Take a Risk, Let Go by Fr. Herbert McCabe

This was in today's "Give Us This Day" reflection. Wanted to share it. Enjoy!

By Fr. Herbert McCabe, (1926 - 2001) an English Dominican theologian and philosopher.

Take a Risk and Let Go

The way of God's love is more like the motorway. It doesn't care whether it meets easy or difficult, uphill or downhill, good or bad. It doesn't care how important or unimportant we are. All those careful judgements we have to make...all that deciding who is good hearted and kindly and candid, and who is mean and self-seeking, who is virtuous and who is vicious, who is sinner and who is righteous - none of this counts with God's love. He cuts straight through all the mountains and valleys, the heights of sanctity and the depths of depreavity. He does not turn aside from anyone. His way is smooth and easy and swift. And it raches to sinners as well as saints.

God does not respond to this world. He does not adjust his reaction to suite good people or bad. You do not have to be good before God will love you; you do not have to be try to be good before God will forgive you; you do not have to repent before you will be absolved by God. It is all the other way around. If you are good, it is because God's love has already made you so; if you want to try to be good, that is because God is loving you; if you want to be forgiven, that is because God is forgiving you. You do not have to do anything, or pay anything, in exchange for God's love. God does not demand anything of you. Nothing whatever.

There is just one thing you need; you have to be ready to take a risk. You have to be ready to be destroyed, for all your security to crumble. You have to be prepared to let go of that faith in yourself that you have so lovingly built up, your faith in what belongs to you, your possessions of every kind. You have to be ready to be taken into the dark abyss of God's love. You have to have faith in his love; for you face dreadful danger of becoming good, of becoming yourself as loving as God is loving. And this is a frightening prospect. The motorway can do terrible things to the countryside as it spears through it. And God's love can do terrible things to you. It can make you kind and considerate and loving.

Man on a Mission

Determination n. 7. The mental quality, habit, or power of deciding definitely and firmly; decision of character.

Stupid adj. 3. Resulting from, or showing, mental dullness; foolish; witless

Thought I would share our family adventure Monday night as I took the kids to see the Creighton vs Kentucky basketball game in Omaha in the second round of the NIT tournament. My actions that night can be defined by one of the two words listed above. I'll let you decide which. I was able to score 4 tickets to the game. This was a historical game for many reasons; first, we actually got a BCS school to come to our gym and play us. Second, it was Kentucky, the all time winningist basketball program in NCAA history; third the last time Kentucky played in Omaha was during the Truman administration; fourth it was a postseason game that if we won we'd get a chance to play Notre Dame at home and show the second best Catholic school in the country how to play basketball. So you can see I was motivated. Psyched. Pumped up.

There were a few complications to the evening; my wife was nine months pregnant and could deliver at any time. I would be going alone with my three kids. And finally the fact that by 4:30 PM when we were pulling out of the driveway the I-80 corridor between Lincoln and Omaha had 3 tornado WARNINGS going on. And yet I decided to go the game anyway. (See either determination or stupid above). So many things could go wrong that I choose to ignore them all, picked out the classic "Ice Age II" DVD, packed some PBnJ sandwiches and we hit the road for Omaha in our best Blue Jay gear. Except for our 3 year old girl who refused to wear her Blue Jay jersey because it "wasn't pink."

We drove north on 84th street to hook up with I-80. I was giving myself an hour and a half, way more than enough time to handle traffic, tornadoes and whatever else Mother Nature could throw at us. Well Mother Nature landed the first punch right in the gut by knocking down a power line across 84th street. Traffic came to a halt. CRAP! Detour time. I popped in "Ice Age II" and passed out the sandwiches early. And I still needed cash for parking. The detour around the power line took a 25 minute chomp out of our schedule. I pulled into the gas station with my bank ATM and opened the door. Mother Nature landed her second punch when I was met with a 40 mph gust of wind that knocked off my Creighton hat into an ankle deep pool of water. Double CRAP! Trash flew around me as fished my hat out of the water and ran into the gas station to get my cash.

We finally got onto I-80. The rain started to lighten up. "This isn't so bad," I thought. I also thought I really should be listening to the radio instead of Ray Ramano playing a wooly mammoth. But I didn't dare mess with the DVD. Everyone was getting along and laughing at the movie. We continued on and suddenly the sky got darker. Ok, it was black. Whatever the opposite of light is, that's what color the sky was. My cell phone rang. OH NO! My wife was in labor! I answered the phone, "Are you in labor?" She responded in a panicked voice, "WHERE ARE YOU?" "I don't know, just outside Waverly." "THERE'S A TORNADO HEADING FOR WAVERLY RIGHT NOW." I tried to reassure my wife that it was ok, even as the hail began to fall all over the place. "IS THAT HAIL I HEAR???" "No, no. It's just the movie the kids are watching. Is there really a tornado heading for Waverly?' "YES! THE WHOLE AREA OF I-80 BETWEEN LINCOLN AND OMAHA IS LIT UP LIKE A CHRISTMAS TREE ON THE TV. THE WEATHER GUY IS THROWING A FIT! ARE YOU OK?" I tried to calm her down and tell her if I saw a tornado or if it got bad I'd turn around. She somehow bought it and we hung up. I wondered if the phone conversation put her into labor.

