Flushing (The Other 'F' Word)

Why is flushing the toilet so hard?  I can understand the kids having problems with wiping, it's a tricky skill to master.  I even cut the boy a break on his bad aim, because every now and then I still miss right out of the gate.  But flushing?  It's so simple.  You're done and you flush.  That's it.

It's not like when I was a kid.  We were on well water and we had rules.  Two of them.

If it's brown, flush it down.
If it's yellow, let it mellow.

That is hard for a child.  Not only do you have to know your colors well, you have to use critical thinking skills.  Okay, let's see, that is one giant blob of brown.  Now, what do I do?  Oh yeah, flush it down!

But today, the kids just flush no matter what's laying in the toilet.  Yellow = Flush.  Brown = Flush.  Brother's Toothbrush = Flush.  Yet, amazingly, I can still walk into the kids' bathroom and find a floater two or three times a week.  Even worse, Leah likes to use the basement bathroom, which I clean about once a week.  She's the worst when it comes to not flushing.  There is nothing grosser than a week-old floater.

Unless, of course, you consider the Disgusting Diary.

Boy Scouts of America (B.S.A. B.S.)

The wife and I were away this past week and it wasn't until yesterday that I learned about the Boy Scouts of America and their decision to let openly gay scouts join their ranks.  The decision has created a spark within our local Troop and I for one am very disappointed in the decision for one reason.

I'm disappointed that a private organization gave in to political pressure from parties that have no vested interest.  What's this world coming to when a private, social-club can't decide for themselves who can or cannot join?   What's next?  Are tree-houses going to start getting pressured into allowing girls in?  That's a world I don't want to live in.

The BSA's decision doesn't bother me.  What bothers me is the response I've seen on other blogs and heard from Christian parents that are ripping their kids out of Boy Scout troops and starting their own groups.  Many parents have said that the Scouts have lost their Christian values by allowing gay scouts to join.  I was taking the my son to scouts for about seven months before I even knew it was a Christian organization.

I took the boy to an outdoor campfire meeting and the topic was about faith.  When the leader started mentioning God and Jesus I started cringing.  You never know what kind of Christian you're talking to.  Is it the God-is-Love type or the You-danced-at-a-party-and-are-going-to-Hell type?  I didn't know where he was going with his lesson and feared we had joined a cult.  After all, the meetings were always followed by punch.

That night was the first I knew of the Boys Scouts and their Christian tradition.  This is what bothers me about the reaction by some people.  If  you are going to take a Christian perspective, why wouldn't you want to allow those people you feel need God (in this case, homosexuals) into your group?  What better way to show them God's love than to invite them into your circle and interact with them.  I'm not saying you have to share the same sleeping bag, but you could at least invite them to go camping.  If they can't hear about God from your Christian Troop, then where will they?

And let's not forget who we're talking about when we say Scouts.  We're talking about young adults, kids really, under the age of 18.  These kids are just looking for a place to fit in--a sense of belonging.  And your Christian response is to push them away while teaching the "straight" scouts to do the same?  Please, by all means, start your own group.  I'm sure Westboro would be proud to sponsor your splinter cell.

Jesus was fairly inclusive.  About the only people he ever excluded were the religious leaders of his day--the same religious people who turned away whores and hated people of ethnicity unlike their own.  If you want to play the Christian card that's fine, but don't play that card while you're shunning the same people you should be loving.

A Crappy Start

Some mornings start out great.  Everybody in the house is smiling and ready to take on the new day. She looks pretty happy with herself.

Wait, I think she just realized that she shat herself.

Yep, she realized it.  Cue the olfactory system...

Back To Reality

Rach and I are back in the states after our seven-day couples retreat from the children.  After seven days of no kids, I still wasn't missing them.  After seven minutes on our flight back to the states, I was already missing Aruba.  It's not that I love Aruba more than I love my kids (it is a close second though), it's that I knew what was waiting for me back home.  As we landed in Orlando's International Airport, I could feel the tension mounting.

 In Aruba, none of our cell phones worked, in fact, most cell phones, except for those the locals had, didn't work.  I only saw two guys using a cell phone the entire week.  Nobody was texting while driving and people actually looked you in the face when you talked to them instead of staring down at their phone and mumbling the occasional "yeah" or "uh-huh".  It was glorious.  Everybody was actually paying attention to the life unfolding around them instead of worrying about status updates, e-mails, and text messages.

Then we landed in Florida.  The stewardess made the announcement that we could turn on our cell phones/laptops and then I knew the vacation was over.  For the remainder of our time in that airplane all I heard was how many text messages/facebook notifications/e-mails somebody had.  Enjoying life was over.  We could all get back to sharing pictures of cats.  It's great to be home.

