The Importance of Thank You Notes

My latest column is mostly not mine. After my brief introduction is an actual thank you letter from my wife's cousin, Mark, to their grandmother ten years ago.

The letter speaks for itself, and honestly, I have nothing more to say. (Except, maybe, thanks for reading.)

My wife’s grandmother recently passed away, and in going through some paperwork, my mother-in-law discovered an envelope, addressed simply to Grandma H., in amongst Grandma’s important documents. The envelope held a thank you letter Grandma received from cousin Mark nearly ten years ago.

The letter illustrates three things. First, thank you letters hold great importance--Grandma kept this one for nearly a decade. Second, never underestimate the importance of a good laugh even during the most trying times. And third, cousin Mark could take my job writing this column.

We enjoyed numerous rereadings last week on family vacation, recalling Mark’s days as a graduate student, and he graciously gave me permission to share the letter, unedited. I hope it brings you some of the same joy it brought Grandma these past ten years.

Dear Grandma,

I thought I’d write you a letter to see how things are going in Wisconsin. Of course, I wish that I had some wonderfully entertaining tales from Florida to share with you, but I’m afraid that would entail using an imagination. Unfortunately, I think that I’ve been in school a sufficiently long time for them to train every bit of imagination out of me. Reality, meanwhile, is far less amusing than wonderfully entertaining tales from a tropical land. In fact, I do believe that a recounting of my exam experience today would more properly fall into the category of “Tragedy in the Swamplands,” and even that makes it sound more interesting than it was.

As of yet, I don’t believe that I’ve properly thanked you for the Christmas money. In the spirit of doing nothing at the right time, let me now, on the 24th of February in the year 2003, thank you for the Christmas check. With part of that money I recently purchased a new seat for my bicycle. It seems that bicycle seat technology has changed in the mere 6 years or so since I bought my bike; my old seat was more or less shaped like a wedge, while this one is designed to “reduce pressure points on soft tissue areas” -- precisely the weight-supporting areas with the wedge seat. Of course, the alternative way of describing the newer design if one was, say, writing to someone other than one’s grandmother, would be to “lessen pain where you don’t want it and consequently decrease the probability of impotency.” So I guess you can either say that at a minimum you saved your grandson significant discomfort, while at most you helped grow the family tree. To be honest, though, the discomfort issue is more relevant for me at the moment.

I suspect that after reading the previous paragraph you may in the future force all your children and grandchildren to sign forms promising to never tell you, much less describe in detail, the purchases that resulted from your Christmas gifts to them. Nevertheless, I figured that such an explanation might be an interesting change from the typical “Hey Grandma, thanks for the dough” sort of thank you.

I hope that you’re doing fabulously well.

With Love,

Mark

A Mysterious Magazine

Since this article was originally published in the local newspaper a week ago, people have told me about Erik Estrada, Shaun Cassidy and "Da Doo Ron Ron," and the Jonas Brothers. I suppose when a magazine has been around for nearly fifty years, there are going to be a great variety of generational memories. It's been fun learning about babysitting allowances being saved and walls being covered, and I'd love to hear even more. 

Thanks for reading. and please consider sharing your own Tiger Beat memories.

A Tiger Beat magazine recently turned up in my house. Seriously, they’re still making Tiger Beat. I thought it died with parachute pants, eight-inch bangs, and Baby on Board, but it seems I was mistaken - about Tiger Beat, not the parachute pants.

But what drum brought this beat to my house? Magazines don’t just randomly appear on kitchen counters, and I certainly never wrote a check for a subscription.

First, I weeded out the fringe suspects.

Grandma and Grandpa: No flowers, no recipes, no woodworking, and no sports in Tiger Beat. Wasn’t the grandparents.

The two-year-old nephew: No Thomas the Tank Engine pictures. He’s out.

Aunt and uncle: No coupons. No lists of baby names. Nope, not them.

Time to look closer to home. Time to look IN the home, as a matter of fact. Four people live in the house, which left three main suspects. There were only three main suspects because one of the residents, me, was not a suspect. Trust me.

The boy: Despite liking music, a staple of Tiger Beat since Monkees made music, and having a proclivity for posters on his bedroom walls, it doesn’t appear to be the boy. Unless Tiger Beat features photos of Prince Fielder and Justin Verlander - you know, DETROIT Tigers - which it undoubtedly does not, then it wasn’t the boy.

The wife: Drawing on my best memories of the magazine, which are admittedly limited, I felt this issue of Tiger Beat was severely lacking in pictures of Ralph Macchio, Kirk Cameron, and Patrick Swayze. True, the posters could have already been nipped out, but had that been the case, I’d be waking up to Daniel-san, Mike Seaver, and Johnny Castle on my bedroom walls. The wife was no longer a suspect.

That left the thirteen-year-old daughter as the only logical option.

By process of elimination, the culprit, I believe, had been exposed, and it didn’t take much sleuthing for suspicions to be confirmed. There was music coming from her room, paper trimmings and scissors on the floor, and walls covered with photos of floppy-haired boys.

It’s a classic example of the more things change, the more they stay the same. Regardless of the decade, certain truths remain evident: Whether it’s Monkees or New Kids or One Direction, groups of shaggy-headed boys will make music, and hoards of girls will obsess over them. And cover their walls with the boys’ photos.

It doesn’t matter if these young men are singing about why Sleepy Jean needs to cheer up (Oh, what can it mean?) or explaining how she’s got the right stuff (Oh-oh, oh-oh-oh), or wondering how everyone else in the room can see it (You don’t know-oh-oh, you don’t know you’re beau-ti-ful), the chorus will echo throughout the house ad nauseam. Moms will reminisce about their past obsessions. Dads will cover their ears and complain about the noise. 

And everyone can’t help but sing along.

Little Kids and Nicknames

There are approximately 4 million children born each year in the United States. That means there are around 8 million two- and three-year-olds. Eight million kids learning to speak ... with varying results. My own kids are no exception. With all these little ones toddling around, trying to successfully speak what they've been hearing their whole lives, I know there must be other kids with names like Beef and Maymay and Bubba and Teetee.

And I'd love to hear about them. See more at the bottom of my latest column. (You can see the original here until it is archived.)

I have a son named Beef.

No, this is not the name on his birth certificate, Beef not being what our grandparents might call "a strong, Christian name." Beef is not a traditional family name, nor is it a tribute to a close friend, favorite literary character or dinner selection.

It's all because of his sister, Maymay, who, needless to say, has her own name issues.

Once, when I was changing Ethan's diaper, Megan, then 3, tried talking to him using his first name. "Eefy," she said, with concerted effort.

