Tag Archives: dad blog

Family Life: Strong Fathers and the Sassy Daughters Who Mess With Them

I think we all need a little reminder from time to time that everyday, ordinary life continues amidst the chaos of the world in which we dwell.

Last night, my daughter informed me that she had just lost a tooth. “Sweetheart,” I said, “If you lost it, how is it in your hand?” She’s come to expect these rejoinders from her old man. *Eyeroll* “Daddy,” she said, “anyway… It’s a silver tooth.” Then she sauntered away as though that should mean something to me. I believe, in fact, that this is probably her last baby tooth. I think she had this silver tooth going back to early childhood when the pediatric dentist we were taking her to insisted that this particular tooth, even though a baby tooth, should be filled and not pulled because it would be quite a while before an adult tooth would take its place. I ought to know since I’ve been taking her to the dentist her whole life. Apparently when the dentist talks I should “actively listen” and not continue to skim through the four month old office copy of People.

This morning I went into the kitchen to get my morning coffee. It is a well established fact that the glorious extract of the coffee bean has power to improve heart function, lower blood pressure, boost testosterone (thus putting proverbial hair on one’s chest – a shock if one is a woman), energize the neurons in the brain, and wake one up in the morning. Perhaps the first few items in that list I made up. Haven’t had enough java yet.

On the counter near the coffee pot I discovered a large, handwritten note. It said something to the effect of: “Dear Tooth Fairy, Here’s the tooth. It’s silver so you better not ‘cheap out’. I’ll expect my $$$ by the morning. Love, Harvey’s daughter” Succinct. But in fact my daughter and this Tooth Fairy fellow (for he clearly is a very handsome and virile MAN who drinks a lot of coffee) have had a back-and-forth dialogue like this for years. At one point my daughter lost a tooth while on a trip through Ontario. Don’t you know that “TF” paid her in Canadian dollar coins and even left her a note in English and French.

About twenty minutes after I drank my first cup of morning gold, and after a quick trip to the ATM (you know, for like, whatever, I needed cash), the following note had replaced the first.

Don’t blame me. I voted for the other guy.

St. Apollonia, pray for us!

Joining the Army

I have far too much respect for the men and women of our armed forces to make this post comical (too much). Instead, I’ll keep it short and to the point.

“Suffer the Little Children”, stained glass window, Our Lady of Good Counsel, Newark, NJ

At the school where I work we have an army of sorts. You may have heard the term “prayer warrior”. It seems to me I hear that term quite often, especially here in Texas where every cashier at every convenience store finishes your sale by wishing you a “blessed day”. Basically a prayer warrior is one who is frequently called upon (usually as part of a larger group of such warriors) to pray for the specific needs of others in the group. Even my parish – a Catholic church that only offers the traditional Latin mass – routinely sends texts to my phone beginning with the phrase “Prayer Warriors, please pray for…” I myself have used the phrase in other places on this blog when requesting specific prayers from you my readers. Note how I did not say “both of you” at the end of that sentence.

This school-based army of which I speak is committed to one thing, namely praying for the success of our school. We call it the “Memorare Army” because we ask that each “soldier” pray three Memorares daily for one year with this intention in mind. My mother taught me this beautiful prayer when I was young. As I got older – by the way, I noticed I’m not keeping this short – as I got older and went through some particularly trying times; she asked me to pray the Memorare every day. “The Blessed Mother will protect you,” she told me, “if you honor her daily.” I have kept that promise. In fact, I’ve added to it. A few years ago I had occasion to be in the presence of a group of Missionaries of Charity. Apparently not interested in my stellar conversation skills, they began to pray. “Sister, did you hear about that new express lane they’re building on 183?” Sister (looking at me with a stare somewhere between wishing death upon me and mild befuddlement): “We pray now. Remember O Most Gracious Virgin Mary…” This prayer they repeated for a total of ten times. I am told Mother Teresa herself taught them to pray ten Memorares whenever they had free time. Nine of these are in petition (like a novena) and the tenth is in thanksgiving. Mother was always certain that God would grant her requests.

