Living the Dream

Walking through the fire

2010-08-23T09:41:00.006-06:00

9:40 A.M. - The sun is shining. The neighborhood dogs are barking. And I've got my trusty morning cup of coffee. On the surface all is nice and normal at the Ward castle this morning. But there is one truly huge difference:

I'M GETTING SET TO GO TO CLASS!!

That's right, class. Captain Gray Hair has gone and done it. The Handsome One has enrolled at Boise State University, passed two Praxis exams and even washed his car. All over the course of the past four months. Kind of a big deal for Ole' Charming and Debonaire.

Remember my last blog posting? The one from my birthday where I was blabbing on and on about my lack of direction and purpose, outside of being devastatingly awesome and all? Well, it's a very long story, but the cliffnotes version ends with my decision to pursue a career in Special Education. Some paths are way too obvious to actually see. At least without some help. Basically April and I were lounging under a shady tree in an empty school playground when the idea surfaced. It was quite dramatic. You see, April dramatically turned to me and asked,"Hey, how about working in special education?" I dramatically paused for half a second and responded, "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea." We then dramatically returned to our previous conversation about chicken or Buffy the Vampire Slayer or some such.

And so the dramatics continued. I met with the CHAIR OF THE SPECIAL EDUCATION DEPARTMENT AT BOISE STATE UNIVERSITY, DR. KEITH ALLRED (Important people get all-caps in my blog). He announced that, yes I could pursue a degree in Special Ed, as long as I passed a math test (And then unleashed an evil mad-scientist laugh while thunder and lightning crashed behind him. It was weird, and scary).

I spend the next month and a half desperately trying to relearn high school math. It was quite a scene. There I was, sitting in my back yard, staring at a Praxis practice book and mumbling things like, "all angles in an equilateral triangle are 60 degrees," and "the volume of a sphere is four-thirds pie r cubed."

Well, all of that mumbling must have worked because I somehow passed the Praxis math exam. I also managed to pass the Praxis writing exam despite writing the worst essay ever. I ran out of time, and my screen went blank before I could finish my crappy argument and complete my crappy essay. Praxis exam scorer people must really like crappy essays, because they gave me a passing score. Whatever. Let's move on.

So I'm sitting in my kitchen this morning, blogging away and trying to contain my nervous energy. It's been 10 years since the last time I attended a college class. I've spent the past five years changing diapers and watching Spongebob Squarepants. Now I have to act like a grown-up and study and write papers and stuff. I'll check in tonight to let you know how it goes.

But for now, as someone somewhere must have said sometime .... "Here goes nothing kiddies!"

- Dave

4:49 P.M. - Well, I did it. I managed to attend an honest-to-goodness college class and I'm still breathing. My head didn't explode and I didn't have a nervous breakdown or anything. Not any more than usual.

I was so nervous this morning because I just didn't know what to expect. After 10 years away from the Land of Academia, a man finds himself asking questions like, "Do the kids use laptops or notebooks?" and, "Does my brain even work anymore?"

I guess I shouldn't have been so worried. The Old Man Who is So Stunningly Handsome has still got it. Whatever "it" may be.

My luck began right away. I pulled into the first parking lot, the one with the primo spots right next to the greenbelt, and found one solitary spot just for me and my Matrix. I grabbed the old backpack and enjoyed a pleasant stroll along the Boise River. The sun was shining and there was a soft breeze. A taste of fall in the middle of August.

I found an empty table right in front of the Interactive Learning Center where I camped out, watched the kiddies stroll by, and read most of the first chapter in my textbook. My dusty old brain even understood most of the words!

After a while my stomach decided it was no longer nervous and wanted a Subway sandwich post-haste. What could I do after such a demand? I simply had to obey, and obey I did. Oh yes indeed. I ordered a turkey sandwich and it was glorious.

Finally, I made my way to the classroom and sat down amidst a packed house and waited. A jolly looking guy wearing a maroon t-shirt, gray pants and tennis shoes walked in and started talking about a "syllabus," "tests," and other classroom lingo that my brain instantly recognized from my first collegiate tour of duty.

It wasn't the Earth-shattering event that I envisioned. It was a nice comfortable return to a world that I vacated a long time ago. It was a nice reunion with one huge difference. This time, when the jolly professor began talking, I was actually interested in what he was talking about. I slept through my first college go-around, and I wasn't the least bit interested in any of my classes. My 20-year-old impatient self merely wanted to graduate so I could become a famous sports writer.

Well, that didn't exactly happen. I'm older now and I actually want to learn all I can about Special Education. It's so much more fun.

I'm sure tomorrow's class will send shivers down my spine, but at least today's experience went well. My return to the Land of Academia wasn't scary. It wasn't horrible. Actually, it was a lot of fun.

- Dave

They say it's your birthday

2010-04-05T10:13:00.006-06:00

I turned 32 yesterday. I'm not going to lie, this was a tough birthday for me. I spent the week leading up to my "big day" holding a nice little pity party for myself. Groveling about how I'm a year older and still have no real idea of what I want to "do" with my life. You know, because having a beautiful, smart and wonderful soulmate for a wife who happens to walk on water, along with a loving son, great health, a fantastic family and all of my other blessings just isn't enough, right?

Poor me. Poor, poor me.

Thankfully I was shaken out of my misguided pouting by an absolutely wonderful day. The kind of birthday that I will clutch close to my heart forever.

It all started with a five-year-old hovering over my sleeping self and proudly announcing, "Dad, it's morning time! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!"

I took one look at Michael's beaming grin and laughed. Michael burst out of the room for just a second and returned holding a gift bag. I opened the card and heard Spongebob Squarepants belt out a rocking version of "Happy Birthday." Mr. Squarepants ended his serenade stating, "This is going to be the best day ever!"

I reached in the gift bag and pulled out a brand new Wii remote. "Now we can play against each other Dad," Michael announced. It was game-on from there, as Michael proceeded to humiliate his old man at Wii tennis and baseball. It was a blast!

A little while later I was sitting in the kitchen, cruising the internet, when Michael appeared holding pieces of construction paper. He shoved the papers onto my forehead, taking measurements and whispering, "okay, good," before running off. He did this at least three times. I pretended not to notice.

Michael proudly entered the kitchen and handed me my "birthday crown," that he created all by himself. It was blue and orange (Go Broncos!) and said "Happy Birthday" in Michael's unique handwriting. It was beautiful!

The party shifted to my parent's house in the afternoon. Michael unleashed his Easter egg hunting skills in the back yard, while Dad chased the little guy around with the camera. Michael emerged with a large basket filled with candy and his own "Boise Hawks" baseball helmet. Quite a haul if you ask me.

My own glorious haul arrived a short time later. I sat on the couch with my eyes closed, awaiting my birthday present, when I heard several voices exclaim things like "oh my" and "wow." Naturally this piqued my interest. But nothing could have prepared me for the sheer awesomeness of this gift.

I opened my eyes and gazed upon an official "Boise State Fiesta Bowl Champions" football in a beautiful case. I lost my breath for a moment. And that was before I noticed that this particular football was covered with autographs. I looked closer and saw signatures such as "K Moore #11" and "Austin Pettis #2."

It was all too much.

My mom, who officially wins the "Coolest Mom in the Universe Award," used her "connections" to give me a football filled with autographs from the Boise State football team. You know, the 14-0 Fiesta Bowl Champions that finished No. 4 in the country! Perhaps you've heard of them?

I nearly lost it. I couldn't contain my excitement!

It turns out that my mom knows Kyle Brotzman's mom. For those who don't know, Kyle is Boise State's place kicker. The guy who just happened to complete a pass on a fake punt helping Boise State defeat TCU in the Fiesta Bowl. A play living in infamy in Bronco Nation.

It turns out Kyle is also a supremely nice guy. He took this football into the Broncos' training room and had several of his teammates sign it. Coach Pete also signed the ball, and now it sits on my bookshelf where I've been staring at it all morning.

Truly the best birthday gift I've ever received.

So, just to recap, I turned 32 yesterday. I wore a birthday crown that Michael made himself, spent the day with my wonderful family and received a football signed by Coach Pete and several players from the greatest team in Boise State football history. Oh, and I was serenaded by Spongebob Squarepants who truthfully proclaimed, "This is going to be the best day ever!"

Poor me. Poor, poor me.

- Dave

Call now!

2010-03-22T13:33:00.004-06:00

I take my role as Michael's personal publicist very seriously. So I feel it is my duty to announce that Michael has once again graced the airwaves of Idaho Public Television with his larger-than-life presence. The little guy was flashing his star power once again last Friday, helping to kick things up a notch at the station's annual "Festival" pledge drive. When it comes to microphones and an audience, you can't stop Michael from dazzling. You can only hope to contain him!

"Call now and make that pledge," he pleaded to the audience at home, unleashing his best cute-five-year-old grin. "We've got to MAKE ... THAT ... GOAL!"

He also got to hang out with his good pal Ernie. Not a bad morning. Not bad at all.

What can I say. The kid's a natural.

- Dave

Me write pretty one day

2010-03-15T13:08:00.003-06:00

After spending the past three years blogging about my experiences as a stay-at-home Dad, I've decided to kick it up a notch. I've decided to write a book about my stay-at-home dad-ness. Every single "writer," whether he or she works for a newspaper or randomly jots down thoughts on a blog that nobody reads, holds a secret ambition to write a book. Sooner or later the itch grows too strong not to scratch.

Well, my itch has become unbearable lately. When considering the fact that I have no idea what I am going to "do" when I grow up, along with my sheer boredom and propensity to read way too much, it really isn't that big of a surprise that I've joined the "I'm going to write a book!" cliche.

So I'm going to write a book! Look at me everybody!

Oh it sounds so easy. I yack away on this blog without a care in the world. I write sermons that I occasionally present at my church and other churches around Idaho. It's easy and nobody's ever really booed, so I take that as a good sign. My wife and my Mommy both think I'm awesome, so surely that is a sign as well, right? Hello?

But each time I sit down to work on MY BOOK (dum, dum, dum!!) I suddenly lose all grasp of the English language. My sentences start to yammer and stammer. My fingers randomly and compulsively hit, the, comma, button, every, other, word. I go from a somewhat coherent thought to a completely different thought that has nothing to do with anything and then on to a third thought all in the same sentence. Whenever I look up I expect to see Vince Lombardi glaring at me and yelling, "What the hell is going on out here!!"

It's a conundrum kiddies!

It's not like I have unrealistic expectations or anything. I sit down each morning hoping to compose something beautiful. Words that will make people weep, laugh, join together in singing "We are the world." I want to compose sentences like, oh I don't know, this:

“All around the house the black cold of the night was as high as the sky and as wide as the world, and there was nothing in it but the lonely wind.” – Laura Ingalls Wilder in “By The Shores of Silver Lake.”

That's not too much to ask, is it? It's not that hard right?

A light bulb flashes in my head, but by the time my fingers reach the keys on the keyboard it all gets a little fuzzy. Suddenly, that, blasted, comma, button, gets, overused, again! And I put in exclamation points and question marks that don't really belong?

So anyway, I'm going to write a book about being a stay-at-home dad. I'm sure the only people that will ever read it will be my wife, my Mommy and perhaps a few unlucky souls who happen to join my "book group" (What do you mean we're not going to read 'On the Road'? What is this crap about being a bored dad? And what's up with all of these commas?).

With any luck I'll have this bad boy completed in time for Michael's 50th birthday present. Fingers crossed, kiddies. Fingers crossed!?,

- Dave

I'm gonna totally find my Zen man! After I finish this game.

2010-03-12T09:15:00.006-07:00

I finished reading "The Dharma Bums" recently, and I've never read a book that touched me on such a profound level. I'm a guy who dreams about spending time in the mountains on a daily basis, so this book was right up my alley. And after spending the past four years in an out-of-touch with our go-go-go business-minded society role as a stay-at-home dad, I found a kindred spirit in this novel. At last someone who doesn't have it all together and is still searching. Someone questioning the "gotta have a job and a title so I can make money and buy crap in order to be recognized in society and feel like I'm worth something" mentality that we nurture from the moment our kids can talk. "What are you going to 'be' little man?" we ask the three-year-old clutching a stuffed bear and holding a sippie cup. No pressure.

We need to find our Zen, man! And so it goes.

The anti-materialism, anti-going-with-the-crowd messages in "The Dharma Bums" really touched me. Really made me question my values and examine out my goals in life.

So naturally I went out and bought a Wii.

What can I say? These are the times we live in. The real story is far less hypocritical. April and I have been promising Michael a trip to Disneyland this summer, and like the other 99 percent of America dancing along to the recession beat, we've discovered that we just can't afford it right now. So we opted for door number two. We got the little guy the Wii he's been asking for ever since he discovered this magical device at his friend Josh's house. It was just a crazy funny coincidence I was reading "The Dharma Bums" when we made this frivolous purchase.

The Ward castle has since been transformed into a bowling alley, golf course, boxing ring, baseball stadium and tennis court. Michael spends his afternoons blissfully swinging his arms, laughing and gaining precious points. He absolutely loves it.

I've had a rather mixed reaction myself. Apparently if you're a total wuss in real life then your Mii is also a raging wuss. I did what I could. I gave him a cool Euro chin beard and shades. He's wearing Bronco orange and has a cool hair style.

But the son-of-a-you-know-what just cannot hit a freaking home run!! I mean ever!! I've spent hours in front of that blasted TV swinging with all of my might, sweat pouring down my forehead and cussing. Mr. Mii Wuss just keeps popping soft can-of-corn flyballs to the outfield. I heave a mighty swing ... and "pop." Straight up in the air. It's humiliating.

Last night April had a go with her oh-so-pretty Mii. "I'm sure it's really hard," she assured me. First pitch. Baam! Out of the park. The second pitch was a swinging strike. Third pitch. KAAAABLAAAM!!! The ball screams with McGwire-Juice glory straight out of the entire stadium!

Are you freaking kidding me?

When I finally calm down we switch to bowling. I execute what I believe is perfect form, yet the ball continually curves to the right. Three, maybe four pins drop.

"It's okay Daddy," Michael assures me.

The little guy proceeds to unleash his patented "spin in the air, perform herky-jerky windmill with his right arm, and land awkwardly" bowling motion. Naturally the ball rolls right down the middle for a perfect strike. My son is a bit of a Wii bowling prodigy. He bowls five and six strikes in a row. We've had the Wii for less than a week and he's already reached "Pro" status.

I haven't.

So while Michael sets the Wii bowling world on fire, I'll be spending this weekend pouring through the timeless lessons from "The Dharma Bums." Finding your Zen and searching for your inner light and all that. I will. I promise. Just as soon as I hit a freaking home run!!

Here is my favorite quote from "The Dharma Bums" kiddies:

"Everything is all right forever and forever and forever." - Jack Kerouac.

- Dave

And I ... live by the river!

2010-03-10T10:15:00.004-07:00

Most people are not aware of this, but Michael is actually a supremely creative Indie Director with a style all his own. His use of angles, lighting and mood combine the best and worst of Scorsese, Spielberg and Hitchcock combined. His implementation of a revolutionary "spin" technique is sure to be all the rage in Park City next year.

Michael's previous films tackled the themes of life in a typical suburban home. Particularly spinning around in the kitchen. It was heady stuff, believe me.

Today I am thrilled to premiere Michael's latest masterpiece. He calls it "Park By The River," and it captures the essence of a family spending a brilliant pre-spring afternoon at a local park in the Kingdom of Eagle. It also makes several points regarding the issues of the existential nature of life and man inside the machine. Or something like that anyway.

You just have to see it to truly dig the vibe. So please enjoy "Park By The River" by Michael Ward.

- Dave

Got June on my mind

2010-03-08T11:02:00.005-07:00

I'm thinking about June this morning. And sunshine. Definitely lots of sunshine.

But it's not exactly what you think.

Yes I can't wait for summer to arrive, but my thoughts concern a different sort of June. Namely my wonderful Grandma June, who's infectious smile always brings visions of sunshine. Grandma June suffered a stroke Saturday night and she's currently in the hospital. April and I were devastated when we first heard, but the news is not all bad. She's recovering nicely and should be transferred to a rehab facility in the next couple of days.

And best of all her smile is still very much intact. Very much infectious. Very much a light to treasure.

April, Michael and I piled in the Matrix and drove for a visit yesterday. The moment we entered the room Grandma June unleashed that trademark smile and I knew things were going to be okay. That's the thing about Grandma June. She always makes you feel good. I remember visiting her as a little boy and hearing her laugh at the top of her lungs over nothing in particular. She would smile, beam really, and laugh and before you knew it you were laughing and you didn't know why. You just knew you were happy and life was great.

That's Grandma June.

Yesterday was a good case in point. All of the relatives were huddled around the room in a bit of a gloom. Grandma June wasn't having any of that. She was making jokes and laughing and making us all feel better. God bless her.

Her health hasn't been good lately and there are times when that smile plays a little hide and seek. But it was back in full force yesterday and we were all lucky be there. There are challenges ahead. The right side of her body is really weak, and she really can't lift her right arm, but I can tell you one thing - Grandma June is up to the task as always.

"Just watch me!" she said. Smiling from ear to ear.

- Dave

Got her first real six string ... bought it at the five, I mean Craaigs-liist!

2010-03-05T16:08:00.006-07:00

It's official. April has the Gee-tar Jones and she's got it bad. Not that I'm in any way nervous or anything. Just because she comes home each night and gleefully runs to her guitar like she hasn't seen the thing in centuries and plops down on the couch and baby-lets-play-a-song strums away, doesn't mean she's losing interest in me. I mean seriously now.

Let's move on.

I'd like to share the fetching tale of how April landed her first guitar. She calls it her first guitar, even though she also bought one in junior high school and never actually played it. Why? Because this one is "pretty!" Duh! It's a story that takes quite a swervy turn for the weird midway through, so make sure you don't fall asleep while reading this or anything. Here goes.

After strumming renditions of "Jingle Bells" and "When the Saints Go Marching In" to her hearts content using a borrowed guitar from my Dad for a little over a week, April decided she was indeed a serious musician and needed a serious instrument of her own. Or at least a pretty one.

So on to Craigslist she went, and soon the object of her desire appeared in the form of a small color photograph on our computer screen. It was quite a beauty, I have to admit. All red and shiny and lovely. A true serious instrument for a true serious artist who has been serious for more than a week now.

She shot an email off into cyberspace inquiring about the red beauty and spent the next 72 hours saying, "Why hasn't he emailed me back yet?"

Finally, he did email her back and April managed to stop jumping up and down in celebration long enough to get directions to the nice man's house. That evening we hopped aboard the Green Machine and set course for Nampa expecting smooth sailing all the way.

We were halfway there when the water stopped being smooth and started splish-splashing along the bow. Michael began dramatically stating that his tummy hurt. He's quite the actor (acting, thank you!) you see, so we've learned to ignore him when he does this. Around 99 percent of the time everything works out perfectly and our future Oscar winner moves on to another scene, but there is that pesky one percent, however, where the little dude is not joking and this happened to be one of those times.

Here's a rule of thumb for all parents - Basically anything can happen at anytime for any reason at all. So be ready Freddy.

I knew we were in uh-oh territory when Michael began making a buzzing noise with his lips. This is quite a distinct sound he only makes when he's about to lose his lunch, as it were. April also recognized this sound and began frantically searching for a kleenex, napkin, towel, t-shirt, oh-lord anything to wipe up the coming mess please let there be something. Wouldn't you know there wasn't a towel or anything absorbent anywhere.

Well you can guess what happened next. April comforted the little guy the best that she could. "Poor Mi-Mi, it's going to be okay. Poor, poor Mi-Mi."

I comforted him in my own special way. "Ew gross!"

We turned immediately turned around and returned home empty handed. I tossed his clothes in the washing machine, ran some hot water and put Michael in the tub. In a few minutes Michael was playing happily covered in bubble bath and pouring water in and out of a large water cup that makes up his favorite bath game.

Once we knew Michael was indeed alright (we're pretty sure it was a food allergy), April got that "man, I wish I had my guitar right now," look in her eyes, so she called the nice man and explained what happened. He told her to come on over in a little while and get the guitar and in a little while she set sail for Nampa once more.

She returned a couple hours later the proud Momma of a lovely shiny red guitar. The two have been inseparable since. Again, not that I'm threatened in the slightest. On a completely unrelated note I'm thinking about buying some lovely shiny red shirts. Something with a musical feel.

Dave is reading "The Dharma Bums" and thinks writing long drawn out sentences that ramble a bit is so very Zen. Please excuse him, kiddies.

- Dave

Do you like green eggs and ham?

2010-03-03T11:04:00.007-07:00

Think left and think right
and think low and think high.
Oh, the thinks you can think up if you only try!
- From "Oh The Thinks You Can Think!" by Dr. Seuss

It's Dr. Seuss Week at Michael's kindergarten and the wacky wackiness is well underway. Each day features a crazy kookie activity that Michael is absolutely loving. Monday was Pajama Day and Michael skipped happily to school wearing his best football pj's. A nice yellow and blue ensemble with football helmets everywhere. I believe the Who's at Whoville would have loved it!

Yesterday was "Cat in the Hat" Day and featured quite a nice surprise for the Mommies and Daddies at pickup time. One by one little kids emerged from their classroom sporting extremely cool "Cat in the Hat" hats. Michael was beaming from ear to ear. The moment we got home I pulled out the camera and snapped a picture, as per the instructions on page 75 in the Official Parenting Manual. And of course I put it on my blog. So y'all can see Mr. Handsome himself in his "Cat in the Hat" glory. Isn't he cute?

Michael proudly wore his hat most of the afternoon. There is something about watching the sole male heir to your empire running through the house with a giant "Cat in the Hat" hat and a paddle-ball toy, singing at the top of his lungs, that makes this whole parenting gig worth it.

Right now Michael is enjoying Wacky Socks Day with the rest of his classmates. Mommy sent him out this morning with one brown sock and one black and white striped sock with a pirate logo on it. Isn't that wacky kiddies?

Tomorrow is Theodore Geisel Day. The kids will read one of my personal favorites, "One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish." And the whole party wraps up on Friday with a green eggs and ham feast.

So let me wish everyone a Happy Dr. Seuss Week! May we all celebrate life the way the good Doctor intented. And always remember to "THINK! You can think any think that you wish ..."

- Dave

Do Not Hang On Rim

2010-03-01T14:39:00.006-07:00

Oh glorious day! Oh sweet Marie this is nice! It's the first of March and old Father Winter decided to take a nap. The skies above the Kingdom of Eagle are Bronco blue as far as the eye can see. The sun is shining and I have this strange urge to take off my coat. I believe my body is experiencing "heat," but I really can't remember what this sensation is called. It's been too long.

To celebrate this grand occasion, Michael and I grabbed a basketball and dashed for the car. I was planning on a relaxing drive to the park for some hoops action. But just before opening the car door a realization hit me. "Wait!," the realizer in my mind screamed. "You've got basketball hoops right next door to your house dude!!"

(My realizer can be kind of rude, dontcha think?)

"That's right," I responded. "We do have hoops next door. In fact, we have an entire park right next to our freaking house! It's got tennis courts and everything! It's one of the main reasons we bought this house! How did I forget this fact?!"

"Daddy, are you talking to yourself again?," Michael added.

Have you heard the expression, "hiding in plain sight?" Well that pretty much sums up the mysterious park next to our house that I absolutely forgot about until now. I've been walking or driving past this particular next-door park for so long this winter that my mind simply started to ignore its presence. It became invisible to me. Poof! Gone!

(I never said I was smart. "Look at me! Now I'm on a horse!," handsome? Absolutely. Smart? No.)

Anyway, Michael was super excited to have basketball hoops right next door and the two of us unveiled our unique brand of roundball. Michael dribbled up, down and around the court while laughing and executing his own play-by-play. I discovered that my verticle jump ain't so verticle anymore. I also discovered that my shooting motion has been altered somewhat during the past 20 years. Shots that once soared effortlessly through the air now launch like cruise missles. I felt the uge to shout, "Fore!" whenever the ball left my hand.