Now, the boy was in that 9 to 12 month range, when eating has been mastered but moving is still a challenge, so he wasn't yet burning off the calories he was taking in. Both legs had rolls at his ankles, mid-calf, knee, mid-thigh and hip.

"Eefy?" I asked. "Look at those legs. Beefy is more like it."

A nickname was born. Sure, I might have added the B, but the girl's "Eefy" was the inspiration. Ten years later and the boy is writing Beef on his school papers and talks about going to court to make it legal. His own mother calls him Eef. He's the Beefer, Beefy, Beef, Eef, and, occasionally, Eefy-Beefy.

And he's built like a butter knife's profile. It's like calling the short kid Stretch.

Three years later, the Beefer returned the favor. Megan was one syllable too many. "May!" he'd yell.

"Me-gan," we'd model slowly.

"May!" he'd copy.

It was a process. We worked at it. He created variations -- May, Maymay, Maynuh, Maynuhmay -- but in the end Megan turned out to be a name he could handle. Today she prefers Meg, but there's still ample family evidence of her nickname's history.

Last weekend we went to Bubba's house. Bubba, or Caleb more accurately, was known as Cabub for a while, thanks to the Beefer's linguistically challenged fourth year of life. Naturally, Cabub evolved into Bubba.

Bubba and Beefy: Two skinny kids who have names that sound like the hosts of "Deep Fried Favorites" on the Food Network.

Eef and May have a 2-year-old cousin. Alex is still contemplating Meg's name, but he's got Ethan's. His version, anyway. "Eeeeeeee!" Alex says when he sees him. He can even communicate full sentences using only Ethan's name. "E?" translates to "Have you seen Ethan? I have come to his house and am eager to play that game where we run recklessly throughout the living quarters."

My wife was, at one point, nicknamed Gaga by her younger sister. How Jennifer became Gaga is a mystery, but it did lead to a quote still oft repeated by her family during card games. "Puck 'em, Gaga! Puck 'em!" (Yeah, the whole family is thankful that nickname didn't stick.)

Let's face facts: Grown-ups aren't very creative. Our best nicknaming seems to revolve around the letter Y -- either adding one or cutting one. Is this the best we can do? Call the guy named Smith, Smitty? Change Murphy to Murph?

Kids create the best nicknames when they try pronouncing real names correctly. So now I want to know your family's best kid-created nicknames. Email me your stories at KidNicknames@gmail.com, and if the feedback is good, I'll write a follow-up article.

Don't wait! Get on that, Teetee.

Defeating Dad

Now that the weather is swinging towards summer, we're not in the basement quite as much as in winter. But the games are ongoing, and the lesson I'm quickly learning (or the lesson the boy is teaching me) is changing: Get used to it, Dad.

Here's my latest column on defeating Dad which appeared today's local newspaper. 

Last night, the boy beat me.

Finally.

Now I'm not saying I enjoyed losing, but my streak was approaching rare company -- Wooden's UCLA Bruins, the '72 Dolphins, DiMaggio's 56 -- and frankly, the pressure was building.

To be sure, I have registered an official protest with the commissioner's office, but so far the boss (aka Mom) has refused to issue a ruling on the contentious contest. So as of now the boy's table tennis victory stands, and his full-out, arms raised celebratory sprint throughout the entire house was not in vain.

Let's recap. The score stood 20-17 with the old man in the lead when my return clipped the top of the net but luckily trickled over to the boy's side. Game over.

"Nope!" he yelled, waving his arms and paddle. "That's my point 'cause it hit the net."

"What? You know that only applies on a serve."

"Whatever. My serve. 18-20." And he promptly skipped his next serve past my unprepared, weak side.

"Hold on. This game is already over," I insisted. "Why are we continuing?"

His only response? "19-20," and another quick serve that I returned straight into the net.

"20-20. Your serve." Smug. Real smug.

"This game is over! I already won, and you know it," I argued.

"Dad, please." He looked at me as if I'd just suggested tofu at a tailgate. "Serve."

Two serves later -- one short into the net, one long onto the floor -- and the boy was off and running. Up the stairs, down the hall, circle in the bedroom, back down the hall, around the kitchen table, and down the stairs back to where he found me waiting.

"I already won," I reminded him. "Why are you making a scene?"

"Dad, admit it. I. Beat. You."

"OK. Rematch?"

"Nah, I think you've had enough for today." And he turned and floated out of the room.

Defeating Dad ranks with game seven victories, the 12 seed beating the five, walk-off home runs, and knocking the defending champs out of the playoffs. The stakes might not be as high, but then again, hit a walk-off home run and the pitcher doesn't have to tuck you in bed later. When a boy beats Dad, the vanquished still has to live with the victor.

This quest to give Pops a paddling encourages creative strategies. Rules change. "I get five extra armies this turn," a boy might say mid-game in Risk. Do-overs are called. "That's not an out even though you caught it because I wasn't ready. Do-over." How can the boy see the pitch, swing the bat, hit the ball and not be ready? Doesn't make sense.

Doesn't matter.

What boy doesn't arm wrestle his dad? And what boy doesn't end up standing, two-handed, elbows aloft, and jumping to put his full weight on Dad's arm?

As I watched the boy disappear, I remembered a recent game of darts in Grandpa's basement. My father, my son and me. And I had the lead. A big lead. A don't-hand-me-three-darts-'cause-I'll-only-need-one sort of lead, when ... well, you know what happened.

I folded and Grandpa beat us both.

You know what? Maybe I'll withdraw my official protest with the league commissioner.

Just this once.

A Family Recipe & Its Miraculous Effects

All delicious, but none miraculous.

This column appeared yesterday in the local newspaper. If anyone is interested, the recipe is available, but it will cost you the same as the Colonel's chicken recipe or Coca-Cola's secret recipe. And I don't know where the bakers in the family keep it hidden, so no guarantees.


There is a homemade bread recipe handed down from generation to generation on my wife’s side of the family that works miracles.

Now I personally have not experienced the miraculous due to this mysterious mixture of wondrous ingredients, but three generations of women in the family swear by it. The ingredients include wheat flour, All-Bran, raisins, and flax.


Mix, bake, cool, slice. Eat. 

Then wait. And not very long from what I’m told.

The family calls it Go Bread.

My daughter is mortified that people would even consider talking about the physical need for Go Bread, let alone openly sharing stories around the table, say, while enjoying dessert. That there are people in the world – in her family! – that find Go Bread a healthy, enjoyable, and sometimes necessary part of their balanced breakfast, well it’s too much for her teenage brain to handle. Someone mentions Go Bread, and she’s off to her bedroom, texting. Probably telling her friends about her sick family.

