Small Town Mompetitions

Recently I was reminded of the nature of competition.  The exact details aren't really important.  An old friend (female) was having some issues with a circle of women involved in a civic project.  One said the wrong thing to another, the other took offense thinking that her child, about whom the comment had been made, was slighted and it was on - the brawl to end it all, the war to settle the score - the Mompetition.

It's the same all over, isn't it? A group of moms is thrown together under whatever circumstances and it won't be long until it is obvious that one parent favors her child over another for some arbitrary reason. Maybe she seeks an advantage for her child over something pointless or perhaps says the wrong thing to another parent that betrays a previously closely held view of the world that, once aired publicly, changes things permanently,

"Mompetition" is a word that maybe you haven't heard of before.  I hadn't heard of it until an internet video making the rounds last week made me laugh out loud. The Urban Dictionary (a favorite site) defines mompetition as:

The one-up rivalry that moms play making their child seem better, smarter, and/ or more advanced than yours. May involve two or more moms and any number of children, even full-grown.

Mompetitions can transcend issues involving kids too - who has the nicest house, who is part of the "in crowd," vacations, husbands, money - all of the really toxic things that can ruin friendships.  But it's when  the kids get involved that things get especially tough.  Is there anything that makes us feel more vulnerable than our kids? Which kids made the team, made the grades, got the preferred teacher, etc.  That all goes hand-in-glove with the dreaded mompetition.

It's natural for us as people to want to cheer, and who better to cheer for than our own kids?  But, sometimes I wonder at what expense comes the mompetition or if the collective expectations about these competitions are reasonable.

I am not a mom, so I don't pretend to be an expert on these issues. My most relevant experience in understanding the dynamics here comes from my background in employment mediation.  In mediation, to solve a problem or quiet a controversy, you try and pry away the personal hard feelings central to a dispute and look at whose expectations are at least justified, then determine from those justified expectations which are at least reasonable and which ones aren't.  Most times if you take this patient approach and then look hard enough you can find a win/win scenario. 


In applying this rationale to the Alpha Mom in full bloom, you have to try and understand what she is competing with.  If the Alpha Mompetitor could step back and refine her understanding of competition to see that the competition is no less keen or compelling when it is focused inward, then the interpersonal relationships affecting that mom will be stronger, more enduring.

We all like winning, and I am no different when it comes to my kid winning. It's just that I believe in teaching the kids to compete against their own expectations and beliefs - to achieve at a level higher than they previously believed they could achieve. I also believe in teaching the kids to help others along the way.  It's been my experience that that is the hallmark of every great leader I have known - that they bring others along with them - get them to achieve more not by dominating them, but by teaching them, helping them.

If you always give your best, then the outcomes will take care of themselves. Achievements aren't diluted in the least if they don't come at the expense of another; but are instead leveraged on previous performance.

I get it; we all need to feel good about something - our jobs, our kids, our homes.  We all want some magic barometer that tells us that what we are getting out of life is somehow on par with what we are putting into it. And the easiest way to do that is to measure ourselves against someone in our similar situation.  Moms with kids in the same class; breast-feeding versus non-breast feeding moms, moms who vaccinate, etc.

But when competition is applied to the interpersonal relationships of the fairer sex, well there is a lurking danger with this kind of thinking. From where I sit, there is just something different about the way women communicate that turbo-charges this issue.

It is probably true, in general terms, that men practice friendliness and women practice friendships.  And there is some research that actually support this.  Men, in their general bucolic stupor, are quite capable of suffering the clumsy interpersonal affronts normal to relationships with far less intensity than are women. The empty-headed comment is made and then forgotten just as fast.

Disclaimer: I am saying "I think" here because I don't want to get in trouble at home or with my female relatives or friends. but secretly, I feel like I know this to be true.  As a man, I am just that dense - most times when someone is being insulting, or gossipy, mean-spirited or judgmental, I am clueless.  Generally speaking, it has been my experience in mediating conflicts that women are far more intuitive, more adept at seeing into the many layers of relationships and communications to pick up subtle things. I believe there are many circumstances where this intuition is a strength.  But, it also makes them far more susceptible to the harmful long term effects from the mompetitions.

So, despite having just learned the word, I can say with certainty that I don't much like the mompetitions

These mompetitions leave people wondering "what was won here?"  In many cases it is glaringly obvious what was lost:  trust, friendship, important affiliations and support networks.  Esteem.  It is certain that the mompetitions don't warm anyone's life and that the victories they bring to the mompetitors are transient at best.

In considering this issue, I am reminded of the Chinese proverb:

The tree long remembers what the axe soon forgets.

The axe thinks "no big deal, I am an axe.  I'm just doing my axe thing...."  But of the tree; I just wonder how long the tree will bear the mark of the axe just doing "its axe thing."

So that's what's rattling around in my head today.  Thanks for stopping by my blog.  Remember, whether you are the Tyrannosaurus Alpha Mompetitor, or you are the "Oil on Troubled Waters" type, I am glad you came by and shared some time with me.   And, don't forget, the tree long remembers what the axe soon forgets.

Dennis

"Clutter is the poetry of our homes..."

“Clutter is the poetry of our homes…”

A facebook friend recently posted this as her status update.  My inclusion of it as a blog entry here might lead to an interesting evening’s worth of dinner conversation in my home, because I am the clutterer and my wife is definitely the clutteree in our house, but that being said, I am nonetheless moved by this idea.

The entire quote is:

"Clutter is the poetry of our homes. It is an intimate view that life is not always perfect--a few dishes in the sink, books piled next to the bed. Everything in its place may give a certain satisfaction, but a lived-in room exudes comfort and warmth." -Mary Randolph Carter

Carter is an American journalist, executive and author. One of 9 children born to a family in Richmond, Virginia.  That fact alone, 9 children in one house, qualifies her as an expert in clutter, so I will take her word for it.

I love the turn of that phrase, “Clutter is the poetry of our homes…”  Looking around me, I see an abundance of what can only be classified as "poetry."