As if my "shooting" display wasn't frustrating enough, I had to suffer the indignity of a patronizing little sign some smarty-pants painted on the backboard. "Do not hang on rim," the sign said. Five little words shattering my manhood and reminding me once again that I am not 6-foot-8 and awesome.

Thanks a million.

I didn't take this indignity without a fight. No siree! After getting a good head of steam, I managed to "soar" high enough to touch the net below the rim. I tripped somewhat and slammed into the chain-link fence, but it was totally worth it! I even got a "good job Daddy!" from Michael.

So there!

Always remember the parks located next to your house, kiddies!

- Dave

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

2010-02-26T15:42:00.006-07:00

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.

2010-02-24T09:48:00.008-07:00

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!

2010-02-22T13:47:00.005-07:00

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'

2010-02-20T20:37:00.008-07:00

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!)

2010-02-19T14:33:00.005-07:00

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

2010-02-18T14:16:00.008-07:00

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!

2010-02-17T11:14:00.018-07:00

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

2010-02-16T14:42:00.009-07:00

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?

2010-02-15T14:07:00.002-07:00

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

2010-02-12T14:23:00.007-07:00

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!

2010-02-11T14:01:00.009-07:00

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

2010-02-10T10:44:00.004-07:00

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?

2010-02-09T15:41:00.006-07:00

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

Shut up and Drive

2009-11-19T23:18:00.007-07:00

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

2009-11-18T10:55:00.007-07:00

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'

2009-11-17T14:42:00.003-07:00

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

2009-11-16T15:55:00.004-07:00

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 ....

2009-11-13T10:52:00.006-07:00

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

2009-11-12T15:37:00.004-07:00

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!

2009-11-11T15:28:00.005-07:00

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

2009-11-10T15:31:00.005-07:00

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!

2009-11-09T13:47:00.007-07:00

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

2009-11-08T19:04:00.010-07:00

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!

2009-11-06T10:59:00.007-07:00

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

2009-11-05T11:37:00.008-07:00

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

2009-11-04T11:05:00.007-07:00

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.

I am beautiful ... in every single way

2009-09-30T11:07:00.004-06:00

Oh how I pity you poor people. Slogging through your daily grind without the slightest opportunity to gaze upon the single greatest sight one could ever hope to witness. It's breathtaking, actually. The type of vision usually reserved for the angels floating in heaven.

I'm referring, of course, to my hair.

My brilliant, sassy, ever-flowing and miraculous hair. I'm tearing up right now just thinking about it.

Wars are fought over hair like this. Entire kingdoms demolished and nations toppled. To be in the presence of this hair is to reach nirvana. You lose yourself in hair like this, surrendering to the overflowing joy that its beauty represents.

I'm quite pleased with it myself.

But before I dare venture out of the house and reveal this glorious hair to the world at-large, I thought I would relay the tale of its creation. A tale of miracles and triumph destined to be repeated throughout the land for centuries to come.

The miracle occurred last week during my morning shower. I was halfway through a rousing rendition of "American Woman," using the shampoo bottle as a microphone and reaching full vibrato, when I realized my "microphone" was actually out of shampoo. I immediately stopped singing and focused all of my intellectual powers on solving this dilemma. Around 20 minutes later, a plan of action began to materialize.

Like any good husband, I decided to raid the wife's side of the bathroom cabinet. I searched through the endless piles of lotions and makeup for any deserted bottles of shampoo that may be lurking. Eventually I stumbled upon the blessed bottle of miracles hidden way in the back. I immediately grasped this glorious bottle and ushered the light of the heavens down upon my unsuspecting locks.

I entered the shower that morning a mere mortal and emerged a divine being, if I do say so myself.

Now I spend each day running my fingers through every glorious strand and emphatically tossing my head back and forth in slow motion. If you listen close enough, you can even hear music as I saunter through the room in blissfull euphoria.

So look out world. My miraculous hair and I are about to descend upon the masses. And one more thing: If loving my hair is wrong, then baby you don't want to be right!

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful kiddies!

- Dave

Never fear for Jordan is here

2009-09-14T11:13:00.003-06:00

There is an evil (pronounced e-vil) sprinkler monster dwelling in my backyard.

But I am not afraid.

Each night when the moon rises and the stars shine, this monster appears without warning, spraying dangerous waters of doom all over the innocent grass and trees.

But I am not afraid.

There is no reasoning with this instigator of terror. No hiding from its wrath. No escape.

But I am not afraid.

Why you ask? I have a protector. A little furry knight in shining armour sworn to protect me and my family from these forces of evil. Especially the watery evil this sprinkler monster spews forth with such venom.

His name is Jordan, and he spends every ounce of energy in his little Yorkie body fighting this water-gushing foe. No matter how terrifying the ordeal may be.

The moment little Jordie hears the sprinkler monster emerge from the depths of hell each night, he lets out a valiant whimper. He immediately and heroicly runs to the door and scratches for release, blatantly ignoring our desperate cries of, "No Jordie! Don't do it! It's too dangerous!!"

He merely snickers at our cowardice. Once the door is opened, little Jordie runs with all of his might directly at his nemisis. He charges straight into the stream of doom, barking and screaching as the evil waters submerge him. A few additional barks of warning later, little Jordie returns triumphantly into the house. His mission accomplished.

There he stands, soaked to the bone and brandishing a courageous look that says, "I did it guys! I did it for you! Fear not, your hero returns!"

Sure enough, thanks to little Jordie's act of heroism, the sprinkler monster returns to the depths of hell approximately 44 minutes later. We all let out a sigh of relief, knowing that we are safe and shall live to see the sun rise once more.

There is an evil sprinkler monster dwelling in my backyard.

But I am not afraid.

Go get em' kiddies!

- Dave

Moova' Shaka'

2009-09-10T11:09:00.004-06:00

I'd like to start out with a grand announcement (so hold on to your cereal!). I am writing this very blog post on my new laptop! That's right. Ole' Dave went and purchased himself a fancy-shmancy portable computer thingy (or as I like to call it, "My awesome baseball, Netflix and Facebook machine"). Now it can be my blog machine as well. Oh the possibilities are endless. Can't you just see the difference in my prose? I realize now how much sitting at a boring desk was holding back my genius. Now I'm mobile baby! I can spew forth my brilliance from the kitchen counter, the patio, even the park. Watch out world, it's time to smell what The Dave is cookin'!

So let's give this a whirl, shall we? I'd like to start my inaugural laptop blog post with a little story about my new source of inspiration. I've been handed the key to happiness in life, and I have none other than Hank Moody to thank for it. If you don't know, Hank Moody is a fictional character on what I consider quite possibly the sleaziest, trashiest, craziest show ever broadcast over the airwaves - Californication. It's absolutely fantastic!!

Hank is a devil-may-care author with a penchant for booze, drugs, rock n' roll and sleazy women. And, of course, he's got a heart of gold. Picture Jack Kerouac living today in Los Angeles, only with a teenage daughter that he adores and an on-again, off-again girlfriend that he worships. This guy is simply the coolest character out there. (Now would be a good time to insert that I am hopelessly addicted to any cheesy soap opera that I watch. Beverly Hills 90210, Felicity, Sex and the City, Weeds, Dallas, I love them all!! It's a sickness. I just can't help myself! I've long ago moved past the point of being ashamed of myself for loving shows like Californication. I've just accepted the fact that God made me this way, and it's his fault. Bring on the sleaze!).

I realized during a marathon session of Season 2 last week that I absolutely worship Hank Moody. And not for the obvious reasons, either. You know, the fact that every supermodel-worthy woman that crosses his path ends up, um, spending quality time with him. I'm a one-woman guy (sorry ladies) and the idea of having "sexual relations" with anyone but April is absolutely laughable.

So, what is it about Hank Moody that leaves me in awe? It finally hit me - The guy lives completely and utterly in the moment. Wherever he is, whatever he is doing, he is THERE! He never worries about the future. When he's with his daughter, he is 100 percent with her mentally. When he's out at some crazy party, he is experiencing everything around him fully. It creates a sort of optimism that is intoxicating. A "anything can happen" attitude that I've always wished I had.

So, in honor of Hank Freakin' Moody, I've spent the past week or so trying to live in the moment. Hank-Moody-up my outlook. And you know what? It's worked! I've been happier than I've been in a long time. When it's time to walk Michael to school, I'm there fully. When it's time to go to some crazy meeting, I'm there fully. When it's time to feed the dog, I'm there fully.

It's amazing. Apparently Thich Nhat Hahn was on to something with his "mindfulness" teachings. I read "The Miracle of Mindfulness" last year, and it really didn't resonate with me. Leave it to my screwed up brain to draw out this same lesson from quite possibly the raunchiest show ever created.

Whatever works, right?

There is one minor drawback from living in the moment, Hank Moody style. As a stay-at-home parent, living Moody style makes it quite easy to forget what day it is. This happened to me last week. I was mindfully spending quality time with my new laptop on Facebook, when suddenly I bolted upright in my chair.

"Crap! It's Wednesday and I'm supposed to pick Michael up from kindergarten early!"

I had about 30 seconds to run out the door and around the block to the school.

Then again, that is exactly what would happen to Hank Freakin' Moody. So I guess I'm on to something after all!

Enjoy life kiddies!

- Dave

Time for some football sermon

2009-09-02T12:35:00.004-06:00

It's football season at last!! The long, long summer is over and now everything is about to become right with the world once again! The valiant Boise State Broncos are mere hours away from clashing with the Oregon Ducks on the Blue Turf, and I for one cannot wait!

In honor of this grand occasion, I'm posting a sermon that I presented at the Boise Unitarian Universalist Fellowship a couple of weeks ago. It's all about football! (And some other stuff). So enjoy ... and go Broncos!!

- Dave

Time Has Come Today

By David Ward

It’s easy to make friends in Boise, Idaho. All you need are two simple words. These are magical words, guaranteed to bring about smiles, laughter and sometimes even spontaneous applause. Trust me, it’s uncanny and it’s foolproof. All you have to do is combine the words “Fiesta” and “Bowl” and insert these words into a sentence. Any sentence at all. The reaction you receive is guaranteed to be positive, if not deafening.

Try it sometime and see what I mean. The next time your conversation lags a bit just throw in the phrase “Fiesta Bowl” and you’ll instantly become the life of the party in Boise. Observe this shrewd tactic in action:

“So then I said, ‘No, Bill, X is not the square root of 3.5, don’t be silly!’ The square root of …. Oh never mind … Fiesta Bowl!!”

(The room instantly erupts with cheers such as - “Ya baby!!! Fiesta Bowl baby!!! That’s what I’m talking about!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”)

For those not versed in the ways of football geekdom, all of this hullaballoo is referring to the 2006 Fiesta Bowl when the valiant hometown Boise State Broncos upset the heavily favored and mighty Oklahoma Sooners on New Year’s Day in what some experts refer to as “The Greatest Football Game Ever Played.” The Broncos used a “hook-and-ladder” play on fourth down with just seconds remaining to force overtime, and followed with the now infamous “Statue of Liberty” play in overtime to score a two-point conversion and win the game.

Again, for those who don’t live and breathe the pigskin (poor, poor souls), just know that it was REALLY REALLY AWESOME!!

This improbable victory took our little community by storm. The entire city was awash in blue and orange. People cheered in the streets. Strangers hugged like old chums, and impersonating the behind-the-back handoff during the Statue of Liberty play became the standard form of greeting.

Our “little team that could” even caught fire around the nation. Boise State won an “ESPY” award, which is similar to an Oscar for sports teams. The first time I spoke with Robert Fulghum during his visit to our fellowship, he calmly stated “If you’re going to ask me if I’ve seen the Fiesta Bowl, the answer is definitely yes!”

I even saw renowned musician Michael W. Smith impersonate the behind-the-back handoff during a concert at Taco Bell Arena last year. He said it was the most exciting football game he’s ever seen, earning rousing applause from the Bronco faithful in the audience that night.

It was the game that changed everything in Boise, Idaho …. And I was there!
That’s right. My father and I were perched way up in the “nosebleed” section at the University of Phoenix Stadium in Glendale, Arizona, screaming our lungs out and living the dream baby! I’ve got the pictures, the ticket stub and the years lost on my life to prove it.

An experience touching upon the holy, if you ask me, and providing memories that will never fade.

But when I think about that fateful night under the Arizona stars, I really don’t reflect on the game itself. Yes it was unbelievably exciting to watch my Broncos, the same team that I cheered throughout my childhood, upset mighty Oklahoma in a nationally televised bowl game. A feat I never thought possible during my childhood days when Boise State was just a second-tier team playing in the Big Sky Conference on a silly blue field.

While I will certainly cherish that game forever, the majority of my “Fiesta Bowl” memories center around the wonderful experiences I shared with my Dad.

When I think about the Fiesta Bowl, I don’t think about the actual game that much. My mind instantly takes me back to a rousing pep rally my Dad and I attended in Tempe on New Year’s Eve. We arrived early and stood in the front row, proudly wearing our finest blue and orange and cheering loudly into the television cameras.

We followed the pep rally by strolling around Mill Avenue, yelling along with the seemingly thousands of Bronco faithful invading Arizona that night. A truly magical way to ring in the new year, if you ask me.

Game day featured a great conversation at Starbucks, followed by a quiet and nervous drive to the stadium. There we stumbled upon a huge outdoor party filled with blue and orange crazies on one end, and red and white Sooner-backers on the other. Bands were playing, cheerleaders were performing, and fans were throwing down hot dogs and beer with gusto. Topping it all off was a gorgeous blue sky and a gigantic high-definition television screen broadcasting the Rose Bowl to the masses.

Heaven on Earth for a couple of college football fans from the mountains of Idaho.

This is the scene my mind broadcasts over and over when I think about the Fiesta Bowl. My Dad and I spending a surreal afternoon chatting, watching football and just spending quality time together in one of the coolest settings you could ever dream up. A wonderful afternoon that serves as a reminder of what this life is truly about.

You see, it’s memories like this one that stick with us throughout our lives. Genuine connections with the people we love the most. As most as our culture focuses on money, goals, gadgets and the latest-greatest thing, I find true happiness only comes through human loving connection.

Wouldn’t you agree?

I was reminded of this fact a couple of months ago while reading a wonderfully inspiring book by Christian pastor Rick Warren entitled “The Purpose Driven Life.” I was breezing through the book, nodding my head in agreement at some points and tisk-tisking in disagreement at others, when I stumbled upon a chapter entitled “What Matters Most.”

From the very first line this chapter spoke to me. It yanked me out of my passive reading, wrapped its arms around me and breathed inspiration right into my very soul. Our minister Elizabeth likes to refer to this phenomenon as an “ah-ha” moment, and I definitely shouted a few “ah-ha’s” while reading this chapter.

They say you should always share your great discoveries, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to share a few highlights from this phenomenal chapter. I feel it gives great insight about focusing on what is truly important in our lives – Namely the love and relationships we share with each other.

Warren begins with one simple line that, in my humble opinion, sums up everything: “Life is all about love.” Five words that clearly state all of my hopes and dreams for what life could and should be, if we would only open our hearts.

He follows with a declaration that loving, especially loving unselfishly, is no easy task. And boy ain’t that the truth! How many times have we thought about visiting somebody, having lunch with somebody, or simply dropping a note in the mail, and then didn’t because something “more important” came up. I know I’ve got my hand raised right now.

Warren states that learning to love unselfishly runs counter to our self-centered nature, and “that is why we’re given a lifetime to learn it.” So there is hope for blokes like me yet!

Warren argues that the best use of life is love. He states that “love is not a ‘good’ part of your life, it’s the most important part.” We must all work at making time for what is really important in our lives. Make time for our children, our parents, our loved ones and our friends. He states that too often we overload our schedule with busy work and our relationships suffer accordingly.

“Busyness is a great enemy of relationships,” Warren says. “We become preoccupied with making a living, doing our work, paying bills, accomplishing goals as if those tasks are the point of life. They are not. The point of life is learning to love – God and people. Life minus love equals zero.”

Let me repeat that: Life without love equals zero.

I realize this chapter does not contain any real newsflashes, but it never hurts to reflect on these universal truths from time to time. To realize that our priorities can become skewed once in a while and we should work hard to prevent this. Mother Teresa expressed this sentiment beautifully when she said, “It’s not what you do, but how much love you put into it that matters.” How you treat other people, not your wealth or accomplishments, is the most enduring impact you can leave on Earth.

I have to admit that I genuinely struggle with this. As a stay-at-home Dad, I am fully aware that I am blessed to share each day with my son Michael. To watch him grow, help him learn and provide him with enough love and support to bring out his shining light. I also realize that I am lucky. Most fathers do not get this opportunity.

I realize this. I do. It’s just that our culture places such an emphasis on money, career and status that I often find myself playing the insecurity game. Think about the first thing people ask you at parties. It’s usually something along the lines of, “So what do you do?” which is code for “What job do you have, what is your social status and how much money do you make?” At least that’s what it sounds like to someone who struggles not to view himself as a 31-year-old unemployed dude who plays video games and watches Netflix (Okay, so I may have shared a wee-bit too much there!).

Our culture programs us to place our priorities in ventures that cannot possibly make us truly happy. True happiness comes from love, and true love cannot be found without human relationships. My wife April absolutely loves her career as an audiologist. She doesn’t exactly “love” the practice of audiology, but she does love the relationships she enjoys with co-workers and patients.

As Warren stated in our contemplation earlier this morning, “I have been at the bedside of many people in their final moments, when they stand on the edge of eternity, and I have never heard anyone say, ‘Bring me my diplomas! I want to look at them one more time. Show me my awards, my medals, that gold watch I was given.’ When life on earth is ending, people don’t surround themselves with objects. What we want around us is people – people we love and have relationships with.”

This statement helps ole’ Dave here snap out of his insecurities and realize the absolute blessing of his life. I think back on the numerous lunch dates Michael and I have had with my parents and grandparents, the baseball games Michael and I have shared at the park, the romps at Rafiki, the library adventures ….and countless other priceless moments we’ve shared together during the past four years.

Experiences I never would have had while working and becoming a “success.” Memories I will clutch close to my heart until my dying day.

Warren says the best way to know a person’s priorities is to examine how they use their time. You only have a set amount of time in this life, and while you can always make more money, you can’t make more time. “When you give someone your time, you are giving them a portion of your life that you’ll never get back. Your time is your life. That’s why the greatest gift you can give someone is your time,” Warren says.

Now would be a good time to interject a little story. I clearly remember reading that last statement while sitting at the kitchen table and thinking, “Yes! This is genius! We must give our time. It’s so important. Time! Yes! Genius!”

My brilliant mental declarations were rudely interrupted when I noticed a small hand tapping my shoulder. At first I took no notice of this intrusion and continued with my “ah-ha” moment. The tapping grew more persistent, however, and finally I could no longer ignore it.

“What is it?,” I asked without hiding my annoyance.

“Daddy, I want to play some hockey,” a little voice answered.

About this time I noticed that Michael was standing right next to me wearing his baggy Red Wings jersey and holding his purple junior hockey stick. It’s anybody’s guess how long the little wide-eyed puckster had been trying to get his Daddy’s attention.

Oops!

Warren states that relationships take time and effort, and the best way to spell love is “T-I-M-E.” That’s “T-I-M-E” for certain stay-at-home Dads that need a little reminder now and then!

Warren wraps up his chapter with the simple statement that the best time to love is now. Love matters more than anything else in this life. It needs to take top priority. Warren says, “You have no guarantees of tomorrow. If you want to express love, you had better do it now.”

Everyone can attest to the blinding speed of life. Little Michael just celebrated his fifth birthday. I have absolutely no idea how that is even possible. I remember taking him home from the hospital, and desperately trying to figure out where that parenting manual was hidden. That was just a couple of months ago, wasn’t it? I remember his first steps, first words, first time programming his own home page (I’m not kidding). He’s starting kindergarten this fall and I know that college is just a blink away.

Waiting for the “right time” to express your love is futile. Please don’t wait. Let the people you care about know that you love them. If they’re here with you this morning, turn to them right now and say “I love you.” If they’re not, give them a call or send them an email. Remember that love is what matters most. Love takes top priority.

The final paragraph of my “ah-ha” chapter sums everything up with three simple sentences. “The best use of life is love. The best expression of love is time. The best time to love is now.” I think this is pure genius. When I think back on my life, the scenes I remember most all involve sharing time with loved ones.

Sharing a laugh.

Sharing a tear.

Just sharing.

This is what life is about, and I am so glad that I stumbled upon this chapter when I did. You might recall that last year about this time I stood on this very podium and announced that I was going to be applying to seminary to pursue a career in Unitarian Universalist ministry.

I spent the following year serving on numerous committees, leading a pledge drive and taking in all of the wisdom that my loving minister could provide. I even ventured off and preached sermons at fellowships in Pocatello and Twin Falls. It was an exciting and eye-opening experience that stirred my professional desires and ignited my passion for speaking, writing and working with others.

Yet the more I considered an exciting and “successful” career as a UU minister, a few annoying little facts kept surfacing in my mind. Going to seminary would require uprooting my family and moving away from my hometown and all of my relatives. This would force April to quit a job that she loves and is located just five minutes from our house.

We would also have to pull Michael out of his wonderful special-needs program at his school. A program that took us a year to get him qualified for and has absolutely improved his life academically and socially. We would be taking Michael away from his grandparents, great grandparents, his beloved Aunt Melissa and his entire support network at an extremely crucial age.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that a decision to pursue seminary at this time in my life would be selfish at best. Once I read Warren’s wonderful chapter on “What Matters Most,” I knew what I had to do. I decided then and there that I could not apply to seminary at the expense of my family. It was the toughest decision I’ve ever made, and frankly I’m still dealing with the emotional fallout.

But I know it’s the right decision.

Life is all about love. I love my family. I love Tuesday night dinners with my in-laws. I love lunches with my grandparents. I love Sunday barbecues with my parents. I love indoor hockey sessions with my son. I love watching dreadfully awful television dramas with my wife. I love cheering my beloved Broncos on a blistery autumn afternoon with my Dad.

I love my life and I give thanks to God for all of my blessings.

Speaking of football, I’m happy to announce that my Dad and I will be attending every Boise State home football game this fall. I can’t wait to create some new memories in the same stadium we’ve been going to since I was a little boy. There should be plenty of hot dogs, cheering, Bronco victories, and if we’re really lucky we might even see another …. wait for it …. FIESTA BOWL!!!!!

(Yah!!! Whooohoooo!!!! That’s what I’m talking about!!!!!!!!!)

Doing whatcha told

2009-07-21T14:06:00.004-06:00

Okay, one more scene to describe and then I'm done.

Sitting poolside at Michael's swimming lesson. Eyes wandering between the four little tykes in the pool and the vast weed field located just beyond the expansive windows (Since April and I have quite an impressive weed garden in our backyard, we really appreciate anything weed-oriented).

The teacher announces,"Kids, we're going to get out of the pool now and walk over to the other end. Walk slowly please."

All of the kids emerge from the pool and begin walking at a normal pace toward the other side. All except Michael. He's busy unleashing his best tip-toe through the tulips imitation. Knees arching up to his chest. Arms extended out and shoulders slouched. Like a bank robber trying to sneek past the coppers in those classic Warner Bros. cartoons. Creeping ..... along ..... oh ..... so ...... slowly.

Can my kid follow directions or what?

Mind your teacher kiddies!

- Dave

Sing a Song of Songs

2009-07-20T14:47:00.003-06:00

Let me set the scene. Friday night. Jumping into the Matrix after watching "Ice Age" at the multi-plex. Every pore riding high with sugar (Nerds!) and excitement (Animated awesomeness!).

The windows are down and warms air blows invitingly through my hair. The sun is setting and the night is filled with a familiar summer magic. Dar Williams blasts through the speakers, and I can't help but sing along as the car whips down the open road.

"Ride a circle off the highway"
"Spiral into the driveway"
"In the maze of all prefabs"
"They'll be waiting at the lab"

As I'm singing out to the heavens, I notice an enthusiastic little voice in the backseat.

"Mmmmmmmdadada..HIGHWAY!!!"
"dadababammmmm..DRIVEWAY!!"
"mmmmmdada HAAAABBSS!!"
"hhhaaaaaa .. LAAAABBB!!!"