Then it got bad. The hail continued and the wind picked up. The rain was coming in sheets and I had to slow down to about 45 mph. Then Mother Nature landed her third punch. The car ahead of me decided to spin out and take 3-4 years off my life. It spun from the left lane across to the right lane. I had my first flashback. Fourth grade. I told a girl in my class during out loud reading time that she couldn't read. Not nice. I'm really sorry about that whatever your name was. The car spun from the right lane back across to the left lane. I have my second flashback. Sophomore year of high school. I had to play the "Rocky" theme on my trumpet in the middle of a packed lunchroom as part of a quest for my Shakespeare Lit class. Stupid trumpet. I should have learned to play the guitar. And what did that have to do with Shakespeare anyway? The car continued spinning right into the ditch. I had a flash-forward to my funeral where my wife is stomping up and down on my grave and all my family and friends are fighting over whether I was the most determined man ever, or most stupid. I snapped out of the flash-forward and sailed by the car in the ditch. I was now going about 15 mph with a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel, eyes bugged out, looking for a twister to come down from the sky.

No twister. The rain started to let up as we approached Omaha. The cell phone rang again. "Are you in labor?" "NO YOU IDIOT! THE CELL PHONE COVERAGE GOT LOST AND I THOUGHT YOU WERE ALL DEAD!! ARE YOU DEAD???" "No we're fine. We'll be at the Quest Center in about 25 minutes. "CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THERE! I AM WORRIED SICK!!!" That definitely put her in labor. Then a little voice from the backseat called out, "Daddy, I have to go potty." "ARE YOU SURE???" "Yes." It was the three year old, which meant we had about a 2 minute window to find a toilet. I roared off the Interstate into a Quick Trip station, grabbed my daughter, sprinted her into the bathroom and bless her heart she performed her fastest potty time ever. We sprinted back out the door and I hardly noticed the tornado sirens going off outside. Back on the road and the Qwest Center was in sight. We parked the car, I called my wife to tell her we made it. I grabbed the kids and got inside.

We entered the arena at the tip-off. YES! We made it! The crowd was rockin and the game and atmosphere was electric. Totally worth it. The kids had a great time and paid attention for the first 5 minutes. Then my 5 year old son and 3 year old daughter started asking for food. I stalled them with the promise of a halftime food break. Somehow they consented and we made it to halftime. Not before we had another potty break for the 3 year old. Then at halftime we crashed a concession stand, I made an order, and reached for my wallet. No wallet. @#$!$%!!! I was in deep, deep trouble. I herd the kids over to some open space and broke the news to their confused faces. "Kids, daddy left his wallet in the car." The 5 year old answered, "Well go get it." "I can't, they won't let anybody out of the game and then back in. We're going to have to wait." "I WANT SOME POPCORN AND LEMONADE NOW!!!" I had a mutiny on my hands. I tried to calm them down with promises of ice cream after the game and let them blow off some steam by running around. They somehow rallied and we went back to our seats.

The second half was more electric than the first. The kids were as good as could be under the circumstances. My daughter took two more potty breaks. The 5 year old let out a few thousand "I'm bored. Let's go home" until he and his sister started wrestling in their seats. Luckily the game was so crazy the people around us didn't notice. The game went down to the wire and we end up losing on a missed 3 pointer by our best shooter. Why, why, why, why, why can't we win a big post-season game???? Voices gone and devastated by the loss, we joined the crowd for the exits. I had to carry my daughter on my shoulders and the boys and I had to hold hands to avoid losing each other in the crowd. Then we got into the car only to sit still and wait 35 minutes to get out of the parking garage. Luckily "Ice Age II" still had about a half hour left.

We finally got out of the garage and headed for home. Thankfully the tornados had stopped and the weather was fine. I made good on my promise and stopped for ice cream. Cones and lemonades for everyone. It only took 10 minutes before the three year old spilled her entire lemonade all over the place. I heard something, turned on the light and her chocolate ice cream covered face looked guilty. No worries. We had smooth sailing home and the boys passed out in the back. My wife was still pregnant when we got home. So much for the barometric pressure drop theory.

Go Blue Jays.

Earning My Wolf Badge

The past weekend I survived my first overnight Cub scout camp out. My 8 year old is in his third year of Cub scouts. So this year I broke down and agreed to take him on the annual camp out with his pack. In a moment of weakness/insanity I also agreed to let our 5 year old son come and stay overnight.