We have two kids in this house.  Two. And within arm’s reach of me at this exact moment are two wooden swords, an orange toy gun, and a play shotgun. The swords I actually bought because they were on sale and are cool as hell. They are nonetheless in “toy timeout” behind my desk because I am sure the TV is going to be the first victim of the cool swords.  The guns are in this house because a) I am not that bright and I actually brought them in, and b) when you give kids toy guns, they point toy guns at each other.  You may remember that I confessed to being a mushyheaded college liberal.  Well, this mushyheaded college liberal can’t bear the thought of the kids pointing toy guns at each other – so I confiscated them.  Hopefully my kids will consider this inconsistency as "Dad's poetry.”

Also, creating a clear and present danger to anyone walking around without shoes, is the epic-poem represented by an entire Polly Pockets village growing up behind me.  Kristin’s civilization-in-miniature, currently in development just over my left shoulder, warms our home courtesy of the generosity of her wonderful God-Mother, Aunt Christa.

Many nights I sit here, tinkering on the computer, only to realize that I am not doing a lick of work.  What I am really doing is listening to her give life to the richly layered relationships between the Polly Pockets village and her other dollhouse – the Pocket’s neighboring dollhouse to the east.

And I look over to the kitchen table and there sits the stack of school projects, bills to be paid, coupons I am saving, and toys that are being deported back downstairs to the children’s real play area. All of it is clutter. 

I was contemplating this notion of clutter just this morning as I stood in the front hallway looking for a cap.  On the banister going upstairs, there are four hooks that, at least for the month of December, will hold our Christmas stockings.  For the other 11 months of the year, they aren’t really good for anything but they lend themselves to the purpose of being a depository for fencing equipment, Halloween costumes that can’t be wrinkled, mine and Michael’s 18 different ballcaps, coats, shirts that have been pressed, shirts that need to be pressed, or anything else we don’t want the two damn cats to eat.

I am surrounded by so much “Poetry” that all I need to complete my ensemble is a black beret, turtleneck and clove cigarette.

But I actually believe the clutter is poetry.  The four year old keeps a handful of acorns in her jacket pocket that she gathered at the cottage. They have been there for ten weeks now. The jacket may be washed but the acorns must be removed and returned to her coat as soon as it dries.  They are her treasure.  They are her poetry.  We are enriched by the mere hearing of her many whispered stanzas.

And then there is the ten year old, nothing about him whispers.  His poetry is loud and joyful; colorful and alive. Mostly his vibrant poetic works are his drawings.  There isn’t a scrap of paper in the house that isn’t adorned with some kind of artwork courtesy of him.  Fabulous tales sketched out in his idle moments give us a peak over the transom of his mind. A more beautiful view does not exist in any window of this home, of that much I am certain. The pile on the kitchen table is a solid mix of junk mail and artwork from the boy.  The junk mail, bills, and coupons are hardly "good" poetry to my wife, but like me, she sees Michael's drawing as the meter and rhyme of our lives together.  They are the indicia of the shared lives being led here.

All of it combined says to me, “A family herein abides…”  The bike on the front lawn, the Frisbee on the roof, the leaves and acorns gathered from Kristin’s many walks around the neighborhood – what would we do without them, how much would we miss them if they were gone?  In terms of "poetry," my workbench in the garage is the tale of Gilgamesh and Hesiod's "Works and Days" all rolled into one.  Taken as a whole, the garage is really a group effort at poetry.  It's like Bacon and Shakespeare and Milton all teamed up to write something really amazing.  But I am grateful for the poetry of our clutter.

Grateful for the many badges that a family lives here.  Just grateful, I suppose.

None of this asserts to the occasional passer-by that, should they ever walk within ear-shot of my home, they won't hear me ranting on about some bad bad really bad work of poetry brought forward by the children.  They are capable of poetic outputs that exponentially outpace any mortal human's efforts to catalog them.  But still, there remains the underlying gratitude - the desire to give thanks for the mere fact there is a mess to clean up, toys to step on, that there lives with us two small, warm hearts without many cares in the world but for the Lego castle; the Polly Pocket tea party, or the small but growing armory behind Dad's desk.

So thanks for stopping by today.  I hope wherever you sit, you can see the clutter in your life as a badge of vitality and a life in action - symbolic of young hands and minds at work doing the best of what young hands and minds can do; dreaming, imagining, and creating.

Dennis

One of my professors used to call me a "Mushy-headed college liberal..."

I think of him often.  He too was a liberal - a constitutional law scholar, and a genius, and he would say the words with such gusto and warmth, as if it was ok to just laugh about it

There is, in my neighborhood, an angry angry man.  Not the guy I wrote about earlier.  No, the fellow I am thinking of is just mad about anything akin to being liberal.  He posts angry signs in the back of his truck, swears at the neighbor kids for walking on his lawn, and is just serially unkind and intemperate.  But, he does inspire thought.

So I saw him at the local gas station today with another set of angry signs in the back of his truck.  Angry, smug, borderline racist signs regarding our president, the state of our country, the nature of liberals, and, as usual, his continuing reference to the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001.

So I sat down at this here computer and asked myself, if good old Walt was here, and he really wanted to know what goes on in a liberal's head, what would I tell him.

1) I've been married 19 years to the same woman I fell in love with in college.

2) We have two great kids and, contrary to the conventional thinking about liberals, they were baptized (in a church) and do not have cloven feet or tattoos.

3) I have consistently had a job ever since I was 15 - even through college, grad school, and law school.

4) I firmly believe Jesus was a liberal (yeah, I went there. I looked up the word "liberal" and from the definition it seems pretty clear to me.)

5) I don't own a single pair of sandals, do not drive a hybrid, and I cry during the national anthem.

6) I do not hate America. I do not teach my kids to hate America. I coach little league and teach my kids to swing away and run through the bag.

7) Contrary to what some folks might have you believe, as a liberal I do not even dislike America.  I dislike peas, bad driving, bills, and gossip.

8) The fact is that I love America. There, I said it. I love its people, and its ideas, and its history and traditions. I love its geography and its big footprints. Its moxie. I love the story of the passengers on flight 93 - how they actually voted on whether or not to take matters into their own hands. That is proof positive of American DNA right there. We all have it - liberals and conservatives alike.