God I love that little kid!!

Sing it strong kiddies!

- Dave

Identity Crisis

2009-07-17T14:48:00.003-06:00

I don't think I know just who I am anymore.

I used to know. It wasn't even a question. I knew exactly who I was and what I stood for. If someone came up to me and asked me THE QUESTION, namely "boxers or briefs?" I always knew who I was.

I was a boxers man and plenty proud of it.

No "tighty-whities" for me. No sir! I liked to be free and spacious. Let the boys have some room to breath. Let life hang loose, and all of the other disgusting phrases I can come up with right now to make you lose your lunch! Ha!

I was a boxers man through-and-through. But now I'm questioning everything. Has my life been a lie? Have I been denying my true identity? Does Coke Zero really have more regular Coke taste?

You see, I've been introduced to what the kids call "boxer briefs," and I just don't know what to do about it. This nasty little invention combines the uncombinable. It actually takes briefs and makes them boxer-like. On the flip-side, this invention makes boxers sorta briefy. You get the idea.

Anyway, I tried them on today for the first time and I actually kind of like them. They're new and different. Like the first time I tried Dippin Dots at the mall instead of my usual ice cream sundae. It was good but so very, very scary and strange.

So now when people come up and ask me THE QUESTION (as they so often do), what exactly am I supposed to say? Both? Yes? Can you please repeat the question?

I think I need to lie down.

Stay true to yourself, even if you don't have the slightest idea who you are, kiddies!

- Dave

Watering the rocks

2009-07-16T15:43:00.003-06:00

Boy do I feel lucky. Yes I say 'lucky, lucky me.' I just happen to live in a neighborhood that features one of the most innovative road crews in the state. Or perhaps the nation. These guys and gals have singlehandedly taken everything I thought I knew about the fine art of road repairs and set it all on its head. Transformed the medium right before my obviously naive and ignorant eyes.

Again I say 'lucky, lucky me.'

I didn't realize how little I knew about road repairs until I witnessed these Picasso's of the gravel arts in action. It all started last week when trucks roamed through the neighborhood dumping tons and tons of loose rock on top of the roads. Now, I've seen this little maneuver before. In all of my previous, and unenlightened, experiences crews followed up by dumping tar on top of the rocks. This sealed the entire substance together and magically created a new and improved road. It's fun to drive on. Great to look at. And smells like a tar pit in springtime (yum!).

Well this little maneuver must have been far too amateurish for these fine masters of their road-repair craft. Up until this afternoon the roads in my neighborhood were left completely alone. All of my neighbors and I were given the great opportunity to drive over loose rock day after glorious day. Personally, I loved it. Our family has a cabin located in a remote Idaho mining town. The only road in and out of this town is a gravel beauty that kicks up enough dust reach monsoon status in several states. So naturally I bumped and bopped through our neighborhood this week filled with glorious visions of mountains and streams, while completely ignoring the Hummers on my tail.

This very afternoon our heroes of the asphault unleashed their mind-blowingly innovative scheme. They sent trucks through the entire neighborhood once again. And just what where these new trucks doing, you ask? Why, they were dumping tons of water on top of the rocks.

I never would have thought of that!

Loose rocks and water! It's so unexpected, so thinking out of the box. I'm sure these new roads are going to be absolutely spectacular! As soon as we're finished running our cars through this sloppy, muddy mess that is.

Brilliant right?

Keep those thinking caps on kiddies.

- Dave

Rude awakenings

2009-07-13T11:14:00.006-06:00

My fellow Galactic Warriors. We are gathered here on Mount Kickbuttus overlooking the vast Sea of Awesome to pay tribute to one of the bravest, studliest and handsomest heroes that ever lived ... scratch, scratch, scratch ..... This man singlehandedly destroyed an entire colony of evil bad guys with a single photon ray and a yo-yo ... scratch, scratch, bark!! .... His valor is unmatched in the history of our great race and we are here today to honor him with the "Greatest Warrior in the Universe" medal, along with a lifetime supply of Mountain Dew .... scratch, bark!, bark!, scratch ... So if you would please take the podium, Sir Dave, we will begin the ceremony by showering you with money while the lovely maiden April begins massaging your shoulders with baby oil .... scratch, scratch, bark!, bark!, BAAAARRRKKKK!!!!!!" .................

So this is how my day begins lately. Rudely startled out of my beauty sleep (where I am the greatest warrior, guitar god, lover, finger painter, etc., in all of the universe) by a pesky and annoying little Yorkie named Jordan. The first thing I see each day when I open my eyes is little Jordie scratching and barking in front of the screen door in our bedroom. To make the scratching and the barking stop, I have to get up out of bed and open the screen door. By that time I am usually awake and forced to start my non-glamorous existence as a normal stay-at-homer in my ticky-tacky little box. Oh for a few more blessed minutes on Mount Kickbuttus with the medals and the Mountain Dew. Sigh.

Compounding my frustration is the fact that the Ward castle is in fact equipped with more than one door. There is actually a door located off the kitchen. April leaves this very door cracked every morning before she heads off to work. It opens to the back yard and everything.

Does Jordan ever think to use this door? Noooo! He refuses, actually. Jordan insists on using the closed screen door in our bedroom, and he makes sure I am good and awake to open it and let him out each and every morning. So it appears I'm doomed to an alarm clock of scratching and barking.

I guess I'll look on the bright side. It beats the heck out of talk radio.

Hang on to your dreams kiddies!

- Dave

You're welcome

2009-07-09T21:06:00.004-06:00

I would like to deliver a public service announcement this evening to all of the bored stay-at-homers out there (and you know who you are). Don't say I never do anything for you!
If you're tired of the same old routine each day, it's time to liven things up a little. Sprinkle some spice on the entree we call life.

Here's what you do - Go immediately to I-Tunes and download Dick Dale and His Del-Tones Greatest Hits. Don't ask questions. Just do as you're told. You won't be sorry.

Do you remember the ultra-groovy guitar song from Pulp Fiction? The one with the "hay, hay!" and the clapping? Well, this is the group that performed that song, and they've got a million more just like it. Each blistering song instantly tranforms every-day suckiness into movie-like awesomeness. And you can quote me on that!

Check it out. I slipped that bad-boy into the CD player this afternoon, and suddenly Michael and I were no longer traipsing through suburbia in a Toyota Matrix on the way to the local supermarket. Ohhhh noooo! We were international spies cruising at 100 miles per hour in a red Jaguar, being chased by bad guys in one of those ultra-cool black "bad-guy" cars. There was gunfire, and explosions, and women ripping their shirts off and everything! Each pulsating riff on the guitar brought forth more adventure. More awesomeness!

I simply can't wait until tomorrow. April thinks we've got a cozy weekend in the mountains planned at the family cabin. Little does she know that once I crank up the Del-Tones, the missile-launching helicopters will be right on our tail. It's going to be so sweet!

By the way, April thinks I've had a little too much time on my hands lately. I have no idea what she's talking about.

Look alive kiddies!

- Dave

I'm so "That Guy"

2009-07-08T10:45:00.003-06:00

I heard an interesting advertisement while cruising around in the Matrix the other day. The smooth tones of Owen Wilson burst through my speakers, telling me all about my failings when it comes to automotive maintenance.

"Don't be that guy!" Mr. Wilson implored. "You know, the guy who has three different kinds of cooking oils in his kitchen, but has no idea about the oil in his car."

I'm fairly sure Mr. Wilson read this voice-over while receiving a pedicure and sipping a latte, but I digress.

I take umbrage Mr. Wilson! I am definitely "That Guy," and after several decades of denial and guilt I have finally come to terms with this fact. I have finally realized that I am completely incompetent when it comes to "manly" tasks and there ain't a dang thing I can do about it! I proudly sit here this morning and announce to all the world that I am in fact a wuss. I cannot change my oil. I cannot fix the roof. I cannot chop wood. I cannot hunt for food. Charles Ingalls would definitely kick my butt as soon as he finished strangling a Grizzly with his bare hands.

You see that picture in the corner? The one with Mr. Manlypants holding a wrench and flexing. Well, that's definitely not me. I'm actually not pictured here. I'm the guy sitting in the waiting room reading about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's latest trip to Starbucks in "People" magazine. They say it takes all types, and I'm just the "type" that runs in fear from tools and grease and other icky stuff.

So back off Mr. Wilson! It's taken me 31 years to come to terms with my wussiness, and I don't need movie stars like you giving me crap about it!! Now if you'll excuse me, I've got an appointment at Big-O Tires this afternoon. I hope they've got the new issue of "US Weekly." Are Brad and Angelina really breaking up? I don't know! I just don't know!

Remember to change your oil every 3,000 miles kiddies.

- Dave

You can't always get what you want ... Unless you're at the dentist

2009-07-07T12:39:00.003-06:00

Well, Michael has just returned from his visit to the dentist. Or as I like to call it, "Disneyland in an office building." That place is absolutely unreal. It's got cheery green and purple chairs with huge pillows, X-Box games on flat-screens, a gigantic movie screen projecting everything from "The Chipmunks," to "Toy Story," to "Scooby-Doo." Oh, and you can watch your movie on the gigantic movie screen from your very own spaceship.

And that's just the lobby!!

Once you cross into the once-dreaded exam area, you've got a vast assortment of toys and your own personal flat-screen movie to watch while the dentist does his work. It's like heaven on Earth for a 4 year old. Michael had two cavities filled and a crown inserted this morning, and he didn't even blink an eye. When we left he actually mumbled "I want to live here," out of his extremely numb little mouth.

All I can say is ... THIS IS SO NOT FAIR!!! I never had movies, and X-Box games and space ships! They never let me wear ultra-cool sunglasses and listen to music while I had my teeth worked on! I never got to watch "Scooby-Doo!" This is an outrage! I demand justice! I want my childhood back!!

Here's what I remember about going to the dentist when I was a wee-lad. Keep in mind that I had a very good dentist and didn't really mind the experience. But compared to Michael's little playland, my experiences might as well have taken place in a cave somewhere. I remember a dark office with drab brown couches and silence. In the corner was a "kids" area that consisted of legos, dolls with body parts missing, and several "brushing your teeth is fun" kids books. The exam rooms were packed with creepy utensils and gas masks. The only "entertainment" consisted of large posters of flowers with messages like "Springtime is awesome!" hanging from the ceiling. Or something like that.

What a jip! My only question now is ... How young do you think I could pass for? Ten? Twelve? I hear they're playing "Cars" next week and I want to make sure I get a good seat on the spaceship.

Brush your teeth kiddies! Actually, scratch that. Don't brush your teeth kiddies! Then you can go to the dentist (yay!!!).

- Dave

Ouchipoo!

2009-07-06T09:33:00.002-06:00

Not to be a wuss or anything, but MY PINKY TOE HURTS!! I mean it really hurts! It resembles a large purple plum right now, and I'm not happy about it. I've managed to be a tough little trooper and abstain from crying (mostly), but I'm not sure how much longer my valiant courage will persist. There is only so much super-human manliness one can expect from even the greatest studs, such as myself.

Ouchy ouchy, my toey huhts!

How did I come upon this most serious and dreadful of injuries (while valiantly keeping the crying to a minimum and really not complaining about it whatsoever)? I'm glad you asked. I place the blame entirely on the stupid neighbor cats! Let me explain:

My sad tale of woe began yesterday afternoon under a deceptively cheerful blue sky. I agreed to lend my bulging biceps to the task of removing the top portion of our Jeep (or "The Green Machine" as it is known at the Ward castle). We have a tarp in our side yard, and the plan was to place the Jeep top on the tarp. Sounds reasonable and logical, right? Well, here is where our story turns a bit surreal.

I noticed several puddles of what I assumed to be rain water covering the tarp. I diligently began lifting the tarp and pouring out the "rain water." A great deal of this "rain water" spilled over my Gladiator-like feet during this intricate process.

That is when I first noticed the smell.

"Boy, this rain water sure stinks," I thought to myself while admiring my God-like physique in the afternoon sunlight. "It smells a bit like cat pee."

A few moments passed and a rusty light bulb began faintly flickering above my head.

"I do believe this smell, that ranks among the worst smells I have ever smelled in my life, might in fact be cat pee," my brilliant brain deduced.

It took April about three-tenths of a second to confirm my diagnosis.

"Oh yeah, that's cat pee all right," she said while grasping her nose in a pointless attempt to curtail the stench.

I managed to silence my gag reflex long enough to help April move the Jeep top over the tarp. Just for jokesies I decided to yell out hilarious things like, "It's SO heavy!!" and "Dear God, I can't lift this. I think my arms are broken!!" It was all in fun, you see. I only dropped the Jeep top three times. A personal record, if I do say so myself!

After securing the tarp, and allowing for my customary five minutes of whining and recovery, I bolted for the bathroom to wash cat tinkle off the royal feet. The left foot responded beautifully and received a soothing bath in the sink. That pesky right foot, however, decided to ram it's pinky toe into a head-on collision with the bathroom counter. I thought it was a horrible decision and expressed my discontent with great volume.

I continued to vent my displeasure as April, Michael and I drove off in our newly topless Jeep to experience a little minor league baseball. When we arrived at the ballpark, it became evident that my pinky toe was severely distraught over the entire ordeal. It began swelling to roughly the size of Delaware and turning a shade of purple that you really have to experience to fully appreciate.

I began limping around the stadium with such distinction that kids began helping me to and from the bathroom and calling me "Gramps." I immediately began lecturing those young whippersnappers on the evils of rock n' roll music and how you used to be able to buy a soda for a nickle in the good old days. By the time we left for home I was somehow wearing khaki pants and searching for my dentures. Strange really.

So now I'm sitting here being very tough this morning and not letting my trauma affect me in any way. On a completely unrelated note, my eyes keep watering and I find myself thinking a lot about my mother. Strange really.

Stay away from cat pee kiddies!

- Dave

Father's Day sermon

2009-07-05T10:39:00.005-06:00

I've got a new sermon that I presented at the Boise Unitarian Universalist Fellowship on Father's Day. I kind of dig it. So I figured I'd post it here and let y'all have a look-see. Here's to our little miracles!

“A WHOLE LOTTA HEAVEN!” by David M. Ward

Have you ever sat down and really thought about death? I mean really contemplated the meaning of your mortality on this Earth and the seemingly limitless possibilities with what comes next? Whether there is a heaven with a bearded and buff God presiding over angels playing harps on puffy clouds, or just a black existential eternity of nothingness? Well, I’ve pondered these very things routinely throughout my life. And, of course, by “routinely” I mean “hardly at all.” If ever. Yeah, probably not ever.

Hey, this is some heavy stuff.

It’s not like I’m afraid to face my own mortality or anything. Far from it! It’s just that important matters in desperate need of my attention always seem to pop up. There are dishes to wash, towels to fold and color coordinate, and our little fish Sammy won’t feed himself. I also have to keep up with my dental visits and taxes. So you see I’m a very busy man, doing very busy things quite busily! I’m sure many of you out there who are not in the least bit afraid of death and dying are recalling your own busyness right now with me. So here’s to us. The busy ones!

Well, about a year and a half ago I finally ran out of, um, busyness when it came to facing these dramatically weighty topics that I am not in the least bit afraid of. And I place the blame entirely upon my son Michael. It’s his fault, and all I can say about the matter is that once again my beautiful little boy has forced me to join the ranks of the grown-ups. More than that, he has introduced me to a way of living and loving that I never would have achieved on my own. Through a series of persistent questions and insights only a preschooler could dream up, little Michael led me down a path which ultimately introduced me to God, Spirit of Life, or the Great Whatever.

It’s quite a fetching tale, actually, and I since it’s Father’s Day and everything, I thought I might share it with you this morning. Ready? Here goes.

It was Christmas time at the Ward household, and I was deeply entrenched in my usual busyness. Michael received a brand new hockey net, you see, and I figured it was my fatherly duty to don my Idaho Steelheads jersey, grab a stick and fire the little plastic puck around the house. Alas, a father’s work is never done.

Anyhow, we had just returned from Grandma’s house, stuffed with turkey and pie, when my wife April called out in despair. I immediately halted my celebratory puck-scoring dance and rushed to her side. I found her kneeling over our beloved cat Smores, who was curled up silently in a ball. I knew right away that something was severely wrong. Poor Smores was extremely sick. We took her to the veterinarian right away, and the news was devastating. Our little kitty was dying from complete kidney failure. We made the tough decision to end her pain immediately, rather than let her suffer.

I will never forget stroking her head for the last time and looking deeply into her eyes that were filled with such pain. It was hard to say goodbye, and I miss her every day.

It wasn’t long before a stark realization hit me - Crap! Smores is dead and we’re going to have to tell Michael! A whole plethora of thoughts flooded my brain. Does he even know what death is? Am I going to have to explain it? Can I? He’s going to ask tons of questions, and he’s going to expect me to be a real Dad and have answers! Where did I put that instruction manual?!

Fortunately April was just as nervous. We are both distinguished graduates of the “I really don’t know what I’m doing, so I kind of wing it as I go,” school of parenting. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Trying desperately to calm our nerves and appear parental (these kids can smell fear a mile away) April and I sat Michael down for “the talk.”

“Michael, can you come here for a minute? I’ve got something I need to talk to you about,” I began, wishing with all my heart that the next sentence out of my mouth could be, “I’ve found an endless supply of candy canes in the cupboard! Candy canes for everyone!”
Alas it wasn’t to be.

“Michael, you know how Smores was really sick and had to go to the doctor? Well, she died honey. She’s not coming home,” I finished.

“What is died?” he responded with innocent eyes.

Crap!

What followed was an awkward conversation where April and I tried to explain things to a toddler that we didn’t really understand ourselves. The usual run-around about God, and heaven, and souls and whatever else we could recall. I don’t know about Michael, but I left the conversation thoroughly confused!

It was only a day or two later when the little guy began connecting the dots and firing off the very questions that I spent my entire life avoiding.

“Are you going to die Daddy?”

“Are you going to heaven Daddy?”

“What is God like Daddy?”

He just ripped them off while I ducked for cover, attempting to find my “happy place.” I tried my best to answer, knowing full well that I did not have the slightest clue what I truly believed about any of it. That was a rather revealing experience for my soul.

Stage two of Michael’s revelations occurred less than a week later. Michael continued to piece the puzzle together and it wasn’t long before he began quaking with sadness and fear.

“I don’t want you to die Daddy!”

“I don’t want you to die Mommy!”

“I don’t want you to go to heaven!”

His sadness became so intense that April unleashed the fallback of all “winging it” parents when it comes to cheering the little ones up.

“Michael, if you say the word ‘heaven’ one more time I’m going to tickle you!,” she said with full parental authority.

I thought it was pure genius! Each of Michael’s questions about heaven were immediately met with a full-on tickle fest. Unfortunately this genius plan backfired when we discovered that Michael actually likes to be tickled. Scratch that. He loves it! Michael began shrewdly working the word “heaven” into every facet of his vocabulary.

If you said, “Hi Michael,” he would respond with, “Hi heaven!,” followed by uncontrollable giggling.

“Are you hungry?,” would be answered with “Yes I’m hungry … in heaven!” (More giggling).

“That was a good job,” elicited, “Heaven was a good job!”

He really became a master of his craft. I couldn’t help but marvel at his skill. The greatest example of Michael’s verbal cunning occurred during a Saturday shopping excursion at Target. I made the mistake of saying something like, “Man, they’ve got a whole lotta shirts.” Michael seized the opportunity and belted out, “They’ve got A WHOLE LOTTA HEAVEN!,” in front of about 30 fellow shoppers.

Mortified, I did what any “winging it” parent would do in a similar situation. I completely ignored him. I acted as if I had absolutely no idea who this crazy kid was that I was wheeling around in my shopping cart.

Michael misunderstood my brilliant tactical maneuver and thought I had gone temporarily deaf. To solve this predicament, and help his poor Daddy hear him better, Michael began to yell at the top of his lungs.

“THEY’VE GOT A WHOLE LOTTA HEAVEN DADDY!! … HEY DADDY, THEY’VE GOT A WHOLE LOTTA HEAVEN!!!” (Giggles).

Every shopper in Target that afternoon left the store feeling sorry for that poor little boy who obviously has a religious nutcase for a father.

Well, all of that talk about heaven must have had an effect on me. I began developing an active curiosity about heaven and God. Thanks to Michael and his tickle-fests, I no longer cringed when I heard these words spoken aloud. I actually laugh a little to myself whenever I hear them, to tell you the truth. “Heaven” and “God” roll off my tongue now as naturally as words like “football” and “pizza.” For the first time in my life I actually wanted to study these subjects. Discover for myself what all of the fuss is about.

Thus I entered an intense period of study and realization. I raided the religious section at Barnes and Noble, pouring through works by C.S. Lewis, Deepak Chopra, Thich Nhat Hanh, Rick Warren and numerous others. Like a good Unitarian Universalist, I extended my readings to everything from Buddhism, to Christianity, to Religious Science, to Paganism. I was introduced to countless schools of thought. Some, like Militant Christianity, left me scared and saddened.

But I was surprised and overjoyed how the vast majority of these great religious thinkers were all basically touting the same message – mainly that God, or Spirit of Life, or whatever you want to call it, is operating through love and compassion. As the bible so eloquently states, “God is love.”

I fully understand there are plenty of religious texts that vehemently disagree with this interpretation, but I was amazed at the similar messages leaders like Mother Teresa and Ernest Holmes spent their lives preaching. Mainly that the road to God, or Inner Light, is paved with universal love. Love for yourself. Love for your fellow man. Love for all that is. That sounds quite a bit like our Unitarian Universalist principles of respecting “the inherent worth and dignity of every person,” and “respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part,” doesn’t it?

This is a message that I can fully embrace. It speaks to me in a powerful way that my former non-religious self never quite experienced. For those of you uncomfortable with the term “God,” just substitute the word “Love.” To me they are one and the same.

To give you more of an idea about where I’m coming from, I’d like to draw upon an unexpected, yet powerful source of inspiration I discovered a few years ago. Those who know me well are aware that I am a huge movie buff. People may not be aware, however, that I harbor an innocent crush on actress Drew Barrymore. So naturally I found myself watching the movie “Riding in Cars with Boys” shortly after it hit the theaters. There is a scene in this movie that has always stuck with me. In this scene Barrymore’s character, a young single mother, is questioning her “winging it” parenting skills and her love for her son. In response, actress Brittany Murphy, who plays Barrymore’s best friend in the movie, unleashes a monologue for the ages.

“I think sometimes we love people so much that we have to be numb to it,” her character begins. “Because if we actually felt how much we really love them, it would kill us.”

I’ve always marveled at the power and the truth behind that statement. If you will indulge me for a moment, I would like to demonstrate just how true it really is. I’d like us all to close our eyes now, and for one brief minute, drop all the barriers we’ve built around our hearts. Let the walls drift away like melting snow. For our parents in the congregation, I ask that you really let yourself feel how much you love your children. For our non-parents, think perhaps of your spouse, or sibling, or your own parents. Perhaps a beloved pet, or a life-long friend. Whatever you love so much in this world that it kills you, let yourself truly embrace that love. Wrap yourself in its warmth … When you are ready, go ahead and open your eyes.

That, in my humble opinion, is just a brief glimpse into the Holy, the Spirit of Life, the Great Whatever.

Pretty intense, right? I’ve just finished reading a series of fantasy novels by author Christopher Paolini. You may have heard of his fabulous “Inheritance Cycle,” with books like “Eragon” and “Eldest.” In these novels, magicians are taught to place protective barriers around people’s hearts and minds. I would argue that we do not need magicians to perform this task. We do it ourselves all of the time.

But what if we didn’t?

What if we dropped the barriers and took that pure love we have just experienced out into the world with us every day? What if we truly brought forth the “light of God”? I believe love in its purest form is the single most powerful force in the universe. From its vast well pours compassion, which leads to unity, which ushers forth a world where our Unitarian Universalist principles are celebrated and championed. This is the world I want for my son, and for all people. This is a definition of God that brings me peace, lifting me toward my best self.