This was a HUGE sacrifice for me as I would miss a day and evening of college football and the Cubs' last chance to stay alive in the playoffs. So I made my wife buy batteries for our radio so I could at least listen to the outside world from our campsite. Saturday morning arrived and we began to pack for the overnight campout. I would have liked to been able to draw on my experience as a Webelo growing up. But my Cub scout experiences consisted of making bird houses, visiting our local newspaper, and making more birdhouses. Quite lame and certainly no camping was involved. So I did the next best thing and called my friend Brad who has camping gear and borrowed his stuff. My wife packed a box with food, provisions, first aid and my radio and the three boys and I were off.

The pack's camp grounds are actually only about 15 miles out of town so I figured worst case scenario I could drive the five year old back home if he got cold feet. However the boys were pumped up and ready to rock as we drove to the campsite. We parked and the boys shot out of the car like a bullet before I called them back to help me take our gear to the camp. The whining began, "Ahhh daadd" but there was no negotiating. I loaded them up like pack mules and we walked a short 200 yards to our site. I ended up balancing the five year old's share of the load on top of mine 50 yards out, but we made it in only three trips. We started to assemble our tent. I had a better chance solving my old Rubik's Cube. Then our first injury...I let our 8 year old hammer in one of the stakes and he made SOLID contact with his left thumb. He was fine until he saw the blood. But a Band-Aid saved the day and we continued with the tent. Thankfully our Den leader came to our rescue and helped us get the tent set up.

Time for a light lunch. I whip out the PBnJ and chips. Our Den leader breaks out a camping kitchen set that is nicer than my kitchen at home and fixes a beautiful turkey sandwich on rye with an assortment of fruits and vegetables for his boy. My son glances at me with a "Are we on welfare dad?" look and I mutter "Den Leader!" under my breath to the tune of Seinfeld's "Newman!". After lunch we do a host of activities from archery, to knot tying, to map reading, to a b-b gun range. Our 5 year old got to participate in most of the activities and also spent time running around with other little kids in the woods and brush around the campsite. I gave a try at the knot tying along with our den. After a few crash and burn attempts at some complicated knots, I ended up attempting the square knot, but for some reason it just looked like the knot you use to tie your shoes. The Den leader was able to ace every knot in the book. My 8 year old went over to him and asked for help and I muttered my second, "Den Leader!"

The afternoon sailed by. Injury # 2 occurred when the younger son cut his thumb. He was fine until he saw the blood. First aid kit to the rescue again. Then I remembered that I had brought two air mattresses to blow up so we could have something to sleep on besides the rock hard ground. Look, I'm no hero, I just wanted a fighter's chance at a decent night's sleep. I wondered into the tent to blow up the mattresses but realized the inflator was out of juice. The inflator did have an adaptor for the car's cigarette lighter, but I was hoping to discreetly blow the mattresses up and not draw attention to the fact that I was soft. Well, how hard could the ground be? I threw a sleeping back out and laid down. The pain of a dirt clog jamming into my spleen convinced me I needed to go to plan B. I had to fill those two bad boys up from the car and do the walk of shame through the entire campsite, letting everyone know I was going to sleep on an air mattress. About then the wind started to pick up pretty good. So by the time I filled up both mattresses it was a 30 mph gale. It took everything I had to keep from para-sailing into the next county. I felt the looks of shame and disgust from my fellow campers. But as one of my law school classmates used to say, "Jealousy breeds criticism." They WISHED they had these air mattresses. I could take the disdain for a good night's sleep.

Finally it was dinner time. The boys were feasting on hot dogs as the fire got cooking. The Den leader brought out a skillet and proceeded to cut up onions, garlic and other veggies and placed bacon and what looked like a sirloin stake on the skillet. "Den Leader!" But the hot dogs and pudding cups went down well. The kids brought out their flashlights and hung out by the campfire or in the tents trying to scare each other. All the parents started to talk about the Nebraska football game and complaining about missing it. That was my cue for redemption...I brought out my radio and offered to share it with the group. Suddenly I was being offered the pack's Father of the Year award. The group's mood soured as the first half of the game wore on and it was clear Nebraska was in for a whoppin by Missouri. By halftime if was over. Which was fortunate for me because people were calling it a night and I had permission to take the radio back to our tent and listen to the Cubs game.

I got the boys into the tent and turned on the radio to find the Cubs down 2-0 in the 4th. CRAP! We got on our sleeping clothes and got the sleeping bags out. Luckily it was only going to get into the 50's that night. The boys shared the queen size mattress and I took the twin, which felt a little low on air. At this point the wind was howling worse than ever, but the tent held, although it flapped around, snapped and sounded like we were on the top of Mt Everest. The boys passed out and I was left to my radio turned down low. The Cubs continued to struggle until about the 7th inning when all of the sudden a local announcer cut in to give a recap of the Nebraska game with post game interviews. WHAT!!! I was furious! I searched around the dial but all I could find was a static filled and barely audible call of the game. My mattress continued losing air but I was focused on trying to hear the game. It was late now, and in between hisses and crackles I managed to hear the final out. Cubs lose. Out of the playoffs. Perfect. I turned the radio off and tried to go to sleep. The wind and the tent kept me up until around 1:30 AM. I managed to fall in and out of sleep. I had nightmares Tommy Lasorda was jumping up and down on my back. I woke up around 5:00 AM to a dirt clog lancing my liver and a powerful need to find the campground port-a-potty.