9) This mushy-headed college liberal actually approaches any veteran out and about who is wearing some badge of service, and makes a point of shaking his or her hand and saying "thank you." My family and friends think I am crazy. I'm not crazy - just grateful.

10)Walt, as a liberal, I cried on 9/11 too. My personal beliefs are that that day is not some sort of sacrosanct conservative giving tree that exists merely as leverage for extreme conservatives to separate themselves forever from their liberal countrymen (Sarah Palin, I am looking right at you). As my memory serves, among the many tales of heroism and selfless sacrifice coming out of that day, I can't remember a single one where one American refused to help another because he was either liberal or conservative.

11)  It is our sames that are powerful; moving.  You don't much hear the people on tv ranting and raving about those things which unite us.  There is no Hannity, or Coulter, or Olberman screeching on ad infinitum about how parents all love the smell of their kids' hair after a bath, the tenderness of their child's dreams, or the warmth of a good neighbor coming to the rescue. Yet all of us, liberal or conservative, can close our eyes and imagine that.

12) As a liberal, I believe in the Constitution and the Bill of Rights.  I believe that the Constitution is a living document; and that injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.  I believe that we have to defend the rights of individuals or risk cheapening or eroding our rights across the Republic, and I believe "under God" is just fine in the pledge allegiance.

13) Finally, I believe there isn't a person alive who is right about everything, every time. So why on earth would anyone want to join a talking head's cult of personality to become ideologically dependent on the ideas of one person when that one person profits greatly from political division and contempt? (yes Rush Limbaugh, I am looking right at you). I believe we all do much better when we think for ourselves while considering other people.  Think critically, but decide independently.

So thanks for dropping by the blog today.  It is election season - and those who want power, desire the benefit of your franchise, would seek to divide us; to have you fear and loathe your neighbor who might be more liberal or conservative than you.  Wherever you are, I hope this day finds you well, and in the company of neighbors who, despite their political or religious beliefs, would prove themselves to be neighbors worthy of you and your family.

Dennis

A diversion...

I am following with a sad heart today the story of a toddler who lost his hand in an accident in a local restaurant.  The event was reported by the local "news media" in the most vacant, absent-minded effort at journalism I have seen.  I have promised to publish the name of the establishment here if I can confirm it before the professional journalists do.

My training, many years ago, was as a journalist.  I find myself in these circumstances because I just can't believe that any responsible news organization would actually publish a story so laden with emotion and alarm and local relevance, and yet not name the restaurant.  It's crappy, lazy reporting.

As I said, if I confirm the name of the restaurant before it is published by the MSM - pretty much in my spare time today - I will publish here.

Update 1:37 pm Friday:

According to eyewitness reports, units from Meridian Township Police and Fire were called yesterday to a local restaurant to provide urgent medical assistance to a toddler injured in a kitchen accident.

On Thursday, October 21, at around 1:30 pm, units from MTPD and MTFD responded to a call for help at Lucky House Chinese Restaurant, 1741 W. Grand River, in Meridian Township.  While neither police or fire officials will confirm the precise nature of the emergency at that address, eyewitness reports and reports from other media sources indicate that a toddler, reportedly aged 2, lost one of his hands in a meat grinder in the kitchen.

Eyewitnesses described the scene as "horrific' and "terrible."  According to representatives from a neighboring businesses, the condition of the boy is not known at this time.

Members of the neighboring business community were unsure as of this report if anyone is accepting donations to assist the family or the boy involved in this tragedy.

Representatives from Lucky House were unavailable for comment. A hand written sign in the window of the restaurant indicates the establishment is temporarily closed.

-30-

Aikido - the way of the harmonious spirit - it just sounds cool

Aikido is a concept I love.  I am not a martial artist, my only experience at that being as a crash test dummy for my brother Pat when he took Judo lessons at the local YMCA.  No, as a professional involved in mediation, and as a dad to two terrific kids who get into all kinds of mischief, it is the philosophy of Aikido that I love.

Literally translated, it means "the way of the harmonious spirit."  Aside from just totally "digging" how that sounds coming out of my mouth, I find that that it is a great philosophy.

The concept of verbal Aikido is one I came across in a class at Central Michigan University.  Essentially it is the art, in conversation, debate, bargaining, mediation, whatever, of using your opponent's aggression and momentum against him or her.  To tap into the natural rhythms of an encounter, seize an opportunity to turn an attack into a defense, and redirect the other person's energy into something more productive, or less hurtful. "The way of the harmonious spirit..." Say it all together - it will make you feel great :-)

Looking back, I suppose my first inclination toward Aikido principles comes to me from my freshman year in High school.  I was a bullied kid - no doubt about it.  The youngest of three boys in my family, everything I did or encountered came on a path that had already been marked by my older brothers.

My brother Pat is four years older than me, so I entered high school the fall after he graduated.  In so doing, I encountered many seniors that Patrick had known as juniors.  Well, you can imagine that as the little brother of a varsity athlete in a small town - I was an easy target for those that were the younger rivals of my oldest brother.

Gym class, as a freshman, was a particular horror.  Punched by bigger, stronger kids while running laps, living under the constant threat of being "pantsed" or the recipient of a gift "swirlie", I learned quickly that I could not win a war of attrition against my larger, faster, meaner rivals.  I had to outsmart them using their own aggression.

The story I remembered the other day was from our archery unit.  I am sure they don't allow kids with bows and arrows in gym class any more, but way back when - when the Earth was still young and gym teachers were retired Drill Instructors - by God you climbed a rope and you by God learned how to shoot a bow and arrow in gym class.

The archery ranges indoors were about what you would expect - range safety was paramount, no goofing off, each "squad" of five boys got six arrows.  Six squads of boys all lined up parallel - shooting across the gym in dedicated lanes.  The kid at the front of the line shot all six, then stopped shooting until all "squads" shot all their arrows.  Then, we went down and plucked all six arrows from the targets together.  Heaven help you, mister, if your target comes up an arrow short or, especially, an arrow over.  Six shots you get and you better hit that target six times. Less than six meant running laps; more than six meant a trip to the office.

