Step 1, teach them to drive

I saw this today. This is why I live in Texas.

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LONGVIEW, Texas - A 35-year-old Texas woman has been jailed after police say she made her 12-year-old daughter drive her to a bar.

Police in Longview say they watched a minivan turn into a driveway without signaling on Wednesday and bump into a home at a low speed. They say the car was driven by Jennifer Lynn Rosenberg's daughter.

Police say the girl told an officer she had just dropped her mother off at a bar. They say they found Rosenburg at the bar and that she admitted having her daughter drive her there.
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People, you can't be cutting corners here. You have to teach your 12 year old how to drive BEFORE you have them drop you off at the bar. That's step 1. Step 2 is teaching them to signal and not hit the house when a cop is following them. I had to learn this when I was 12, it's just good parenting.

I find myself asking this question way too many times, but here it goes again. What the hell is wrong with these people?

My 15 year old has his learning permit now... hmmm. I'd have him drive me to the bar but then I would have to listen to him preaching to me about how beer is bad for you because he learned it in health class. I can't have that conversation again. I need him around to water the pot plants in the basement.

I refuse to wear the socks

Shirtlessboy is a cub scout.

To a 7 year old this means he goes to a place where there are a bunch of other kids who wear the same thing and they run around until someone holds up the dreaded "sign" and they have to settle down for at least 30 seconds.

Like most guys my age I recall my time in the scouts as a positive period (eroded by time, but it's still a positive memory). I didn't make it to the holy grail of scouting - Eagle. I'm not sure I even made it to groundhog or horn toad, but I showed up and rubbed sticks till my hands hurt with the best of them. They didn't ask us to rub sticks, I just liked rubbing sticks. Don't judge.

I lived in South Africa as a kid. My dad says he was an electrical engineer and worked on TV in the apartheid ruled South Africa in the mid 70's. But my brother, sister and I know the truth - he was actually in the CIA and the electrical engineer story was a clever cover. We know this because when we got there (early '73) everything was cool, when we left (late '76) everything there went to crap. TV is bad, but it doesn’t make people burn down their homes.

We've asked him many times to come clean but apparently he took some kind of super secret pinkie ring oath and still hasn't admitted to being a member of The Company. Sorry dad, I hope me saying this doesn't mean you and mom have to move out in the middle of the night guarded by a guy named "Chuck" who wears dark sunglasses.

Anyway, my scout experience is limited to the scouts in South Africa. Those were some real scouting adventures. Lion wrestling badges, ribbons for the Cheetah race, rhino dodge. Good times.

Zip like a hundred years forward and here I am volunteering as a scout leader for my sons pack. I think it's important for him to see me involved. The thing is... much as it was for me as a kid; I don't think I really fit in.

The other night I went to a district meeting. Let me set the stage, this is a meeting of all the other adult leaders in the district. There are NO kids there, only 30 adults all wearing oversized boy scout uniforms and attempting to keep their shirt tucked in over well developed peach cobbler induced bellies.

I walk into the "meeting" and right into an episode of the outer limits. We start by singing songs, followed by some more songs and a quick discussion on "advanced" training we can attend which I didn't get the memo on because I'm apparently the only one in the room who has NO idea what the hell I need to go to the training for. The smartass in me was DYING! I could feel the smartass part of me starting to sit upright in the seat and wanting to ask where we sign up for tent assembly training and how many pushups can we make the kids do in a single set before we have to submit a form.

Did I mention that I was the ONLY adult there who wasn't wearing the overgrown boy scout uniform? Nope, I was there in civilian clothes, further indication that I didn't belong. Judging by the way some were dressed I thought maybe we were going to go on a hike and build a fire in the parking lot instead of sitting in a church lunchroom on plastic chairs at 7 p.m. on a weeknight without a beer in sight.

I know I'm going to have to break down and get the uniform, but I'll be damned if I'm going to wear the green socks.

yes, it's my toughest level

The only time I ever felt truly rewarded for playing video games happened at a video game arcade on Lovers Lane in Dallas around 1982. We were rocking it old school on asteroids since the caterpillar game was being monopolized by seniors and we didn't want to risk a confrontation. My friend kicked the machine because he hyper spaced into an asteroid or his headband slipped over his eyes or something and the door on the front of the machine swung open... exposing two 1-gallon containers full of quarters (cue: heavenly music).

The statute of limitations has passed, so I'll admit that we ended up playing asteroids that day for a very long time with our new found wealth and didn't suffer from remorse because the guy who ran the place was a royal jerkwad (that was 1982 tough talk for someone who was a pain-in-the-ass. We actually didn't know what it meant but the older kids said it).

When I was about 13 yrs old my dad brought home one of those old school stand up video games. It had ONE game and two-colors (black and yellow). I struggle with the name of the game but it was something like "Chicken Egg". The premise of the game was to catch eggs before they hit the bottom of the low resolution screen and the game made this odd computer generated sound that if you tried real hard sounded like a chicken. Sorta. The quarter slot on this behemoth was fixed so you could just hit a button for "credits". My brother, sister and I would stand at that machine for hours. Squawk, squawk, squawk.... squawk. It soon lost its appeal and became a coat rack.