The camp came to life around 6:30 AM. The boys woke me up, looking well rested on their full and air filled mattress. I stumbled out of the tent with my Tommy Lasorda damaged spine. Through my half opened, bloodshot eyes, I saw the Den leader sipping coffee, reading a New York Times Sunday edition and making blueberry pan cakes. "Den leader!" My oldest son asked me "Are we going to make breakfast dad?" "NO" came my quick reply. "Let's pack up. We're eating breakfast at home." Two hours later we had everything packed up, said our good bys and headed home. The smiles in the backseat made the searing pain in my lower back feel a little better. Next year we're going for hamburgers. And hopefully a playoff win?

Frodo's Last Stand

We recently traveled back to Colorado for Easter to visit my wife's family. We got to talking about one of our not so favorite memories of the wedding of my wife's younger sister and her husband a few years ago.

I like weddings. But I dislike the whole "cute little ring bearer and flower girl" tradition. I think it's pointless and a complete waste of time. Not unlike "Caddyshack 2." Everyone tries to have cute little kids walk down the isle but it has no meaningful role whatsoever in the whole ceremony. Plus the kids screw it up most of the time and the wedding party spends the whole ceremony shepherding the "little cherubs" to their proper spot in the lineup, or consoling them when they inevitably freeze up, start crying, or wet their pants. Ba humbug.

So naturally I was thrilled when my sister-in-law asked our oldest son who was 4 at the time to serve as a ring bearer. Actually he was co-ring bearer as her husband's nephew, also age 4, was going to be a ring bearer. Add two flower girls into the mix and we had a party!

The festivities started when the wedding party went to get fitted for tuxes. Reason # 72 ring bearers are a bad idea...pricey mini tuxes. My son looked so handsome standing there looking at himself in the mirror. But he was 3 feet tall. How could three feet of material cost $120 dollars??? Shouldn't it be about 1/3 the amount of a normal size tux? The store owner looked at me like I was a complete moron when I laid that little piece of logic on him. I muttered something about mob ties in the clothing industry under my breath as I paid the bill and left the store.

Despite my bad attitude I did want my son to enjoy the whole experience so to make it fun for him I started calling him "Frodo" from the Lord of the Rings. I spent hours trying to explain to him the whole Lord of the Rings stories, and how Frodo was the ring bearer but it was a bit over his head. I gave up and turned my attention to the details of the big day.

My wife was a bridesmaid which meant I was going to be solo with Frodo and our one year old son. We were staying at my in-laws house. My father-in-law, brother-in-law, two boys and I were all going to the church the morning of the wedding. We made the decision to get everyone dressed in their tuxes at church. Now I'm sure the passengers of the Titanic didn't realize what they were getting in for when that boat left the dock and what a fateful decision they had made to get on the boat and set sail. Little did I realize that the decision to get dressed at the church would have dire consequences. Maybe not Titanic. But definitely unpleasant.

All the pictures were after the wedding so we just had to show up at the church about an hour before the wedding Mass started. We arrive and everyone is excited and bubbly and the bridesmaids are all running around doing bridesmaid things. My wife checked in with me when we arrived.

"Did you remember the tux?"
"Of course I remembered the tux. What do think, I'm an idiot?...Don't answer that."

We visit with family and guests until about 45 minutes prior to kick off and I decide it's time to get Frodo into his tux. I'm escorted into a small little church bathroom because the bride and bridesmaids are bogarting the big changing room in the basement of the church.

As I shut the door to the 3x3 bathroom I sensed trouble. Frodo looked less than eager to get the tux on. I place the one year old on the floor and gave him some toilet paper to play with. Then I spread out the tux pieces on the tiny sink and top of the toilet. I could almost touch the opposite ends of this mini-john with my outstretched arms. Then the ship starting to take in water.

"Ok buddy let's get dressed."
"NO!"
"Hey now, that's not what Frodo Baggins would say."
"I hate Frodo! And I hate my clothes! And I hate you."

Gandalf, we have a problem. I tried to coax the pants on my son but he fought me like a wild cat. I look at my watch. 30 minutes till kickoff. A small shiver of panic begins to set in, mixed with a little claustrophobia. I try to get the shirt on over his head and Frodo is now in full defensive mode. Shoes, socks, buttons, bow ties, everything is scattered around the room. Another attempt, then another fail. 15 minutes to go. The small shiver of panice is now full blown, watch out for the scary orks panic! I look around the room at the wreckage and think to myself, "I can't get dressed in a tux in 15 minutes, how am I going to get a non-cooperative crazy person to put one on???"