So standing in line next to my tormentors, I noticed that the two ring leaders are a) laughing, b) looking my way, and c) holding seven arrows.   I do not know, honestly, how I knew the plan at the moment, but I did.  I knew their plan was to shoot that seventh arrow into my target, blame me, and get me kicked out of gym class for the day.

So I lined up square to the target and fired off the first five arrows in volley form along with the rest of the class.  When it came time to lock and load the sixth arrow, I passed it quietly to the back of the line with instructions to the other freshman to "ditch this."  I then drew back the string on my Fred Bear recurved and let fly the equivalent of a "blank" in archery after which the teacher hollered the signal for all of us to stop, lay down our bow, and to walk forward and retrieve our arrows.

Before I was even 20 feet from the target, Dean, the henchman-follower of my two main bullies, started calling to the teacher that I had seven arrows in my target.  The gym teacher marched double time down to my target and told me to count off arrows.

When I pulled six arrows from my target, the two bullies looked at each other as if they were witnessing some act of black magic. The gym teacher looked at the chief bully, now loudly proclaiming that he saw me shoot seven arrows, and accused him and his pal of smoking "hippie lettuce" in the student smoking lounge.

So, lesson one - brains work, know your enemy, use his aggression against him.

The second thought I had about Aikido comes from later in life, when I had occasion to use the local "Town Suds" laundromat.  My wife and I were newly married and living in an apartment that did not have a washer and dryer.  Thus the ritual, which I still maintain, of emptying all the change in my pockets into a Mason jar at the end of each day was born.

On Saturday mornings I would load up the laundry, detergent, baskets, and jar o'change and head off for a miserable three hours at the coin laundry.

The day I am remembering was one where the laundry was packed before a home football game.  We lived in a University town and on the Saturdays of home football games, if you wanted to go to the game, you had to hit the laundry early and hard.

As it turned out, I found five machines that were all in a line so I hurried all of the laundry into the different washers (whites, darks, jeans, her stuff that I couldn't wreck and one load of all of the stuff that said "wash separately.")  I then inserted my quarters neatly into the slots knowing that, once I added the detergent, I could walk down the line engaging the washers one after the other so my wash would be done at the same time and I could then use fewer dryers to finish the job.

At this point I became aware of a small problem, I left the detergent out in the car.  Owing to the fact that I had about seven dollars in change poised to go into a variety of washing machines, I considered my options.  I could run out to the car and get the detergent while leaving the quarters in position, or I could take the quarters back out and then run out to the car.

I, of course, chose whatever took the least amount of time.  So, quarters in place, I backed out of the laundry and ran across the parking lot to the car, retrieved the detergent and ran back in.

I have not yet described the other male hovering around the "Town Suds" that morning.  Clearly sentenced to both laundry AND kid duty in excange for permission to go to the game later that day was a guy older than me, with 4 kids doing their best imitation of 40 kids, struggling to get his wash done, keep his kids under control and make it to the game.  I did not notice him much as I was loading up.

But, given his extremely guilty look when I came back AND the fact that about five of the seven dollars in change was missing, I concluded immediately that a) I chose unwisely when considering my options, and b) the jerk stole my quarters.

I did not have it in me to accuse him in front of his kids so I dug out the Mason jar, recharged the machines with quarters and got my wash on.

I was disgusted with him.  His every move in the laundromat gave birth to a billowing cloud of contempt growing within me.  Sharing the same aisle, it was easy for me to sit and listen to him as he chastised his children for being unruly and reminded them that it would just be a short time before the wash was done and they could all go home.  I distinctly remember him saying that he had to drop them off at home so he could meet his friends in time for the football game.

I watched as he unloaded the first of his six washing machines and wheeled the contents over to a huge dryer.  I glared as he dropped what were undoubtedly MY quarters into his dryer.  I only stopped staring at him when I noticed that all five of his remaining machines stopped at once - thinking to myself - "well pal, you did this all wrong, you needed to start them all at the same time so you could take all your stuff over to the dryers at the same time. You are going to be wasting a lot of time walking back and forth..."

I suppose it was the phrase "wasting time" that got the wheels turning in my head.  Before I even realized that I had dreamed up a plan, I was already putting it in motion.

Quick as I could, I loaded quarters into his previously still machines and engaged them to begin again their 45 minute cycles.  "You like quarters?" I remember thinking "Well good for you. I got plenty of quarters, how are you fixed for TIME..." I thought as I jammed the last load of quarters into his last machine.

My vengeance complete, I grabbed a newspaper and sat down, hoping the local daily would provide adequate cover for what was sure to be a guilty look on my face.

I made it back to my seat just as the quarter-thief came bustling back with two children hanging from his laundry cart like the plastic pieces from a "Barrel O' Monkeys."  He began barking at them to get off the cart and to watch out because he was in a big hurry and had to get this stuff right into the dry..."

I remember he said "WHAT THE?!" and ran from machine to machine, scrambling to answer the question of how these vexatious machines had managed to start themselves all over again.  With a subtle turning of my left wrist, I allowed the upper left corner of the newspaper to fold in against itself so that my face was exposed to only the quarter-thief.

The movement caught his eye and he turned quickly and then froze mid-pose, like a cartoon jailbird caught escaping by the warden's searchlight.  I gave him a quick nod of my head, and then a wink, and then went back to my paper.

Lesson two - it is best not to have an opponent, but if you have one, try hard to be smarter, and to have more quarters, than him.

So, grasshoppers, that is my lesson for today.  Best to walk the path of the harmonious spirit.  Whatever you are doing today, and wherever you are, I hope that your enemies are few and that your harmony, bountiful.

Have a great Weekend!

Dennis

Small Town Addict

Ok - I decided recently to quit my long long long addiction to Diet Pepsi.  The decision is fueled in part by the realization that restaurants are now charging upward of 2.00 per glass of what is essentially 10 cents worth of syrup and carbonated water.  Also propelling me down this path of carbonation abstinence is the fact that I can't remember anything these days.  I firmly believe that aspertame has some kind of....crap....what was I saying here?