Flagg used his own face for the face of Uncle Sam. Who knew?

So I started praying ten Memorares.

Then my boss asked if I would join the Memorare Army. So I tacked on three more. I reached out to family and friends to ask them to join as well.

My enterprising youngest sister – a homeschooling mom of six – agreed to my three (for a total of 24 daily Memorares from her, her husband, and the kids) with a catch.

“You will, of course, prayer FOUR Memorares daily for my school.”

Of course.

So yours truly is up to seventeen Memorares daily.

I don’t write all of this to proudly proclaim my prayer habits. That would be the opposite of humility which, as we know, is something I must work on (see yesterday’s post). I write this to tell you that 1) it’s pretty easy to find short periods of time throughout your day to pray, 2) it’s never a bad idea to honor the Blessed Mother, 3) my sister is a conniving trickster, and 4) I want you, as J. M. Flagg’s famous poster proclaims, to join us. I’ll even go one further and throw in three more for the intentions of all my readers. Seventeen is such a boring number anyway. Why not make it twenty?

So friends, you’ve got your marching orders. The enemy is legion (literally). We can surely rely on the prayers of each of our brothers in arms. My sister will always get what she wants.

Remnants from that Project

Just a lighthearted note tonight…

After making all the cuts for that Nativity scene I wrote about a few days ago I was cleaning up the scraps of plywood from the floor of my garage and came across this.

California comes to Texas

A remnant shaped very much like the Golden State. This is fitting since the friend who lent me the jigsaw is from Palm Springs. Perhaps I’ll varnish it and give it as a gift. It might make a nice cheeseboard for his kitchen. Then again like every other California transplant to the Lone Star State of late it might just try to turn us blue.

Save Timmy!: A Harvey Classic Post

*Having mentioned that my kids have been getting a kick out of old posts, here’s one I wrote in July of 2012. My son was 4, my daughter was 2. Timmy was apparently a 5 year-old Navy Seal. And I have no idea what I had gotten myself into. Reading posts like this reminds me of what a beautiful life God has given me. Here’s to good health, good fortune, and God’s blessings on you all!*

I took my kids to “the Tubes” this morning for some playtime. The Tubes are, as I’ve written before and as you might imagine, a large, indoor playground consisting of an endless series of large plastic tubes. Children climb through the tubes, scale the netting, and slide down another long tube. Somewhere along the way, I am convinced they are required to capture a flag and then plant it at the summit as a mark of their paramilitary prowess. It’s not unlike Marine Corps boot camp.

On this fine 102 degree Texas morning the tubes – in the air conditioned and fairly dark interior of the local Bible Church – seemed like the place for a quiet and energy-zapping excursion. Tire them out, bring ’em home, nap time.

Glad to know my daughter once thought of me as the sun god Re.

From the moment we arrived, however, I could tell something was different than most other times we’ve been to these tubes…

High above me I could hear the faint whispers of Alpha Company.

“We’ve got to rescue Timmy!” cried one excited yet hushed voice.

“Here’s the plan,” whispered another “we come at them from the yellow slide.  Landon, you’re the tallest.  You go down head first and punch them in the teeth.  Then Skyler will follow with his signature throat chopper…”

What exactly was I listening to, I wondered.  From another section of the tubes I could hear the counterassault being planned.

“Chris, guard Timmy with your life and for God’s sake don’t let him trick you!  Cooper, be on guard for, well, just be on guard.  Skyler, you run out and create a di-ber-geon.”

Other than the slight difference in the pitches of these voices I could barely tell if I was listening to the voices of little boys or little girls.  The names certainly didn’t help.

I cautioned my own kids: “Listen, kids, I don’t know what’s going on up there; but go and play and try to stay out of their way.  Got it?”

