Who’s Next?

Here’s a video I wrote for the Home Depot.

My 12 year old baby

I used to write a lot about Anna Beth. She is my first child, so by virtue of inexperience, the newness of even the most mundane happenings would inspire me to sit down and peck out story after story. I wrote about how she “cooed” and rolled over… how she slept with her arms above her head… how she snorted like a pig once after I made her laugh at just a few months old.

I even wrote about her poop when she was a baby.

I wrote about her handprints and the amazing noodle art she created in Sunday school. I wrote about her first this, her first that and even her second, third and fourth this and that.

She was this brand new part of me that I helped create, and she was “the cutest little angel on God’s big earth” (That was actually the title of a blog post I wrote about Anna looking for Easter Eggs when she was about 3 years old).

But I didn’t just write about her. I talked about her incessantly. I can only imagine my friends’ dread as I approached with another Anna-ism. They would smile while no doubt thinking to themselves, “What’d she do this time, memorize the Magna Carta?”

She was the smartest, most beautiful, talented and remarkable child to grace the earth.

A few years later, Anna helped welcome her siblings into the family. I’ll never forget the sweet tears that formed in her eyes the day her Mama and I told her she was going to be a big sister. She would finally have a real, live baby doll to show off to friends and family and strangers at the mall. She was equally excited when she found out about her baby sister and then another baby brother… and Anna became the family’s biggest cheerleader as we prayed about adopting baby #5.

That’s just the way she is. It’s the way she’s always been… happily and selflessly allowing herself to be replaced for the good of the family.*

I stopped writing about every inhale and exhale and funny word that came out of her mouth several years ago. There just wasn’t enough time, what with all the other kids and the miracles they were uncovering at every turn. Sometimes I would share a story here and there, but focus most often turned to her siblings. They were smaller and cuter and learning to do life for the first time. She was a big girl now.

Today is Anna’s twelfth birthday. Ugh.

12 years ago, I held this breath from heaven in my arms and I knew immediately that I was changed. I was a daddy, and she was my world – wrapped in a soft, pink and blue hospital blanket. At some point along the way, I seemed to forget the awe I felt knowing that God had blessed me beyond anything I could have ever imagined or hoped for. At some point, this little miracle became a little girl and the little girl became more of an obligation than a glimpse of God’s radical love and favor.

Today, she and her siblings are more often reminders of things that must be dealt with as opposed to divine creations that their mother and I have been gifted for a short time.

Such a short time.

Divine grace allows me to forgive myself for not acknowledging the gift of my kids every moment of every day, but my heart still breaks on Anna’s twelfth birthday because she does not… she cannot… fully understand the love and pride that her Daddy feels each time she enters a room or flashes that crooked smile.

She’s growing into a beautiful, graceful, faithful and determined young woman, and I pray that I can once again approach each day with the awe, wonder and gratitude of a Daddy experiencing the magic of firsts, seconds, thirds and fourths… as she becomes a teenager.

Sweet Jesus, help me…

*This comment does not reflect her attitude or actions when jockeying for the front seat of the car or for the first position in line for ice cream…

Read More. Write More?

I think that if I read more, I’d write more. That is to say, I’d steal more of others’ ideas and make them my own. I don’t think that reading makes people more able to write. If that was the case, my now deceased grandmother would have been Steinbeckian in her prose. She could’ve written Of Mice and Men just from the amount of soup can labels she read at the kitchen table. The stack of newspapers that piled next to her La-Z-Boy recliner would have helped generate at least the first 20-something chapters of The Grapes of Wrath.

No, the ability to write has nothing to do with reading. I just think reading can help take you there… to that place where you feel most comfortable typing words of your own (so to speak). But I don’t read that much.

Who has the time? I mean, when I am not working, I’m either thinking about work or doing stuff for my wife and/or kids. Not really for them so much as because they said so. I’m a weak-minded, flimsy-spined pushover. I’ve even started saying yes, ma’am and no ma’am… to my daughters. They are very convincing when they yell.

Anyway, I’m planning on growing a pair and neglecting my kids more often. What should I be reading? 

Things I did while my wife was out of town for 3 days:

Yelled a lot. Not at her. Just the kids.

Built a fire in a hole in the back yard just because.

Cut a kid’s hair.

Thought about cleaning the garage.