And then there is the overall cost picture.  Even buying 8 packs on sale, at the rate I was consuming Diet Pepsi, I was spending nearly 800 per year on pop (soda for those of you out East - and don't look at me that way.  I am crabby as hell and have a headache).

800 per year is money that can be spent on ballet classes (for the girl, not for me, you mooyaks), or basketball shoes for the boy, or all manner of kid related items.  So I will muddle through.  But I have to warn you, I am likely to be crabby for a couple of days, weeks, months....whatever.  I feel like Dean Martin in that great John Wayne movie where he played the former deputy who was a sure shot until he gave up drinking -then he wasn't worth a damn.  Well I have an arbitration coming up on December 7 so we'll just see if a month and half off the bottle dims my wits to the point where I can't hit the broad side of an intellectual barn.

Anyhow, so I quit the stuff over the weekend and I have already cheated once.  Saturday, realizing there was no Diet Pepsi in the house, and being too lazy and too tired to go out and get some, I convinced myself over the weekend to just give it up.  And I was doing great, until dinner time last night.  The table was set, food on plates, napkins handed out and all that was left to be done before I could sit down and join the feast was to hand out beverages.

Chocolate Milk for Kristin (like me, she has her own Dark Master), water for Michael who is fit beyond actual description or comprehension, Jeanine was having iced tea - ever the lady.  And for me - there had to be something in that fridge that made sense.

I shoved aside a carton of some white looking fluid, the kids put it on their cereal I think, and looked behind some juice pouches, and there, standing sentinel, was a lone diet Pepsi - in the perfect bottle size (16.9 ounces - a bottle design that allows the pop to chill to the point of becoming super cooled without freezing so that the liquid can turn to ice crystals at the exact moment it comes into contact with the air).

It stood there, mocking me, daring me, insulting the long history of my family in this country.  Well, maybe I imagined that last part, but it made it easier for me to drink it.  No way in hell I was going to put up with a punk bottle of pop in my home acting unruly toward my family. So I drank it slowly, savoring every last unhealthy drop of its burnt carmel color, its tear-inducing carbonation, the refreshing chill it brought as it traveled along behind the pizza I was eating. MMMMMM.....

But I am nonetheless committed to ending this cruel, one-way relationship.  So I did not stop at the gas station this morning and sneak one - where they are two for 2.00.  And I did not buy one in the snack shop at work to have with our Boss's day celebration - the comment "...cold water for me thank you..." drew audible gasps from my co-workers, many of whom have known me now for 10+ years. 

The result of my commitment is that the caffeine gnomes bivouacked in the front of my head are impatiently smashing their little goblets against the inside wall of my forehead, demanding that they be fed their daily fix.  And the warden of their small prison (my central nervous system) has decided to send along some Melatonin to just chill everybody out and make me want to sleep like a drugged bear fumbling to remove the dart from its ass. To top it all off, the aspartame tumor, an unruly guest ushered in by years of Diet Pepsi consumption, is rearing its ugly head in the form of a jagged headache tearing through the empty space between my ears. (I don't really have an aspartame tumor, there are just days it feels like that).

The children tell me they are proud of me for walking away from my carbonated crutch.  My wife says she will believe it when she sees it.  My doctor says the health and fitness benefits should be immediately apparent because, all kidding aside, Aspartame actually stimulates appetite and a craving for carbohydrates.  I say I am all for supporting whatever company wants to invent a "Beat Diet Pepsi addiction" patch.

So thanks for stopping by the blog today, here's hoping that your addictions are all good ones; the laughter of your children, a good story well told, random acts of kindness, or just a good TV show watched in the company of those you love.  If you are fighting a Diet Pepsi addiction, please know that you are in good company and you can drop me a line at smalltowndad@hotmail.com and commiserate all you want.  It's hard, but we can get through it together.

Dennis

Small Town Dad answers your questions....

Ok - so even though Small Town Dad has only been in operation a little over a month, I have managed, through a network of supporters more generous in their praise and support than I probably deserve, to generate a small following on these interwebs.

As is the case with any group, there are, of course, questions.  I will endeavor from time to time to answer them.

1.  Merle from Indian River wants to know:  "Do you hunt?"

I guess he read the piece about me and the tent and figured it would be safer for him to be out of the woods if I was in the woods and armed on opening day.  So, let me assure you "Merle," no, I do not hunt.  I have been hunting exactly once, with a college roommate, and the truth is I was way more afraid I would shoot him accidentally than I was concerned that I might actually shoot some animal on purpose.

2.  Cal from Mt. Pleasant writes:  "You claim you golf in a couple of your posts. What courses do you enjoy the most?"

Cal, while it is true that I claim to golf, I do not claim, however, to enjoy any part of it.  Given my game, I am sure the experience of me playing golf is as miserable for me as it is for the grass.  Thanks for writing, though.

3.  Artie from Alpena wrote in to praise the Michigan Moments piece (thank you Artie) and to ask what part of Michigan I like the most.

Artie, your question is a hard one to answer because they are all so different to me.  I know very little about the UP, except my college RA and one of my most awesome roommates are both from there, so it can't be all bad.  And until I was 9, I lived in Detroit (Old Redford) so I am, or was, a big fan of Detroit - the coneys, baseball, Eastern Market, MOTOWN, etc.  My mom and father-in-law are both proud Cass Tech grads, so Detroit gets a powerful nod. But I would never want to live in the metro area.

I will say I have not had much experience in the thumb; and my time on the sunrise side was largely spent selling cedar boxes and moccasins at my parents' tourist trap in Tawas City, so they don't exactly percolate up to the top of my list of favs.

I am thinking the west side, from Silver Beach in St. Joe - a family favorite location - up to Mackinaw City and extending east to Mt. Pleasant up through Clare, Gaylord, over to Lewiston and then straight up to the bridge.  I am not sure if there is a name for any object shaped like that, but for my family memories, that part of the state seems to be the tenderloin.

 4.  Stu Gots from Chicago, Illinois wants to know "...what is better, the perfect Chicago Hot Dog or the Perfect Coney Island...."

The only thing wrong with a perfect Chicago Hot Dog, Stu (if that is your real name) is that it isn't a coney island hot dog, and it's from Chicago. So Fuggetaboutit. (seriously, I love Chicago)

5.  Hester from Omer writes:  a) how small is your small town? and b) don't you worry about offending anyone with your opinions?"