It's fair to say that I don't have an aversion to video games and I don't mind my kids playing age appropriate games. Meaning; no head shots, no running blood and no decapitation.

My tolerance has a breaking point.

I think it's apparent when the amount of game play has exceeded the recommended level. It's when games or game strategy become part of everyday conversation or worse when it becomes everything. This sends me over the edge and I have zero issues with ripping the video cable out of the machine and kicking the kids outside when I reach that point.

Example: A few years ago my oldest son (tallboy) was obviously hitting the video game crack pipe a little too much. I came home from work one day after "one of those days". I was worn out and collapsed on the couch. He had a look of total despair and understanding and asked "was it like your toughest level?” Tallboy spent the next 4 hours outside playing in the dirt.

This morning as I was preparing to leave for work I overheard Shoelessboy and Shirtlessboy playing games and talking upstairs. I heard the oldest (ShirtlessBoy) say to his younger sibling "I hope you fall off that chair and break your arm so you can't use the controller 'cause then it's my turn". WTF.

Anyone interested in a used video cable for a Wii?


UPDATE:

I can admit when I'm a dork. I emailed my sister (who calls anymore?) to ask her what the name of that game was dad brought home. It's painfully obvious who got the brains in our family. Here is her response -- DTD

The Juggler. I'm not going to be able to get that song out of my head now. Thanks! Remember how Dad made us pay to use it at first, and you tried to tie a piece of string to a quarter? I think that contraption was Dad's way of getting back at us . . . making us pay literally and figuratively for whatever we were costing him and all the racket and whining he had been enduring up until then. Think about it. When you hear that song now, how long does it stick with you? Does your eye twitch? Do you lose sleep? I don't lose sleep, but I do feel a twitch now and then when I hear it. We were willing to dig for quarters to play that stupid ass game despite how annoying that incessant noise was. We thought it was so freakin' cool to have an arcade game in the house (didn't matter it was juggling stupid chicken eggs). And now I can't even hear the song without shuttering and the occasional eye twitch. See? Dad got the last laugh. (But I bet he can't hear that song without getting a twitch, too.) -- Toots

Dude, I so remember that now. I had a whole bunch of quarters as I recall... -- DTD

Plastic Lincoln Logs

I worry about my kids as much as the next guy. I want them to be safe and it rips my heart out when they get hurt.

With that said, I think I worry more about what we learned as kids and what they are missing as a result of all this overprotection crap nowadays.

About an hour ago I walked outside to throw dinner on the grill. I usually make a big deal out of this so that my wife sees it as “cooking” and thinks I’m doing my part. But seriously, I toss it on the grill, close the lid and stare at the sky for a bit, flip and repeat. I love to cook.

Anyway, our two youngest offspring (Shoelessboy and Shirtlessboy) were playing on the swing set. They had some rope and made this contraption that looked like the ‘before’ picture in a kids safety brochure. This particular activity required them to stand on a piece of wood, swing down on the rope and traverse through the swings. There were 12 ways to break an arm just in step 1.

My gut reaction of course was to use my dad voice and put a halt to their building project. My mouth was open, I had positioned my body in the “dad” position (hands on hips, head tilted forward and to the side a bit) and instead I let them go for it. There were times while I watched that made me cringe. A foot wrapped around a swing chain here, a leg hanging over the trapeze there. Yet, I fought the urge and just watched.

They did fine, no open fractures, not even a rope burn. And to top it off they were quite proud of what they did.

When I was a kid we didn’t have nets around a trampoline. You fell off, you learned a lesson. You learned that concrete over the speed of 1 mph was not your friend. I learned many, many lessons (some took me more than once to finally understand). I swear the first time I saw a seatbelt was in driver’s education. I thought it was something you could use for leverage to take corners faster.

Here’s my point. You have to screw up a few times to learn. I’d rather raise the next generation with a few bumps and bruises and some level of common sense than to raise them to believe the world is a safe, pillow wrapped place where I’m there to protect them.

The minute they come out with plastic Lincoln logs for safety, I’m freaking outta here.

Now, go hit your brother with this broom stick.

wipe my bobo, wipe it

Like anyone else who needs an occasional change of scenery, we enjoy taking the kids out to dinner from time-to-time.

'Enjoy' may be a strong word. Let's just say we have to take them with us because we have sharp objects and permanent pens at home.

We usually patron a chicken wing place near our home, mainly because they have the 4 requirements needed for any successful family outing:

1) Mac & Cheese
2) Games for the kids to drop quarters into
3) Large assortment of TV screens with a wide variety of sports
4) Trivia games and adult refreshments

The kids feel quite comfortable there, to the point where I believe they think they own the place. Our son even bussed his own plate one day all the way to the kitchen. The waitress was quite impressed.