They nodded at me and happily ran up the first set of padded steps.  Funny, I thought , playgrounds today are so “safe” with all their foam coverings and plastic and generally boring designs so as to keep any child from ever experiencing a whiff of the pains of life and yet the SWAT teams above me seem to have found a way around that.  All the while I could hear poor Timmy whimpering.  Couldn’t tell if he was injured or trying for that “di-ber-geon” spoken of by Tyler or Taylor.  Screaming erupted briefly.  I think Landon figured out that Timmy was faking his injuries.  “Shut your mouth, Timmy, or I’ll shut it for you!”  Holy God we praise thy name…  Was I still in Texas or had I migrated to Juarez?

Somewhere up here, Timmy awaits his liberators…

At one point a summit appeared to be taking place.  Through the rope nets I could see what looked like three boys and three girls sitting around in a circle, gesticulating wildly.  “You want what?!  Do I look like I was born yesterday?” bellowed one of the girl figures.  I could take this farce no longer.  With a slight bit of fear in my heart and an equal part of amused bewilderment not uncommon to me considering how often I find myself in these bizarre situations, I looked up.

“Skyler?  Landon?  Shaniqua?  Hate to be the one to break it to you but you kind of were born yesterday in the grand scheme of things.  Timmy?  Timmy?  You OK up there, buddy?”

Silence.

I don’t remember what their words were that finally broke the stillness but I think they were something like “Kill the tall one!”  It would appear I had unified the opposing forces and freed Timmy at the same time.  See, and you didn’t know I was a peacemaker.

“Quickly kids, let’s go!” I yelled at my own two kids and their cousin Campbell as we bolted for safety.  With one over my shoulder and the other clinging to my leg I took giant strides toward the parking lot and back to the law and order for which the great state of Texas is known.  Clearly, the Tubes were some kind of extraterritorial property of the Soviet Gulag.

Here’s hoping Timmy doesn’t get recaptured… or they just might take him down.

He Doesn’t Just Write?

…but he needs to do that more.

I came home from what is more and more the most fulfilling job I’ve ever had and got to work on a carpentry project I’m working on for Christmas. Take a gander.

Of course the Christ Child was born in a manger, not in my garage next to my weights.

I’m not great by any means but I’ve been taking stock lately of a few things. The thing I would most like to be proud of in my life is my vocation as husband and father. On that front all I can say is I am trying every day. I am a teacher and vice principal. After my family, in my adult life, few other things have brought me such joy. I am a writer who has never claimed to be much good although I do know my way around a few decent turns of phrase. I am a man who likes to challenge himself in the gym, not stopping or giving up until I’m satisfied. I will probably never be satisfied and that is just OK with me. It simply means I will always be challenging myself. And I think that goes for every aspect of my life.

On the writing front in particular, I have been reading old posts to my children. It is fun rediscovering our life together; but not nearly as much fun as seeing the joy and hearing the laughter from my children who really get a kick out of my writing. Also on that front, I have noticed that I have at seven separate times in the past few months started writing new posts only to save them as drafts. Perhaps I will one by one finish each post and publish them. I might even provide context.

Until then, the family is beautiful, school is wonderful, I am building back up in the gym and getting stronger, and Baby Jesus has a comfortable place to sleep in my garage.

Advice for My Kids? Don’t Get Old!

As an influencer-dad I am frequently asked my advice on important topics.

If only that last sentence were true…

But I do like that term “influencer-dad”. I think I’ll stick with that. Maybe even put it in the tagline of the blog.

Anyway… my two adoring children do occasionally ask my advice. Usually, however, it is not on important topics. In fact they typically ask me things like “Hey Dad, how can I make sure my hair doesn’t fall out like yours?” or “Hey Dad, I have to write a report for history class on the Battle of Gettysburg. Can you tell me what it was like?” Answers? “Don’t have kids” and “I’m not actually that old”. On that second question I should be thankful they didn’t ask me to describe the Battle of Hastings.