Hester - good questions.  In terms of how small the town is, it is so small that Omer could beat it in a snowball fight.  No, seriously, it is so small that our zipcode is "4."  It is so small that when the Justice of the Peace introduces strangers to his wife and sister, there is just one woman standing there.  Seriously - our only traffic jams occur when three polite people show up at the 4 way stop sign all at the same time. "After you..." "no, no, after you...."  " Gentlemen, please, I insist, you both go first..."

In terms of offending anyone - I am sure I will, but then again, I came to that pretty easily before I ever started the blog.  Honestly I don't really try to be mean ever.  My hope is that small towns are as long on forgiveness as they are on kindness.  Hester?....I can almost hear you laughing from here.

6.  Several current and former teachers have written in about the appalling lack of grammar, syntax, and spelling on display here.

It is true, my brain thinks much faster than my hands can type.  And when I go back and proof-read I see the first two letters of every word and then just convince myself I know what it says and move on to the next word.  Add to all of that incompetence the fact that most of the stuff gets thrown up here either on my lunch hour or late at night. But, I promise to get better.

Indeed, I suggest a double promise:  I promise to try and get better about the proofing, and to refrain from indicating that I am a product of public educashun, if you promise to be nice and discreet about pointing out my many grammar flaws.  If you break your promise to me, I can provide paperwork that establishes without a doubt that public school teachers passed me all the way through 12th grade and that my Bachelor's and Master's degrees were conferred by tax-payer supported universities as well.

So, just so long as we understand each other, I'll keep my public school pedigree on the down-low and you be cool about my mistakes, ok?  Until then - Go Cranbrook!

7.  My neighbor down the street wrote to say that I leave my porch light on too late at night, am a wiseass, and to remind me that he has never really flipped me off.

Yes, all of those are true, the neighbor down the street who doesn't like me has, to my knowledge, never actually flipped me off.  I don't even know if he is so predisposed to engage in that gesture. And I do leave my porch light on too late at night, and I am a wiseass.  I would like to say it was nice hearing from him, but, well, like mom always says, if you can't say anything nice about someone, blog about them and let some other gossip tell them what you said.

8.  Several have written to say thanks for sharing the story of hope regarding my daughter's birth.  In all seriousness, thanks.  Among the stories of my life, it is an absolute favorite.  And for those out there still hanging on to hope - good.  Don't ever give up.  Our daughter is neither the first, or only, prayer that has been answered in our lives.  Keep the faith.  To quote the great Jeff Goldblum from Jurassic Park, "Life...finds a way..."

 9.  Eric from Hartland writes "Do you still have my catcher's mitt?"

Eric, let it go man.  It was 35 years ago.  Seriously, how did you even find me?

Just by way of a wrap up at the end of the first month, let me share that we had around 1150 visits in the last 35 days with visitors coming primarily from the US, with representatives from the UK, Canada, Germany, Israel, and Singapore also looking in. 

So, I wanted to thank you for your support of Small Town Dad.  Wherever you are, you can be assured that I am delighted that you stopped by.  Please take the time to take care of yourselves and the ones you love, and by all means keep writing and sharing the blog. It has been a ton of fun.

smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Dennis

My lifetime of Michigan moments....

Earlier this past summer, the State of Michigan sponsored a contest for people willing to share their Michigan moments.  Entrants were encouraged to share an essay with no more than 300 words, or eight photos, or both.  Five very fine winners were announced on October 11. And, while I did not win, I did want to pass along my entry.

My Michigan Moment is a lifetime of moments; moments of joy on Mackinac Island, or being comforted by warm Vernor’s on a day home from school. Moments spent running the air conditioning and the furnace in the same 24 hour period.

 
They are moments shared with my Dad listening to Ernie and Paul, or Bob Ufer cheering for Bo. Earvin Johnson, Tom Izzo, Sparky Anderson, and Jud Heathcote are all parts of my Michigan moment. And a plucky kid named Stevie Y who wore the C on his sweater or Gibby versus the Goose and Vinnie Johnson and 00.7.

My Michigan moments are in small streams and on great lakes, on mossy trails and busy highways. They are at the Freedom Festival, Hockeytown, the Mystery Spot and Greenfield Village. Looking at the Mackinaw Bridge and feeling a sense of pride is perhaps as unique a Michigan moment as there is. Looking at Sea Shell City and wondering "why" and "how" is so specially Michigan.

My Michigan moments walk the state in souvenir moccasins and are held tight in cedar boxes. They are celebrated with fudge or cherries. A taste of Saunders or anything at Lafayette or American; or taking in the smells of the Eastern Market, those are favorite Michigan moments.

Moments spent racing my wife and kids to count the first robin of spring and the last snowflake of winter are supremely Michigan. Recalling a memory of dueling my brothers on sleds – breathless and our faces stinging, beet red from the cold, that is a Michigan moment.  School's out because of deer day, where else but in Michigan?

For me, my Michigan moment is my lifetime of moments here – all lovely, colored in a palette of autumn brilliance and spring splendor. It’s the love I have for this place, the life it has given me. The grit, the toughness, and the hope that being a son of Michigan breeds. It’s the sound of the summer breeze splashing through leafy trees, the smell of fresh cut grass on a little league field, or laughing with friends over a round of golf.

Those are my indelible Michigan moments.

Thanks for stopping by my blog today; whether you are just down the street or looking in from across the country, I hope that your days are special ones and that you too have been blessed by some special Michigan moments.

"...it came without packages, boxes or bags..."

That was the text my wife sent to me around 9:00 pm Saturday night.  The words wrapped me up like a warm blanket.  It was a perfect "pull" - a quote from a movie perfectly insinuated into the context of a real life event.

The quote is pulled from Dr. Seuss's famous scene in the Grinch.  You know the one, the Grinch, at his grinchy best, believes he has frustrated the Whos in celebrating Christmas by stealing all the physical trappings of the holiday, only to be perplexed by the fact that they celebrate none-the-less.

The entire quote is:

And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?