So there you have it. A harrowing tale of discovery fueled by the unorthodox wisdom of a brown-eyed angel named Michael. I still don’t sit and ponder the subject of death, but I have discovered a quote from UU minister Dr. Forrest Church that sums up my beliefs quite nicely. He states, “Death is the ultimate mystery. But there is a way to counter this fear. We can live in such a way that our lives will prove to be worth dying for.” I say amen to the great reverend!

And I no longer cringe when I hear the word God. How can I? I see a higher power at work every time I look into Michael’s eyes. Every time he wraps his arms around me and says the words every father simply can’t get enough of - “I love you Daddy.” If that’s not A WHOLE LOTTA HEAVEN, then I don’t know what is.

Please join me in seeking out and embracing the grace and wisdom of our little ones. They are truly a gift from the Holy, wouldn’t you agree? As we close this morning, I’d like to offer a Father’s Day blessing for big kids and little kids alike. I believe it was Bob Dylan, or “Saint Bob,” who wrote:
May God bless and keep you always,
May your wishes all come true.
May you always do for others,
And let others do for you.
May you build a ladder to the stars,
And climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young.

Amen. Shalom. Salam. Blessed be.

So that was fun

2009-06-12T12:34:00.007-06:00

Well hello there
My it's been a long long time
How am I doin?
Oh I guess I'm doing fine
It's been so long now, since I saw you
Feels like it was only yesterday
Well, ain't it funny, how time slips away

- Willie Nelson

I took a little hiatus there between the months of January and June. Let's just say it wasn't a planned absence from my brilliant and underappreciated blog, it's just that nothing squelches the desire to write more than leading a pledge drive during an unprecedented economic tsunami.

Each day I would rise with visions of genius dancing through my noggin. True gems like my run-in with a breakfast Nazi who just about slapped me when I dared to call her creation "pancakes." "They're HOTCAKES!!" she yelled, as if I had insulted her first-born and spat upon her dear Grammy's grave. So, yeah, if you ever happen to venture into "The Griddle" in Eagle, Idaho ... THEY'RE HOT CAKES!! NOT PANCAKES!! HOT CAKES!! HOT CAKES!! HOT CAKES!!

Or the sad tale of how I excitedly purchased the MLB.tv package on my computer so I could watch my beloved D'backs every single day this summer! Well, the baseball gods forgot to inform me that the D'backs were going to be one of the most gawdawful teams in the history of the sport. So I'm stuck watching this crappy team every ... single .... day! On a bright note, I've really integrated Chris Young's strikeouts into my everyday routine. It's kind of comforting, in a way.

The world can only imagine the additional genious pouring forth from my brain, because unfortunately these visions were immediately torpedoed by an onslaught of panicky emails. Every single one relaying a message akin to, "Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD!!!" I had a consultant not only email me "Oh my God!" messages every day, he would actually call me from North Carolina to relay said message over the phone. It was wonderful!

Topping matters off, my minister was stricken with pneumonia for two months, the office manager was out for nearly a month with a family tragedy, and three separate members of my team left the country during our campaign. Throw in the depression/recession/whatever it is, and it was about as much fun as one can possibly imagine,

Here's the clincher - We raised more money than ever before, yet our church is still around $40,000 in debt. So it appears someone I know quite well was thrust into a no-win situation.

Hence the blog drought.

Well that's all over now baby blue. Bygones are bygones. Turn the page. Yada, yada, yada.

It's time to get back to what I do best. Namely, taking care of Michael, composing brilliant and life-altering blog posts and enjoying delicious hot cakes at "The Griddle." Oh yeah, and I'm about to resume my lounge act. Yes I'm serious!

For reasons known only to them, some good friends of mine asked me to serve as the officiant at their son's wedding on Saturday. That's right kiddies, ole Dave here is about to bust out the diamond-encrusted jump suit and unleash "Starrrr Warrrrrsssss!" once again. Don't be surprised if Sunday's newspaper contains stories about innocent people running in horror from a quaint country wedding. It's what I do, people! It's what I do!

Always avoid mortally offending tightly-wound restaurant owners, kiddies!

- Dave

A Great Coach Hath Fallen

2009-05-27T12:25:00.003-06:00

Good morning. Please be seated.

We gather here today to mourn the loss of a great man. Pay tribute to one of the winningest cyber coaches in the history of college football video games. A virtual man whose name has become synonymous with victory and virtual championships. It is not possible to think of the name "Coach David Ward," without picturing the nearly 200 career victories, 16 BCS bowl victories, 18 conference championships and six BCS national championship trophies.

Records and accomplishments that will live on in our hearts and minds forever.

One can at least take solice that "Coach David Ward" went out on top. Coach Ward was riding a 24-game winning streak with the University of Notre Dame when Jordan, the author of this blog's dog, decided to chew up the author's memory card and send the skipper on a one-way journey to the great video game in the sky. We offer our condolences to the author of this blog, who spent a week crying like a baby and still cannot bring himself to face this harsh reality.

Coach Ward began his illustrious career as a wide-eyed rookie coach in the small town of Pocatello, Idaho. He took over a fledgling program at Idaho State University, and led the Bengals to a surprising 6-5 record in his first season. Several months later he received a phone call from the brand new "Eagle University" that changed his life forever. Coach Ward signed on with the Mustangs and the rest, as they say, is college football history. The Mustangs entered the Big 10 Conference and posted a 9-4 record in their inaugural season. Four seasons later, Coach Ward and the Mustangs were BCS National Champions. The Mustangs repeated as BCS champs the following season, before Coach Ward signed on for his first tour of duty with the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame.

The Irish tore through the college football world that fall, finishing 13-0 and capturing the school's first national championship in more than a decade.

Coach Ward then returned home to lead his beloved Boise State Broncos, posting five consecutive Western Athletic Conference championships and a berth in the BCS Sugar Bowl. In his sixth season at Boise State, the Broncos moved into the Pacific 10 Conference. The Broncos finished 13-0 and soundly defeated Oklahoma in the BCS championship game for the school's first national title.

Coach Ward went on to capture a national championship at the University of Michigan, before returning to Notre Dame for his second title with the Irish. Coach Ward and the Irish were top-ranked and heavily favored to secure back-to-back championships when fate, and Jordan, intervened.

We salute you "Coach David Ward" of NCAA Football 2008. You were a legend in the minds of many, particularly the author of this blog. Although your cyber life ended at the clutches of a spoiled little Yorkie, your legacy endures. My you rest in peace.

And may the Good Lord protect little Jordan.

Hide your memory cards, kiddies!

- Dave

I never believed baby!

2009-01-19T08:54:00.005-07:00

Cardinals DE Bertrand Berry holds up the NFC Championship trophy.

Deirdre Hamill/The Arizona Republic

The Arizona freakin' Cardinals have done it. After half a century of futility, the Red Birds have shocked the world and captured the NFC championship. In two weeks they'll be knocking helmets with the vaunted Pittsburgh Steelers in the Super Bowl. It's a story for the ages.

I have emerged from my bomb shelter this morning to relay one final message before the pending apocalypse finally materializes. I just want the world to know that as a true anti-fan of the Arizona Cardinals, I never believed in them during this entire improbable run!

That's right. Unlike all of those bandwagon anit-fans, I was steadfast in my disbelief. No wishy-washy hate you today, love you tomorrow for me! No matter how well they played. No matter how inspiring their story became. I refused to waver in my disbelief.

When the Cardinals reached the playoffs for the first time in a decade, I didn't believe they would actually win a game. When they were losing to the Atlanta Falcons at halftime of the playoff opener, I thought to myself, "Well, it's been a great ride. Maybe they can build on this next year." When they traveled to Carolina the following week, I thought the score would be something like 33-13. But NEVER for the Cardinals! Get real here.

And yesterday I watched the Cardinals blow a big lead in the second half and threaten to choke away a chance at immortality. "That's more like the Cardinals I know and love," I thought to myself. Wearing my disbelief on my sleeves.

Well the Cards followed with a gutsy fourth-quarter comeback against the Eagles that didn't resemble anything the team I've watched over the years has ever done. It severely tried my disbelief. Tested the magnitude of my anti-faith.

But don't worry. I'm riding this wagon of disbelief all the way to Tampa baby! Do I think my beloved Cards have any shot against the Steelers in two weeks? Heck no! The Steelers have five Lombardi Trophies. They're an NFL icon. A symbol of championship lore dating back to Mean Joe Greene, Terry Bradshaw and the Steel Curtain. The Cardinals shouldn't even show up!

So for all of those bandwagon fans out there loving on the Cardinals this morning, just remember - You can't stop disbelieving in your team after one historically-wonderful, tear-inducing, life-altering, thrill-ride for the ages! You have to remain true in your anti-fandom! Right?

Go Cards!

Are you ready for some football kiddies?

- Dave

Animal House

2009-01-15T10:59:00.006-07:00

My wife is an animal lover. Not an animal liker. Lover. As in - She loves animals so much that we can't be without them for any reason whatsoever.

Before we were married I would find new animals at her house nearly every month. There was a rabbit, a ferret, a guinea pig, several cats (both in the house and out on the porch), and of course her childhood dog and cat at her parents' home.

During our time living together (Both married and unmarried. Yes we lived in sin. Don't tell any one.) we've had birds, cats, fish and dogs. I like the little critters. I really do. It's just that sometimes they become a wee-bit overwhelming.

Take these past two weeks. April brought home a beautiful Yorkshire Terrier puppy and we named him Jordan. He was 10-weeks old, bright eyed and ready to attack the world. Literally. I loved him at first sight. How could you not? Just look at the photo in my blog posting singing his praises. He was the cutest little puppy with a lively personality, and he was absolutely wonderful around Michael. And here's the clincher - The fur on the top of his head is gray. It matches my gray hair perfectly. It's like we're soul mates (or at least a couple of really good lookin' studs!).

I loved having him around. I just didn't realize the chain reaction Jordan's presence would have on the tender animal ecosystem in our home. For starters, our cat Meiko was absolutely distraught. She spent nearly a week glaring at us and devised an absolutely evil scheme to gain her revenge. Our lovable kitty Meiko resorted to chemical warfare against us. That's right - She dropped poopy bombs all over the house. She deployed an attack in little Michael's room and in the kitchen.

After wiping baby bottom for the past four years, I'm pretty immune to the effects of poopy. But something about wiping up kitty poo off the floor sent me into a rage that nearly led to a 911 call. Lets just say I didn't handle the situation very well.

Then a few days ago Jordan severely scratched Kiki's nose during their morning brawl session. The scratch left poor Kiki bleeding and swollen. We took her to the vet and they immediately wanted to send a sample of the scratch in for cancer tests. Apparently it's not normal to have a scratch the size of a walnut on a dog's nose. Fortunately the tests came back negative, so we're in the clear there. But we can't seem to keep the two dogs from brawling, so Jordan keeps reopening the wound.

The absolute apex came last night. Jordan decided to wake up at approximately 3:30 a.m. That's right, kiddies, that's 3:30 in the a.m.! April let him out to pee, expecting him to go back to sleep. No such luck. The little guy thought he was in college, and wanted to par-tay till the sun came up. He whined and barked inside his kennel for nearly an hour before April finally put him in a small play-pen in the family room. Well you can guess how that ended up. He barked and howled for nearly two more hours while I tried to pretend like I was sleeping. I'm surprised the neighbors didn't riot in front of our house with pitch forks. I would have!

I'm an easy-going guy. I just have one rule in life - I NEED MY SLEEP!! Losing sleep when Michael was a baby was so traumatic for me that my mind chooses not to remember it. I have no intention of repeating this. Now or any time in the future. So if little Jordan doesn't start sleeping, we're going to have some real issues.

So basically I've spent the past two weeks cleaning up puppy poo and kitty poo, tending to my older dog's swollen and bleeding nose, and listening to the wonderful songs of barking and howling through the dead of night.

It's a good thing April is beautiful, smart, funny, my best friend and the love of my life. She's going to need all of those brownie points if this continues.

Stay sane kiddies!

- Dave

Fear the Birds

2009-01-13T11:06:00.005-07:00

Don't be alarmed, but the end of the world is upon us. I believe it is written in the Book of Revelation that birds of fire shall rise out of the desert ashes and usher forth the apocalypse and the end of days. There is more in there about frogs raining from the sky and swarms of locusts, but you get the picture.

I'm sitting here this morning trying to wrap my mind around the fact that we live in a world where the Arizona Cardinals are hosting the NFC championship game. THE ARIZONA CARDINALS!! That is the most idiotic, asinine, ludicrous statement one could ever think of uttering .... yet it's true!! How could this be? If there are three truths in the world they are death, taxes and the Cardinals will always suck. And I mean always suck. As in, before this winter they had not hosted a playoff game since Harry Truman was president. Look it up! They are usually so bad that their most ardent fans enter each Sunday with the same thought ... "Boy I hope we don't get our @#$# kicked today."

Back in my former life I spent countless Sunday afternoons sitting in the press box high atop Sun Devil Stadium in Tempe. Looming below me were seemingly miles of empty metal bleachers. The Cardinals would take the field armed with smoke machines and about 12 family members delivering half-hearted applause while sweltering in 110-degree heat. They played in a college stadium, dressed in a make-shift locker room about the size of a walk-in closet, and they were awful.

I have to admit, I didn't attend those games to watch the Cardinals. I went for the chance to interview the visiting players after the game. To sit in on interviews with Tom Brady, Brett Favre, Mike Shanahan and Bill Parcells. A funny thing happened, however, after watching these atrociously-bad Cardinals week after week. I actually started rooting for them. Yes, it was a lost cause. But they just tried so dang hard. They had a hootin' and hollarin' coach straight out of Texas in Dave McGinnis. He would pace around the locker room like a madman and deliver a "Let's go get em' boys!!" in a thick cowboy drawl. You couldn't help but love him. He was passion personified. Unfortunately he was a horrible head coach personified as well. The Cardinals and their fans loved their beloved coach, but that didn't stop the freak show on the field.

I actually got excited when they hired Dennis Green. They proceeded to draft players like Larry Fitzgerald, and Karlos Dansby, while bringing in free agents like Bertrand Berry. A couple of years ago you looked up and down the roster and you realized, "Holy monkey, we actually have some talent!!"

But alas, these were the Cardinals. The 4-12 seasons continued to mount. This past fall I finally cut ties with my lovable losers. I simply gave up on them. So naturally they pulled off the biggest upset special since Mr. Truman himself. (If your wondering why I keep referencing "The Buck Stops Here" president, I happened to watch a wonderful documentary on him last week on PBS. So there you go.)

They somehow shook off an all-too-familiar shellacking at New England during the final month of the season to not only reach the playoffs, but actually win a game at home against the Atlanta Falcons in the opening round. Like all Cardinals fans, I tuned in last Saturday night to watch the inevitable butt-whooping in Carolina.

It was a butt-whooping all right. But not the kind we're used to. I sat in stunned silence as the Cardinals proceeded to make Jake Delhomme look like a redshirt freshman making his first start against Florida. The Cardinals laid down the hammer like they've never done in the history of their franchise. It was indescribable.

And now they're hosting the Philadelphia Eagles in the NFC championship game. The winner will play in the Super Bowl. The honest-to-god Super Bowl! I've got to go now. My bomb shelter awaits.

I can't figure it out either, kiddies!

- Dave

Fly Like A Yorkie

2009-01-10T11:23:00.004-07:00

I've got big news this morning. It's time to introduce a new member of our family. He's tiny. He's cute. He's Yorkieriffic!

His name is Jordan, and he's a 10-week-old Yorkshire Terrier with an attitude. He spends his days chewing anything that moves (or doesn't move), sleeping and going potty. Basically the same stuff the rest of our family does. He fits right in! He arrived on New Years Day, and he's stolen our hearts with his big brown eyes.

Our older husky dog Kiki is absolutely thrilled. She's slid right back into "Mommy" mode and spends her days playing with her new little buddy. Our cat, Meiko, well not so much. She's decided to forgive us for bringing such a vile thing into our home, but it took the better part of a week to earn back her good graces.

I asked Michael to help Mommy name him, and the little guy didn't disappoint. After several suggestions of "Puppy," and "Doggy," (I explained to Michael that we didn't name him "Baby," and that his little doggy deserved his own name) he finally emerged with a gem. How cool is Jordan for a puppy name? Michael's favorite movie is Space Jam and his new hero happens to be Michael Jordan. Not because he's the greatest basketball player of all time, but because he's the guy who hangs out with Bugs Bunny in the movies.

So let me say welcome little Jordan! Welcome to our humble family. I'm sure you'll have us trained in no time.

Wag your tails kiddies!

- Dave

P.S. I wrote this with Michael sitting on my lap repeating, "Are you going to put a picture of Jordan on your blog Daddy? Are you going to put a picture of Jordan on your blog?!" So here you go Michael - Little Jordan. And he does believe he can fly!

I like your Snuggie. It's real big

2009-01-09T14:43:00.009-07:00

I've spent the past week pouring over ways to kick off my blog with a bang now that the new year has arrived. I've been so busy suffering nervous breakdowns at Stewardship and Board meetings these past few months that I've completely neglected my little on-line confessional. And let me tell you, my reader is not happy about it! (Sorry Mom).

I considered opening with a stirring reflection on this past year. How I've grown in so many ways, blossomed in areas I never thought possible. How I went from a depressed stay-at-home Dad with nothing on his calendar besides NCAA football conquests on the Playstation, to conducting speeches in front of hundreds of people, serving on a Board of Directors and earning the respect of college professors, congressmen and even a state supreme court justice. Who knew? It really would have been something. A real tear-jerker requiring a few boxes of kleenex. Pulitzer worthy, I'm sure.

Oh well. That was before I discovered possibly the greatest invention in the history of mankind! An innovation so profound, so unbelievably life-altering, that I simply thrust everything aside to sing its praises.

Ask yourself - Do you ever get curled up with a blanket on the couch, and then have to get up and go to the bathroom? What happens? Why, you have to take the blanket off and get cold and stuff. It sucks.

How about this - Do you ever go to the ole' ballgame and think, "Boy, I wish I had a blanket that fit over me like a jacket and made me look like a cross between a Jedi Knight and a Monk?"

Well stop dreaming Pedro voters. Your wildest dreams are coming true. The Snuggie is here!! And, yes Napolean Dynamite, it is flippin' sweet! It looks awesome. It's, it's incredible!

I heard Jim Rome cracking jokes about the Snuggie during his radio show last week, but it wasn't until I actually saw the commercial for this bad boy myself that I realized the sheer magnitude of its awesomeness! It's a blanket. No, it's a jacket. No, it's both. I'm getting that special feeling just thinking about it. It's 1982 all over again!

I haven't been this excited since I heard about the delicious plastic bass that sings "Don't worry, be happy," while hanging on your wall. Or the time I spent the summer hunting wolverines with my uncle in Alaska, using a frickin' 12-gauge, what do you think! Move over pet rock. Step aside juicer machine. Make room knives that will amputate your arm with just a flick of the wrist. There is a new sheriff in town and it's more badass than a lyger. Or Uncle Rico's video.

Just check out this blurb from the website -- "Blankets are okay, but they slip and slide." Gosh!
"Plus your hands are trapped inside." Idiot!

Thank the good lord that we now live in a world where slip-slidy blankets are no more, and our hands will never be trapped inside again. We can finally "enjoy a snack while staying snuggly warm," and we'll always be "cozy and warm at sporting events." These assurances were made by an inconspicuous lady's voice while I was checking out the website. And it wasn't creepy at all.

Thank you Snuggie. I can die in peace. Now ... give a pull on this gen-u-wine tupperware. Go ahead, give it a pull.

There is more where that came from, kiddies, if you go to the dance with me.

- Dave

P.S. Above is a photo of Michael looking flippin' sweet in his penguin snuggie thingy. It's not the actual Snuggie, but it's still awesome.

Ghostbusting in Poky

2008-12-16T10:33:00.001-07:00

I'm safely back in the frozen tundra of Boise this week after spending an eventful few days "on the road." That's right, kiddies, I took my lounge act to Pocatello and unleashed my unique brand of sermon on a group of unsuspecting Unitarians. Poor, poor people. They had no idea what was coming.

I have to say that, personally, I was rather proud of my sermon. I thought I covered all of the bases - my dog Kiki, ghost stories, Merle Haggard. All of the essentials. The speech elicited a rather unusual response, however. The crowd of college professors and graduate students failed to grasp the intricate wisdom inherent in the television show "Most Haunted." The professors decided to catch up on their sleep just a few minutes into the speech. At least I was helpful in some way.

I thought I would post the sermon here, and let you decide for yourself whether it is a brilliant work of art, or a great sleeping aid. Either way it's good for something. Right?

"WE AIN'T AFRAID OF NO GHOSTS"

David M. Ward

A hearty good afternoon to one and all. We’ve been together now for, oh, about a half an hour. In that time I feel we’ve developed a special bond. A cosmic hug, if you will. Can you feel it?

Can you feel the love?

Considering this special bond between us, I feel it is only appropriate that I stand before you and spill my guts. It’s what any self-respecting person would do in front of strangers, right?

So here goes. My name is Dave and I am hopelessly addicted to college football. I love to sing in my car, although I do sing quite badly. I often turn to my husky dog, Kiki, for advice and usually that advice is extremely helpful. I used to consider myself intelligent, but I now have concrete evidence that my four-year-old son Michael is in fact smarter than I am.

Oh yeah, and I believe in ghosts.

Not the sort of ghosts you’re likely envisioning. I’m not talking about the oogedy-boogedy ghosts that float up and down the stairway and inspire one of my all-time favorite guilty-pleasure television shows, “Most Haunted.” If you haven’t seen this show, you need to check it out. Basically a group of bored British actors travel to the creepiest old castles you can imagine, walk around in the dark, and completely scare the willy-nilly out of each other. It’s hysterical! My absolute favorite character is this “medium” guy that enters a room and immediately unleashes a dramatic swoon that would make William Shatner blush. He claims to see everything from maids jumping out of windows to long-lost children begging for dolls.

I absolutely love watching it. I just don’t believe the show holds any real truth.

No, the ghosts that I believe in are much more personal. They are easily recognizable and three times as terrifying as anything shown on television. They don’t reside in ancient castles or cemeteries. The horrifying reality is they reside in our hearts, our minds and our souls.

I call them the ghosts of our past. (Dum, dum, dum!)

These shadowy figures haunt us with memories we would just as soon forget. Wonderful recollections of people we’ve shunned, or embarrassing mistakes we’ve made. They simply relish reliving anything that brings horror to your heart and a cry of, “I can’t believe I did that!” from your mouth. You’ll be snug in your bed, smiling and content from a blissfully positive day, when suddenly a ghost will fly out of the closet, bend down to your ear and softly whisper … “Do you remember when you spread those rumors about your college roommate, and the pain it brought him? Boy you really messed up that time! I’ll bet he’s still recovering.”

These hauntings leave you shivering between the sheets and longing for one of those movie ghosts that simply rearranges furniture or fries eggs on the counter. Personally, I’ve battled a number of these ghosts from my past, and I’m guessing you have too. Through the years I’ve learned to deal with these hauntings, although it has not been easy. I’ve found the secret lies in humility, confession and a whole army of loving support. That’s where you fine folks come in! You beautiful Unitarian Universalists you!

The type of loving support needed to silence these pesky ghosts is located inside these very walls, and lovingly wrapped within the very hearts and souls that make up our beloved UU family. Each day I grow more grateful for this community of spiritual seekers, dedicated to nurturing souls and helping to heal the world. Tirelessly striving not only to help people discover their true spiritual path, but also to find their best selves and achieve a happiness they may not have thought possible. I’ve benefited tremendously from this faith, and judging by the smiling faces in this room, I’m guessing a number of you have benefited as well.

Okay. Enough koombayah for now. Let’s move on to some more spooky ghost stories, shall we? You may not be aware of this, but your beautiful little town is haunted by a terrifying ghost. An extremely scary supernatural entity that is actually quite handsome, if you ask me. After all, this dashing ghost looks just like me! Only quite a bit younger and with a lot less gray hair (A friend calls my gray hair a sign of wisdom. So feel free to change that last sentence to “a lot less wisdom in his hair,” if you like).