My brother in-law pokes his head in the door, "How's it going in here?" The scene of Frodo standing in his Blue Clues underpants crying, the one year old crying, and me holding pieces of a tiny little overpriced tux, sobbing, scares him right out the door.

Then I throw up a Hail Mary. As I desperately glace around the tiny bathroom I notice the lapel flower and bargain, "Ok buddy, how about if we don't wear the flower????" Suddenly, for a reason I still don't understand, Frodo stopped his hysterical crying.

"No flower?"
"Nope. No flower."
"Ok"

Victory! I fly around the mini john slamming on pants, shirt, jacket, buttons, shoes, (No freaking flower) and run him out of the bathroom and throw him to the bridal party with about 2 minutes to spare. I run back into the bathroom and grab the one year old and head for my spot in the back of church. My brother-in-law tells me, "You ok? You don't look so good." I quickly begin to count the minutes until the bar opens at the reception.

Frodo Baggins he's not. But I begrudgingly admit, as he walked down the isle, that he did make a cute little ring bearer. Just count me out for any sequels.

Last Ride of the Plymouth Voyager

On both of our family vehicles you'll find the "Billy Blue Jay" emblem on the back window. It clashes a bit with my purple Hyundai Elantra (Prince, as I affectionately call him). It doesn't quite fit with our new red 2002 Dodge Grand Caravan mini van either, but we're very happy with that new addition to our family. How we came to purchase the mini van is a long story.

Our old van was a 1994 green and gray Plymouth Voyager. If you drive or have shopped for mini vans these days you notice they have just about everything. Ours had nothing. And no I'm not embarrassed to talk about my knowledge of mini-vans. I've come to accept the fact that I'll be owning a mini-van of some sort for at least the next 15 years. Kinda like I'm at peace with the fact that the Dixie Chicks are in our CD collection. (Thanks to my lovely wife).

We never nicknamed our old van probably because we didn't like it very much. It had one door that opened. Getting it shut was a crap shoot. One Christmas road trip to Colorado at a gas station in Western Nebraska with the temp of minus 5 degrees, the door was jammed in a wide open position. In desperation I kicked it a few times and it miraculously closed on about the fifth kick. It made a grinding sound every time you turned a corner that made you think the wheels were going to fall right off the axels. Radio? Non functioning. DVD player? Please. We had a fat little portable TV we had to wedge in between the driver and co-pilot seats. If you were driving the speakers blared directly into your right ear. Driving 8 + hours to Colorado with various Disney movies wailing away on your inner ear drum makes daddy a wee bit testy by the end of the trip. The car also had a nice soaked in urine smell from several potty accidents over the past few years. Numerous Glade air fresheners just gave it an evergreen-new car-vanilla-lemony urine smell. But the car was paid for so we vowed to drive it until it died.

Actually, I was ok with the car because I didn't have to drive it everyday. My poor wife had to put up with it. And she hated that car like the ugly step child mini van that it was. I would catch her saying a little prayer asking God to take the car from us. I'm pretty sure she said that prayer every day. But you need to be careful for what you wish for. God has a wicked sense of humor.

Our wish came true on a return trip from visiting my sister and husband in Iowa. A couple days prior to our trip we notice a new pool of some type of fluid on the garage floor beneath the fan. This was nothing new. We always has some type of fluid beneath the van. So we didn't think much of it and ignored it (turns out they don't recommend that in the manual.) We loaded up the whole family and drove to Iowa. The trip was uneventful. As we were leaving to return back home my dad saw the pool of liquid beneath the van and said, "You better get that looked at." I didn't think twice about it and gave the obligatory, "Oh yea, we'll get right on that" response you give when your dad gives you car advice. I paid little notice to the gentle rain drops that began to fall as we pulled out of my sister's driveway.

The drive home started well. About an hour out I smelled the familiar odor of dirty pants. Luckily it was coming from the kid with a diaper and not from the trousers of one of the other ones. The gentle rain had now turned into a steady downpour. So much so that we had to slow down to see. At approximately 9:37 PM near Shelby, Iowa I accelerated to pass a car when the pedal responded with a "Whooooosh". That's odd I thought. I gave the gas another pump and "whooosh". Nothing. The little warning lights in my brain started to go off. "Oh Uh." The little warning lights in my wife's brain started going off. "What?" I instantly thought back to all the awful prayers she had said against our poor little mini van. "What did you do?", I asked her in a panicked voice. "What did you do? You cursed the van! You cursed the van and now it's dying on us!!" I tried to move the car in and out of neutral but I had nothing. We were coasting downhill and losing speed. Then the light bulb went on in my mechanically challenged brain...ahhhhh! Pooling liquid in the garage? Must have been transmission fluid! I was proud of myself for the diagnosis until my wife snapped me back to reality with a panicked "What's wrong with the van???"