Ate peanut butter x 3.

Fed the kids peanut butter x 5.

7 loads of laundry.

Didn’t watch Dancing with the Stars.

Kicked the cat. Thrice.

Resisted the urge to shave a mustache.

Dusted the TV.

Didn’t fix the toilet.

Tried to hack her Facebook account so I could tell me how much she missed me.

Drank 4 beers.

Shaved a mustache.

Ate 2 packages of gummy bears.

Started reading a book.

Cleaned out the van.

Didn’t exercise.

Wiped 2 different rear-ends no fewer that 13 times each.

Worked until 3 AM… twice.

Made this:

And realized – again – how much I love, need and depend on my favorite person on the planet for just about everything that matters.

Sleep well, dear pet.

“Hey, look!” Anna said as she made her way down the stairs. “Rhino is asleep in his food bowl.”

Huh! So he was.

Only he wasn’t really asleep – I mean unless we’re talking metaphorically, as in “The Great Sleep,” or “Rhino has found his eternal resting place in the food bowl.”

But Rhino was dead. There was no sugarcoating this one.

We got the hamster for my now 11-year-old daughter for her ninth birthday. Actually, that’s not altogether true. We first bought her another hamster named “Pickles”, but Pickles “fell asleep” about 3 hours after all the candles were blown out, so he was quickly replaced the next day… with Rhino.

Rhino was a good hamster, I suppose. He basically kept to himself, running ‘round and ‘round at nighttime on his little hamster wheel… and then pretty much eating (when we remembered to feed him) and drinking from the bottle that still hangs, half empty, from his cage. That was it, really. He never caused too much trouble, and he only escaped his cage a couple of times.

One time, after cleaning his cage, Anna forgot to secure the latch, so he ventured out for a brief 10-12 minutes of freedom before being plunked back into the comfort of home amongst the Aspen wood chips and various hamster toys we’d gifted him throughout the previous weeks and months.

We’re not really clear as to how he got out the other time, but I’m convinced our cat is smarter than we make him out to be.

Anna rarely played with Rhino. Sometimes she’d take him out so he could roll around in a clear, plastic ball, but mostly he just did his thing… in his cage… in the corner of the room… Alone.

I can’t help but to feel a pang of guilt about poor Rhino. Never once did I rub, pet, hold or gaze upon him with anything other than disdain. I’d curse him on the way to the pet store, flabergasted as to why I was going out of my way to spend $8.79 on food for something we would kill with a broom had we not given him a name and placed him in a cage… in the corner of the room… Alone.

Alas, he was a good hamster, I suppose.

When asked what we should “do with the body,” I looked at my little teary-eyed girl and told her that trash pick-up was scheduled for tomorrow, so we’d just put him in a grocery sack and let them handle it. As she stood there mouth gaping, my wife pointed me in the direction of  the shovel in the garage and simply said, “go.”

Rhino’s final, eternal, big sleep, resting place is now behind the swing set, in a small hole, under a rock… in the corner of the back yard… alone.

Farewell, dear Rhino. I’m sorry we didn’t feed you more. May you sleep in peace.

I never knew that my nostrils were crooked until this morning. Thanks a lot… Everyone who has ever seen my nose!

Tomayto. Tomahto.

Last night, we put the kids in the closet. You see, there was a big storm coming, and being without a basement we thought the master bedroom closet would be the safest place for the Fab 5 to sit, cuddle and wait it out.

70 MPH winds were headed our way at 40 MPH (didn’t make sense then… doesn’t make sense now), and several tornados had already touched down just west of us. Roofs were being removed from houses like the tops to peanut cans. Cars were being flipped and turned and ‘moved’ hundreds of feet from their designated spots. It was bad out there, and it seemed to be moving right towards us. All five kids were excited about the adventure and sank deep into the comforters and pillows, anxiously anticipating the coming storm.

I stood watch at the front door, confident that we were all going to be OK and smiling at the thought of my cat… out there.

But the screams from the closet made me run back there to comfort and console. My three year old was especially giddy. He was squealing and laughing and diving in and out of the covers asking, “Is it here? Is it coming? Daddy, where is it?”

He was uncontrollable. The look on his face was of both joy and terror and he was becoming increasingly annoying. I tried to put myself in his position: “It’s raining really hard outside, so we’re hiding in Mom and Dad’s closet in and amongst shoes and sweaters and carelessly thrown coat hangers…” I guess that IS pretty unnerving to a three year old, but still… he was out of control. Something had to be done.