I have to be honest. The invitation to visit your wonderful Fellowship left me both excited and terrified. Excited to meet all of you, yet terrified at the prospect of returning to the very spot where my greatest ghost resides. You see, I lived in Pocatello several years ago while attending Idaho State University (Yes, I am a proud Bengal). I continued to reside in the Gate City while my wife, April, earned her Master’s degree.

I spent six memorable years here, and like most people’s college years, this time in my life can best be described as a little good, a lot of bad and a pinch of ugly. It’s the ugly part that breathes life into my ghost. Sets him free to roam among the streets and spend ample time haunting various alcohol establishments. Let’s just say I spent a lot of my time paying homage to Merle Haggard’s classic line, “I think I’ll just sit here and drink,” while living here.

I was in my early 20’s at that time, bulletproof and I knew everything. All you had to do was ask me. I’ve discovered through sharing this story that I wasn’t alone in my youthful exuberance. But it still doesn’t change the fact that “young punk,” is probably the most accurate description of me in those days. I honestly thought the world revolved around my brand new leather jacket, and people were just dying to hear me espouse my wisdom on every topic from the evils of organized religion (I had no idea what a “UU” was in those days), to the reason water never actually starts boiling while you look directly at it (Again, I did a lot of drinking in those days).

They say that confession is good for the soul, and since we don’t have a Catholic priest handy, I’m humbly asking you to serve that role right now. If you will indulge me, I feel it’s time I finally came clean and confessed my sins. I was a piece of work back then, notorious for saying, “I’ll call you soon and we’ll do something,” and then never actually picking up the phone. I made an art form out of saying awful things behind people’s backs, and I wasn’t above cracking rather hurtful “jokes” right in front of unsuspecting victims. I thought I was being hilarious. Looking back now I realize I was simply being a pain-in-the-you-know-what. It gives me the heeby jeebies just thinking about it.

My greatest regret, the incident that my ghost most relishes reliving, actually included a former member of this Fellowship. Many of you may know Steve Miller, who worked as the Managing Editor at the Idaho State Journal newspaper. Mr. Miller was my boss in those days, and I decided that I did not care for him. Mainly because Mr. Miller had the audacity to believe that I in fact did NOT know everything. He dared to question my brilliance and reprimanded me for my cocky behavior.

Well, one night I happened to see Mr. Miller standing in line at the movie theater. I was several yards away, and for reasons that I will never understand, I decided to shout, “Steve us such a (let’s just say I used a word that rhymes with “grass mole”)” loud enough so that he was sure to hear me. Not surprisingly, Mr. Miller whipped around with steam pouring out of his ears and started to shuffle toward me. I simply strolled out of the theater with a sickening swagger.

Please know this incident haunts me every day. It devastates me every time I think about it. If any of you are still in contact with Mr. Miller, please tell him that “punk kid” Dave Ward is utterly and truly sorry for his actions.

We all endure hauntings from the ghosts of our past. Some are not nearly as embarrassing as the episodes I’ve shared with you this afternoon. And some might be much more painful and life altering. It is extremely important to remember, however, that these hauntings are only reflections of the past. Yes they are terrifying, but they have absolutely no bearing on the present or the future. The best thing you can do is acknowledge the pain, admit the guilt, and use these hauntings as learning tools for the future. You might say to yourself, “Here’s how I acted in that situation. Here is the incredibly mortifying result that came about. Perhaps it would be wise to not make that choice again.” Sounds logical, right?

Always remember that life is one long and glorious journey. I’m sure you’ll agree the ride is anything but smooth. There are ups, there are downs, and there are enough twists and turns to keep the excitement flowing. We all need to cherish this wonderful gift the unnamable powers that be have bestowed upon us. The good, the bad and, yes, even the ugly. It’s all connected. I dare say it’s all beautiful.

UUA Moderator Gini Courter recently spoke at my home Fellowship in Boise. During a truly inspiring sermon she pointed out how most UU’s cannot agree on whether there is life after death. But all of us can agree that there is definitely death after life. Her slogan for UU’s would state – “We are all going to die. Have you lived yet?”

Part of this “living” includes making mistakes. Some mistakes are dreadfully embarrassing and worthy of haunting status. Yet we all need to search our hearts and seek forgiveness. In a perfect world we would find each person we have offended and beg for mercy. Real life often does not allow this. The real key is forgiving yourself. The reason is simple. If you can’t forgive yourself, nobody else will.

Joshua Loth Liebman writes, “We achieve inner health only through forgiveness – the forgiveness not only of others but also of ourselves.”

A wonderful poem by Sri Chimnoy adds to this theme:

Forgive,

You will have happiness.

Forget,

You will have satisfaction.

Forgive and forget,

You will have everlasting peace

Within and without.

The time has come to seize the pain, and cast it out of your heart forever. Make room for healing. Make room for love.

A lot has transpired since my dreadful night at the movie theater. I’ve accumulated a significant amount of wisdom in my hair. I’ve matured over the years. The powers that be somehow saw fit to place me in charge of a helpless human life (and thankfully I haven’t let them down yet!). Most importantly, for the first time in my life I’ve discovered the truly saving grace within a loving, trusting and genuinely caring community.

I realize now that life’s journey is not a solo ride. It’s meant to be shared with others. Around four years ago I discovered the UU faith. I had no concept of a religious community, and my burdens were locked deep inside my soul. It wasn’t long before I realized I was unleashing those private burdens and falling gracefully within the loving arms of my UU family. We are so lucky to have a community where our troubles are shared, our hearts are open and our lives are accepted. Period.

I commend you here at the Pocatello Unitarian Universalist Fellowship for including these wonderful themes in your mission statement. Your quest to, “nurture our own and other’s spiritual growth, giving each other comfort, and sharing laughter along the way,” is a lifeline for troubled souls in need of a home. As is your dedication to, “honor life experience as a source of our religious values.” I was only half joking when I opened my speech by referring to a bond between us. Thanks to these tremendous goals listed in your mission statement, I knew I was among kindred spirits. I could indeed feel the love.

You want to know something? Lately when I look closely at my ghost, I see through the arrogance and the swagger. I look directly in the eyes, and guess what I find? I find fear. I see a young man thrust into adulthood and scared to death. A young man harboring tremendous loneliness and a feeling that he just doesn’t “fit in” among his peers. A lost soul in search of a home.

Boy I could have used you guys back then!

After recognizing my ghost for what he truly is – A scared soul consistently making bad choices – I no longer feel fear. I actually feel empathy. Not for the choices that I made, but for the confused young man that I was. I am now able to understand and forgive. I hope that you will join me in vanquishing the ghosts of the past, and steering your sights on a bright future ahead. It’s quite liberating.

I’d like to close this afternoon with a beautiful poem composed by a rather underrated writer. I’ve found that “Author Unknown” has produced some terrific work over the years, and this poem is no exception. It is entitled “Forgiveness,” and it speaks to the very heart of our UU principle of “acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations.”

To forgive

Is not to forget.

To forgive

Is really to remember

That nobody is perfect

That each of us stumbles

When we want so much to stay upright

That each of us says things

We wish we had never said

That we can all forget that love

Is more important than being right.

To forgive

Is really to remember

That we are so much more than our mistakes

That we are often more kind and caring

That accepting another’s flaws

Can help us accept our own.

To forgive

Is to remember

That the odds are pretty good that

We might soon need to be forgiven ourselves.

That life sometimes gives us more

Than we can handle gracefully.

To forgive

Is to remember

That we have room in our hearts to

Begin again

And again,

And again.

So the next time your ghost comes floating out of the closet in the dead of night, don’t cower under the sheets. Sit up straight, wrap your arms around its ghostly body and tell it you love it – big scary flaws and all.

Once you’ve had your Hallmark moment, go ahead and ask it to help you rearrange the furniture in the living room. It’s high time it did something useful for once. Don’t you think?

Who are ya gonna call, kiddies?

- Dave

I need a bailout to pay for my Hummer

2008-11-20T10:54:00.002-07:00

I heard the funniest thing while listening to the radio this morning. I was partaking in my usual custom of bellowing out "Burning Love" Elvis style in the shower, when a couple of talking heads began chatting about the national bailout plan and unveiled the most unbelievable story. I put down my Hannah Montana shower microphone right then and there and simply stared at the radio. I could not believe what I was hearing.

According to the talking heads, and keep in mind this is talk radio, a number of CEO's in the automobile industry traveled to Washington D.C. recently to claim poverty and beg for bailout funds from the federal government. Just how did these poor, destitute executives who so dearly need "a penny for your troubles, sir," travel to our nation's capitol? Apparently most of them flew on private corporate jets!

Seriously!

This is one of those stories where you don't know whether to laugh or cry. It reminds me of a situation a few years ago when multi-millionaire NBA players staged a holdout to get even more millions. One of these enlightened players justified the move by saying something to the effect of,"Yeah we make a lot of money. But we spend a lot too!"

Allow me an opportunity to channel my inner grumpy old man for a moment -- "What in tarnation is this world coming to!! In my day a man was responsible for his actions!! If he done screwed up and lost all his money, well too bad!! I used to walk 28 miles to school every day, in a driving snow storm, up glacial peaks, barefoot ...." Okay, I"ll cut him off right there.

But seriously folks! Has the world really come to this? Do we really live in a society where we fly on corporate jets to claim poverty and beg for money? Is there no sanity left?

I'd love to continue my string of rhetorical questions, but I've got to get back to the street corner. Michael and I have begun tap-dancing to entertain pedestrians. A five-dollar bill in the top hat will get you a full rendition of "Singing in the Rain," complete with a stirring solo from little Michael.

Hey, my new jet skis won't pay for themselves.

Stay sane kiddies! Stay sane.

- Dave

Bombs Ahoy

2008-10-28T12:49:00.002-06:00

I have absolutely Earth-shattering news to share with you this afternoon. News so wonderful, so extremely mind-blowing, that all of us at the Ward castle are pinching ourselves in wonder. In fact I've avoided writing about this for nearly a week, in fear of jinxing the whole thing.

Little Michael is finally and assuredly a fully-functioning toilet user (if you catch my drift)! He no longer needs special padded devices around his tushy when nature comes a-callin' (if you know what I mean). He knows exactly "Who Number 2 works for!," as Austin Powers so eloquently stated (if you see where I'm going with this).

Those without children cannot possibly grasp the tear-inducing joy this particular accomplishment produces. "So what? You're kid can sit on the throne. Big deal!," you say to yourself in blissful ignorance.

Well, after three to four years of shelling out $17 every two weeks for the privilege of wiping bottoms and "cleaning up the mess," watching your little bundle of joy sit on the potty and tend to business ranks up there with wedding days, graduations and every Christmas gift you cherish from childhood.

Just trust me on this.

The Ward castle endured a rather lengthy battle with little Michael on this particular issue. Far past the time when he should have mastered the art of the toilet, Michael decided he would only make half the journey. He agreed to use the toilet for Number One. He steadfastly refused, however, to part with diapers when the time came for Number 2. He adopted a lawyer's grit, citing Supreme Court cases and several state laws to make his argument. April and I felt helpless against his stubborn refusals and witty banter.

We tried everything. Stickers. Praise. Mini-toilets. Free tickets to the Super Bowl. Nothing worked. He simply refused to sit on the toilet. Just when all hope seemed lost, and I was trying to figure out a way for Michael to obtain a college degree while taking "diaper breaks," little Michael nonchalantly strolled up and announced, "Daddy, I want to go poo-poo in the toilet."

More beautiful words were never uttered. I wiped the tears from my eyes and hooked up his "Go Diego Go" toilet seat with lightning speed. My hands shaking with suspense. Michael casually sat down, grabbed his toy laptop computer, and went to work. It was glorious!

So now I've got a drawer full of unneeded diapers and a heart filled with love and pride. Little Michael has done it! My boy has done it!!!!!

Count your blessings, no matter how trivial or how small, kiddies

- Dave

Why hello there gimme money

2008-10-22T12:47:00.002-06:00

When last we left off, I was relaying the tale of my transformation from bored stay-at-homer, to completely overwhelmed aspiring-minister-er. My tale of woe included the upwards of 3,000 committees that I had joined in the span of a week. Nothing has changed on that front. Last week I attended four different committee meetings on four consecutive nights. I exited the last meeting convinced my name was Captain Stewardship hailing from the planet Hymnal and sworn to protect Religious Education Directors throughout the Pacific Northwest Region. Or something.

But the tale gets even better, kiddies. Oh much better indeed! A couple of weeks ago I attended a super high-falutin' meeting with our Board President and the Financial Consultant at a fittingly high-falutin' hotel. I was feeling rather high-falutin' myself as I passed through the plush lobby, with its fancy chairs and nap-inducing jazz music. Little did I know that I was walking directly into a trap.

My interpretation of the meeting was as follows - I would sit down with the President and Consultant and breathe in their wisdom as they heroically hashed out a plan lead our church into financial bliss. I would make witty comments like, "That is a brilliant idea!" and "Yes, I agree."

The actual meeting materialized quite differently. After exchanging pleasantries, the President and Consultant stared straight at me and said, "We would like you to chair the upcoming spring pledge drive." And they said it with a straight face. After I finished choking on my high-falutin' coffee, I managed to turn a shade of white usually reserved for bed sheets.

"Do you have any questions or concerns about this?," the Consultant asked in his best Dr. Phil tone.

"Well," I responded,"I don't know anything about fund raising, and I hate money."

"Oh that's fine. We'll be here to help you," was his response. At least I think that was his response. I couldn't hear very well over the ringing in my ears.

So that is how a stay-at-home Dad, who never made more than $12 an hour as a sports journalist, was put in charge of a spring pledge drive for a church boasting more than 350 members and friends. This should end well, don't you think?

Also, while I'm rushing to different meetings every night, and pulling my hair out trying to figure out what I'm doing, April has managed to land a new job. The GREAT news is that she will be working in a brand new office just five minutes from our house. This will eliminate the two hours of commuting each day at her current job. The BAD news is that she's currently trying to manage both her old office and her new one simultaneously. And her boss has been too busy taking rafting trips to offer any assistance.

You can imagine the fun times at our house each evening. Dad pacing the hallways and mumbling to himself about pledge forms, personal visits and brochures. Mom is a few steps behind uttering phrases like, "Why haven't the chairs come in yet?," and "Red? Why would they paint the walls red?!"

The worst part about all of this craziness is that poor little Michael has entered into a "What are we going to do today?" stage. He follows me around asking one question, "What are we going to do today?" This sounds fairly simple, right? Just answer his question and all will be well. If only it were that simple.

"We're going to color some pictures," I answer.

"What are we going to do after that?," Michael responds without missing a beat.

"Um, read some stories," I answer again.

"What are we going to do after that?"

And round and round it goes. Eventually Michael starts crying in dismay. Not because he doesn't want to color pictures. But because you can't think of what he is going to do after coloring pictures, reading stories, eating a snack, playing at the park, residing the house, painting a masterpiece, counting every jelly bean in a jar, sorting the counted jelly beans by color, memorizing Gone With the Wind, and establishing peace in the Middle East.

It's safe to say I am no longer bored. Which is a good thing, I guess. I'll leave you today with one final question -

Do ya got any money kiddies?

- Dave

Spin, spin. Spin the black circle!

2008-09-25T11:36:00.003-06:00

You may have noticed my blog entries becoming somewhat few and far between lately. There is a perfectly logical explanation for this. I've been spending my evenings trapped in a room with several well-meaning, yet panicking, folks who rant and rave about deficits, consultants, funding, and pies for hours on end.

Several months ago the congregation at my church all got together and thought it would be really funny to nominate me to the Board of Directors. They extended the joke even further by voting me in and giving me a three-year sentence ... I mean term. Damn them! Damn them all!

Since that time I've received a crash course on life among the powerful. It's a strange existence filled with laptops, charts and panicking. Lots of panicking. You might have read somewhere that our national economy is, um, struggling. Well, the powerful ones on the board have decided to lift a giant middle finger at the fledgling economy and raise its budget to unheard of levels. I would love to mock this decision, but I actually agree. Our church has grown in recent years from a quaint little operation where volunteers take care of everything and everybody knows your name (like Cheers!), to a legitimate business that needs a professional staff. Right now we have one minister and one office worker trying to meet the needs of a congregation approaching 300. Our poor office worker is desperately trying to walk on water and part the Red Sea at the same time. So, yeah, she needs some help. And fast.

Anyhoo, to accomplish this ambitious budget the board has decided to bring in a consultant. Someone to leap tall buildings in a single bound and reveal the identity of the fifth cylon. This prodigal son held a workshop a couple of weeks ago where he espoused brilliant ponderings such as, "You guys need to raise more money," and, "No, seriously. You guys need to raise more money!"

So last night the powerful ones crowded into our panicking room to unleash some level 5 panic! It was a sight to behold. These meetings always leave me somewhat bewildered. You see, I don't exactly fit into our "Go Gadget Go!" culture. Picture everyone speeding in sports cars on the interstate while yacking on cell phones and texting with their spare foot. In this analogy you would find me chugging along on the side of the road in a rusty tractor, typing Morse code and sipping Coca Cola out of a glass bottle.

During the onslaught of panicking, I apparently fell into a trance where I either volunteered, or was volunteered, to fulfill about 3,000 different tasks. You might recall that I intend to pursue ministry in a couple of years. The good news? I have the full support of my minister, Elizabeth. She has agreed to take me under her wing. The bad news? I am now her minion, and completely at her mercy.

There was a point during the meeting when our President announced a few particularly powerful names to serve as co-chairs of our fundraising committee. These are all well-respected, wealthy and accomplished individuals. Elizabeth chimed in with, "I would also like to appoint David Ward, the unemployed former sports writer who has absolutely no clue about money to also serve as a co-chair on this committee." I have to give our President credit. She may have failed at concealing her shock, but she did hold back any mocking laughter. Good for her!

I also agreed to help call everyone at our church with the exciting news that, "We're meeting with a financial consultant again in a couple of weeks, and you have the exciting opportunity to help badger people for money. Lucky devil, you!"

I believe I am also the board liaison to a search committee seeking to hire a full-time director of religious education. I believe the fact that Michael is currently enrolled in the preschool class qualified me for this position. I've never been a liaison before. Sounds French.

I think I also agreed to wash everyone's car and clean the toilets. I can't remember. It's all a blur.

Anyway, I'm sitting here blabbing away on this blog and desperately trying to avoid the 30 or so emails I've received since last night's panic session. I know that eventually I'll run out of things to write about, and I'll have to plow through the old inbox. It wouldn't be so bad if every ... single ... email didn't contain 10-page attachments filled with numbers and charts and gobbledy-gook.

Oh wait! I have something else I can write about (phew!). After checking out my lounge act last month, Elizabeth has decided to punish other churches and force them to endure my "Starrr Warrrs" routine. Plans are in the works for a possible appearance in Pocatello. That would be a nice homecoming of sorts, since April and I graduated from Idaho State University during my former life. Elizabeth is also trying to punish other unsuspecting churches around the state. So stay tuned for that.

Now, I just need to decide between breaking out the diamond-studded Neal Diamond jumpsuit, or rocking the Axle Rose spandex shorts and ripped football jersey.

Which would you pick kiddies?

- Dave

Duck Hunting

2008-09-23T16:51:00.005-06:00

I usually try to avoid the topic of sports in this space. In my previous life I was a sports writer spending nearly every waking moment either thinking or writing about sports. High school football, college basketball, professional rodeo, horseshoes. You name it. When I started this blog I made a pact that I would avoid the subject of sports at all costs. I wanted to broaden my horizons and seek out new life and new civilizations.

I must say I've been rather successful in this endeavor so far. Unfortunately all good things must come to an end. On that note, here goes nothing ......

MY BOISE STATE BRONCOS DEFEATED THE 17TH RANKED OREGON DUCKS LAST SATURDAY!!!!!!!!! IN EUGENE!!!!! THIS IS AWESOME BABY!!!

Head coach Chris Petersen (known simply as "Pete" in these parts) took a team filled with freshmen and sophomores into Autzen Stadium and pulled off a colossal upset. And the best part about it? I was there!!

My Dad and I piled into the Matrix last Friday and proceeded to invade the land of a thousand Dairy Queens for a weekend of good ole' college football. God bless America!! We endured an eight-hour drive and plenty of diner coffee, but it was worth it! I wish I could tell you that we withstood a barrage of attacks from evil Oregon Duck fans, but truth be told, the green and gold faithful were actually kind of nice. No scratch that. They were EXTREMELY nice. Apparently Oregonians spend their free time welcoming visitors. You know, when they're not enjoying delicious Dairy Queen meals.

My Dad and I had dinner Friday night at a local Outback Steakhouse. While waiting for a table, we sat down on a bench next to several Oregon fans. We were wearing our blue and orange Broncos gear and they didn't boo, throw stuff, or punch us. They actually started chatting with us about Eugene and the game. It was like a weird alternate universe where fans are friendly to each other and I'm suddenly really good at math.

We had the same experience standing in line for a shuttle to the game. An Oregon fan tapped me on the shoulder and I immediately braced for the "Boise sucks!!" insult. I got this instead .... "You know, the Fiesta Bowl has to be my all-time favorite game ever." What?!! (For those not from Boise, he was referring to the 2006 Fiesta Bowl where Boise State defeated Oklahoma in overtime on a trick play that nearly gave me a heart attack. In Boise all you have to say is "Fiesta Bowl," and complete strangers will immediately begin cheering).

We entered a pregame party at Oregon's indoor football facility and were immediately surrounded by hordes of green and gold. What did these fans do to the blue and orange out-of-towners in their midst? Why they came up and shook my hand, that's what! They said spiteful things like, "I really like Boise State, just not today," and "You guys have a great program." The nerve of these people!!

During the game my Dad and I cheered our lungs out for the Broncos and nobody threw tomatoes. Immediately following the game several Duck fans turned to me and said, "You've got a good football team. Good luck the rest of the way." Walking back to the hotel a driver rolled down his window and yelled, "Congratulations!"

The only negativity I encountered during the entire trip occurred when a group of Oregon students pointed to their shirts that read, "I farted ... and it smells like Boise State." I've got to admit that made me laugh, which says all you need to know about my level of sophistication. After enduring this onslaught of niceness for two entire days, I am at a complete loss for words.

One final thing. My Dad and I discovered quite the oddity while driving home. Apparently there are people in Oregon who feel compelled to pull their cars over, place their blizzards in the cup holder, walk out into the middle of the highway and throw their shoes over power lines. I can't explain it. I only know what I saw.

Go Broncos!!

- Dave

You've gotta believe

2008-09-15T08:14:00.002-06:00

Hello friends. I figured I'd repeat some words of wisdom from Michael this morning. A couple of weeks ago the little guy noticed something was bothering his Grandma. He quickly walked up to her and delivered this wonderful advice --- "That's okay Grandma. You've just gotta believe yourself!!"

Genius!

Believe yourselves kiddies!

- Dave

What was I thinkin'?

2008-09-12T09:15:00.003-06:00

Come over here a minute. Peek through this window into the stay-at-homer's world. Just don't tell anyone about what you see ---

Here's a story I heard recently from a friend of mine. Not me. A friend of mine. Definitely not me. Got it?!

So this friend of mine who is not me got himself into quite a pickle. Imagine this friend of mine who is not me trying to clean up junk out of the yard one fine afternoon. Everywhere he looks he sees dirt-covered toys that have not seen love and attention since the Reagan administration. Long forgotten mini footballs, plastic golf clubs, half-inflated inner tubes, and a few toys that have become somewhat unrecognizable. All remnants of a time before little Michael discovered computers (more on that topic in a future posting).

So this friend of mine who is not me began the arduous task of transporting this collection of misfit toys out of the yard and into some semblance of order on the patio. Most of the toys are hosed off and placed neatly in a pile, awaiting the moment little Michael discovers this orderly pile and immediately hauls the toys back out into the yard. (Michael and my friend who is not me have drastically different definitions of "order." My friend who is not me likes to label Michael's decorating style as "modern urban messy").

My friend who is not me, in one of his weaker moments, opts to throw away some of the more unrecognizable toys. In his defense, these are toys that little Michael has not even looked at for at least two years (he's 4, by the way). If he ever played with them at all.