The boy just thinks it’s funny. There are certain topics that cause ten-year-old boys to commence giggling. Some include smells. Others include noises. Most include the bathroom. Go Bread, or the miraculous effects due to its consumption, touches on all three. If Grandma says, “You know, I gave the recipe for Go Bread to your Aunt Mildred,” the ladies around the table, all concerned, ask how she’s feeling.

The boy? Hysterics.

Me? I always remain a silent observer in these conversations, content to listen but not qualified to participate. And even though I have never enjoyed this delectable delight, I understand the consequences of consumption. More importantly, I understand the consequences of overconsumption.

My nephew, a toddler, lacks an adult’s knowledge and experience. As a result, he tends to understand fewer things, yet what he does know he comprehends with greater intensity. Some related concepts of which he has a thorough grasp include: Hungry. Food. Eat. Yum. More.

And Grandma. He understands Grandma too.

So when the lad got hungry at his grandparents’ house, he went straight to Grandma who cut him a healthy slice of a healthy snack. Go Bread. Which he ate. And enjoyed.

And demanded, “More!”

Which he got.

(Now, despite my best journalistic efforts, the story here gets a bit murky. How much Go Bread did he eat? Was it a complete loaf to start? Did anyone else share the Go Bread? There are numerous opinions, but from what I can gather, the youngster ate anywhere from “a slice or two” to “the whole stupid loaf,” depending on the source.)

They say Go Bread performs the miraculous. What it did to my nephew, however, defies the laws of physics. Four changed diapers. Four sets of new clothes. Four baths. All in one morning.

And his mother, a member of the third generation to swear by Go Bread, now swears AT Go Bread.

More on Hope Was Here at the Nerdy Book Club

About a year and a half ago I published a series of posts about my class's experience reading Hope Was Here by Joan Bauer and how some additional research on the students' part let to an interesting discovery. It also led us to an email correspondence with the author herself. 

Yesterday the Nerdy Book Club blog published a shorter version of the same story. Thanks to everyone from the Nerdy Book Club who visited Help Readers Love Reading after seeing my post on the blog. And if you frequently visit this site but haven't visited the Nerdy Book Club yet, here's your chance. Go see what the nerdy (and by "nerdy" I mean "totally cool") readers are up to.

(Here's a link to the first post from the original series of posts on this site.)

Cupid's Arrows Stick, Flight Paths Questionable

"I pity the fool who won't be my valentine!"

This column originally ran yesterday, February 13 (which explains the "tomorrow" that kicks of the first paragraph). With a title that includes Cupid and an image that includes Mr. T., what more introduction is needed? You can view the original column here.

Tomorrow, elementary school classrooms across the country will be filled with children delivering valentines. Handmade boxes will be filled with cards featuring favorite musicians, cartoon characters, and even toys, each declaring undying love and a desire to be someone's valentine. Classrooms transformed to mail rooms, all for love. 

And candy.

Everyone gets valentines. Class lists are sent home to ensure there is no child left behind when tallying the Valentine's Day booty. Isn't that why the Star Wars and Thomas the Tank Engine and Hello Kitty valentines come in packages of 32? One for each classmate, a couple extra for mistakes and misspellings, and one for the teacher.

One might think that with cookie cutter valentines and class lists, the romance would be taken out of Valentine's Day. The "mine" in "Be Mine," after all, is singular possessive. No candy hearts read "Be Ours." How can 24 children all agree to be 24 other children's valentine? Doesn't this reduce Valentine's Day to Halloween Lite? There's just as much candy, but no costumes, black cats or pumpkins, and the farthest you have to walk is across the classroom.

Really, where's the love?

Ah, but don't underestimate children. Even in a world of boxed valentines with canned catchphrases, children can find a way to be creative.

Just don't expect them to execute their plans perfectly.

If memory serves, it was fourth grade. On the night before Valentine's Day, the living room floor was covered with A-Team valentines ("I pity the fool who won't be my valentine!"). Time was up. No more procrastinating. Tired and frustrated, my heart not in it, I quickly wrote my name underneath "from" on the back of each card. Having lost my class list, I got 23 classmates' names on 23 envelopes, then spent 10 minutes wondering who was missing.

Realizing I was the 24th (thanks, Mom), I commenced stuffing the envelopes. At the last minute, creativity struck. Cupid handed me an arrow. On one valentine, below my name, I carefully printed, "I like you."

Cookie cutter valentines, take THAT!

I rushed through stuffing the envelopes, both thrilled and terrified at so openly wearing my fragile 9-year-old emotions on my sleeve. What would happen? What will she think? What will she do?

What have I done?

During the class party, I dutifully handed out my valentines. Twenty-three envelopes, including the one holding my confession, were placed into 23 artistically decorated pink and red shoeboxes.

Then I sat. Waited. Opened valentines. Munched M&Ms.

And secretly stole glances. Would she look my way? Would she smile? Worse, would she frown? Would she call me gross?

Nothing. Nary a glance.

Surely this proclamation would produce some reaction. What could have happened?

Then a new feeling began prickling the hairs on my neck. Excitement had led to confusion, now replaced by the sense that someone was watching me. Had to be. Even fourth-graders know that feeling. Who could it be?

Another classmate, three rows over and one seat up, in the opposite direction. Why was she sneaking glances at me?

The wrong envelope! Somehow I had either mislabeled, mispackaged, or misdelivered my missive.

The experience taught several lessons: Valentines aren't binding contracts. Fourth-graders and romance don't mix. Cupid's arrows stick even if they don't fly true.

And only send one valentine.

Parental Superpowers

When my son asked me about having superpowers, he meant it as a "What if...?" question. Instead it lead my brain down a rabbit trail of thoughts, starting with the belief that I was already in possession of numerous superpowers, all parenting related, and ending with the realization that there is truly only one superhero in our household. And it lead to my latest column. (Read it on the newspaper's website here.)

“If you could choose two superpowers, what would they be?” my son wondered one gray winter morning over breakfast, as if the day’s agenda included re-creating his parents as comic book characters.

“Just two?” I asked.

“Yeah, just two.”

“That’s a tough one. Let’s see, superpowers...” I tried to buy time (superpower: stalling), but kids sometimes use questions only to introduce their own answers. This was such a time. I needn’t have delayed.

“I already know mine,” he interrupted. “Invisibility and teleportation.”

“No, you don’t want invisibility,” I told him. “Invisibility would only get you in trouble.” (superpower: wisdom)

“But what about teleportation? Then I could, like, just show up at school. I wouldn’t have to walk.”