We pulled off to the side of the Interstate. The rain somehow was coming down harder. I checked one last time to confirm that the transmission was done. We were definitely stuck on I-80 in a pouring rain storm. My mind replayed every horror movie I'd ever seen where the stranded family get's wiped out on the side of the road. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Fortunately the kids had not noticed we stopped. They were glued to the fat little TV set blaring an Elmo video into my right inner ear. "What do we do now?" my wife asked. Cell phone! And we've got coverage! Halleluiah! Since this had never happened to me before I had no bleepin idea what we were supposed to do. "How about we call information?" I answered in the most unconvincing voice I could muster. Information led to the Iowa State Patrol. I had to turn down Elmo so I could hear the dispatcher. They asked where we were. For the first time I looked around and noticed that we were luckily about 50 yards from an off ramp and close to a road sign that told us we where 5 miles from Shelby, IA. They gave us the name of a near by tow truck company. I asked them if the State Patrol could give a ride to a family of 5. You know, cause it was pouring rain and there were probably at least 3 or 4 ax murders laying in wait in the ditch. They told me to wait for the tow truck company and that I'd seen to many horror movies.

By now the stench of the dirty diaper was a flown blown level 5. The kids had broken free from their TV coma and noticed we were stopped. The barrage of questions began. "Hey dad why are we stopped? Is the car dead dad? I told mom to not pray for that but she didn't listen. Man, it stinks in here!!! I'm hungry! Do we have any snacks back here? Wow look at it rain! Are we going to have to live here in the van? I bet the rain is going to wash us right off the road! That would be sweet!!! " I couldn't focus with the non stop questions. "All right quiet! I need to talk on the phone. Here, eat these fruit chew snacks." I knew that would only buy me about 5 minutes of peace so I quickly got the tow truck company on the phone and they told me they were sending a truck to us. Thank you Mr. John J. Plymouth! Were were in business. I took a look out the window and saw that we were actually only about a mile away from a gas station off the exit. I could swim up to the station and see if they were open. But we needed a plan on what to do after the tow truck came.

I threw another round of fruit chew snacks back to the savages as my wife dropped the stinky diaper bomb outside. The air was getting very stale. Then I did what every grown man does when he's in trouble with his car. He calls his dad to bail him out. Fortunately, my parents had arrived home and were about an hour away from us. They saved us with the offer to meet us at the gas station with another car and give us their van to take back home. Thank you again Mr. John J. Plymouth! Finally, the tow truck showed up. The tow truck man got out of the cab and walked up to the window. The rain was still coming down but I swear a little part of the clouds opened up and sliver of light shown down around his head like a halo. He took one look at the five of us, took a whiff of the musty, stale, dirty diaper air and told us to all crowd into his cab. He agreed to take us up to the gas station.

We lucked out as we pulled up to the gas station, because it was both open, and connected to an A&W. We could wait there for my parents and the tow truck angel could take the van to his shop in Shelby. We gave our hero a wave good buy and waited for my parents. The A&W workers were nice enough to put up with the kids running around the place liked wild monkeys. By that time I was spent. My parents finally showed up and saved the day. We took their car, and they drove back home with a friend who car pooled with them. The rest of the ride home was quiet with the kids passed out in the back.

The tow truck company offered to put in a new transmission. Yea right. I asked them how much they would give me for the van. They answered that since we owed them $65 for the tow, how about they take the care and we call it even? Done and done. One week later we were the proud owners of the 2002 Dodge Grand Caravan. Now my wife is happy with her new car that has a DVD player, a working stereo, TWO sliding doors that open flawlessly, and a nice new car smell. And if we notice any leak under the car we take it in immediately.

Single Dad Survival Skills

September 27, 2007

I am closely following the San Diego Padres vs Milwaukee Brewers game on the computer tonight as my beloved Chicago Cubs can't seem to close the door on the National League Central pennant race. Yes we got swept by the last place Florida Marlins. I'm beginning to hate that team. As I'm writing, the Padres are blowing a 9-2 lead and now only lead 9-5 in the bottom of the 7th. My stomach hurts.


I am fresh off a week taking care of the boys alone. By myself. Solo. My wife took our youngest daughter to visit her sister who just had twins. Her sister and her brother-in-law live in Baltimore. Not close. So for one week I was in charge of the boys. I survived, but just barely. I mean I wasn't lying on the floor in the fetal position by the end of the week singing children's nursery rhymes or anything. Old Beach Boy songs, but not nursery rhymes.