One of the more tattered toys was a small stuffed bee covered in mud. Not an actual stuffed animal, mind you, but a remnant of a baby toy that I only remember as "the pad thingy that played classical music when baby Michael kicked it."

I'm guessing that all experienced parents of toddlers out there can fill in the rest of this sad tale of woe. Little Michael approached my friend who is not me early this morning as I, I mean my friend, stepped out of the shower. His little eyes were filled with tears and his voice quivered with stunning sadness as he exclaimed, "I ... sob, sob .... can't .... sob, sob ... find my ..... sooooobbbbb.... BEE!!!!!"

This particular sentence actually frightened my friend who is not me, as he pictured little Michael chasing an actual bee around the yard and finally discovering why Dad breaks out his patented "bee dance" each summer.

But thankfully Michael clarified himself before my friend who is not me suffered full cardiac arrest. "My PLAY bee .... sob, sob .... I can't find my PLAY bee .... sob!"

This is when my friend who is not me realized the sheer stupidity of his actions. Of course! Michael's play bee! The same "play bee" that Michael hasn't actually played with since he was a baby, and left out in the yard to rot! Why wouldn't Michael arbitrarily want to play with this forgotten toy the moment my friend who is not me threw it out? It makes perfect sense!

This parenting thing is hard!

Never throw away your toys kiddies!

- Dave

Stop fidgeting with the microphone!!!

2008-09-03T13:00:00.003-06:00

That was exactly the sentence I was screaming in my head last Sunday while standing in front of a room full of people delivering my lounge act. People do all sorts of things when they are nervous. Some develop a twitch. Some burst out laughing uncontrollably. Others might go into a sneezing fit. I can now tell you with full confidence that my nervous habit involves relentlessly and compulsively tugging on a microphone. I realized I was doing this about halfway through my lounge act, but I still wasn't able to kick the habit. With every, "stop that you idiot!" thought that went through my brain, my left hand decided it would be funny to reach out and tug on the microphone yet again. Quite a cheeky monkey, that left hand of mine!!

I guess I should back up and explain a few things. I volunteered to unleash my lounge act on poor unsuspecting souls last Sunday at my church - The Boise Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. My friends Joe and Tom warmed up the crowd with a rousing session of drumming, and April followed with a stirring rendition of Brandi Carlile's "Have You Ever," while our friend Robb accompanied on guitar. With the crowd dutifully inspired and ready for a rousing speech, I proceeded to take the podium and do what I always do - let my "Starrrrr Warrrrssss!!!!!" lounge singer out of his cage. He was in rare form, I assure you. There were Rocky quotes, hockey references and the world's worst attempt at a British accent. He even unleashed the world premier of his "Riverdance." You can check out all of my lounge singer's shenanigans on-line by going to http://www.boiseuu.org/audio/ and clicking on the "Silencing Mr. Negativepants" speech.

I should warn you that a vast majority of the speech deals with my crazy plans for the future. You see, I have decided to embark on the path that all stay-at-home Dads eventually choose. That's right, I have decided to become a Unitarian Universalist Minister! This is the path I have chosen, and since I don't know any other stay-at-home Dads, I can only assume this is a common decision.

Now all I have to do is convince a certain graduate school of theology in California to let me and my lounge singer through the front door. I'm sure they'll be thrilled to accept an unemployed former sports writer who spends all day changing diapers and playing video games. Right? .....
Hello?

For those with really slow computers, fear not! Here is the cut-and-paste version of my speech:

And we may never meet again
So shed your skin let’s get started
And you will throw your arms around me
And you will throw your arms around me
- Mark Seymour

“SILENCING MR. NEGATIVEPANTS”

David M. Ward

Here’s a true story I’m sure you will enjoy. Several months ago I found myself sitting across a dinner table from Mr. Robert Fulghum. I was breaking bread with arguably the most famous Unitarian Universalist minister in the world. A man who just happens to have authored seven best-selling books, and according to his web site, “has more than 16 million copies of his books in print, published in 27 languages and 103 countries.” I might add that he’s a snappy dresser.

As a stay-at-home dad who counts trips to the doctor’s office and the grocery store as “social outings,” this was quite the event for yours truly. It was even more exciting for another, more personal, reason. You see, I was secretly harboring a desire to pursue ministry myself. That’s right boys and girls, we have breaking news. Dave wants to be a minister when he grows up! (Surprise!).

So there I was, eating dinner with the esteemed Robert Fulghum. Sitting across from “Mr. Kindergarten” himself, trying to act like I have dinner with world-renowned authors all the time and desperately trying to avoid spilling barbecue sauce all over myself. The conversation wafted between novels and camping and religious theology (we are UU’s after all!). There was a point in the conversation when the chatting hit upon the topic of ministry.

What happened next may have changed my life forever. (Hooked yet?).

My darling and beautiful wife, April, who could not keep a secret if the entire human race depended upon it, turned to the esteemed Rev. Fulghum and exclaimed, “My husband Dave wants to be a minister too!” You can imagine my reaction. Picture someone walking up to Andrea Bocelli and exclaiming, “My husband wants to be a singer, too!” I believe my cheeks displayed a nice shade of fire-engine red at that moment.

Thanks honey!

I say “thanks” in jest, but I really mean it. In actuality I need to wrap my arms around my wonderful wife and say “thank you” a thousand times with all of the sincerity I can muster. Her act of bravery, no matter how embarrassing at the time, brought forth a change in my life that may never have happened otherwise. From that moment forward I found the confidence to pursue my dream of ministry out in the open in front of friends and family. My “secret” ambition began taking shape and growing wings. For this I am forever grateful.

Those among us teeming with confidence may be asking, “If this is so important to you Dave, why didn’t you just tell Mr. Fulghum yourself?” That is a brilliant question requiring a very complex answer – Basically I’m chicken! I’m yellow! I’m a scaredy-cat!

I’ve spent the majority of my life battling a very powerful negative voice in my head. A voice putting me down whenever possible, and making me believe that I am not capable. I believe we all have a version of this negative voice, and some of us are better at silencing it than others. My own version of this negative voice is quite a character. I’ve christened him, “Mr. Ebenezer Negativepants.” He is a British butler, you see, and very strict. I like to picture him with a tuxedo and an eye glass. Mr. Negativepants actually has quite a flair for the dramatic, ending all of his snobby little comments with the phrase, “What, what!” A typical comment from old Negativepants goes something like this … “I do say, dear boy, that is a perfectly dreadful idea. What, what!”

In his mind, Mr. Negativepants has good intentions. His mission is to protect me from embarrassment and shield me from wants and desires he deems beyond my abilities. He sees himself as a grand protector. A guardian against pain and disappointment.

The problem is that by shielding me from potential pain and disappointment, he is also squeezing the nectar out of life. We all love a thrill every now and then. And some thrills are just as unpleasant as they are pleasant. I believe that raw emotion, no matter how blissfully breathtaking or painfully heartbreaking, ranks among life’s greatest gifts. To feel something is to be alive, and to feel truly alive is to live. Taking a “safe” and “painless” approach to life robs us of experiences and emotions that may lead us to our best selves.

I never fully realized this until I began attending services here at the Boise Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. I grew up basically without religion. I had no real notion of a higher power, and certainly no understanding of the transforming power within a loving and accepting community. I spent my formative years engulfed in our American society focused on individualism, negativity and fear. I have to say Mr. Negativepants thrived in this environment.

“Make sure you dress in the latest fashion, or the children will laugh at you!”

“Don’t say anything bloody stupid. You want to fit in, right?”

“Dear boy, do you honestly think these upstanding boys and girls deem you worthy of their presence. Don’t be silly! What, What!”

These pearls of wisdom arrived like clockwork from old Negativepants while I was growing up. My formative years were dominated by fear. Fear of looking stupid. Fear of saying something stupid. Fear of showing just who I really was. My only relief surfaced in theater class, where I felt free to cut loose and have some fun. I was only acting, you see.

My early adulthood featured more of the same. I developed tremendous shyness and crafted a wall between myself and others. Everything changed with my introduction to the Unitarian Universalist faith. I began attending services on Sunday mornings, and it wasn’t long before I realized the immense gift that life truly is. It’s hard to deny the fact that there is a special reverence with every breath we take. It’s simply beautiful. Watching people stand on this very podium each week and share their immense talents, without a hint of fear or shame, has liberated my thinking and allowed me to tear down the wall brick by brick. I discovered, as the saying goes, that life is too short for compromising. Life is too short for playing it “safe” and blindly following old Negativepants.

I believe our job is to take full advantage of this wonderful gift of life. Seek happiness at every possible avenue, no matter how scary the journey. If we fail to do this, out of some fear of failure, we don’t pay proper respect to the unnamable forces that put us on this grand Earth, under beautiful blue skies and here with this loving community.

How about you? Do you fight with your own version of Mr. Negativepants? Is there something you’ve always wanted to do, yet never summoned the confidence to pursue? It definitely doesn’t have to be as dramatic as a one-way ticket to seminary. (Not everyone is as crazy as I am). It could be a trip you’ve always wanted to take, or a hobby you’ve always wanted to try. Maybe you’ve always wanted to take a cruise to Alaska. Or sing in a choir. Or learn to river dance. The possibilities are endless. The point is, if you’ve struggled to reach out of your comfort zone and pursue your true passion, now is the time to do it! Tell that negative voice in your head to pipe down and listen to YOU for a change! Take charge of your life once and for all! Book that cruise. Dust off that old guitar. Write that novel. Become the Lord of the Dance. As Mickey so eloquently phrased it in the classic movie, Rocky II, “What are we waiting for? Tickets?”

Now that I’ve got you all revved up, please allow me the opportunity to throw in a disclaimer. There is definitely a right way and a wrong way to pursue your dreams. The wrong way involves little or no actual self analysis. It also goes without saying that hurting others at the expense of pursuing your own happiness is a very, very bad idea. Your family might miss you if you suddenly fly off to Hawaii chasing your long-lost dream of becoming a surfing champion.

Before you make any rash decisions, I implore you to reach deep within your soul and carefully analyze all of the factors involved. Is this something that would truly bring you happiness? Are you dedicated to following through? Do you have the blessing of your loved ones, and everyone this decision would affect the most? And finally, does this decision “feel” right? Take as much time as you need to carefully ponder all of these questions. If the answer is “no” to any of them, please don’t do it. Mr. Negativepants may be a practical chickenpants, but he is not stupid. That negative voice in your head does come from the “must protect you at all costs” portion of your brain. There are times when we should actually, gasp, listen.

As a stay-at-home dad, I am constantly bombarded with the same question. “What do you think you’ll do when you go back to work?” My snide answer until recently was, “I think I’m going to try professional hockey. I just need to learn to ice skate first!”

Obviously some dreams don’t make practical sense. However, if you have truly looked within yourself, analyzed all of the various factors, and discussed it thoroughly with your loved ones, then I don’t see any reason to wait for your dreams to come to you. It’s time to seize them outright.

I believe the hardest step in this entire process is that initial jump into the pool of uncertainty. Taking your innermost desires and making them public, without any clue how people will react. Will they laugh? Will they stand up and cheer? At this point it’s anybody’s guess what the reaction will be. Some of us need our better halves to give a little push. And some just need support. Someone to look them in the eye and say, “I believe in you.” For what it’s worth, you should know that I do believe in you. I may not know you, and I may not have any idea what your secret ambition is. It doesn’t matter. If you have truly looked within and emerged with the confidence to go forward, then that’s good enough for me. I believe in you. Period.

Now, if you just return the favor and believe in me, then we’ve got the ingredients for something special.

After you take your initial plunge and put the decision out there for all to see, the next greatest challenge emerges – Dealing with negative feedback. This is where Mr. Negativepants really shines. Any time you leave your comfort zone you can expect at least a few reactions that, shall we say, stray from the positive. The key here is to listen closely, acknowledging any potential truths, without letting the negativity fester.

This might be a good time to revisit my fateful dinner with Rev. Fulghum. As you can imagine, the moment April uttered the words I was too scared to say myself, Mr. Negativepants unleashed a tantrum for the ages. He immediately began jumping up and down on my slumping shoulders yelling, “Bloody bad! Bloody bad! Bloody bad!!” Compiling matters was a less-than-enthusiastic reaction from the esteemed Reverend.

In a perfect dream world, Fulghum would have jumped out his chair, thrown his arms up and exclaimed, “Yes! I see it! You are so charming, and handsome and undoubtedly brilliant! You are exactly what we’ve been looking for!”

Let’s just say it didn’t exactly happen that way. Fulghum’s actual response was more like, “Now what would you want to go and do a thing like that for?”

“Well,” I answered in what I hoped was my most sincere minister-like voice, “I’d love a chance to spread a positive message and help people in any way I can.”

“If you want to help people, then go be a fireman!,” was his final answer.

I must stress that Rev. Fulghum was suffering from an extremely painful case of Shingles at the time, and relying upon a steady diet of Codeine just to function. I am convinced that his reaction was more a product of pain and exhaustion than any slight toward me.

In any case, my secret ministry ambition is revealed to Robert Fulghum, and I am immediately told to, “Go be a fireman.” Not exactly the rave reviews I was craving, but I survived it. And I promise you the first time you get laughed at wearing your new Lord of the Dance leotard, you will survive as well. We humans are nothing if not resilient.

Several of my very close friends were also present at the dinner, and their reaction was extremely enthusiastic. These were the reactions I paid close attention to. By gaining the support of people who truly know and care about me, my confidence flourished.

Around this same time I was reading a wonderfully inspirational book by Cheryl Richardson entitled The Unmistakable Touch of Grace. Richardson writes about paying very close attention to your life, and watching for signs of “grace” that often come your way. Basically keeping your eyes and ears open for opportunities, and silencing old Negativepants when he tries to discourage you from pursuing them. One particularly moving chapter asks the reader to write down a motivational phrase that Richardson has penned in a journal or a notebook. I was game for anything at that time, so I slowly wrote out the phrase, “I am open to receiving the gift of grace. I ask to be shown exactly what I need to do to achieve this goal or something better.” I also added a second phrase, “Surrender and be patient. Grace is on the way.”

I stuffed this piece of paper in my wallet, and it still resides there today. I often pull it out and read it during occasions when I need a confidence boost, or just a little guidance. Whatever works, right?

Armed with the support of my friends, along with this motivational “can-do” in my wallet, I set out on a journey to find the “gift of grace.” I’m happy to report I found grace waiting for me at every turn. I sprung the, “Surprise, I want to be a UU minister!,” speech on my family and they responded with more love and support than I ever thought possible. I cornered several members of this congregation, relaying my crazy ambition, and they were equally encouraging. Finally, I took a deep breath and waltzed into our minister Elizabeth Greene’s office a couple of weeks ago for what ended up being one of the most honest and productive conversations I have ever had. Our loving minister was very supportive and has offered guidance as I embark on this strange new path. She did mention that I needed to work on my, you guessed it, confidence. So it appears old Negativepants and I have some unfinished business after all.

Today I stand before this fellowship asking each of you to join me in this remarkably liberating action of silencing Mr. Negativepants and chasing your dreams. Whatever they may be. Personally, I can attest that these last few months have been as scary, suspenseful, thrilling and rewarding as anything I have ever experienced. I feel liberated. I feel vindicated. Most of all, I feel utterly and truly alive.

Now it’s your turn …. What, what!!

------

Go get 'em kiddies!

- Dave

Oregonians love them some Dairy Queen ... and other brilliant ponderings from the road

2008-08-07T17:26:00.003-06:00

Here I sit on this hotter-than-a-popcorn-fart Thursday afternoon attempting to do the unthinkable. That's right, I'm writing two blog postings on the same day. During the same afternoon, in fact. Why would I do such a crazy thing? Well, I'm glad you asked. It turns out I have to write a speech by the end of the month, and it can't suck. That's right ... Dave is getting his lounge act ready for a comeback. Diamond-studded Elvis suite, golden sunglasses and everything!

In order to write a speech that does not suck, I need to step back into the "write real good" portion of my brain and dust off the cobwebs. Kick the tires. Turn the engine. The old-car cliches are endless! About a month ago I did something drastic for a stay-at-home parent. I actually left the house! I went to a Fiddle Festival, a Hippie Festival, our family cabin, and the Oregon coast. No, I swear I actually got out and experienced something!

The only drawback to this newfound "life" of mine was a rather extensive absence from any form of writing. I neglected this blog, and left all of you poor readers desperately searching for a way to fill the void that was my brilliance. Right? Hello?

Anyway, I've discovered that the best way to gain reentry to the "write real good" portion of my brain is to mindlessly jot down whatever crap, I mean brilliance, comes into my head. So allow me to entertain you with a few witty (or not) observations I picked up while sweating profusely to bluegrass music and freezing to death on a cliff above the Pacific Ocean. Your welcome!

* If you have ever needed proof that the world isn't fair, then I've got a tale for you. A few weeks ago April, Michael and I chugged the Matrix down an old highway to the annual Fiddle Festival in Weiser, Idaho. This is a landmark event for lovers of old-time fiddle jams and small-town frolics. We made our way to a large stage in the middle of the town park, where a bluegrass band was in full swing. My eyes immediately gravitated toward a very elderly man sitting in a folding chair right in the middle of the stage. I was instantly mesmerized by this man. Not because of his age, but the way he was absolutely kicking you-know-what on the guitar. This guy calmly sat up in his chair and ripped into a blazing solo version of "The Flight of the Bumblebee" that Eddie Van Halen would have marveled at. He followed with an extensive harmonica solo with his band, and finished with a perfect rendition of "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" on the fiddle. It was the most amazing string of diverse performances I have ever seen. Something just isn't right with the world when a genuine talent like that languishes on a makeshift stage in Weiser, Idaho. I salute you, guitar/harmonica/fiddle hero guy! You rocked my world with that performance!

* Our small suburb of Eagle features a guy so recognizable, so visible, that people know him simply as the "Hippie guy." At least that's what I call him. He roams the streets with graying blond hair flowing, a bronze tan that began some time around 1967 shining, and most of the time nothing but bare feet. What I love about this guy is how much he stands out here. At one time Eagle was a sleepy farming community filled with horse pastures and open air. Today it has become overrun with Hummers, Starbucks, and a whole bunch of agitated people sporting those stupid-looking phone things you stick in your ear (why they do this I will never understand). Well, each day you can find Hippie Guy walking up and down the street next to the movahs and shakahs. The main difference I've noticed between Hippie Guy and his peers is how much happier he looks. Something to think about.

* Have you ever been driving in the middle of nowhere and suddenly realized that there wasn't a Dairy Queen around for miles? Did you panic when the cold reality that there was absolutely no way you could purchase a peanut buster parfait hit you? Did your longing for a chicken strip basket become too great for words? Well, the good citizens of Oregon have obviously faced this very dilemma, and vowed never to let this happen in their fine state. April and I recently drove from Eagle to Lincoln City along the coast of Oregon. We encountered numerous small towns, several mountain passes and even a slug as big as your fist. At each turn we were greeted by the familiar red Dairy Queen sign. This fast-food icon was everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE!! It didn't matter if we were in a large city like Portland, or a tiny one-horse town, Dairy Queen was there. In fact, there was a Dairy Queen just a few blocks from the house we stayed in. And we passed a Dairy Queen sitting next to an abandoned farm on the way home (I'm not exaggerating). So I salute you Oregonians! You and your freaky obsession with Dairy Queen and their soft-served goodness! You get your slushy on!

Be good kiddies!

- Dave

Tell me who are you? (I really wanna know!!)

2008-08-07T13:00:00.005-06:00

Sooner or later we all have to face the big questions. Who am I? Why am I here? What is the meaning of life? Why won't the Packers take Brett Favre back?

The biggies that shake our very foundation and leave us grasping for answers. I wrestled with just such a quandary recently. I stood in front of the mirror, stared intently into my own eyes and asked the very question that had been troubling my soul for nearly three weeks.

"Mr. Incredibly handsome and smart man in the mirror," I began, "Do you think ... well is it possible ... Am I ... a Cylon?!!!!"

I know, I know. We all have to ask ourselves this very question at some point in our lives. And after watching about 300 straight hours of Battlestar Galactica DVD's that my buddy Dale lent me, I knew that it was my turn.

I simply had to find out if I was really an unemployed stay-at-home Dad who plays college football video games and drinks gallons of coffee, or if I was actually a Cylon robot superagent placed on this planet to unknowingly usher forth the Apocalypse and end all human existence. Thanks to my tireless viewing of Battlestar seasons 1 through 4 every fracking night during the past month (not that I was addicted or anything), I am now keenly aware that there are Cylon agents living among us.

They look like us. They act like us. They pilot Colonial Vipers through star nebulas like us. Some of them don't even know they are Cylons. They go through their entire lives in blissful ignorance, until the fateful day the Cylons turn on their radio, play a really creepy song, and bamo! They kick into gear and begin shooting Admiral Adama and holding secret meetings in the air lock.

So you can see my concern right? I have to admit that I often hear creepy songs in my head. Why just last week I was humming a tune, when to my own horror I realized it was the theme song to the Doodlebops!! Aaaaah!!

I haven't figured out the answer just yet, but I have come to one really embarrassing realization. If I am indeed a Cylon superagent, then the Cylons are going to be very disappointed with my model. I like to consider myself witty and charming and full of zest. My relatives often use another term to describe me. Namely useless. I can't fix anything, I can't shoot anything, and I sure wouldn't be very useful during an outright war on humanity. I can't chop wood, I have absolutely no knowledge of machines and my idea of repairs consists of placing broken objects in a corner and saying witty things like, "Man, it sucks this is broken."

Here's an example of my useless charm -- A few months ago our backyard fence began falling down. My solution: Hold it up with a lawn chair and various bags of leaves. My father-in-law took one look at the fence and returned a few days later with a stake. He then hammered the stake into the ground, and voila, the fence was fixed. I, um, wouldn't have thought of that.

So here's hoping that I'm not a defective Cylon superagent, and merely a screwup of the human variety. And here's a warning to everyone out there. There is still a member of the Final Five to be revealed, so watch your back! Whatever you do, avoid creepy songs and wait, what's that? ..... "Doo doo doo doo doo duu duu doo doo ... We're the Doodlebops oh yeah! ..."

OH MY GODS!! IT'S HAPPENING!!! SAVE YOURSELVES KIDDIES!!

- Dave

Shedding a tear for Tennessee

2008-07-28T14:24:00.005-06:00

I'm sitting here at my computer this afternoon with a thousand different emotions flowing like rapids. Pain. Anger. Frustration. Confusion. Utter sadness. And thousands of emotions that I can't begin to define or recognize. I don't know whether to punch a hole in the wall, or cry in my hands.

The reason for these emotions is an event that took place thousands of miles away, to people that I have never met. Yet it might as well have occurred in my living room to my own family. Yesterday an armed gunman walked into a Unitarian Universalist church in Knoxville, Tennessee, and opened fire with a shotgun. An estimated 200 people hailing from two different UU congregations in the area were watching a performance by 25 children when the gunman entered, shouted obscenities, and opened fire. Two people were killed and five were critically injured. No children were harmed.

Let me write that again. A man entered a church filled with hundreds of people watching a kids play and opened fire. Two were killed. Five were critically injured and an entire community was left devastated and demoralized.

Why?

Why?

Why!!!!

This event strikes my very soul. I am a member of the Boise Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. I attend services each Sunday. I lead many of them. I serve on the Board of Directors. I dedicate my life to the Unitarian Universalist principles and practices ... chief among them is respecting the dignity and worth of every human being. THESE ARE MY PEOPLE!!

Each Sunday we gather together as a community to celebrate universal themes such as peace, love, and acceptance. We support each other in our individual questing for happiness and spiritual fulfillment. This is where we go to get away from the negativity, hopelessness and violence so prevalent in the "real world."

If you are not totally familiar with the Unitarian Universalist faith, you might have heard a few remarks regarding our zest for social action. You may have heard us called the "Gay Church," or the "Hippie Church," or other less flattering titles that I won't print here. Well, these titles are based in truth, and we're not ashamed of it. Yes, we are out pushing for social action whenever possible. We picket in front of city hall. We march in protests. We hound our civil leaders with phone calls and emails. We push for change whenever possible. Your damn right we do! But our means of protest are peaceful, civil and legal. If I could share one VITAL fact about the Unitarian Universalist faith, it would be this ... It is a faith completely and utterly against violence. We not only stand against the war in Iraq, we stand against war of any kind. We simply do not advocate violence. We are a peaceful faith.