“Seems wasted when you live less than a block away.” (superpower: observation)

“Yeah, well...” he muttered, shrugged, and slurped his last three Cheerios, a whole grain ellipsis punctuating his unfinished thought.

Still not prepared with a response, I deferred to my daughter. (superpower: diversion) “Hey, Meg,” I yelled down the hall to my no-longer-sleeping yet still-in-bed oldest. “If you could choose two superpowers, what would they be?”

“Invisibility and mind reading.”

“Mind reading? People already SAY plenty of nasty things. Why would you want to know everything they’re NOT saying?” (superpower: persuasion)

“Good point,” she conceded.

“Besides, you’re already invisible.” I added. “You haven’t appeared at breakfast all week.” (superpower: humor)

“You guys are freaks.” This was my wife’s unexpected contribution, added with a slight roll of her eyes and accentuated by the thwack of her coffee cup on the kitchen table. “He just throws out ‘superpowers’ during breakfast, and suddenly you three are engaged in full-on conversation. Is there some standardized list of superpowers that I’m not aware of?”

“Well there’s flying and super strength and speed. Those are pretty standard,” I inform her. (superpower: analysis)

“Yeah, like Mr. Incredible and Dash - pshooo!” the boy says, providing his own sound effects.

“I meant real superheroes like Superman and Spiderman and the Flash.” (superpower: suspension of disbelief)

“Real superheroes?” my wife asks.

“But you have to watch out for guys like Batman,” I continue. (superpower: avoidance) “Batman was just a normal guy with cool gadgets. No super-strength or anything.” (superpower: rambling)

The boy nodded his agreement.

“You know what?” Jennifer placed both hands on the table and stood slowly. “You all just keep making stuff up, all your invisi-portation and tele-bility.”

“Invisibility and teleportation?”

“Whatever. Here’s the deal.” She paused and glared at each of us in succession. “I can clear the table without you noticing.” We looked down and sure enough, our cereal bowls were missing. “I can get dishes, laundry, and bathrooms clean faster than you can get them dirty. I can organize transportation for dance, soccer, swim, and after-school meetings and - legally, mind you - get everyone there on time. I pick up the clutter and lay down the law. So you can talk about superpowers all you want.”

“I’ve got work to do.”

(superpower: Mom)

New Post at the Nerdy Book Club

Thank you to the Nerdy Book Club blog for giving me the opportunity to share about junior high study hall, pink eye, and other such reading topics in my post The Non-Reading Reader. It's an honor to be included.

To everyone who makes their way to Help Readers Love Reading from the Nerdy Book Club post, thanks for visiting. I hope you return soon, and it would be great to hear from you. To regular readers of HRLR who came here to read a new post, please visit The Nerdy Book Club to see how pink eye helped me earn my NBC membership.

Thanks, everyone, for visiting, reading, and doing what you do to help readers love reading.

A New Family Experience

This column appeared in last Monday's local newspaper. The intensity has been turned up a notch or two at practices, or so the boy tells me, to prepare for the meets in the new year. We're not sure what the parents should do to prepare for the upcoming meets, however.

Thanks for stopping by the site. You can view the original article on the newspaper's website here.

Kids now days participate in a wide variety of activities, and our children are no exception. From games to tournaments, recitals to meets, our family has been there. We've sat on bleachers, folding chairs, cushioned seats, and God’s green earth. We've walked for miles, stood for hours, and bought (and sold) more than our share of licorice whips and walking tacos.

But recently we added a new and thoroughly unique experience. A swim meet.

This is our first year with a child on swim team. Now, at six weeks and two meets into the season, we’ve realized that this youth activity is like no other we’ve experienced.

Many youth sports are played at the mercy of the weather. Sun and heat, wind and rain, cold and snow - as long as there’s no thunder, lace ‘em up. Some youth activities occur under controlled conditions. Basketball and volleyball are inside (but some gymnasiums are infamously arctic), hockey is also indoors (oddly, in rinks often warmer than gyms), and dance recitals are held in beautiful theaters (but there’s never enough light to read the program).

Swim meets are the only sports where the conditions are controlled to be miserable. It’s August in the Caribbean minus the beach, sun, palm trees, and pina coladas. Which leaves two things: hot and damp. But since it’s still winter outside, every open door brings an arctic blast. Wearing a tank-top and mukluks would be appropriate. Maybe recommended.

Volunteering at kids’ events comes with certain perks. Keeping the score book at a basketball game earns court-side seats. Assistant coaches are privy to lineup changes and secret strategies. Even the mom who brings the orange slices to the soccer match gets to hang out with the team.

Parents who volunteer as timers at swim meets certainly get great seats: right behind the starting blocks. Swimmers’ starts are meant to be fast, not necessarily pretty, and splashing will occur. Frequently. In your direction. Recording times becomes rather challenging. Pencil, meet wet paper. Swimmers enter the pool on your right, exit the pool on your left, and lean over your shoulder to ask, “What was my time?” If the splash doesn't get you, the swimmers will.

Even casual fans share the timers’ experience. Cheering for swimmers from the first three rows of bleachers is like an afternoon at Sea World, minus the killer whales. Makes the front row on Splash Mountain feel like the Sahara.

All kids’ activities have their own version of whistles, cheers, announcements, horns, starting guns, and “Stee-rike three!”

At first glance the sounds of swim meets might appear similar. Each event begins with a whistle, a “Take your mark,” and a horn. Our son’s last meet had 141 events all occurring in a room constructed entirely of tile, glass, and echoes. Every whistle-istle-istle and “Take your mark-ark-ark” and HONK-onk-onk reverberates long after splashdown. All 141 of them.

But swim meets, in all honesty, aren’t completely unique. Regardless of the activity, the smile of a medal- or ribbon-holding child makes the heat, humidity, and loss of hearing small prices to pay. You’ll be smiling every step of the way back to the car.

Every squishy step.

Real-Life Lessons

This article appeared in last Monday's newspaper. In the week since its original publication, I'm sorry to report, there are no updates to the story. Not that I expected anything different.

When you boil it down, a great deal of parental instruction falls into one major category: responsibility. Children need to know that it is their responsibility to brush their teeth, finish their homework, behave in an acceptable manner, and put on clean underwear.

As parents we keep on our kids about such things so that as adults they have their own teeth, achieve the tasks set before them, and behave as civilized contributors to a peaceful society. And wear clean underwear.

Yet we know that children aren’t perfect. They make mistakes, and mistakes lead to more lessons about responsibility. I’ve got no problem with that.

