at kindergarten.

Thanks for the heads up guys!

Little Michael wakes up uttering the words "I'm hungry, can I have some breakfast?" About 20 minutes later it morphs into "Can I have a snack?" He then proceeds to ask that last phrase approximately 565 times during the next nine hours, following me around the house like a starved puppy.

He's developed an especially annoying delivery, dishing out the words repeatedly with a nasal flourish ... "CanIhaveasnack?CanIhaveasnack?CanIhaveasnack?CanIhaveasnack?CanIhaveasnack?"

I shiver just thinking about it.

Resorting to my go-to parenting tactic (namely trying to ignore him) does absolutely no good. Michael simply waltzes patiently to the refrigerator, grabs the snack he wants, waltzes patiently back and shoves the snack in my face for me to "give to him."

Smart little bugger to boot!

So I empathize with you dear Ms. Keel. You were simply minding your own business. Working contentedly in your little house while wearing your pretty green dress with the weird orange and yellow circle patterns on it. You never asked Duke the giant to come rip off your roof, widen your walls and eat all of your food. I know how you feel Ms. Keel. All that cooking really is such a big job!

Now if you'll excuse me, it's hard to type when a little boy is shoving a banana in your face. Duty calls, kiddies, duty calls.

- Dave