Saturday was my birthday.  And I suppose like a lot of people, the celebration of my own birthday is a bit more complicated for me than is the celebration of someone else's birthday.  It all works its way back to expectations really.  Mine are that no fuss be made.  I would much rather spend the money, time, and energy planning a party for one of the kids than I would spending it on myself.

So Saturday was always going to be a kind of muted affair.  As it turned out this year, the muted affair happened to coincide with the annual meeting on the grid-iron between the University of Michigan (boo, hiss) and the Spartans of Michigan State University.  

I was raised in a Green and White household by a decidedly Green and White mom.  Both of my brothers are graduates of MSU, I live 10 minutes from MSU's campus.  I take more than a passing fan's interest in the outcome of these contests.  I admit, I am a bit of a fan.

So, in my mind, the idea that my birthday and it's self evident promise of "indulging Dennis" falling on the day of the UofM/MSU football game made me see visions of hot-wings, cold pop, and couches when I imagined how I might spend my day.  Such was the quiet fantasy I maintained until about Tuesday of the week before my birthday.

Then, of course, Jeanine, my wife of 19 years and the organized one of the bunch reminded me of...duh...duh...duh-duhhhhhhh...the camporee.

We talked a bit about the importance of this event.  Pretty much the last thing my 10 year old needed to complete this year to be able to cross over into Boy Scouts this Spring.  It was a no brainer that he and I would go. He and I would go.

I am not an outdoor person.  Sure I love to golf and to coach baseball, and to cook out.  Those are all outdoor activities.  But hiking?  Canoing?  Chopping wood?  Carrying stuff?  Sorry, but to my old and comfortable butt, these activities sound like work, not recreation.  Throw on top of that my allergies, which are nearly legendary, and you do not have the makings of an Eagle Scout in me.

Case in point - the camping equipment.  It is stored in the attic above the garage.  It has not been touched in exactly 9 years.  We took it out once to celebrate my son's FIRST birthday and then packed it all away in a gigantic Tupperware bin.  Two years ago I moved it from the garage to the attic thinking to myself "Note to self, when we sell this house 20 years from now, remember to get this stuff out of the attic - it'll likely be worth something on E-Bay as it is all in pristine condition..."

On Friday, I borrowed a ladder to fetch the gear from above the garage.  My allergies, sensing something was brewing, decided to remind me how much I hate dust and fiberglass and conspired to create an itch so powerful that I sincerely thought about just lopping off both hands at the wrist.  But, I survived and the gear, undisturbed in the last 20% of my life...made it safely down from the attic and into the car.

Just let that thought soak in a minute.  I was 36 the last time I had this stuff out. On the Friday before my birthday, I was still 45.  36 is 80% of 45 - I think.  Life is screaming at this point that I am not destined to do this.  This is not my purpose.  The very fact that I have not touched this equipment for any recreational purpose should establish my lack of credibility in building a fire with sticks or wiping with leaves.

"But," I reminded myself "...my son was counting on me to do it; my wife was expecting me to do it." So, on I went.

The local scout master is a great guy and was good enough to pick my son up early that morning so I could take care of a few appointments Saturday morning and then head out to the State Park in the early afternoon.  The schedule was such that we would stay over night Saturday and return Sunday morning.  Just long enough to miss every part of the game and related commentary.  Swell, I thought, grinchily.  Just swell.

So Saturday, after a drive through what even the hardest corners of my grinchy outdoor heart conceded was some spectacular Michigan autumn colors, I showed up at the park, alone, wondering if I could set up the camp and retire to my inflatable mattress in time to follow the game on my smartphone.

As I drove the lane down to the campsite, there passed me a group of boys so rough and tumble; so scratched and dirty and obviously outdoorsy that I actually smiled as they walked by.  The last one in line, arm looped over his buddy's shoulder and walking along laughing without a care in the world caught my eye.  He was handsome with blond colicky hair going wild in every direction. Filthy - yet he looked somehow familiar.  It wasn't until I saw him waving at me that I realized it was my son.

My grinchiness abated somewhat - I was delighted for him, and torn for myself.  "He loves this" my grinchy outdoors heart told me.  And at the same time, my rational brain was telling me "he loves this...", meaning "you better get good at it, Chuckles, because welcome to your future - he loves this."

I smiled my big smile and hollered out the window at him secretly hoping the extra volume in my voice would be mistaken for unrestrained enthusiasm rather than a disguised and uncontrollable cry for help.  My mind was racing,

"...I don't know the first thing about any of this stuff...." I thought,  "...when I was a kid we went camping with my dad and he shaved using a mirror stuck to a tree and his hunting knife! A HUNTING KNIFE!"  Quickly, my mind racing, I reached into my pocket and found "Old Sven", the Swiss army knife I bought after seeing a movie about a plane crash in the Alaskan wilderness.  It was there but was about as dull as a lint covered JuJubee.  "DAMN!" I thought, "Good luck shaving with that." 

I waved to Michael and his pals and then drove into the campground.  The parking lot was at least 6000 feet from our campsite.  And, Scouts being Scouts, no driving through the campsites was permitted.  You loaded up and hiked into your bivouac.  A quick check of my supplies did not yield any surprise inclusion of an automatic heart defibrillator, so I resigned myself to making several small trips at the end of which my muscles felt like I was a gun bearer on African safari.  The cooler of pop, juiceboxes, pudding, yogurt and 40 pounds of ice seemed like a good idea in the Meijer parking lot - but that was before I knew I was "hiking in" to my campsight.

So, having made camp without a soul in sight, I was confident a) that my heavy wheezing, unobserved by any live humans, had none-the-less scared off any wildlife that might otherwise want to come and add the vision of me to the tales they told their woodland buddies, and b)  I could struggle in solitude, unobserved and unjudged, with the giant bin of camping equipment - none of which I had any idea how to assemble.

I looked around me and observed there were several scout tents already assembled.  They were cute and efficient.  Little one or two man tents all ship shape and sides as tight as a snare drum.

I unpacked my tent - filling a space about 13 feet by 13 feet - it looked obviously larger than the run of the mill tents.  Adding to my joyous outdoor birthday adventure was about a 20 mile an hour "breeze."