But what frustrates me to no end, makes me want to throw up my hands and yell something unsavory, is that even when a parent’s lesson is taken to heart and a child does exactly what has been taught, the outcome can still turn sour.

I’m not talking about getting cavities. That happens. Even completed homework can get eaten by the dog. It’s the bigger stuff.

Our daughter wanted her own iPod. Her mom and I discussed it. What are the positives? The negatives? Most importantly, has she demonstrated sufficient responsibility to warrant such a purchase?

Yes, she had, we agreed.

She responsibly saved her own money. She diligently bypassed short-term trifles for a long-term purchase. Basically, she proved us right.

She got her iPod.

She took care of it. She asked us before purchasing music or installing new apps. She designed and purchased her own iPod cover using a photo she took of a palm tree and printed “Palm Tree Girl” across the top. She used the alarm, took notes, read the news, and even read ebooks.

And then it got stolen.

Brilliant.

What do you say to that? Where is the lesson in this? “Sweetheart, sometimes even when you do everything right, someone else’s shallow actions and irresponsibility can take away something you’ve worked so hard for.”

Nice.

Welcome to the real world where not all people value responsibility, where a person’s long-term achievements can be crushed by another’s short-term greed, and where doing the right thing can still result in frustration, anger, and disappointment.

In all of this, however, I can give thanks that it’s a stolen iPod, not a missed meal. I can give thanks that my daughter has shown such responsibility and that the employees at the doctor’s office were empathetic.

So I’m thankful.

And through it all I have faith that the lessons my daughter has learned - and the lessons we’ve learned from her - will not be forgotten. She’s handled herself well, which brings joy to her mother and me. And we’ll all certainly take more care of our belongings.

So one might say I’m faithful, joyful, and more careful.

And I hope that maybe there’s a parent wondering why their child went to a doctor’s appointment and came home with an iPod. I hope someone will follow the request that appeared on the iPod’s screen to return it to the office where it was stolen. I’m hoping a friend or relative might question the appearance of an iPod where there wasn’t one before.

But honestly, I’m not hopeful.

Sorry. Just being truthful.

A Boy and the Bed of a Pickup

Not our truck and not our dirt, but you get the picture.

When I was a kid, riding in the back of a pickup truck was, if not a regular occurrence, certainly not out of the ordinary. Not so any longer. Maybe it's because there's no anchor for a car seat and no airbags back there. Not to make light of automotive safety, here's my latest newspaper column. It combines a job to be done, a boy, his imagination, and the back of the truck. Here's a link to the newspaper site, and thanks for stopping by.

We recently removed several old tree stumps from our backyard. Eleven holes to fill, level, and seed, and the toil fell to my two hands. Unless I could wrangle up some family help.

Needing to haul black dirt, I commandeered Grandpa’s pickup, and the truck became my prime negotiating tool. I approached the boy. “Want to help me fill the stump holes? Haul some black dirt? Plant some grass seed?”

No response.

“We’re taking Papa’s new truck.”

That got his attention.

“Can I ride in the back?”

“Not on the road, but you’ll need to be back there to help shovel.”

“Okay. I’m in.”

Having doubled my labor force, I grabbed a second shovel and we headed to the landfill for fresh compost. Upon arrival, and before my foot even hit the ground, I heard a familiar query.

“Can I get in the back of the truck?”

“We need to shovel the dirt into the truck, and the dirt is down here.”

So we shoveled compost. It worked like this: I’d shovel from one side, he’d dig holes on the other. “You’re supposed to put the dirt into the back of the truck, Buddy.”

“Yeah, I know. But, see, I’m trying to make the pile collapse.”

“Excuse me?”

“Collapse. See, if I dig under here, then it’ll be cool ‘cause everything up there will collapse down here!”

“But WE’RE down here. You want us to get buried?”

“Dad. Seriously?”

I kept shoveling. He kept digging, unconcerned that his ongoing efforts brought us steadily closer to premature burial. Shovel-full after shovel-full, and to be clear, these were my shovel-fulls, the bed of the truck filled. And the pile never collapsed.

“Can I ride in the back of the truck now?”

“Sorry, bud. Not on the highway.” So he dragged himself back to the front for the trip home.

As I prepared to back into the driveway, around the garage, and to the soon-to-be-filled holes, the boy interrupted with a sudden revelation. “Hey, I have an idea. How about you drop me off in the driveway, and I’ll ride in the back?” he asked.

“How about I drop you off, you grab two rakes and the tamper, put them in, and then ride in the back?” I suggested.

“Um...how about I just ride in back?”

So I got the rakes and the tamper and he, finally, climbed on the compost pile in the back of the truck.

Looking over the tailgate, using unique and animated hand motions, he directed me to each hole. His third base coach impression did get me into position, but it proved to be the last - and only - time his hands aided in the day’s work.

The bed of the truck became his play land, his battle ground, his junkyard. He slid down the pile. He threw dirt-clod bombs. He searched for nails, plastic, and other non-compostable treasures. I tried to teach him the meaning of “decomposed organic matter,” but rot and decay are no match for a nine-year-old’s imagination.

Eventually, the holes were filled, the grass seed was sown, and the job was completed.

One day his willingness to be present will transform into a willingness to participate. Until then I’m happy to let his imagination run unrestrained.

But he still can’t ride in the back of the truck.

Summer Camp Season - New Column Today

Preparing for summer camp can be a stressful experience. Getting to camp, putting all that preparation to good use, and actually leaving a child in the in the Wisconsin Northwoods with 150 other kids can take the stress to another level. My latest newspaper column tells how one family dealt with it this summer. Click here to see it on the newspaper's website.

The summer has nearly passed, and while no one is eager to see it go, our family is thankful we have successfully navigated summer camp season.

A child’s annual trip to summer camp begins weeks before departure and continues well after addresses are exchanged. Parents guide the pre-camp preparations. (Yes, really, you do need to pack underwear.) Parents tiptoe around the post-camp, down-off-the-mountain doldrums. (Why are you just lying there, staring, with your duffle bag as a pillow?)

Now, the at-camp part in the middle is nice. The peace. The quiet. The uninterrupted trips to the bathroom. Unless, of course, you enjoy sibling squabbles and brother-sister bickering.

So you got your before-camp (ugh!), your during-camp (ahhh...), and your after-camp (woe!). But the highest peak to scale for every week at summer camp is the time after leaving home and before arriving at camp.

The drive.

Especially when it’s the boy’s first time attending for a full week. Sure, there were some short father/son excursions and a couple weekends with friends, but for our youngest this was his first time away for a whole week. We spent three anxious hours in the van. Three hours fraught with worry, angst, and at times, raw panic. We heard it all, from homesickness to horrible, bloody death and digestion by wild animals.

