#44 - Happy B-Days for the Woodyette!

I really must observe the traditions and celebration of Fathers Day today. This blog, after all, is dedicated to Dads everywhere, and it only makes sense. There's plenty to report, certainly. June is one of those extremely busy months for the Woody Clan, and this weekend has been no exception.

We actually start with Flag Day in this household. I'm not sure very many families even know we have a Flag Day every year, based on the number of actual flags I (don't) see flying. That may just be because Flag Day doesn't trigger a halt to federal workers and their hangers-on everywhere. Especially when it's in the middle of the week. I know I didn't get to hang our flag that day because it was still 0-dark-hundred in the morning when I went to work. Nevertheless, Flag Day is significant to this family because it also happens to be Jelly Woodyette's birthday.

Three days later is my son's birthday. This is fortunate for him because any longer than three days and I would be certain to forget. He long ago passed that stage where we could send thoughtful gifts to wherever-the-heck he's living now (Brainfreeze, Minnesota, last I heard), so for the last several years we've just sent money. This year he turned 18. 18 is a milestone year for a young person. This is not so much because he or she has reached that legal status of "adult," as it is that he or she was actually allowed to reach 18 before Mom and Dad had him or her committed to military school/boarding school. Take your pick. So my son survived all of my muttered threats and is now legally capable of voting. Heaven help us in 2008.

In my note to my son I informed him that this latest cash contribution to his whims and fancies won't be anywhere near that significant in years to come. Next year I'll send him a tie. I seem to remember my post-18 birthdays being that way, but that may be a false memory. Certainly my 20th and 21st birthdays were marked with larger infusions of cash, but that's mostly because I was a starving missionary in a third world country and Mom and Dad felt kind of sorry for me. That, and I'd bounced checks in that third world country and they wanted to make sure I didn't end up in a third world prison. So my son gets ties beginning with his 19th birthday. It'll be good training for that corporate job I'm sure he's looking for.

The very next day was a special day for the Woody family. Our Jelly Woodyette was baptized, with family and friends in attendance. It was a wonderful day, and Jelly worked hard to overcome her natural stage fright. On one level, it was a day of conquering fears for her. It started with the filling of the font. The water was "loud," in her words, and that scared her just a bit. So getting her in the water nearly required Daddy coming up out of the font to run her down. She only faltered a bit, though, and finally waded in. I think the water was a bit cooler than she was hoping for, but she went down like a champ and only had to go under once.

It always amazes me (even though it shouldn't) that I can pre-think a blessing I'm about to give all I want. But the minute I lay hands on that individual, I a) have no idea what just came out of my mouth, but b) I'm absolutely certain that it wasn't what I'd planned to say. Yesterday was no different. I have long been impressed that this little girl has a huge mission ahead of her. I was impressed with that the day I gave her a name and blessing, and it was repeated to me yesterday. I believe I made mention of that in her blessing. The blessing itself was relatively short for me. I'm generally a lot more long-winded than that, but there simply was no need to elaborate further. It's wonderful how that works.

So this week has been busy for the family. Now we get to prepare for vacation. We badly need this vacation. It's been a long year. We're short-handed at work, so I've been putting in tons of extra hours at work. Mrs. Woody has had to bear the brunt of keeping the Woodyettes occupied and excited. We're ready for this one. Mentally, that is. Physically we still have about a month's worth of preparation that needs to be accomplished in a week. So what else is new?

Maybe I'll blog a little on vacation, or perhaps I'll just allow myself to lapse into what Dave Barry calls "the Lethargy Zone."

So this is a good Father's Day. I have wonderful kids and the best wife. And no, I'm not interested in debating that point.

And, for the record, I did not get a tie. Thank goodness.

#43 - The Ugliest Car in the World?

The Honda is Mrs. Woody's car, technically speaking. She was its first owner. She bought it nearly twenty two years ago as a young teacher in Utah. It sweltered with her in the blazing Arizona sun for several years, and it was the car in which we did most of our courting.

When I tell people what to look for when I'm planning to drive somewhere, I tell them to watch for the ugliest car they've ever seen. Really. And it's not as bad now as it was just a few short years ago. When we needed to move to Orange County from Ventura County, we decided to get the poor thing a face lift by way of a paint job. Before the paint, the car was badly faded on the roof and had the usual scratches and dings associated with old age. After the paint job, it was less faded and instead merely looked old.

I love this car.

This is Old Reliable. This is the "go to" car when our newer, sleeker, wimpier Saturn needs to visit the doctor. When the Honda needs to visit the doctor it starts growling at me as if to say, "Don't call the doctor! It's just a sprain, darnit!" When the Saturn needs to go, it begins crying for Mommy. The Saturn takes wimpy ol' 87 octane go-juice with umbrellas in the pump. The Honda scarfs down 89-proof stuff and starts hitting on the cute PT Cruiser at the next pump. Also, the Honda is not above a little vehicular flatulation from time to time, which it blames on elephants under the manifold. "Pull my hazard lights," is something the Honda would say.