But, I’m not sure they were impressed with what happened next.

MomtheGirl and I were in the middle of our normal trivia battle (she is WAY to good at it. I have to cheat to win). Our youngest son, Shoelessboy, in a mad dash from where the games are, runs past our table and we catch “…Potty...” as he runs by. Normal stuff, his body language indicates this mad dash is indeed required (since he’s holding himself and sorta bouncing while he’s running).

No problem. We are right across the little room divider from the restrooms and the place isn’t packed.

Nobody walks into the bathroom, but a few minutes later I notice two older guys standing near the bathroom door looking down, then looking at each other, then looking down again. Hmmm... odd.

As I look up over the divider to see what they are doing, I see our son. He’s completely naked, bent over and holding a piece of toilet paper.

Crap!

As I run towards them I hear our son saying “wipe my bobo, wipe it!”.

We left a larger than normal tip.

and they call it butt paste

For those of us familiar with the medical miracles related to the prevention and treatment of diaper rash – you will recognize the name “Boudreaux's Butt Paste”. According to Wikipedia this treatment for irritated hind-ends was developed in the 1970’s by “Pappy” Talbot (yes, I actually researched this….). As a side note, “Pappy” sold his pharmacy and traveled to trade shows in an RV he dubbed the “Butt Mobile”. I have a friend who had a van he dubbed the butt mobile – but that’s another story.

I can’t make this crap up. Ok, I made up the friend part… It was actually a green 1978 Thunderbird that smelled like Polo. He thought the chicks dug it when he pulled up next to them with that 8ft long hood with plush velvety seats and those little rear windows. If it was his desire to embarrass the shit out of me... it worked.

Ok, back to the subject at hand. I provide this historical reference to say this – I’m sure at no time in its development did “Pappy” Talbot consider the application of the product in other areas… let’s say… oh, I don’t know… the head.

This was until shoelessboy discovered that in the early morning hours a tub of butt paste can be liberally applied to the head until the ENTIRE tub has been emptied. This can be hours of fun and if you happen to have diaper rash on your head…

Yep. 7am on a Saturday morning all we see over the foot of our bed is a glowing white head walking through the door towards us and the overwhelming smell of butt paste.

Turns out, one of the great benefits of butt paste is it’s ability to shed water – wonderful water-proofing capabilities. Stick him in the shower… nada. Pour dish soap on this head… nada.

Apparently, the only way to remove it is to put the poor kid in a headlock and rub his head raw with a towel. I’m sure he will be discussing this in therapy at some point.

I got snake bait

Kids have an incredible knack for being over-the-top literal.

A kid once told me in grade school that he would hit me so hard I would bounce off the sky. For years I thought you could actually hit someone so hard they would bounce off the sky… scared the hell outta me, I recall him being one of those overgrown bullies who wore husky’s in the first grade (my guess is that he’s now wearing a day-glow orange jumpsuit and his meals are provided by the state).

In 1972 I was at the impressionable age of 6 (the peak of literal thinking) when members of “Black September” attacked the Munich Olympics. I have vivid memories of watching a small black and white TV with my dad as members of the group walked around the terrace of the hotel where they held the athletes hostage. Dad explained to this wide-eyed kid that gorillas were holding them captive. Considering the dark shape, with what I now know was a black hood, walking around the terrace with a machine gun… oh crap! As far as I was concerned there was a possibility that groups of gorillas could be so pissed off they would hold you captive with machine guns and start making demands. The zoo didn’t hold the same fascination with me from that point. To this day when I see those images I still think of them literally as gorillas.

Today, shirtlessboy announced that snakes were in the backyard. This got my immediate attention. I thought it may be the relatives of a small garden snake we found dead in the front-yard last week but this is Texas, so who knows. 5 foot rattlesnakes would be rare considering where we live… but maybe not impossible.

I spent some time walking around on the deck (I’m not about to step into the grass – I would defend this by saying I was simply holding the higher ground). Finally I asked him to show me.

Some time back we went on a Cub Scout campout at a large scout ranch in central Texas. Boys being boys, tromping through the brush is considered high adventure. Apparently, I made the comment that snakes love tall grass. I said this more to avoid the 10,000 stickers we would be removing from his socks and shoelaces and to keep him away from the poison ivy.

That simple comment took root. Since we’ve been out-of-town for the last week and right before we left a wheel fell off my mower, the grass in the backyard has taken on a life of its own. Guess where snakes live?

Shirtlessboy and shoelessboy had been walking around on the deck (because holding the high ground is genetic) looking for snakes and yelling at the dogs to get out of the grass.


UPDATE:
Since I was born in Oklahoma I've inherited the innate ability to fix anything with some bailing wire and a roll of duct tape (up north they call this being a cheap-ass). The mower is no longer a tricycle, the snakes have only hours to live.

2nd UPDATE:
My first update turned out to be bullshit. See my next post.