“I miss you when we’re not together.”

“Maybe we should turn back. Maybe next year would be better for a whole week at camp. You know? Another year older, another year of experience.”

“There might be storms. Is camp safe when it storms?”

“What about the food? Do campers get enough food? Will it be good? What if it’s not good?”

“There are animals in the woods. Dangerous animals. Bears! And wolves! Bears and wolves eat people!”

“Who will tell me, ‘Goodnight,’ and ‘I love you,’ each night before bed?” Those are a lot of issues to deal with on one drive to camp, let alone the fact that we had already discussed most of them in the weeks prior. We’d been planning the boy’s trip to camp for months. How could we turn back now?

“We’ll only be apart for one week.”

“After all those weekends, anything less than a week would be a let down.”

“Camp has emergency plans in place for extreme weather.”

“No camper has ever starved at summer camp, and to the best of my knowledge, no camper has ever prevented a wild animal from starving.”

We repeated all the assurances previously shared in the days leading up to camp.

Results were mixed.

It wasn’t until we reminded her that husbands can say “Goodnight” and “I love you” just as well as little boys that Mom finally believed she’d make it through the week.

She let the boy stay.

And he loved every minute.

Coaching Kids - New Column Today

"You're killing me, Smalls!"

The official youth baseball season has ended and along with it ends my coaching stint for this year. Our team had our ups and downs, wins and losses, sunshine and rain, but there are some constants that remain true. Constants that are not in the rule books but hold true to coaching kids. Here's my latest newspaper column full of advice for grown-ups who coach kids. (Take it for what it's worth, and with a grain of salt, of course.)

Here's the original column on the newspaper's site.

Coaching baseball is more than creating a line-up, standing in the dugout, and offering the occasional word of encouragement or correction.

But coaching Little League baseball?

Sure, you got your line-ups, dugouts, and positive words, but working with kids brings a whole 'nother dimension.

The Little League coaching recipe starts with instruction. Add a handful of inspiration and a dash of imagination. Allow for imperfection and inattention. Use imitation as desired.

And hope it doesn’t end with indigestion.

The 2011 Edition of Official Baseball Rules is 130 pages and over 50,000 words. I checked at MLB.com. The Official Little League Rule Book comes in at a total of 125 pages.

Yet these are incomplete documents. Coaches flipping through these books can find their fill of instruction, but the remaining coaching ingredients are severely lacking within their pages.

So I’m offering an unofficial rule book addendum -- not rules necessarily -- but guidelines. It's information needed by grown-ups to successfully coach kids, all conveniently concentrated to 1 page and 500 words, and all available free. With my compliments.

Guideline #1: All equipment besides a player’s hat, glove, and cup is provided by the team and available in the dugout, yet batters will occasionally enter the on-deck circle without a helmet or bat.

Guideline #2: Players can lose their hat and glove in less than half an inning.

Guideline #3: Players never lose their cup. This is due to its proximity to other valuable possessions and the tendency for players to repeatedly demonstrate their cup’s effectiveness with their knuckles.

Guideline #4: The outfield is little more than a prairie. Prairies have grass, weeds, holes, crickets, moths, and the occasional squirrel. In this environment baseballs will drop from the sky unnoticed.

Guideline #5: Nobody understands the infield fly rule, and simple misdirection will help you avoid explaining it to an inquisitive youngster. Try replying “How many outs are there?” or “Have you seen your hat?”

Guideline #6: A squibber that travels halfway to first and barely stays fair can be more significant than a screaming line drive to the gap. It all depends on the player who hits it.

Guideline #7: Never be comfortable when your pitcher has an 0-2 count on the hitter. Balls are like parade candy -- readily available and freely given.

Guideline #8: Any player who hits a weak ground ball to shortstop, is safe at first and advances to second on an overthrow, takes third when the pitcher drops the ball, and races for home when the pitcher’s throw to third goes into the dugout, will claim to have hit a home run. Mark it accordingly in the score book.

Guideline #9: Support the concession stand. The money is needed for extra hats.

Guideline #10: Sunflower seeds are not only a cheek-filling, spit-inducing, baseball snack, but make great rapid-fire artillery to launch at unsuspecting teammates in the dugout. It’s best to just stay out of range.

Guideline #11: All’s well that ends well. As long as there’s ice cream. And everyone leaves with their hat.

Eleven Months to Mother's Day

Note: Not my lawn.

The run-up to Father's Day is nearly over. My latest column is all about how the dads of the world can enjoy their day ... and then begin planning for Mother's Day. Unless my proposal is accepted by the holiday authorities, whoever that may be.

Here's a link to the original column on the newspaper's website or you can just keep reading below.

Thanks for visiting and thanks for reading.

Father’s Day is still nearly a week out, but I’m sure I can say Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there anyway. Dads, your day will assuredly be filled with family appreciation, thoughtful gifts and uninterrupted time to do guy stuff.

Families show their Father’s Day appreciation for dad in any number of ways. Could be a favorite breakfast or fresh, dark coffee in a new mug. Maybe a hand-painted, poster-sized card with “We Love Dad!” decorating the living room.

Gifts are always thoughtful, and I’m convinced the legend of the gaudy tie for Father’s Day is a myth. I’ve never received a tie for Father’s Day. Never. We receive thoughtful gifts, each dependent upon the talents, joys, and hobbies of the individual dad. Fathers find tools or outdoor equipment or books or items with small engines that produce big noise, exhaust, and toothy grins.

Our families give us time to do guy stuff. If you feel the lawn needs mowing, slowly, you got it. If the lawn would benefit from your bare feet admiring its freshly cut blades up close, no problem.

This Father’s Day the Brewers are playing in Fenway Park. Fenway! Even if the family doesn’t understand the significance of Fenway Park, they’ll grant you three hours to bask in baseball in the shadow of the Green Monstah.

These things I know without doubt, and they hold true for only one reason: Moms are in charge.

If fathers were in charge of Father’s Day, it would probably look a lot like, well, Mother’s Day.

Fathers forget. Mother’s Day sneaks up on us every year just like anniversaries, Christmas, and kids in cotton socks. Yes, these things happen with startling regularity, but dang it all if ain’t the second Saturday in May and the best idea I’ve got is a new coffee pot.

It’s embarrassing.

That’s why I’m proposing a holiday exchange. A Sunday swap. A Mother’s Day / Father’s Day flip-flop.

This way dads would get their day in May and with it a one month countdown to Mother’s Day. You like your day in the yard, Dad? You like that breakfast omelet with cheese, ham, sausage, and bacon with Tabasco sauce on the side? Let it be a reminder: You got one month to Mother’s Day.