As it aged, its interior began to acquire a certain atmosphere. Here I'm thinking of the atmosphere you might find on Venus. As the car baked in blazing sun (or, alternately, froze in Utah winters), the upholstery made the car look like a poster child for Intensive Care lotion ads. The cabin liner (that would be the "ceiling" for you who need a frame of reference) hangs in cracked ribbons that occasionally flake off in a breeze. The Honda gets plenty of breeze in warmer months (meaning about 9 months out of 12 here in California) because its air conditioner was once upon a time subjected to Manny, Mo and Jack, and has not functioned properly since. Its own war injury. This is ok, because it gives me bragging rights. "See that driver's tan? Try getting that on your silly beach!" I'll be able to drive my daughters crazy with it in a few years. "Hey, back in the day I used to have to drive all the way to Huntington Beach and back without air conditioning, kid. Suck it up!"

We bought the Saturn about two weeks after we found out we (well, she, really) were pregnant. We needed a four-door to accomodate our anticipated brood, and I had heard good things about Saturns. We investigated, found one in Mrs. Woody's color, and drove it home. Mrs. Woody has since that time driven the Honda only under duress. Don't get me wrong; that was the plan all along. Mrs. Woody would drive the Saturn on the assumption that she would be the one to ferry the kidlings around. Woody, meanwhile, would drive the Honda into the ground so we wouldn't have more than one car payment at a time to deal with. It's worked so far: the Saturn was paid off a few years ago, and the Honda is at 211K and counting.

Our five-year plan currently calls for the Honda to die a slow, horrible death, then be replaced by a sleek, relatively new minivan. The problem with five-year plans, of course, is that the participants rarely cooperate and die when called upon to do so. The Honda may very well last another 100K miles, which by my calculations means that we could be bequeathing this car to one of the Woodyettes. This may be a terrific bargaining chip in a few years. "I'd better see some better grades, Honey, or you get... the Honda." "Nooooo! Not the Honda! I'll study day and night! I'll buy more candles for my desk! Anything!"

More than anything, the car has personality. It has a radio that occasionally will only work when it rains. I'm not kidding. Right now it's in "work all the time" mode. But the next time I change out the battery, or have the battery disconnected for any reason, the radio will become moody and will only work when it rains. I have no idea why, but that's the way it is. If it rains long enough, like it did this past winter, the radio stays on once it drys out.

Also - you know how it is with older cars - it has a tendency to go wherever the heck it darn well pleases. On those rare occasions I drive it to the church, for example, it tries to take me to work. I can try to convince it that it's Sunday and all, but it doesn't care. What can I say? It enjoys getting sand in its carbeurator.

As for maintenance, well, I don't even bother getting the red service indicators reset anymore. What's the use? I figure anytime I can get it in to the garage, they'll find something that needs fixing or replacing. Brakes. Tranny. Engine. Little things like that.

I guess, in many ways, the Honda is just like me. Old. Crotchety. Conservative.

I like that in a car.

#42 - Pleasant Surprises

Always nice to find one is blogrolled on someone else's blog. A big THANK YOU to MOTHEROF8. I'm nothing if not reciprocal. Consider the favor returned!

#41 - Eight? HOW?!

Every once in awhile I look at my children and notice that they've suddenly sprung up another inch or two. I'm certain this is an overnight thing. My seven year old is turning eight in another week, and I swear that she has grown something like a foot and a half since last month. One night I was able to carry her to bed, and the next morning she nearly broke my back when I helped her down from a step-stool.

Mrs. Woody and I both remarked how grown up she looks lately. The younger Woodyette can still get away with being our little girl in every sense of the word. She reads like a champion, but when she reads aloud she still has that little girl voice that is so adorable and allows her to get away with nearly everything she attempts. The fact that she reads with more inflection in her voice than most young actresses these days gives Daddy silly ideas about getting her an agent, until reality selects a large enough two-by-four and reminds me that her current level of shyness precludes any overt public display of talent. But Woodyette the Elder...

This is the baby that Mommy saw in a dream so many years ago. This is the little girl that Daddy accused of talking to the ceiling until her baby sister showed up. This is the child that Daddy recognized to have a far quicker mind than Daddy does. She somehow seems to stay one step (or more) ahead of Daddy, but never gets too far ahead of Mommy. She still creates entire universes in play faster than I would have the ability to write down. I literally can't keep track of her characterizations most days.

This child is turning eight.

In a young Mormon life, eight is a significant milestone. At eight years of age, Daddy gets to baptize this wonder-child. Then he gets to watch her grow into a young lady, then a woman, then a Mommy in her own right. And it will all happen so darn'd quickly.