I wondered, half-way through my "no holds barred" wrestling match with the tent, what would be easier.  Smoothing out this tent in a 20 mile per hour wind, or smoothing out a giant octopus on a 13 x 13 foot patch of white hot concrete. Every corner of the tent lashed at me in the wind like the tentacles of an angry beast.  The zippered door opened wide and rose up all at once as if to gobble me up and end the fight there and then.  Resolute, I grabbed the bag of stakes in my teeth and with my trusty red mallet, I rolled, squashed, and smoothed my way around the fabric, pounding, hammering, and cursing until I subdued the nylon devil and had it staked firmly to the ground.

"Not so tough," I thought smugly looking at my handiwork. 

"Idiot" thought the wind as it promptly snapped one of the tent poles holding the tent up.

"It's my birthday, you sonofabitch." I thought as I watched the listing corner of the tent swing lazily in the breeze.

"I know," said the tent. "Go Blue."

The listing tent now standing large over my campsite like some kind of billboard for woodland incompetence, I urgently set about creating the rest of our campsite, knowing after my two hour battle with the nemesis tent, my son and his pals would soon be back in camp.  Not having any outdoor skills at all, I wanted to finish work before they had a chance to actually see me in action. 

"After all" I thought, "...we could have some disaster out here and, God forbid, if it comes down to eating people, they will eat me first realizing that my only discernible skill really is in mediating employment disputes."

So I attacked the listing tent with the only duct tape I could find and raised our lodging once again.  Seeing it there, amid the small, perfect tents erected by my son's scout friends, I was reminded of the old WWII photos from Pearl Harbor.  Here were the bombed out hulks of America's largest ships scuttled in the attack, surrounded by smaller, undamaged, sea worthy vessels.  In both images, it was easy to see at a moment's notice that something had gone horribly wrong.

My spirits were lifted when my son returned with his pals and was both excited and impressed with his impression of my handiwork "Lookit our tent!" he screamed.  "It's huge!"  Yes, it is sad but true, the boy has as little sense of the outdoors and structural integrity and camping as do I.  He did not for one moment realize how woefully pathetic my construction skills were.  He bragged and bragged about how much space we had all the while other scouts were quietly asking me "Dude, why did you bring such a huge tent out into this wind..."  Fortunately for me they had good graces enough and were kindhearted enough to not raise the issue publicly.

So, first order of business taken care of (shelter), I sought out facilities to take care of another order of business.  "Where's the Bathroom?"  I asked.

"Follow the path until you smell it" someone said.

The path led back through the camp on off into a clearing next to a beautiful, tree lined lake.  My dim expectations were buoyed when I saw a clean, well maintained structure on a cement pad, about 100 yards from the field where we were camped.

I opened the door and reached for a light switch.  Despite my fumbling and reaching, no light switch was obvious so I brushed passed it urgently wanting to address other pressing matters.  I rushed to the nearest stall and cast open the door.  Taking in that tableau, my first thought was:

Thank God there was no light switch.

The bathroom was actually the fanciest primitive latrine I have ever been in.  But....how can I put this delicately...you remember how much was made last campaign season about the phrase "putting lipstick on a pig..." Well, you can put cement, and boards, and fresh paint, and stall doors around an open pit latrine, but the moment you lift that lid and are looking down into an open pit latrine, well it's still an open pit latrine. 

"It's my birthday," I thought.  "All I wanted was to ..."  Well...it doesn't matter what I wanted to do, I sure as hell wasn't doing it there. It's just not how I imagined spending any part of my birthday.

So I walked back to the camp, my thoughts occupied by a) a mental note to eat and drink as little as humanly possible until we broke camp the next morning, and b) actually a wonderful, loving memory of my own dad, who was camping with me when I was about 7, and a time I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night at a campground where the facilities were called "rustic." 

I can distinctly remember going in there, him holding the flashlight for me and me taking care of my business.  He then handed the flashlight back to me as he washed his hands at which point I shined the light down into the latrine.  He laughed out loud, took the light gently and said "Denny, for God's sake don't shine the light down there..."  He and I laughed often about that moment for many years after that.

When I got back to camp, it was obvious that my son and some of his buddies (and their dads) had helped square things away with the tent.  I was moved by their kindness.  My spirits lifted by their generosity, and the fact that they did not judge me for my lack of woodmanship.  Perhaps, I thought as I watched the kids making camper pies for the grown ups, they won't actually eat me first.

We settled into our chairs and ate the dinner the boys made over an open fire.  Later there were skits, and laughter, and warmth all around.  I noticed that I was not sneezing, my hands weren't itching, I did not die of a heart attack lugging anything.

Then as the sun set slowly on a cloudless Michigan evening, and in that gloaming moment when the first few stars winked in to ensure all was well and good with our scout troop, I realized that I never once missed watching that football game.  I had no great longing to know the score or to count coup over my friends who were Wolverine fans.

Michael came back from a canoe ride and in front of God and everybody told me he loved me, wished me a happy birthday, and gave me a hug and a kiss.  I realized at about that moment, I had had perhaps the greatest birthday of my adult life.

About a minute later, my wife, as if knowing the exact words coursing through my brain, texted:

"...it came without packages, boxes or bags..."

She knew.  How she knew is probably part of how she is a great mom.  But she just knew.

Later that night, we snuggled into the leaning cavernous edifice that was our tent, giggling like a couple of campers - him with my iPod and permission to run the battery down to nothing, me with my smartphone and finally catching up on the headlines from the game, my son said to me "Thanks, Dad, for sharing your birthday with me.  I think this is my favorite night ever."

He's a good kid, and Halloween and Christmas are coming so who knows if it will long remain his favorite night ever.  But that night, and the fact that I let him pee in the woods rather than go back to that latrine, may just hang with him as a good memory for a long long time.

And that will be the best birthday present I could have imagined.

So thanks for coming by my blog today, a little longer than what I try and post but there was just perhaps a little bit more that I needed to say.  Here's hoping that whatever you do this week, you do so immersed in love and laughter, and are lifted aloft on the warm currents of a family's love.

Dennis