I understand, dads, that this proposal comes with added pressure, and I know there’s potential for many of us to crumble under its weight. But truly there’s nothing like a great Father’s Day to remind us of the one thing that makes Father’s Day so spectacular. Mothers.

I’m not sure who to petition - Hallmark maybe? - but right now it’s important to get the word out and let the momentum build. Let Father’s Day fall in May, and let it begin the 30-day countdown to Mother’s Day.

The switch not only provides fathers sufficient notification, but also contains the potential for perfect symmetry. Consider, if any dad forgets Mother’s Day now, Father’s Day will have a May Day just before -- and a “Mayday!” shortly after.

So let’s make it happen, dads! Until then, consider this your eleven-month warning.

Scars and the Poking Out of Eyes

Image from the GeekDad blog
at Wired.com. This is not Kyle.

My latest newspaper column applies to half the population. Well honestly, I guess it applies to everyone since half the population gets themselves into these situations and the other half has to deal with it. Thanks for stopping by the site, and I hope you enjoy the article.

One morning recently a first grader approached me, proud as a peacock and strutting his new feathers. Stitches, right on the bridge of his nose, there for all the world - and his own crossed eyes - to see.

Seems Kyle and his siblings were playing an age old game, nameless to the best of my knowledge, that involves throwing stuff up in the air and watching it fall. His sister threw a baseball bat-sized stick in the air, and they all watched it hit a home run on the downswing, right between Kyle’s eyes. A first-ever, first-grader, four-bagger.

Kyle’s fine. Ask him, he’ll tell you. And it’s cool, he’ll say, cause the nurse told him chicks dig scars.

But just imagine. One inch right or left and suddenly he’s Captain Kyle, Curse of the Classroom, Scourge of Scholars, and he’s being fitted for an eye patch.

Quick. Name a boy, old or young, with a noticeable scar and a story to match Kyle’s. Easy, right?

Now name a boy or a man who’s actually lost an eye.

Okay, I know these men are out there. Accidents do happen. But I’ve never met a one-eyed man who said, “Yeh see this here eye? Do yeh? Lost it in ‘77, barely off me mother’s milk, I was. All I’ll say is this: the next time someone tells yeh Tiddlywinks ain’t dangerous, don’t yeh dare believe ‘em.”

Ralphie’s mother in A Christmas Story wasn’t the only mom to say, “You’ll shoot your eye out!” (Or “poke your eye out” or “put your eye out.” Same thing.) But truth be told, none of us ever did.

Remember Chicago Bears quarterback Jim McMahon? Remember the ‘85 Bears, the Super Bowl Shuffle, the attitude? Remember the sunglasses? Turns out the sunglasses weren’t just his attitude on display. McMahon’s right eye was extremely sensitive to light.

See, when he was six he tried to undo a knot in a toy gun holster he was wearing. With a fork. Get that image clear in your mind’s eye and you don’t need to hear the rest of the story to know what happened.

The fork slipped, entered his eye, and severed the retina.

Even boys who actually do poke themselves in the eye can’t manage to poke the eye out. It’s like half the population is creative (or stupid) enough to get themselves into these eye-popping situations yet not talented enough to close the deal.

Scars are to boys like words are to the blank page. Neither starts out marked, but both are incomplete without the unique stories etched upon them by their owners.

When I was kid I stood on a chair to reach something on the top shelf of a closet. Instead of removing the items weighing it down, I tugged and pulled. My hands slipped and back I went until my head hit the corner of the coffee table. Blood? Yep. Scar? You bet. Dumb?

Obviously.

And good thing. Had I thought about what was happening, I may have turned to see where my head was headed.

Probably would have lost an eye.

Travel Lessons for Kids

My new column appeared in the newspaper this past Monday, but for some reason it failed to appear on the newspaper's website.  So here it is.  For those of you who recently enjoyed, are currently enjoying, or will soon enjoy Spring Break, here are a few travel lessons.  Use them as a useful reminder or as preparation for an upcoming trip.  Either way, thanks for reading.

For my children (eager travelers both) and for junior journeyers everywhere, here is a quick review of lessons learned during spring break.

Many people travel. Most are not on vacation. Businessmen, retirees, and other parents may not appreciate your physical and/or vocal efforts to prevent siblings from reaching the next suitcase out of the tunnel at baggage claim before you.

Parents occasionally face unexpected hassles on vacation, at the rental car counter for instance. After selecting the rental car recommended online for your traveling party, plus luggage, the agent might ask your parents, “Is it just the two of you?” and “How many bags do you have?” As your parents try to decide if they are being taken for a ride before actually renting the vehicle, please refrain from using the suitcases in an improvised demolition derby. This will not aid their decision.

Once you are properly loaded into the recently upgraded rental, loud music, while enjoyable, does not help parents navigate unfamiliar highways. This is especially true on interstate highways five lanes wide.

When checking into a hotel, parents must answer certain questions immediately. “Where’s the pool?” is not one of these questions.

Yes, everyone needs to use the restroom, even when traveling. And yes, most gas stations have restrooms. But no, we’re not stopping at that one even if your teeth are singing “Anchors Aweigh.”

Sticker price is a myth. This is particularly true when you are a tourist. Here are some fees frequently added to tourists’ bills: state sales tax, local sales tax, excise tax, segment fee, facility charge, security fee, bed tax, occupancy tax, room tax, service fee, and gratuity. This is the reason why Mom needed to loan you $18.63 even though you had saved exactly enough money.

And I’m sorry, but I only know what three of those fees are.

Even though Grandpa slipped you some cash and told you to get yourself something nice, stopping at the video game resale shop does not count as a souvenir nor is it what Papa intended.

Just because a restaurant claims to have the “Best Fish in Florida” or “Award-Winning Pie” doesn’t necessarily make it so, nor does it make the restaurant any cleaner in your mother’s eyes.

Repacking for home is not as simple as “stuffin’ it in” as you say. It takes a cooperative and concerted effort by both parents to fit everything the family initially brought plus the extras picked up along the way. Unless you want your beach sand and seashells to stay behind, keep quiet, keep out of way, and turn down the hotel TV.

Meals on travel days do not fit traditional meal schedules. If food is not available when you are hungry, whining, crying, and/or blaming your parents won’t make it magically appear. At the same time, when food is available, eat. Saying you aren’t hungry or dismissing a cheeseburger because it’s not “breakfast food” are not legitimate reasons to fast.