This is why I can't make any sense out of this horrific act. It defies all explanation.

Please don't kid yourself. In the world we live in, this type of atrocity can occur at any time, or any place, for any reason. It could have been preschoolers celebrating "graduation" in front of proud parents at the local elementary school, or a dance recital. We all remember Columbine and Virginia Tech. I've pondered this reality all day while watching little Michael romp through his Monday, playing with his new "pool" table and excitedly pointing out letters and numbers he recognized while watching "Sesame Street." Parents all over the world, give your little ones a hug tonight and rejoice in the miracle they truly are. I know I will.

I've also pondered this reality while juggling it against the memories I hold of yesterday's service at BUUF. I was fortunate enough to participate in a moving service highlighting two men's rafting journey through the Grand Canyon. Through the magic of computers and slide projectors, these men took us along for the ride as they fought through rapids, gazed at Mother Nature's brilliant handiwork and bonded with several people that they did not know before the trip began. Every person in attendance left the service with a newfound appreciation for nature and an increased awareness of what a gift life truly is.

I'm juggling this message of hope and beauty against the horrific reality of what took place that same day in Tennessee. It's too much to fathom. I do believe, however, that trying times call for an outpouring of love. Not hate. We as a people must rise above mindless acts by misguided individuals. Harboring hate in your heart only allows it to fester and poison your entire being.

I believe we must come together in community and redouble our efforts to realize a world that focuses on love, not hate. Peace, not violence. Compassion, not division. This may be the impossible dream, but it sure beats the alternative. It beats wasting this gift of life on fear, anger and resentment.

For all of my fellow UU counterparts, let us begin a process of healing. Of finding our way through the murky darkness of anger and despair and back toward the healing light of love. On that note, I'd like to print here a Meditation that I read yesterday at BUUF. A stirring piece written by author Leaf Seligman entitled "Each Breath." May her wonderful message of hope give some comfort in this trying time ...

"Each Breath," by Leaf Seligman

Loving God,

We pause in the stillness to rest for a moment, to quiet ourselves so that we can feel what stirs within us. Each breath draws us closer to the pulse of life and with each exhalation we make room for something new. May we find in this gathering the comfort of those who care. May we encounter patience along our growing edges and compassion in our most tender spots. Here may we find the inspiration and encouragement we need to face our challenges and nurture ourselves. And in the presence of suffering across the globe, may we redouble our efforts to practice kindness where we are, with the hope that the light of our actions travels like the light of faraway stars. May our gestures of compassion and generosity seed possibility. May we walk humbly with one another, choosing reconciliation over resentment as we try to live right-sized. When life presses in and shifts us off balance, when pain assails us, when frustration mounts, may the rhythm of our breath steady us and bring us back to a place of gratitude.

- David

One pill makes you larger ... and one pill makes you small

2008-06-12T12:08:00.003-06:00

I thought I'd share some remarkably disturbing events at the Ward castle this past week. Everything started out nice and normal, but unforeseen circumstances left me fearing for my life and questioning my sanity. Hooked yet? Well .... here goes:

Our tale begins during a routine visit to Michael's allergist. April and I spent several minutes explaining how Michael has endured a wee-bit of trouble with his allergies this spring. If you consider coughing all night and emptying entire stores of their kleenex supplies a "wee-bit" of trouble. Our allergist noted all the trouble in her chart and gave us samples of two different allergy drugs. We were instructed to try them out and report back.

The first drug, unfortunately, had exactly zero effect. Michael continued to sniffle, sneeze and wheeze his way through life. After four days of using the first drug known as "Clarinex," April and I made the fateful decision to switch to a drug that will forever be known among the Ward family as the "Evil Pills." A decision that will go down in parenting lore.

The actual name of the drug is "Singulair," and it comes in bright blue packages. Just an innocent looking box of pink chewable tablets that taste like candy ... AND UNLEASH THE POWER OF SATAN ON TODDLERS!!

The first couple of days Michael took his pill and went about the day in his normal fashion. A happy, if somewhat bored, toddler living the dream in the suburbs. By the third day, however, I began noticing subtle changes in his personality. These changes were so discreet, it took my highly-skilled detective expertise to snuff them out.

Michael's eyes locked into a hard, cold stare. His posture grew stiff and his hands clenched tightly into fists. He began throwing tantrums at EVERYTHING, spewing out diatribes of woe such as, "I hate you, I hate everyone, I hate this, I HATE EVERYTHING!!!!!" Whenever I asked him to do something, he would simply shout "NO!" and proceed to cry for an hour.

The final straw occurred when I scolded him for his latest jaunt toward trouble, and he proceeded to start punching me in the arm and chest. Keep in mind that Michael is approaching his fourth birthday and I've never really had to spank him. It's not that I've declared "I shall never spank my son," or anything of the sort. It's just that I haven't HAD to spank him. I've never really had a reason to. His "bad" behavior (before the Evil Pills) simply consisted of meltdowns and tantrums that halted after a five-minute "time-out" period in his room. He has always been a pleaser (thank goodness).

After my precious boy began wailing on me like Rocky in a prizefight, it suddenly dawned on me ... "Holy crap, this kid is a brat! I'm going to have to start spanking him." I began wondering what caused such a sudden change in his behavior. Why I was envisioning scenes from "Children of the Corn," while the theme music from "The Omen" was blasting through my head. One particularly terrifying thought followed when I wondered how long it would take little Michael to realize there were knives in the kitchen.

That's when I knew we had a problem.

As fate often works, April and I ran into some friends at a wedding later that evening. When we relayed our sad tale, they were not surprised at all. Their youngest child had the same reaction to the Evil Pills, and some friends of theirs also had a rather negative reaction. It appears this drug has a few side-effects that don't sit well with young children. Namely, anger, depression and impatience. I'm not saying this happens to all children who take it. Perhaps these three cases are entirely in contrast to what normally happens. But I do find it odd that we just happened to hear about kids that had the exact same reaction as Michael while taking the Evil Pills.

So the next day we took Michael off the medication, and it wasn't long before the future mass-murderer disappeared and our loving son returned. That gust of wind you felt last Monday evening was April and I sighing with relief!

I just wanted to relay this tale to any and all parents of small children. If your child is taking Singulair and he or she starts acting strangely, picking out Michael Myers masks and asking for chain saws, please know that they may be having an adverse reaction to this medication. If you take them off these pills, and they still hover in your bedroom doorway at night uttering "Sleep tight Daddy, heheheh!!," well, then you're on your own!

Be safe kiddies!

- Dave

It's Business Time

2008-06-03T16:14:00.002-06:00

For some crazy reason the powerful ones at my church have decided to appoint me to the Board of Directors. Yeah me. As in, "the guy who once nearly set off a nuclear catastrophe at a football game by microwaving a hot dog completely wrapped in aluminum foil." Ah, the smoke ... the flames ... the screaming. Such memories.

Anyway, after taking in my lounge act and reviewing my astounding resume (5 BCS National Championships, 2 Super Bowl rings, an AL Central Championship on the playstation), the powerful ones saw fit to place me on the Board. I have as much business experience as your average preschooler. Scratch that. Michael has discovered a genuine flair for business with his new toy cash register. In just two weeks time the little guy has turned a non-existent business that produces exactly zero goods and services into $9 profit. Let's see Bill Gates do that!

I heard a rumor that my name was on the list of Board nominations last month, and I immediately deduced someone was having a great bit of fun with that joke. Then I received notice in the mail that I was indeed being appointed to the Board. It just goes to show that anybody, and I mean ANYBODY can accomplish something in this great nation of ours, kiddies.

So now instead of being "Stay-at-home-Dad puke," I can officially change my title to "Super important Board member Stay-at-home-Dad puke." Please hold your applause.

Unfortunately the story gets even better. Last night was my first official Board meeting with the powerful ones. I ventured out in the Green Machine and quickly found myself sitting in an actual conference room located inside the private office of a particularly powerful, powerful one. The office contained a gigantic wooden desk so essential to conference rooms. There were large, powerful looking black chairs and the obligatory patio door leading out to the fairway of a pristine golf course. Clearly I was in my element with my ripped jeans, two-day-old beard and Juicy Juice stains. But hey, I brought a notebook and a pen and everything!

Before the meeting started I promised myself that I would keep my eyes open and my mouth shut. I was going to play it cool, you see. Act like I attend board meetings all the time, and I definitely don't spend my days shopping at Winco and playing fantasy baseball.

Everything went well at first. The powerful ones pulled out their laptops, while I carefully removed the cap from my fountain pen. The incoming board president began the meeting with introductions, and before I knew it, we were knee deep in by-laws, strategic planning, organizational audits and several other terms I have no clue about.

Seeking a way to divert attention away from my "George Bush during a debate" face, I promptly offered the Board a sampling of my wisdom. I blurted out something I felt was quite brilliant at the time, but in retrospect probably sounded like, "I agree!." And that's when it happened. The Board members, obviously attempting to console the new guy, directed some positive responses my way. Little did they know that my lounge singer is always lurking just below the surface. All it takes is a few kudos and he's off and running.

You can guess the rest. My "Cantshutupitis" returned with a vengeance, and I proceeded to spend the next 2 hours and 59 minutes of our three hour meeting espousing my slightly controversial, occasionally horrific views on things that I really know nothing about. I opened my notebook and pounded my fist on the desk for emphasis. It wasn't until I broke out my box of Crayolas and my Etch-A-Sketch that I truly hit my stride. It was a sight to behold believe me!

When it was over the powerful ones picked their jaws up off the floor and exited the building in a rather hasty fashion. I boarded the Green Machine that evening with a rare sense of accomplishment. "This isn't so bad," I said to myself with a sly grin. "I think I might make a rather good Super important Board member stay-at-home Dad puke."

"Assuming I figure out what strategic planning is."

Stay beautiful kiddies! Call me, we'll do lunch!

- Dave

New Kitty on the Block

2008-05-28T14:36:00.006-06:00

Occupants in our home must step softly these days. Great precautions are needed against sudden movements of any kind. Dangling of keys is ill-advised and woe unto him who dares roll a ball or attempt to read the newspaper. You see, our house has been overtaken by a wild animal. A crazy-eyed beast that thinks nothing of pouncing on an unsuspecting hand or scurrying from room-to-room at warp speed. This ferocious entity sleeps most of the day, but once the sun sets and the witching hour begins, it awakens with an appetite for destruction.

Or at least minor mayhem.

We've named her Meiko and she assures you she is as tough a little kitty as there ever was. If you don't believe her, just dangle some string and watch the carnage ensue!

I've chronicled in this blog the sad tale of losing our cat Smores just after Christmas. The loss came suddenly and left a void in our family. April spent the past few months pining for a new cat, and after restraining herself for an impressive amount of time, she finally broke down and brought little Meiko home from the pound last week. I was a little nervous at first. There are only a small number of cats on the planet that don't send my allergies into overdrive. Meiko, however, is among the proud few that I am not allergic to. So a minor crisis in my marriage was avoided. (phew!)

Meiko is nine months old and full of spunk. She has beautiful black and white fur and bright green eyes. I'd love to post a picture of her, but I am extremely and humiliatingly inept with computers. The mere fact that I can post on this blog at all is a tribute to how "idiot proof" it truly is. I have no Earthly idea how to use digital cameras, and I couldn't begin to wonder how people post pictures on blogs. I take solace in the fact that renowned author Robert Fulghum admits a similar ineptness with computers. Being a renowned author, however, Fulghum employs an "assistant" to handle such matters and his website is world-class. My only "assistant" at the moment is Meiko, and each time I hand her my brilliant notes to transcribe, she just sits on top of them and purrs.

So our family is back to a fearsome-foursome once again. We've got April, our shining beacon of light (beautiful, successful, currently pursuing a doctorate degree); Michael, our future Oscar winner (accurately portrays all emotions on cue, just proudly completed his first session of preschool, huge Speedracer fan); our husky dog Kiki (cancer survivor, family guardian angel); Meiko, our new bundle of joy (expert pouncer and weaver of exotic kitty stories); and then there's me (expert diaper changer, video game addict, occasionally horrifies audiences with long-winded lounge acts).

Smores remains ever-present in our hearts and souls. Gone but never forgotten.

I'll leave you today with some sound advice. If you ever find yourself entering the Ward castle, make sure you refrain from dropping on all fours and mimicking a spider with your fingers. The ensuing pouncing could get ugly.

Be good kiddies!

- Dave

Too Sexy for My Bike

2008-05-21T12:33:00.004-06:00

I thought I would direct my rant today at a rather curious phenomenon occurring around my house. It appears the streets in my neighborhood have been overtaken by serious bike riders. And I mean SERIOUS! I'm sure most of you would acknowledge that bike riders take to the streets with gusto each spring. Lots of you surely partake in this wonderful pastime.

But the riders around my neighborhood have taken the practice to an entirely new level. You see, riders around here don't just slap on a helmet, jump on the bike and go. Oh no! These people spend what must take at least 30 minutes dressing up like they are ready to cross the finish line at the Tour de France! They slip on obscenely bright yellow spandex shirts covered in logos. They wear matching spandex shorts with equally matching logos. They have special bike-riding socks, shoes and gloves. Some of them shave their leg hair to become more "aerodynamic." All of this for a short jaunt through the neighborhood, mind you!

This practice fascinates me. Why do they go to such lengths to simply ride a bike? Are they living out some long-lost professional biking fantasy? Do they pretend to be Lance Armstrong while they whip past neighbors mowing lawns and cleaning out gutters? Do these same people slip on official Los Angeles Lakers jerseys, complete with top, shorts, warm-up suit, ankle tape, goggles, and arm bands, to shoot baskets in the driveway? Do they don shoulder pads, cleats, helmets and eye-black to play catch with a football in the back yard?

Bike-rider guy, if you're out there, please explain! I'm dying to know!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to throw on my official Dale Earnhardt Jr. racing uniform and drive to the store.

Race on kiddies!

- Dave

I Love Springtime! I Love it! I Love it! I Love it!

2008-05-16T13:23:00.005-06:00

These past two days have been absolutely brilliant. The first no-doubt-about-it touch of spring in our little corner of Idaho. Life has replenished before unbelieving eyes yet again. Every year it's the same. Months of gray creep along slowly. Snow falls and unforgiving cold seeps into your bones like a virus. You become accustomed to shivering and watching your breath transform to fog. In fact, these activities pass as entertainment.

Then one glorious day you take a moment to stop shivering and notice that everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, has changed. The world is green again. Leaves announce their triumphant reunion with the wind. Flowers every color of the rainbow stretch toward the sky and the sun wraps you in warm rays like a blanket.

While witnessing nature's grand rebirth, only one response escapes from your stunned and delighted soul ..... "How the @#$$# did that happen!!!"

Yes, kiddies, spring has returned and its time to endure Uncle Dave's annual "I love springtime! I love it! I love it! I love it!" rant. Hey this blog is free so you get what you get. Now pipe down and listen!

These past two days have renewed my lust for living. The thermometer climbed toward 90 degrees, the clouds decided to take a much-needed vacation, and the brilliant blue sky flexed its muscles. This is simply a beautiful time of year. It makes me wish I was a novelist, so I could describe the scene with something a little more eloquent than, "It sure is purdy! Yessiree!"

Alas, I am a poet not. And my prose reek of cheese that be stinky. Anyhoo, it was so purdy yesterday that I jumped in the Green Machine and hightailed it down to the river! The same thing I do every year when the sun comes out.

I don't think I've shared this before, but if I truly had my way, I would live in a VAN down by the RIVER. I haven't decided yet if I would wear uncomfortably tight suits from the 1970's and slam myself into coffee tables, but I would lay my head where the sound of cool running water sings me to sleep. (I'm reading "The Grapes of Wrath" right now, so please excuse the painfully bad imagery I'm using).

Michael was off gallivanting with his Grandparents for the day, so the river and I shared a quiet, peaceful reunion during a lazy spring afternoon. I sat on a log in my favorite spot and watched the current float by with the same sense of awe I've held since my first moments on this Earth. Ducks were flying overhead, and the trees conducted their quiet symphony with the breeze (I'm sorry, I can't help myself!). I wish I could say these were the only sounds present, but there was a disturbingly loud generator humming off in the distance. What can I say, I live in the suburbs.

I sat by the water for several minutes, just appreciating the fact I've been blessed enough to share in this vast and incomprehensible dance we call "life." At times like this, it often occurs to me that humans think we have all the answers. The truth is we'll never crack the surface when it comes to the mystery and power of nature and the divine. When it comes to understanding "life," we're all just guessing and that's perfectly okay.

My next thought was equally profound .... "Why did I wear sandals when I knew I would be walking on a dirt path filled with tiny rocks? Ouch!"

And thus my deep thoughts for the afternoon ended.

Feeling at peace after a long winter, I proceeded to show off my "there are rocks in my sandals" dance to several confused onlookers while making my way back to the Green Machine. I returned home feeling calm, jubilant and filled with one simple thought .. "I love springtime! I love it! I love it! I love it!"

Enjoy the sunshine kiddies!

- Dave

Forward march

2008-05-09T16:06:00.004-06:00

One of the best reasons to open those eyes and roll out of bed every day is the very real possibility you will experience something so wild, so unexpected, that you could never have seen it coming. It doesn't happen every day. Let's face it, most days pass without a hint of excitement. There are times you can predict every moment of your day. From the first monotonous stroke of the toothbrush, to the final pull of the covers over your tired, bored body.

But then there are the days that make you stand up and take notice. Days when something happens that makes you gaze anew and shake your head in disbelief. Days like I had yesterday.

My adventure started out routine enough. I was deeply involved in living the dream, chugging along in the Green Machine to Eagle hot-spots like Albertsons grocery store and the post office. I was just returning from a riveting visit to the library when my brush with the bizarre took place.

As I was pulling the Jeep into the garage, I noticed a large contingent of people marching up the street on my left. We live on a fairly busy street, but the traffic usually consists of cars and the occasional golf cart. I've never seen a large group of people marching in the middle of that street before, so this was quite a shock.

When I got out of the Jeep, I noticed a familiar yet strange sound coming from the group. I instantly recognized the sound as bagpipes blasting at full volume. I ventured to the end of the driveway to get a closer look and saw the group was actually a very large number of high school kids. They were all dressed in Medieval attire and chanting something that I couldn't quite decipher. Fully intrigued, I couldn't help myself. I walked up to the group of at least 30 knights and damsels and asked the obvious question.

"What's going on?" I asked, trying my best to act like I see large Medieval parades in front of my house all the time.

"We're doing our Medieval Mustang March," a fair-haired lady of the castle answered. "We do it every year. We're marching to the elementary school."

Well, why didn't you say so? The Medieval Mustang March! Of course! Why didn't I guess?

It appears that Eagle High School's mascot is the Mustangs, and every year students dress up in courtly attire and march through the neighborhood to the elementary school located behind my house.

So there you have it. I was methodically cruise-controlling my way through another day, until a parade of Medieval high school kids marched to bagpipe music in front of my house. How's that for unexpected?

March on kiddies!

- Dave

I know you don't care, but ....

2008-05-06T14:32:00.003-06:00

I have a number of updates for you guys. Some nice and tidy endings to several open-ended stories I've addressed in this space previously. So here goes ---

First of all, after many hours of pain and suffering, I finally convinced little Michael to wipe his own nose. That's right. I may have lost several battles along the way, but I came out victorious when the war was over. It's these small victories in life that keep the stay-at-home parent going. How did I do it? What was the brilliant strategy that finally brought glory back to the Union? That's easy. I did it the old fashioned way. I shamed him into it! I relayed several tear-jerking stories about going back to preschool and not being able to blow his nose. How the other kids would look down on him and the teachers would be disappointed. Truthfully, these stories had no effect on the stubborn little guy. What actually sealed the deal was a promise that Mommy would be "so proud" if he wiped his own nose. When he heard this, he immediately dropped his artillery and waved the white flag, despite the fact that he had my troops surrounded and beaten. So Mommy saves the day ... Again!

My second update deals with the previous blog entry about Ernest Hemingway. I've just finished reading "For Whom the Bell Tolls," and, yeah, it's not exactly a barrel of laughs. Unless you find guerrilla warfare with everyone calling each other fascists and violently slaying one another funny. I don't, but that's just me. Apparently I spoke too soon about Mr. Hemingway. His novel "The Sun Also Rises," is a tribute to frivolity and devil-may-care living. It stands as a shining beacon of soul-searching that the "Beat" generation of the 50's would expand upon and take to new heights. It's a lot like a European version of "On the Road," but of course it was written nearly 30 years before Jack Kerouac's masterpiece. I loved it!

Apparently this novel stands out a bit and is not exactly indicative of Hemingway's later work. "For Whom the Bell Tolls" is a brutally honest look at warfare and how futile it can be. The novel features characters giving their lives to "The Republic," even though they have no idea exactly what "The Republic" is. They simply follow orders without any knowledge of the big picture. They justify killing because they are following these orders. It's a tremendous novel. Just a whole lot different than my first impressions of Ole' Ernie.

I'm reading a book of his short stories right now, and his preoccupation with death and dying is quite evident. He also has a somewhat bleak view on life, and the ability for people to achieve true happiness. A tremendous author who challenges you. Just not the fun-loving dude I first envisioned.

So, now that I've got that misconception out of the way, I have one final update for you. It appears my "Star Wars" lounge singer escaped from his cage again. I know, I know. This is never good for anybody. But it really wasn't my fault this time! The Minister at my church, Elizabeth, decided to take a Sabbatical from January until August. She basically said, "Hey I'm taking off for a year, and I want you volunteers to run the entire church while I'm gone." Like an idiot I agreed to help out, and I've been working with guest speakers on a regular basis. Well, our guest speaker for last Sunday had to leave town at the last minute because of a family emergency. Three guesses who ended up speaking on the pulpit Sunday morning. That's right, Mr. "Starrrrrr Waaarrrrssss!!!" was back baby!! Complete with a karaoke machine and a new set of dancing shoes! I did manage to reign him in this time. I think there was only one jig danced and I believe I only shouted "thank ya, thank ya very much!" while making the Richard Nixon peace signs twice. It wasn't a pretty sight, but it was last minute and I don't believe it will happen again. Mr. Lounge singer is back in his cage safe and sound.

I hope this clears everything up kiddies!

- Dave

Goin' down in a blaze of glory

2008-05-01T13:51:00.005-06:00

Have you ever heard the expression, "If Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." Well, I'd like to add my own little contribution. Something like, "If your toddler has a cold and a fever, ain't nobody else happy neither!"

Yeah, that about sums up this past week. Our adorable little Michael contracted a nasty spring cold last Sunday evening. His nose sprung a permanent leak and his eyes turned a lovely shade of red. His voice raised three octaves and his thriving four-year-old vocabulary shrunk to just four words .... "I need a KLEENEX!!!"

I spent the entire week glued to Michael's side wiping his nose and drying his eyes. Oh, and there were plenty of tantrums to endure. Wouldn't want to forget about those! Lovely times all around, I assure you.

His fever lasted nearly three days and his nose insists on running non-stop even as I type this. After four days of continuous wiping, I finally crossed my fingers and initiated a showdown I had been putting off for some time. That's right -- I finally insisted that little Michael wipe his own nose!!

Now, you might be saying to yourself, "Why wouldn't a kid nearly four years old wipe his own nose already?" My answer is that I am a terrible parent, and you are wonderful, and I could never live up to the lofty standards that you in all of your perfect glory have established ... NOW BACK OFF!!!

Okay, I feel better. So the showdown went down just like I imagined it. Michael proceeded to scream and cry for several hours, setting off a rash of 911 calls from the neighbors. Apparently they figured that amount of screaming could only be produced through sheer torture. Michael and I had several exchanges fit for a Hallmark card. Here's a sample:

Michael: "Daddy, I need a kleenex! I need a kleenex! I need a kleenex! I need a kleenex!"

Me: "Michael, get it yourself! Get it yourself! Get it yourself! Get it yourself!"