I had no idea that boys age 4 and 7 have such a busy and complex schedule. Thankfully, my wife prepared a 10 page Excel spreadsheet with grids and graphs. All color coded and scheduled down to the minute. I had a copy on the fridge, in my planner, in my car, and in my wallet. I could not lose that spreadsheet. If I did, I may as well have packed things up and left the country because there was no way I could figure out who went where and when. I think Eisenhower had a simpler battle plan for D-Day.


Each day I took my oldest son to school along with a neighbor girl. Then I had to take my youngest son to a friend's house some days, but some days he was suppose to be picked up. The 7 year old went to a different friend's house after school each day and I had to pick both he and his brother up at various times and locations after work. Then we had Cub Scouts Thursday night and I had to remember to take the boys to buy a new Wolf handkerchief, slide and book. We had to buy treats for the flag football game and there was the agonizing over whether to go with Hi-C, Gatorade or Capri Sun ( I low balled the team and went with the Hi-C which was on sale). I of course forgot to bring any type of first aid kit to the football game and my son got laid out on a play and came to the sidelines with blood gushing from his knee and his glasses all cockeyed. I used a piece of Kleenex some kind mom gave me to stop the bleeding. Miraculously it worked.


We also had swimming lessons. The whole swim scene is my wife's expertise as she was a former high school swimmer. I flunked out of swim lessons at about 4th grade. I needed to remember the code to get into the fitness center, not to mention all the swim gear and change of clothes. And have you ever tried to find a kid's swim class at a pool? It's impossible to tell where the teachers are and which class is which. I don't recognize anybody so I have to go from group to group asking if they have my son in their class. Of course my 4 year old jumps in the water at the first chance he gets but his lesson starts a 1/2 hour later than his brother's so we have to wait by the Jacuzzi. You have to be careful not to boil your kid in the Jacuzzi. I tried to keep an eye on the swim lesson as best I could.


Probably the most grueling part of being a single parent for the week was being the only disciplinarian. You don't realize how exhausting it is to make every call. It's like being the only ref at an NFL game. One kid starts screaming but you are in the other room cleaning up spilt Juicy Juice. So you come running into the room to make the call but you were way out of position and botch the whole thing. I finally just starting laying the hammer at every little peep and drop of the hat. Too much. The boys grew tired of my act. The 4 year old summed it up by saying, "I want a new daddy" for most of the week. I responded, "Well as soon as some sucker answers my add in the paper we'll start interviewing."


Then I hit rock bottom. The low point of the week came when I had to put our dog to sleep. Yes that's right, our golden retriever. My running partner of 9 years. But he had serious health problems all summer and it came to the point where I had to pull the trigger. Of course I loved the dog and I was an emotional wreck when I had to take him to the vet by myself. I mean between the kids, the Cubs blowing the pennant race and the dog, I was in bad shape. I did it during the day to spare the boys any trauma. Then I broke the news to them over dinner. My eyes were bloodshot and my lips were quivering but I had to break it to them.


"Boys, did you notice K.C. is gone?"

"Yea."

"Well I had to take him to the vet like I told you yesterday. And he died."
Slight pause of about 2.8 seconds, followed by my son's response, "Can we get another dog?"

Longer pause of about 30 seconds. "Well I guess you've moved on. Good for you son."



So much for empathy. I looked to the 4 year old for some moral support but he was elbow deep into a bag of Cheetos. I spent the rest of dinner crying over my frozen pizza and they took off to laugh their little heads off at "America's Funniest Pets". They missed the irony I'm sure.


The day for the girls return finally came. We made a nice Welcome Home sign that had a huge black mark in the middle where the boys fought over who could color where. We bought some flowers. I was on the roof with binoculars searching for the van. Finally I saw it. I screamed down to the boys, "There it is!!! Oh sweet Mother of Pearl there they are! They're hear boys!! Everything's going to be ok again!!!" The celebration was wild and we rushed them inside for pizza and a recap of the week.


Bottom line is, my wife is a much better stay at home parent. Which should come as no surprise to anyone. But we make a good team. Speaking of team sports, final score in Milwaukee...Padres 9, Brewers 4. Cubs might back into the playoffs yet. If they do, I might let the boys look at goldfish.

Pinewood Derby Disaster

“Second place is just the first loser.” – Dale Ernhardt


Ok, I’m not really sure that’s a Dale Ernhardt quote but I saw it on an ESPN promo so he could have said it. It really doesn’t change the fact that I am the world’s worst father. Or at least the world’s worst Pinewood Derby car dad.

My son participated in Cub Scouts this year. One of the highlights of the year is the Pinewood Derby. When he told me he wanted to participate in the Derby I was excited for him. I reminisced back to my days as a Webelo in the St. Lawrence Cub Scouts. There, I constructed my masterpiece… the Millennium Falcon. It was baby blue, with the name scrawled in black ink on both sides of the car, a jagged tail fin and a secret compartment beneath the car where my dad and I had put in weight. Probably illegal, but not unlike Hans Solo and his carefree, break the rules spirit he lived by. But thinking back to the Millennium Falcon should have sent warning signals from my brain, because “the Falcon” had finished very, very, very, poorly in my Pinewood Derby competition.