Finally, yes, everybody’s ears do that on a plane, but don’t ask repeatedly, “Hello? Hello? Hello?” to test your hearing. People seated nearby can still hear you.

And I hope you’re hearing me.

What's Embarrassing Anyway?

New column in the local newspaper today. I was facing a looming deadline when struck with the idea of asking the kids for their help. Um, well, yeah. The column got done, but I made a curious discovery. Or at least I pondered something probably already known.

Anyways, continue reading below or check the newspaper or the newspaper's printable version.

This is a transcript of an actual, recently completed conversation:

Me: Kiddos? I have an article to write. Do you want to help me?

Daughter: Why?

Me: I need ideas.

Daughter: Snakes!

Me: Snakes?

Daughter: I don’t know. That’s what’s on TV right now.

Me: Wha...?

Daughter: Zac gets bit on the butt.

Me, after muting the offending television: Seriously! Quit looking at TV for a second why don’t you?

Son: Hey, I was watching that! What’re you doing?

Me: I’m talking to you.

Son: You are? About what?

Me: My newspaper column. Weren’t you listening?

Son: Um, TV?

Daughter: Texting. You could make a texting article.

Me: I don’t think I could get enough words with texting.

Daughter: Why? LOL. BRB. [giggles]

Me: I don’t think I know what all the things mean.

Daughter, incredulous: Laugh out loud? Be right back?

Me: Yeah, I know THOSE two, but...

Daughter: ASAP? C’mon, Daddio! [Seriously. She called me Daddio.]

Son: [no response]

At this point my writer’s block was becoming an entire neighborhood of emptiness, and I figured kids should be able to provide content for a parenting column. I decided it was time to pull out the big guns. Coercion.

Me: Eh-hem, here’s the deal. I have taken pictures of the floors in your bedrooms. I will describe them in great detail if you don’t help me write this article.

Daughter: What do you mean, describe them? You took a picture of our bedroom floors?

Me: I took two. 

Son: [no response]

Daughter: What are going to do with them?

Me: Describe them.

Daughter: Okay. [shrugs]

Me: Okay?

Daughter: Just not the underwear.

Me: All right. I won’t mention the underwear.

Son: [no response]

And that was it. My last, best grasp at getting help, voluntarily or involuntarily, had disappeared like yesterday’s homework under a pile of fingernail products, torn art projects, and laundry. But how can the threat of public embarrassment bring absolutely zero results?

This is a room meant for human occupancy, yet items pointy, slimy, and sticky threaten every bare-footed step. Personal effects purchased to provide the necessities of life - clothing, comfort, nourishment - and once neatly organized by loving hands, now lay discarded. Clothing, some torn and some stained and all dirty, is piled randomly. Stuffed animals, half-whiskered and half-clothed, are planted face down. Remnants of snacks past now permanently meld spoons to bowls.

And when I threaten to publicly portray the slovenly practices of my children, all I get is “Okay.”? Is a ruinous room not embarrassing? Is the disastrous not distressing?

I took a writing break after that last paragraph when, coincidentally, my wife exited the boy’s bedroom. “I swear stuff just multiplies in there. It wasn’t that long ago we cleaned under his bed the last time.” Upon looking in the boy’s room I found him lying on the floor, calmly assembling some new creation, surrounded by - and oblivious to - the mysteriously multiplying “stuff.”

That’s when I realized that messy bedrooms don’t embarrass kids any more than right turns embarrass drivers. It’s just part of being a kid. And it’s why kids' bedrooms have doors. Doors parents can keep closed.

When You Are Watching Your Children, Others Are Watching You

mowillemsdoodles.blogspot.com

My latest newspaper column is out today, and it's all about the people who go out in public without children. Some of these folks have grown children. Others have no children. Some are just lucky enough to be able to drop off their children at Grandma's house while they head to the supermarket. And since they don't have any children under their direct and immediate jurisdiction, they take the opportunity to keep an eye on your children.

Here's the original article at the newspaper's site. Here's the printable version.

When parents take their children out in public, their eyes are on their children.  Parents must always be ready to replace the taken, repair the broken, repeat the spoken, and, well, let’s face it.  Kids can be bulls and the world their china shop.

On those infrequent occasions when a parent’s eyes rise above 36 inches to look at their surroundings, they’ll notice that theirs are not the only eyes on the children.  The world is watching. Watching, and holding tightly to their Blue Willow.

Yes, the world is full of watchers, but their methods of observation are as varied as fish in the sea.  Watch the watchers.  Eventually you’ll see them all.

The Smiler - Always has a pleasant smile, no matter the situation. Will describe a three-year-old who’s pulling heads off Barbie dolls as “energetic.” 

The Scowler - Brow always furrowed; sees no good in children’s actions.  Also generally suspicious.  Will think a well-behaved child is “looking for something.”

The Nodder - Head bobs north and south in understanding.  Believes children will be children and accepts it.

The Shaker - Head shakes east and west in frustration.  Believes children should be miniature adults.

The Nostalgic - Eyes misty, the nostalgic reminisces about her own children, often with one or both hands over her heart. 

The Dreamer - Eyes misty, the dreamer’s gaze flutters between your children and her spouse, communicating a “someday, honey” message.

The Forgiver - Known to say, “That’s okay,” sometimes followed with “sweety” or “sweetheart.”.  A child may commandeer a grocery cart and promptly clip an unsuspecting shopper’s ankles, but the forgiver will wince, whisper “That’s okay,” and limp off to the produce section.

The Forgetter - Does not remember A. being a child, B. having a child, or C. the scientific fact that all life begins before adulthood.  Is known to make comments about animals in the wild “eating their young.”

The Peeker - Wants to watch the children, but doesn’t want you to know. Often found behind menus, newspapers, and church bulletins.

The Starer - Will stop all other activities to gawk at the perceived spectacle your child creates.

The Helpful - Will hold a door, carry a bag, and pick up yogurt containers tossed on the floor by toddlers.  Often a smiler.

The Helpless - Wants to help but is unable. This person often has his own children and can’t risk being distracted.

The Help Resistant - Simply cannot believe a child would act like, well, a child.  Receives satisfaction from letting parent, child, and surrounding citizens suffer.  Nose often pointed upward.

The Empathetic - Will cringe at certain behaviors shown by children, not because of the behavior, but because of knowing the Scowlers and Shakers nearby won’t be happy.

The Rocker - Attempts to calm another person’s crying child by gently rocking herself, sans child.

So watch away, you Smilers and Scowlers, Peekers and Starers.  Enjoy the show because one day you’ll have children or grandchildren out in public, and wouldn’t you know it?  They’ll behave like children.

And we’ll be watching.