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I Was Choking and My Kids Didn't Know What a Phone Was.

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Saturday Mornings are "Dad, Minecraft Isn't Working!"

Let’s rewind one year... I look forward to my Saturday mornings with the kids. Our youngest two wake up even before our puppy. However, I get excited to see their glasses-free faces next to our bed at 6 AM (we clean their glasses nightly and leave them downstairs).  On a Saturday morning, we went downstairs, and they picked up their devices. This is perfectly acceptable for a Saturday. They play while I can get some coffee, walk our pup, and just ease into the day. When they want breakfast, I’m on it! All was going great until someone forgot their password to something. Usually, that's not a big deal. But this time, they forgot their password for a program I paid for — which irked me (it irked the hell out of me, but I am trying to not use bad language). Maybe I slept poorly. Maybe I am just not as good of a person as I want to be. But the only thing I wanted to do was pick up the iPad and smash it over my knee. Before you comment that I might want to speak with someone

The Craziest Time of Day is Taking the Kids to School

7:25 AM. "5 more minutes." Silence from the kids. They gaze at their devices. At this point in the morning routine, everything should be done . Teeth brushed. Socks on. Water bottles filled. Snack in bag . Bags packed. Should . Everything should be done . 7:28 AM. "2 more minutes." "Really? That's it?" one of the boys unwisely asks. 7:30 AM. "It's time to go!" Dylan rips off his headphones and looks at me. "Time to go now?" Are you freaking kidding me? What part of "time to go" does he not understand? Did I leave open the possibility of some other time we might leave? It's time to get your behind off the couch and into my car. Now. Where is the confusion? All 3 boys sense my frustration. By "sense", I mean they can hear me yelling. Dylan grabs his backpack. "Don't forget to kiss your mom!" I exclaim angrily. Aimee isn't pleased. The kids sh

Did Jesus Believe in Himself?

Dylan (2) stood in front of the crucifix. He stared at it. This Man , the Son of God, had blood dripping from holes in His wrists. His feet, the same. Thorns ripped apart His forehead. Blood droplets looked like red tears.  His side was slashed . More blood. Not all depictions of Jesus are the same. This  was very detailed. Gruesome. Dylan looked and looked. In my head, I rehearsed answers for what Dylan might ask. But never did I expect his question. "Dad. Do you have nipples like Jesus?" That was his take-away? He was little, but well versed in the Bible. His daycare was Christian. We went to church. We prayed. He knew Jesus. And in his mind, if that man on the cross was really the Son of God, then all the amazing stories — from miracles to the resurrection —  could be (and were) true. So, why question it further? Yes, I know. You can tell a two-year-old many things, and if you do you so convincingly, they'll buy it. That theological battle aside, as a belie

When the Santa Years Are Over

On Wednesday, November 20, 2013, I came downstairs to find  the artificial Christmas tree box was pried open by forks. It was a kiddie-crime, orchestrated by Dylan (age 6) and Carter (3). However, the true m  astermind behind the operation was yours truly ~ me.

Hallmark Made Me Do It

"Dad, you only read religion or life books," says Dylan. " Well, I read other stuff too!" I respond. But not really. He's right. I like inspirational, self-help, and religious books. I've read enough of those to know that my job as a parent is to raise our kids so they can be independent. We are supposed to get them ready for the world and then let them go. I' m under the impression this belief will protect me from devastation when they move out. "Aimee and I did what we were supposed to do," I'll tell myself. However, in the back of my mind, I know I'll be a mess. But as of now, as each stage passes, I haven't been too sad. I like how they are older.  They can tell me what hurts or what they need. Plus, I like being able to doze off on the couch for 5 minutes, knowing they won't end up dead. My method of "I'll be okay because they are supposed to grow up" was all well and good , until I came acro

I Can't Stand Soft Toilet Paper. It's the Worst!

The kids saw a commercial for thick toilet paper. Check that: They don't watch TV, so this had to be an ad on YouTube — I'm not even sure if the word "commercial" is in their vocabulary. I scoffed at the idea of  thick toilet paper. There is no way that weak stuff will enter my house under my watch! No way. Three days later: "When you're at Costco, can you pick up a batch of the soft toilet paper? The kids want to try it. It's on sale," says my wife. You've got to be kidding me. Not only are we getting it, but I have to buy it — and in bulk! What if someone recognizes me? I will be  judged  as the weatherman who can't handle the rough and tough stuff. Shame will consume me. I try to stay positive. This will be a good thing in the end  (no pun intended). The kids will try it out and see that it just falls apart. It doesn't get the job done like the thin and strong toilet paper. The trial isn't going as I expected. The