Then I thought about my kids and how summer break would officially be "In Full Effect" once I came home.  I thought about how freeing it was (if only for one week) to live without time constraints, blog posts, website updates, and all the other things I spent so much of my time focusing on.  So while our vacation may be officially over, I'd still like to live in Aruban time where cell phones, blogging, and social media takes a backseat to observing the world around me and perhaps even participating in it.

Who's Ready for an Adventure!?

Mr. Clean

Cleaning matters  (to some people apparently).   My wife has accused me of rarely cleaning.  She says what I do is more "Picking Up" than actual cleaning.  I'd like to disagree as I submit photographic evidence of something I've cleaned today.

Exhibit 'A'

I rest my case.

Hairy Mother's Day

Mother's Day is a time for mothers to sit back, relax, and enjoy a day of not having to wait on anybody.  It's the polar opposite of Father's Day.  Mother's Day is all candy, flowers, and kindness while Father's Day is all beer, bacon, and booty.

Except this year, for my wife, there was booty.  I'm not talking the good kind though.  I'm talking hairy man-ass.  You see, my back gets thrown out more than a cursing back-up dancer in a Southern Baptist church.  And, like all good men, I fight the pain for a solid six weeks (or months) before doing anything about it.

It's finally broken me and I can't take the pain anymore.  I can't sit, I can't lift the baby, and I can't do much of anything other than make grunting noises.  If it wasn't for our six-hour flight coming up on Friday, I still wouldn't do anything about it.

But on Mother's Day, my wife had enough of my groans and grunts.  She said (and I quote), "Stop whining like a little bitch and come here."  God, how I love her.

The next 45 minutes were pure torture.

She had me lay down and began to work my buttocks over with an Ultrasound machine, a heating pad, some weird vibrating belt-sander, and a bag of frozen peas.  I won't give you the gory details, but I will say I feel violated.  Not the good kind of violated, but the prison kind.  I'm pretty sure what she did to me is illegal in most states.

Her tools of torture.

 When she finished, she told me to roll over, go to sleep, and never feed her those peas.  I'm not sure, but she might have lit a cigarette when she was done.  Torture for me.  Pleasure for her.  It's possibly the best Mother's Day present she's received.  Forty-five minutes of causing me bodily harm.  Two days later and I still can't walk straight.

She spent so much time working on me on Mother's Day.  I feel bad.  I owe her.  Perhaps another home-cooked meal would be a good place to start.

  Bottoms up!

Pack-Rat Parenting

I love my Mom.  And I say that not only because she finally ditched dial-up and can now read this blog, but because I mean it.  Having said that...she's a pack rat.  She saves everything.  Maybe it's better to say that she saved everything.  Everything from my childhood.  18 years worth of birthday cards, newspaper clippings, Perfect Attendance records, and of course, a jar of baby teeth.

Some of the things she gave me were extremely cool (as in nerdy):

  First Editions of Simpson Comics

  The movie seemed cool at the time.  Thank God for Christopher Nolan.

It's not easy to save that stuff, especially the baby teeth.  Caleb swallowed the first two teeth he lost and if it wasn't for spitting the third one out in the sink, it probably would have met the same digestive demise.

My parents have given me all the stuff they saved for me.  At least, I hope that's all there is, we don't have room for much more.  It has been a fun trip down memory lane,  perusing through all the old stuff, but between my rubber tubs of memories and my wife's we're running out of space.

I suggested she throw out all of her old stuffed animals and homecoming dresses.  She suggested I ditch my old comic books and basketball cards.

Stalemate.

When it comes to our children, I'd love to be able to save all of their drawings, school papers, and poorly-kilned ashtrays.  While the basement is full (at least 5 large Rubber-Maid tubs) of our memories, there is always more space in space.   Cyberspace.

  18 years of life reduced to a dark corner of the utility room.

Now, when my kids come home from school waving their papers proudly in the air, I can praise their hard work, take a picture, and wait for them to leave the room before throwing their crowning achievements in the trash.  I figure when they get older, instead of handing them five rubber tubs full of memories, I can hand them a flash drive.  Then again, you can't fit some of the coolest things on a flash drive:

  Thanks Mom!*

*Not Pictured:  Man-at-Arms, Orko, Tri-Klops, Stratos, Clawful, Manteena, and Skeletor.

Baby Needs A New Pair of Shoes!!!

I've been so busy lately working on my new Worksheets Website, that I haven't had much time to post anything on the blog.  So, here's a quick photo post...and here's to hoping that this blog doesn't turn into a glorified Tumblr account.