But this was the next generation. A fresh start. Unfortunately I forgot about the whole thing until the week of the Derby. Fortunately my wife was able to carve the car out of the block of wood the Cub Scouts gave us. She took woodworking in high school giving her 10 times the skills I had. But I didn’t want to be the dad who made my son’s car and tried to re-live his Cub Scout glory days anyway. (Granted I had no car making skills but it sounds better the way I put it.) Regardless, we were off to a good start.

Next step was the paint. My son went with red. It wasn’t the baby blue of the Millennium but he chose it and painted the car himself with spray paint in the garage. We now had a nice silhouette of a Pinewood Derby Car on our garage floor. He and I hammered in the wheels. I then ran off to the hardware store to buy silicone graphite slicky stuff to put around the axels of the wheels. They were all out of the small 2 ounce package (apparently all the other Cub scout dads had beat me to the hardware store) and all that was left was the big 10 ouncer. According to the check out clerk I know had a lifetime supply of silicone graphite slicky stuff.

Back to the house to grease the wheels with silicone. We put the stickers on and stepped back to admire his car. It looked fast. It looked invincible. It probably looked about as good as the Titanic when it left port for the last time. I went to bed dreaming of victory.

Our Cub Scout pack was given a generous donation a few years ago from a guy who gave the scouts a high-tech digital scoreboard and derby track. My son and I entered the gym the next morning and marveled at the track. Digital timer. Auto starting line. It was a thing of beauty. It was off course roped off to keep the Cub scouts from getting too close and knocking it over.

We went to the back of the check in line. I got a little nervous when I saw dads wearing leather jackets with name-brand products labeled all over them. What, did these guys get their car sponsored??? And I felt the Budweiser team didn’t exactly send an appropriate message to these young boys. Then I saw dads scurrying around with glue and tape and tiny strips of metal. Oh crap! Weights! I forgot the weights! Every pit crew chief worth his pistons knows you gotta weigh your car down to give it extra speed. I asked a dad I knew if I could borrow his glue and ran over to the table with extra weights lying around and frantically started gluing strips of metal to the car. My son began to look a little skeptical of his car’s appearance. We weighed the car in and it was grossly underweight. Oh-oh. Richard Petty, we have a problem.

But there was no time to do anything more. It was race time. We entered the car and I said a little prayer to Dale Ernhardt (whom I’m sure is in heaven and I read will be declared “Blessed Dale” by Pope Benedict). I took my seat with some parents to the left of the finish line and my son sat with his den. The first race began and the derby was underway.

We didn’t have to wait long to see what his car could do. His name went up on the digital scoreboard and they announced his car. The track had four lanes and the boy's car was on the second lane from the left. Good spot. My palms started to sweat. My son looked over and smiled at me. I can’t take the suspense! Come on Millennium Falcon Jr. Race like the wind! And they’re off!

Well, I wouldn’t use the word wind to describe the car’s flight down the track. It raced more like a crippled dog with three legs, one of which was caught in a bear trap. The car stopped a good three feet short of the finish line. I sank in my chair and wanted to die. Blessed Dale Ernhardt my %*!$+##&^. “That’s ok,” the dad next to me said, trying to comfort me, “There’s 7 more heats. You'll get 7 more chances.” Excuse me? Did you say SEVEN more heats! SEVEN! Holy Days of Thunder Batman. We in big fat trouble. Why would there be SEVEN more heats?? What crazy insensitive bastard decided to run these races 8 times??? I look over at my son and give him a “That’s ok” sign. He seems no worse for wear and is distracted by all the other races. I try to compose myself and think, “Ok, that was a fluke. Next race it’ll finish. No problem.

Well…have you ever seen a wounded squirrel struck by a car in the middle of the road, and watched is struggle to make it to the other side at a slow, torturous, agonizing crawl towards death? Take that time 10 and you get the idea of how the other six heats went. Each time I thought by some miracle the car would finish. But it didn’t. Not once. Three feet short each time. I felt just terrible. I cursed myself for not using more silicone. Call the fight!! If I had a towel I would have thrown it in the ring. My poor kid tried to keep a stiff upper lip but I could tell he was getting discouraged. Upset. Ok probably scarred for life by the whole event.

About 12 hours later, the last race finished. I was wishing they served whiskey at the concession stand. The only thing left was the award for “Best of Show”. And did you think they would throw my kid a bone for his car’s appearance? Of course not. I know this isn't the Special Olympics but come on! Now the poor little guy was a wreck. I tried to console him with some lame speech about how losing builds character. If that was the case we had enough character to last us through 2010. But he rallies later after we get home and says, “Next year we’ll build a better car right dad?” Atta boy.

In the meantime I better look into taking some woodworking classes.