“Quinn! Settle down! You’re gonna be OK. Just sit there for a few more minutes and you can go back to bed!”

“But Daddy!” he screamed, “What about the tomatoes! We have to hide from the tomatoes!”

Write ‘em down.

It makes me happy when:

My wife talks to herself

My wife talks to me

I have written

Humidity is low

Someone agrees with me

Someone changes my mind

College football begins

There’s cheese dip

The words come easy

The words come at all

I don’t have to shave

We have Doritos

The bathroom is clean

Abe gets excited

Ben throws the ball

Ben catches the ball

Ben hits the ball

Ben kicks the ball

Ben shoots the ball

My favorite underwear is clean

I run farther than last time

Quinn says things that start with “f”

Quinn says “sireworks”

The coffee is ready

Anna runs

Jason laughs

The iPad is charged

Mom tells a story

Mom tells the story again

And again

Merrie Cannon dances

I play “soldiers” with the boys on a Tuesday morning

Bob Schneider sings

Grace is shared

Grace is shown

Grace is received

The Bible reads like a love story

We eat at Partner’s Pizza

The leaves change

The kitty litter is new

The kitty disappears

Someone gets the joke

The air conditioner is on

The air conditioner doesn’t have to be on

The grass is cut

The grass doesn’t have to be cut

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree

The apple makes good decisions and doesn’t fall at all

The best things are those we most often take for granted. Write ‘em down.

Things I wouldn’t do if I knew I had 2 weeks to live…

You have :60 seconds to list as many ‘things you wouldn’t do if you knew you had 2 weeks to live’ as you can… Ready? Go:

Eat salad.
Yell.
Stop eating gummy bears.
Run.
Clip my fingernails.
Check Facebook.
Make the kids go to bed on time.
Learn how to speak German.
Vacuum.
Watch TV.
Take vitamins.
Play lacrosse.
Floss.
Wear slacks.
Go to a movie.
Worry about 15 days from now.
Buy Christmas presents.
Try sushi.
Make stupid lists.
Listen to country music.
Go skydiving.
Go Rocky Mountain climbing.
Ride a bull named Fu Manchu.

I’ll never be the guy I’ve always wanted to be.

I used to want to be famous. Not like a pro athlete or traveling musician – though I did rock The Kinks, Pearl Jam, U2 and even a few Jimi Hendrix songs in a college cover band. I guess I just wanted to be known. I’ve never really given much thought to making millions of dollars and traveling the world. I simply wanted to be appreciated for doing something… anything… better than most.

“Fame” has sort of been my secret desire for as long as I can remember. My search took me through 4 different majors in college. It’s put me in eight different jobs in 12 years. I have always thought that if I never settled and kept pushing myself to try new things and become different people, something would eventually stick and I’d finally be recognized as something and someone extraordinary.

It’s been a long, frustrating road, but I have finally realized that I will never be the something and someone I’ve been searching for. I’ve given up on winning a Gold Pencil in advertising. I’ll never sell a million books. I’m not going to have 10,000 Twitter followers. And I’m not going to set the trends that change the way others go about chasing their own dreams. That’s a difficult thing for a self-obsessed wannabe “influencer” to say out loud or put down on paper: I will never be defined as the guy I have always wanted to be.

But here’s what I am learning: My definition of me is not what matters. More importantly, your definition of me doesn’t matter either. That seems to be a likely statement coming from a guy who has only won few local Addy Awards (silver), but it’s true. And what a relief! What I do and what I have done doesn’t define me.

Nothing I do or accomplish or experience in my lifetime can ever compare to my identity as a child of God. How much more famous could I possibly want to be? I may not have the awards and the attention that I’ve always sought from the world, but the Creator of the Universe knows and loves me, and at the end of the day – and at the end of my lifetime – that’s all the recognition I will ever need.

That said, I never wanted a big family. I never wanted to teach Sunday School. I never wanted to read Green Eggs and Ham to a little girl’s 1st grade class. And I don’t remember ever wanting to “dig for gold” in the backyard with an 8 year old. But that’s what I got.

I’ll never be the guy I’ve always wanted to be. Thank God.

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