Can't you just hear the violins playing in the background? All we needed were some six-shooters and a dusty road in front of the old saloon. You can guess how this little showdown ended. That's right, I ended up wiping Michael's nose while simultaneously texting my shrink. It doesn't take long to figure out who wears the pants in this family!!

So that was my week. How was yours?

Keep the tissues handy kiddies!

- Dave

The Toddler Also Rises (And Wakes Up Daddy)

2008-04-18T21:01:00.004-06:00

Well I've finally done it. My dirty little secret is officially a thing of the past. After 30 years on this Earth, I have finally read an Ernest Hemingway novel. You know, one of the most important influences on the development of the short story and novel in American fiction. The guy that seized the imagination of the American public like no other twentieth-century author ... and other praise I'm copying straight out of his "About the Author" section!

This has always been a shameful fact I've kept hidden away. Along with the facts that I can't swim and I've never been able to effectively blow bubbles without spitting gum across the room. But don't tell anyone.

The fact that I had never actually read a Hemingway novel is inexcusable. As a thriving ex-journalist, I should have flocked to him like a groupie. After all, Hemingway is perhaps the most famous and accomplished ex-journalist of all time. Right alongside Stephen King and John Tesh. And he lived in Idaho for crying out loud!! How many Pulitzer Prize-winning authors have lived in Idaho? Anyone? Hello?

Here's the problem. For some reason Hemingway has earned a reputation as a larger-than-life figure that requires special powers of brilliance to comprehend. April still recalls the time her high school class spent an entire month pouring over the religious symbolism within "The Old Man and the Sea." You can't even say the name "Hemingway," without triggering a reflex that forces you to stroke your chin and mumble, "Yes. Hemingway. Indeed."

I've also made the mistake in the past of trying to read other "classic" authors such as Charles Dickens and Dostoevsky. I needed smelling salts and strong electric currents to shock me out of my coma. Snoozers all.

So, while spending a rare childless afternoon at Barnes and Noble last week, I decided to take the plunge. I was going to purchase a Hemingway novel and I was going to read it! I would endure every last religious symbol and obscure reference that I was clearly not brilliant enough to understand. I would take it like a man and pretend that I understood every word!

I went home that evening, said a little prayer, and began reading. It took about two pages before I blurted out, "Why didn't anybody tell me he was awesome!!" This is a guy who wrote after every red-blooded male's heart. He had it all - fishing, alcohol, bull fights, girls, more alcohol, exotic trips into the mountains, even more alcohol, tennis, and drunken antics fueled by alcohol.

I'm not sure where this high-brow reputation came from, but Ole' Ernie was a fun-loving SOB who wrote entire novels filled with simple sentences like, "It was always pleasant walking over the bridge at sunset," and "So we sat and thought deeply for a while." Crazy stuff! I don't know about you, but I've never in my life sat with someone silently and "thought deeply for a while." I love it!

I read "The Sun Also Rises" in three days, and I followed that by reading "The Old Man and the Sea" today while Michael took a nap. It felt fine to be reading and happy .... See, there I go. I can't help myself. The ghost of Ernie has taken over my soul. This very moment I'm fighting off a compulsion to guzzle two bottles of wine and chase it with a whiskey sour. If they had a bull-fighting channel I'd be watching it right now, while downing three beers and a shot of bourbon.

So here's to you, Ernest Hemingway. I plan to spend the next few weeks devouring your novels and ridding myself of three decades of guilt. Anyone got any leather wine-bags?

Sit and think deeply for a while kiddies!

- Dave

My one shining moment ... and sermon

2008-04-08T10:58:00.004-06:00

A couple of weeks ago I had great fun joking about my son Michael's penchant for stardom during his brief appearance on local public television. I kidded the little guy for grabbing the microphone out of the host's hands, and busting out one-liners that will live in PBS infamy.

Well, it seems the apple does not fall far from the tree in the Ward household. It appears that Michael's father may have some issues with, shall we say, hogging the spotlight. Two Sundays ago I spent a morning delivering a sermon at my church. It was a heartfelt plea for people to look beyond the labels that seem so prevalent and divisive in our society, and try to see people for who they truly are. Try to understand where they are coming from, even if you don't agree with what they are saying or what they stand for. Bring back the lost art of communication and debate.

The problem with the presentation is that it contained a few jokes. Okay, about a thousand jokes. Some of which must have been funny, because the audience let out a few hearty laughs early on. Apparently this reaction triggered a star-fuse in my brain, and suddenly I thought I was Jim Carrey doing standup. I morphed into a cross between Carrey and Bill Murray's lounge act guy on Saturday Night Live singing "Starrrr Waaaaarrrrssss!" It wasn't a pretty sight, let me assure you.

I spent about 20 minutes reeling off zingers and dancing a jig (at least I think that's what it was!). It was truly my "One Shining Moment." In fact, I may have sung a few bars of this lovely tune at some point during the speech. I can't remember. It's all a blur now!

When it was mercifully over the stunned crowd sat in silence and held each other for comfort. Well, you'll be happy to know that I'm back to changing diapers and scooping dog food. The Star Wars guy has left the building. For now at least. We can only hope I don't run into any TV cameras, or a podium, in the near future. Who knows what chaos will ensue!

I would, however, like to offer my sermon here for anyone interested in reading it. Just picture Bill Murray crooning "If they should baaarrrrr Waaaaarrrrrsss, pleaaaasse let these Starrrrr Waaarrrrrsss staaaaaaaaaaayyyy!," and you'll have an accurate picture in your head of what it was like to witness Michael's father deliver it .....

“PEELING OFF THE LABELS”

David M. Ward

Last spring I spent a glorious evening participating in one of America’s most treasured pastimes. That’s right – I went bowling. Joining me in this grand tradition of cold beer, greasy food, pesky pins and hideous shoes was a lifelong friend who literally grew up next door to me. She’s known me since the fourth grade, so she’s well aware of my Unitarian Universalist habit of throwing out controversial statements and opinions at the most inopportune times. I just assumed that she gave her boyfriend, whom I was meeting for the first time that evening, fair warning. As you will soon see, I assumed wrong.

The first hour passed without a hitch. Beer flowed and strikes mounted. One of those strikes inexplicably came from me. Quite a rare feat, I assure you. We quickly delved into conversation so beloved among the “lanes.” You know – football, beer, football. Like all good UU’s, I somehow shifted a lively debate about whether the 49ers do indeed suck toward politics. I still don’t recall how this happened, but just be aware it’s not unusual. Before I know what is happening, I find myself droning on about the merits of Mr. Bill Clinton and his varied accomplishments as President of the United States. Again, I have no idea how this happened. I just know that it did.

Well, this induced a rather peculiar reaction from the boyfriend. His body language, which was rather calm and friendly up until this point, stiffened instantaneously. His eyes became wide saucers filled with a curious mixture of bewilderment, fear and anger. Steam began shooting out of his ears, and his skin turned white as snow.

“Oh my god,” he uttered with fists clenched. “YOU’RE A DEMOCRAT!!!”

I’ve got another one for you.

I recently crossed paths with a friend of a friend at a holiday party. We began chatting pleasantly about weather and chips while congregating over a large bowl of chips. Everything was going fine until he began dropping disturbing buzz words. He kept uttering things like “Moscow,” and “Kibbie Dome.” I shook it off, telling myself I was only hearing things, until he dropped the ultimate bomb. “When do you think the Vandals will turn it around,” he asked, without a hint of sarcasm.

Quickly my stomach began churning. My eyes became wide saucers filled with a curious mixture of bewilderment, fear and anger. Steam began shooting out of my ears, and my skin turned white as snow.

“Oh my god,” I uttered with fists clenched. “YOU’RE AN IDAHO VANDALS FAN!!!”

Okay, okay. I made that last one up. Everyone knows there is no such thing as an Idaho fan anymore (Is this thing on?). But the first scenario is genuine, and the second one, well it could very well happen to any loyal Bronco backer.

The point of this little venture down story time is to shed light on a rather disturbing trend in our society. It appears that labels, and all of the negative connotations that come with them, are taking over. People are divided these days by everything from government party affiliation, to sports teams, to choice of automobile. It appears that most of us go through our lives looking for ways to divide ourselves, rather than respect the “worth and dignity of each human being,” as our UU principles teach. This is nothing new. Labels have existed since the beginning of time. What is disturbing, however, is the increased negativity and outright hostility emerging in society today.

People may enjoy numerous things in common. They might enjoy each other’s company, revel in common experiences and share a similar sense of humor. They might get along wonderfully before one simple label, one measly word, shatters everything. Once revealed, the label cannot be taken back and the numerous items shared in common are rendered obsolete. This is simply not right.

To experience first-hand the power of labels on your own life, consider a few examples and all of the emotions and back-stories that go with them. Words like “Democrat,” “Republican,” “Idahoan,” and “illegals.” Consider religious labels such as “fundamentalist,” “bible thumper” and “non-believer.” Labels such as “tree-hugger” and “gas-guzzler” are bandied about regularly in everyday conversation. In all of these cases the emphasis has drifted away from “who” you are and focused squarely on “what” you are. In most cases this emphasis is entirely negative and strips away the common human traits that we all share. In each instance a simple label holds potential to snowball into radical assumptions regarding belief, lifestyle and religious affiliation. It has become all too easy to assume you know everything about someone simply through a label. Again, these assumptions are almost always negative.

The label that convinced me things were getting out of hand was “American.” I distinctly remember hearing the phrase, “I’m a good American,” and being repulsed by it. The speaker was not referring to living in the United States of America. He was referring to a specific ideology, political party and religious affiliation that differed from my own. This revelation was both mystifying and terrifying.

Allow me a moment for full disclosure. It’s possible I need this presentation more than anyone in this room. I am a fully-functioning “labelaholic,” complete with preconceived notions and unwarranted prejudice. My rant against materialism has reached epic proportions. My wife, April, jokes this very rant serves as a rite of initiation when getting to know me. A typical introduction goes something like this – “Hi there, my name’s Dave. It’s really nice to meet you. Some weather we’re having, right? …. LET ME TELL YOU WHY HUMMERS ARE EVIL!”

For the many kind souls in this room who have endured this rant, I offer my deepest apologies. Most of you have continued to tolerate my presence, because UU’s have a long tradition of accepting crazy people. Many may agree with my less, shall we say, idiotic points against materialism. But it still doesn’t make my behavior acceptable. To lay out blanket assumptions about an entire segment of people is both ignorant and immature. As April is often quick to point out, that “evil” hummer driver I am raging against might donate millions of dollars to charity each year. He or she might dedicate their lives to bettering humanity while driving around in a small tank. You simply don’t know.

We all need to drop the assumptions. Move past the temptation to label everyone and everything. Stop seeking out and glorifying our differences, and start focusing on the many wonderful traits we all share. The world is a vast and complicated place. The more you look around, the more you realize that the world is not black and white, as some would have you believe. Rather, the world is covered in shades of gray. There are good people doing bad things, and bad people doing good things. It’s too easy to live in fear, fall back on labels and distance yourself from others. Distance yourself from true sharing.

From true community.

From true love.

If you promise to avoid this trap, I will as well.

Here’s a secret I’ll share with you. You know that fear you hold deep, deep down inside? The ultimate awe at the mystery of what we’ll never understand, but ultimately call “life”? What this great mystery means, and how your tiny existence fits into its master plan? You know that overwhelming feeling you get while watching a bird in flight, or a baby laughing? How truly naked you feel when you ponder how much you don’t know and will never know regarding this great universe we’re all spending time in?

I have those same fears. I feel that same awe.

Look around this room. We all do.

I truly believe that a natural human response to these fears and this awe is to hide it way down deep where no one can find it. We cover our feeling of nakedness with layers of our own human creation. And we cover those layers with even more layers. “I’m not a confused, naked human life plucked out of the great mystery and placed on planet Earth. I’m a doctor, who is also a liberal, who attends a Unitarian Church and supports the Boston Red Sox,” would be one example. All of these labels serve as layers, covering our naked humanity and giving us a sense of control over that which will never truly be mastered.

These labels make us feel better. Give us an identity and direction. Unfortunately, problems arise when we lose sight of our exposed, naked selves lurking just below the surface. When we stop realizing that everyone is sharing these same feelings, and experiencing the same awe. They just express them differently and wear different layers. It’s perfectly natural to disagree. In fact, it’s healthy. As many of us at BUUF have experienced, one-sided debates are actually quite boring. Disagreement should always lead to discussion, which leads to thought, which ultimately produces progress.

Too often in today’s society we lose track of our common humanity. We are blinded by differences blown up to monumental proportions. Rather than seeing a fellow human soul trying to make it through this crazy life the best way he or she knows how, we see only an “enemy.” We are blinded by the various layers they wear, and lose all ability for compassion and understanding. “You wear designer clothes and talk on your cell phone at the park, so you must be a bad person,” would be one of my more misguided assumptions.

So, what can we do about this? How can we move beyond labels? Defeat them before they crush the humanity out of us all? I don’t know about you, but I think the best advice always comes from our mothers. I think we should all heed the advice they gave us around third grade. I believe it goes something like this – Whenever you’re confronted by someone who scares or intimidates you, just picture them naked. They won’t seem so scary anymore.

Sound about right?

Well, I say we give it a shot. We should go around picturing people naked! …. Not like that! We should simply take a deep breath, slowly peel off the layers they are covering themselves in, and attempt to truly see them for the first time. See who they really are, and what they are really all about. Find common ground in our shared humanity.

This idea is hardly a new one. Rest assured I didn’t come up with this stuff. I’m just a caveman-stay-at-home Dad. Your world confuses and frightens me. I do know, however, that leaders have been championing this cause since labels were first invented. Mahatma Gandhi eloquently phrases his passion for finding common ground by stating, “I offer you peace. I offer you love. I offer you friendship. I see your beauty. I hear your need. I feel your feelings. My wisdom flows from the Highest source. I salute that Source in you. Let us work together for unity and love.”

The Rev. Jesse Jackson warns, “Never look down on anybody, unless you’re helping him up.”

A favorite author of mine, Marianne Williamson, has written several wonderful books on the importance of unity. “Love is what we were born with,” she says in her beautiful book A Return to Love. “Fear is what we have learned here. The spiritual journey is the relinquishment- or unlearning – of fear and the acceptance of love back into our hearts.”

Words to live by, if you ask me.

Even Jesus Christ, arguably the most influential religious leader in our culture, commands, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”

And finally for those fellow souls worshiping at the altar of rock n’ roll, the King himself, Elvis Presley, sums up the matter with, “Don’t criticize what you don’t understand, son. You never walked in that man’s shoes.”

I’m pretty sure he ended his quote with a hearty, “Thank-ya very much.”

Until recently I was under the impression these views were outdated and possibly obsolete. I saw division at every corner. I saw fear. Worse, I saw an entire population championing this division and fear. Actually boasting about its inability to cooperate and even consider opposing views. It was the complete opposite of the 1960’s. Instead of “smile on your brother, everybody get together, try to love one another right now,” we had “get away from me you socialist loving hippy and take your liberal agenda with you.”

I thought there was no hope.

But a recent visit to our great state by presidential candidate Barack Obama changed my thinking. Obama, a Democrat, spoke before a packed house in arguably the most Republican state in the nation. His message strayed from the usual partisan division and concentrated on unifying people and bringing our country together. Obama spoke of actually working with Republicans and, gasp, other nations! He spoke of bringing forth change by casting away the labels so revered by political parties and moving toward a future of cooperation.

The strange thing is nobody booed him. Nobody cried out “stick to the left” and “stay true to the party.” It was quite the opposite. The crowd loved him, and his message of unity and finding common bonds struck a chord with every person present.

So maybe I’m not alone. Maybe others are tired of labeling everything, splitting everyone apart and living in fear. Perhaps the masses are finally willing to embrace the common humanity we all share and truly become a “United States.” It remains to be seen just how far Obama’s message of unity will take him. The charismatic senator could end up anywhere from the White House to the outhouse. Either way he struck a chord with millions of people and possibly ignited a movement toward change in our government and beyond.

Is it possible this message of unity is not so outdated after all? Is there still hope for “labelacholics” like me? Can we truly find a way to, “Love one another right now?” I honestly don’t know the answer. I just hope this talk today provides you with a simple way to improve your everyday life. If you’re like me and tend to, ahem, judge unnecessarily, perhaps you can take time to peel off the labels and reach the true soul residing just below the surface.

Earlier this morning April entertained us with a song entitled “One World.” It’s a favorite among the Ward family, a song of hope and unity performed by the “Celtic Woman” ensemble. I particularly love the beautiful message contained within the chorus. I often recall this chorus when I need a little “compassion reminder.” I use it as a mantra of sorts, allowing its message to steer me in a positive direction.

The chorus states, “We’re all part of one world. We all can share the same dream. And if you just reach out to me, then you will find, deep down inside, I’m just like you.”

Please keep this wonderful message close to your heart the next time you are confronted by a chain-smoking lawyer throwing trash out of his SUV while tailing your bumper on the interstate. Cast out that desire to rant and rave. Try closing your eyes instead. Unclench those fists, peel off those labels and truly look with compassion. You might recognize what you see.

I stand before you today ready and willing to change my ways. Dedicated to peeling off the labels and approaching the world with a new sense of compassion. Committed to casting out fear and prejudice and making room for true sharing. For true community. For true love.

Will you join me?

Good night and tip your waitress, kiddies!

- Dave

Old school

2008-04-04T16:14:00.005-06:00

Well it happened. I finally hit the big 3-0 today. I've joined the ranks of the middle aged, the silver foxes, the oldies-but-goodies. I've ventured full-force into the land of kids, pets and big Saturday plans at Home Depot, and maybe Bed Bath and Beyond, if there's time. I've left behind the wild days of reckless youth. The booze. The babes. Livin' life on the edge and never caring about The Man or his danged world ....

Oh, who am I kidding?! I never lived that life! Truth be told, I've always been a boring 30-year-old trapped in a young man's body. I married my high school sweetheart, bought a house right out of college and spent my "wild" 20's working and watching football (and not necessarily in that order). In all actuality, I'm relieved to finally be 30. Now I can be as boring as I please and I won't have any pressure to change. I won't feel any societal push to spend time in closet-sized bars squished between about 3,000 people, holding a warm beer and inhaling enough second-hand smoke to kill a herd of elephants. Better yet, I won't have to pretend that it's fun!

No one will ever care that I am an absolute dimwit at parties. I can slide seamlessly from the "weird dude who keeps talking about his kid," to the old guy that loves his family. I don't have to pretend that I have an ounce of coolness ever again! Hallelujah! The pressure's off baby! I can be as boring and dull as I wanna be. I might even go all out, slip on some spectacles and a pair of suspenders, and reel off endless stories with no point whatsoever. This is beautiful!

Here's another harsh truth -- My 20's were a disaster. I spent the entire decade in a career that I hated and trying to be somebody that I wasn't. I was often a miserable person to be around, and I just never got my act together.

So I welcome my 30's. I welcome a fresh new start and a chance to set things right again. These past three years have been a whirlwind, but taking care of Michael each and every day has finally forced me to mature and become an actual adult. It's about time! I plan to utilize these next few years to find my path and live a life that brings happiness to myself and others. True happiness. Not the "Dude I drank until 4 a.m. and I'm so hung over. You should have been there!" happiness.

You young whippersnappers can have that!

Be good kiddies!

- Dave

That reminds me of a story ....

2008-03-26T15:19:00.006-06:00

I'd like to use this forum today to personally apologize to all of the poor souls who have had the unfortunate experience of conversing with me during the past three years. I just returned from the doctor's office and it turns out that I am sick, you see. Not well at all. Apparently I suffer from a rare disease the good Doc described as "Cantshutupitis." This is a dreadful condition that has been known to ravage unsuspecting stay-at-home parents dating back to Europe in the Dark Ages. There is no cure and the effect this disease has upon the public at-large can be devastating.

Here's how it works -- Shortly after beginning the glamorous existence of a stay-at-home parent, the unwitting victim undergoes a drastic transformation within the brain-system-thingy. The electrical impulses that run from the brain to the rest of the body go all screwy, and the victim begins to act like a grade-A dillhole during all social interactions. (Okay, I must confess that I'm not as smart as that last paragraph makes me sound. You see, I copied the symptoms verbatim out of my new textbook, "Hey Idiots! This here's the Brain!").

So basically the combination of utter boredom and complete lack of regular conversation with anyone over the age of three causes a stay-at-home parent to, um, act kind of funny when they actually leave the house.

A typical social situation goes something like this -- After spending around 30 consecutive days listening to "Wiggles" songs and vaccuming, a breathless stay-at-home parent leaves the house and enters a party filled with unsuspecting victims, er, people. Picture a starving dog pouncing on a juicy rib-eye.

Soon the first victim, er, person approaches and attempts to kick off a polite conversation. They might ask something innocent like, "How are you?" Now remember from the textbook that "Cantshutupitis" patients have screwy brain-impulse-thingys. Instead of hearing, "How are you?," the patient actually hears, "Tell me everything you know about the art of changing a diaper. And please, spare no detail! If you could ramble on for over 20 minutes, that would be outstanding!"

It's not the patient's fault I tell you! You've gotta believe me! It's a disease dang it!

Another victim/person might ask about the weather and instead receive an hour-long dissertation on the wonders of visiting the grocery store on a Tuesday morning, complete with Powerpoint and a slide show.

One poor lady recently made the inexcusable mistake of asking me about my wedding ring. You see, she noticed I had a tungsten-carbide band. What followed borders on harassment. Why she didn't find the complete story of how April and I came upon this beautiful ring as fascinating as I did, one will never know. Some mysteries are meant to stay unsolved.

I've battled "Cantshutupitis" for some time now, and I naively thought I had it under control. Until last Saturday night. The symptoms of my rare disease flared up violently and left a very nice couple seeking therapy.

April and I met said nice couple, lets call them "Matt Leinart" and "Kelly Ripa," for dinner at a local sports bar. I was meeting the adorable twosome, complete with matching blond hair and million dollar smiles, for the first time. Never a good situation for your's truly.

I am convinced the evening would have transpired without incident if not for one major problem -- "Matt Leinart" and "Kelly Ripa" happen to be a very quiet couple. There is nothing wrong with this. Unless you happen to suffer from "Cantshutupitis." The disease views a lapse in conversation as a challenge and attempts to overpower it by sheer volume.

I must admit I was in rare form that night. I enlightened these two poor souls with all of my knowledge regarding The Doodlebops, religion, hockey, Boston, former Idaho State University basketball coach Doug Oliver, food allergies, and I think I even described the strengths and weaknesses of the entire Arizona Diamondbacks pitching rotation. A true testament to the sheer power of "Cantshutupitis."

There was a point in the evening where I'm convinced that "Matt Leinart" was covering his ears while I explained the exciting financial benefits of grocery shopping at Winco. At the time I figured he was simply trying to block out the crowd noise so he could fully consume my every word. I tried to help him out by speaking louder and closer to his ear. A gesture he no-doubt appreciated.

I remember thinking what a nice couple they were while they sped off in their Outback, leaving smoke and rubber streak marks in their wake. It wasn't until hours later that I realized the misery I subjected them to.

So please allow me the opportunity to apologize to "Matt Leinart," "Kelly Ripa," "ring lady," and all of the countless others I've inadvertently tortured while battling this disease. Just know that my blabbering was never intentional and I feel really bad about it.

Kind of like the time I printed a kids name wrong in one of my sports articles. Hey, did I ever tell you about that. It's a great story! I was sitting in 100-degree heat during a scorching July afternoon in Mesa. There I was, sitting in the bleachers and sweating my head off, when the kids took the field for the first inning. The kids had these weird black jerseys, and I remember thinking it was so silly to wear black jerseys on such a hot day ...............................

So sorry kiddies!

- Dave

(By the way, if you find this even remotely amusing, please know that I am mercilessly, um, borrowing the wonderful humor-writing style of author Patrick McManus (who is from Idaho!). Please, please, PLEASE read one of his books. "Never Sniff a Gift Fish," is my favorite. Be aware that mastering the art of reading while laughing out loud takes time and practice. But don't worry, you'll get the hang of it!)