As time goes by, though, I can attest that, despite my youthful visage, I am really getting older. I just don’t think of myself as “getting old”. I learned that trick from my mom. “Always being surrounded by so many kids,” she would say, “kept me young.” If that’s the case I should be positively fetal given the couple thousand high school kids I’ve taught over the years. You see, friends, I spend my days with the teen set. It’s hard not to stay young when you’re constantly immersed in the absolute latest slang, styles, and silliness.

And despite rumors to the contrary I have NEVER played the part of the middle-aged dad meme. I take that back. I do wear cargo shorts AND I put stuff in the pockets. What am I supposed to do? They’re useful, those pockets. Other than that and the strategically placed bad “dad joke” I like to think I am in control of the aging process. Look, if I can stare having my spine taken apart and fused back together and still be as active as I am I think I can handle a few more years on the old body.

My daughter’s x-ray from her broken wrist. She doesn’t have gout. She’s young.

Late last week I began feeling a sharp pain in my lower right leg. It’s a pain I’ve experienced on and off ever since I was in my late teens. It comes on roughly once every year or so and goes away after a few days. This time the pain intensified to where I had real difficulty walking by Saturday night. I chalked it up to having gone back to school, being on my feet all day, and switching shoes every afternoon (from black oxfords to sneakers). On Sunday morning my wife took note of me hobbling into mass and thought otherwise. “Go get an x-ray,” she insisted. You see it wasn’t just my ankle now but also my opposite knee and a couple of toes that I had broken about a month ago. I hate doing that – not because I dislike the medical profession but because of the time and expense involved. What could they tell me anyway? “You’ve clearly got some kind of old injury that flares up from time to time. Take Motrin and rest.” Also, it was Sunday so that meant either an ER which seemed like massive overkill or an urgent care center. I haven’t had a ton of luck with these places in the past.

I went in, taking my visiting sister with me for fun. She’s always good for a laugh. First they put me on a scale. A few lbs. heavier than I would have liked but not too bad. Blood pressure was a little elevated too but that’s a symptom of being in pain. “Do you smoke?” they asked. Still not sure what that has to do with anything. Also, it should be in my chart. I’m of a mindset that says “I want you to earn that degree. I’ll just sit here mute and let you figure it out.” I might even give them my copay if they get it right.

After a while a doctor came into the room. He asked some questions and then laid it out for me. Turns out it’s either gout or rheumatoid arthritis. Gout seems most likely so we’ll treat for that. Yep, it looks like my high-protein diet coupled with the fact that I went from drinking about a gallon of water a day to almost none set it off. On that last point, I intended to fill my water bottle frequently throughout the day but the amount of time between classes is really short especially when there are kids who need to be redirected into their classrooms under threat of demerits. He put me on an anti-inflammatory and everything seems to be un-inflaming.

Meanwhile my sister went all Jersey on the x-ray tech who thoroughly enjoyed the display. The kids (my own and my students) should get a kick out of this one. One more thing for them to mock about their “old” teacher. I was young once. The funniest thing is that when I was young I wasn’t interested in my fitness. Now that I’m old I find it crushing to be told not to workout until this or that malady heals. It’s tough but I’m embracing it as best I can. They say with age comes wisdom so there’s that.

I’m old. I can make my own!

“One more thing,” the doctor said to me. “For now you should avoid high protein foods.” That’s going to be really tough for me. Gotta get those gains somehow. “OK, doc, anything else?” I asked. “Oh yes,” he said, “try not to drink beer if possible.” And here’s where that wisdom kicks in. “Doctor,” I said, “I really don’t drink beer.” Then a long pause. “How’s gin?” “You should be fine!” said the medic.

See, I know how to game this getting old thing. Why a younger, more foolish man would want nothing to do with gin. On the other hand, the passage of time has taught me how to hate myself and others just enough to find drinking a bottle of infused perfume perfectly delightful. So when you hurt yourself because you’re old and that’s what old folks do, drink gin. And THAT is my advice to you, children.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

With apologies to Mr. Shakespeare…

I wanted to address the topic of sleep this evening; or rather, my lack thereof. This is one of those things that I KNOW my fellow teachers will understand. Summer’s going along nicely and then BAM! All of a sudden you have to wake up at some ungodly hour and shift your daily routine forward by an hour or more. And you think you’re cool and you’ve got it under control. But you really don’t. School started for us one week ago. For the past few days I have felt like I was running a marathon every day. My daughter and I have dutifully gotten in the car at 7 each morning and driven then mile to school. By 3:20 when I’ve matched the last of the kids to their carpools and locked up the buildings I scratch my head. I look at my little girl and say “I’m beat… Wasn’t it just 7AM?”

This afternoon I came home, sat down on the couch, and crashed harder than MH 370. Too soon? I only slept about an hour and that didn’t seem nearly long enough. I spent the next hour or so in a daze. Fortunately my lessons are well planned so I didn’t have any “work” to attend to. I have intentionally removed most distractions from my daily life, too, so that I can devote all of my time when not in school to my kids. Hence, I felt a little down on myself tonight for sleeping. But I’m sure they understand.

Then came bedtime — their’s. Fortunately they haven’t been giving me a hard time about this lately. My son did, however, approach me at 9, asking me to read him a book. OK, it turns out that he hasn’t gotten the whole “homework should be done when you get home from school” routine. In school today he had been given a book by his teacher and asked or told or whatever, I’m really not sure, to read two chapters by tomorrow. Now that it was late and he was tired he wanted yours truly to read it to him. He tried playing the old “Daddy, remember when you used to read to me?” card. It worked.

Tonight’s bedtime story: an old classic I read as a boy in my grammar school. It’s called Squanto: Friend of the Pilgrims“. Except when I read it the title was Squanto: Friend of the White Man. It’s a fascinating tale of love, murder, and deception. At least it was when I got through with it. I hope he doesn’t have to make an oral presentation on this thing. But if he does, it will be phenomenal!

My daughter busied herself with some craft she was working on. I believe she was knitting. She kept muttering something about the Evremond’s and Charles Darnay and how it was “right to revenge”. I really wasn’t paying attention. Squanto apparently caught her ear, though, and she looked up every now and then to listen in. “Daddy,” she would say, “what’s a firestick?” “Huh?” I would ask. “Oh, yeah, sorry… it’s a gun.” Back to her knitting. A few moments later: “Daddy…” This time she did not look up but was transfixed on the knitting with a wild look on her face. “How did Squanto know English?” “Sweetheart, it’s a fictional account. It’s like how you pretend to clean your room when I tell you to.” Slowly she roller her eyes towards me, still feverishly knitting in her lap. We locked eyes and both laughed briefly before I returned to the page.

I wanted to read this old classic but the school book won out. This boy seems like the REAL friend of the white man.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Squanto just went from leading Charles Robbins and the other Pilgrims toward the village to teaching them how to plant maize. Seems like there should have been some dialogue or other build-up in between. Also Squanto is now a grown man.” It also seems several pages had fallen out of the book. OK kiddos, enough of this…

For my bedtime entertainment I went with some remarkable lighter fare. A found a Youtube video of an epic disaster to help me relax. Ever heard of “Balloonfest ’86”? In Cleveland in the 1980’s a group of people got together to help the city shed its “Mistake by the Lake” image. Hey, I grew up in New Jersey. I get it. You get tired after a while and you want to do something over the top to show them all “We’re #1!” However, inflating 1.5 million balloons with helium and then releasing them en masse moments before a major shift in weather over a major American city is probably not the brightest way to accomplish this goal. The balloons all blew out over the lake and sank before deflating. 70% of the balloons washed ashore in Canada. They loved us for that. But then again they gave us Bryan Adams so I think we’re even.

Ah… one of these days we’ll adjust to the new daily schedule and we’ll cheerfully wake up refreshed at 5:30 AM to tackle the day. We won’t be exhausted when we come home from school either. We’ll have energy and plenty of time for fun and games as a happy family.

Unfortunately that day will be in May.