Mrs. Woody and I are getting understandably emotional these days. There is much for which to prepare, and each preparation carries with it punctuation in the form of very large exclamation points. Eight! Already! Baptized! Boys! (Down, Dad... put the gun away!) Ok, boys are still a few years away, but she can already tell a cute one when she sees him. Nuts! Panic! Stop with the exclamations, already!

The changes from little girl to older girl are theoretically subtle. To Mom and Dad, however, they hit like an earthquake. We become visibly shaken and shoot each other a glance that says, "When did she learn to do that?" She carries herself with a confidence (even while being so painfully shy) that we often hoped would manifest itself by now. Her logic is growing by leaps and bounds. She can logic her way through complex spiritual issues, and understands that God, while not visible, is real.

She can pout faster than anyone I've ever seen if she's not getting her way, but she is so consistent in sharing things lovingly with everyone in the family. This includes her little sister who is, alternately, her biggest annoyance and her dearest friend. This is as it should be.

Daddy must now give more substantive answers to her questions. I can't get away with "that's just the way it is" anymore. Now I have to explain why it is that way. Daddy needs to catch up on his homework, because those questions will come up more and more frequently.

Once she is baptized, Mommy and Daddy will have to remind her to repent on occasion. We will have to help her understand that baptism brings with it tremendous responsibility to live a Christ-like life. We will have to prepare her for entering the Temple and finding a worthy young man to take her there someday. She has a mission to fulfill. We're not sure if that means a full time mission, or some objective for which she was set apart, but she was told in her Blessing that she has one. Her sister does, too, and it seems likely they will work in tandem. Those were my impressions, anyway.

I may be a curmudgeon wannabe, but my daughters will always have the ability to melt Daddy's heart. God bless them for that.

#40 - Family Hysteria, er, History

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#39 - Another Skeleton in the Ol' Family Closet

We have a disease in my family.

It's genetic, and there's no hope for a cure. My parents both had it. All of my siblings have it. Our kids all have it. Even my wife has it. Boy, did she marry into the right family!

We've all thrown money after the problem, but, as I say, there is no cure. Unfortunately, there is also no serious research being done. No university with any shred of self-image left would dream of touching it, let alone ask for a grant.

To get some background, I point you to this article. My brother has, perhaps, the most advanced form of the disease of any in our family. Imagine two vending machines. One machine has every kind of snack food available. Everything costs one dollar or less. The other machine carries pamphlets by obscure LDS apologists, each costing one dollar. Now imagine that my brother is stranded on a desert island with these two machines. There is no food or water anywhere to be found, except for the snack machine. He has one dollar in his pocket. The problem would not be which machine gets his money, but rather which pamphlet he should buy. After all, what if he disagrees with the author? Such would be my brother's dilemma.

There is, of course, a companion disease. Not only do we buy far more books than we could ever possibly read and yet remain employed, but we also horde everything we buy and cannot bring ourselves to throw anything away. Ever. Not books, anyway. Jewelry, yes; we could easily toss out old diamonds if they just didn't have that sparkle anymore. But toss a book? Sacrilege.

So the idea that my brother has given 27 boxes to our sister and her hubby is nothing short of heroic. Or whatever adjective you may prefer in this case. My sister, on the other hand, being still relatively inexperienced with the disease, seems genuinely glad to have them.

My wife and I, at least, try to deal with the symptoms. About once every three years we get a sudden urge to trim down. Purge ourselves of all the stuff we know we'll never use/wear/read or otherwise consume any time before the Woodyettes begin having children of their own. It's a comical event, really. Mrs. Woody assumes her place in our bedroom where most of our books are stored. (We also have some in our family room, but we're more likely to read those. At least, that's what our ten year plan says.) We know in our hearts that we must eliminate as many books as possible, especially now that we must rearrange the entire house. Something's got to go, and it's not going to be my priceless collection of Earth, Wind & Fire LPs from their post-Disco, pre-CD era. Don't laugh... it's the last time I was ever considered somewhat hip.

I unload each and every shelf (we have five bookcases in that room!) and place them on the bed in front of Mrs. Woody. She examines each one and asks herself the following tough question: "Is this book ever really going to serve a purpose besides being some obscure reference for home school?" The answer, of course, is no. Every book we have in the house will ultimately be used for home school, according to Mrs. Woody. We need all those books in Spanish she picked up while serving her mission so we can teach the girls Spanish. "Donde està el escritorio?" ("Where is the desk?") "Tu eres un lapiz." ("You are a pencil.") My Sherlock Holmes collections will help the girls learn critical thinking skills: "Elementary, my dear Sister. The ashes were of a type found only when you burn the hair from the blond Polly LostInYourPocket doll. Of course you did it!"

Ultimately, we manage to agree on one paltry box of books that must be donated away. The last such box of books we gathered up, though, somehow managed to avoid the executioner and are still to be found in our bedroom, still in that same box, and shoved unceremoniously underneath our table. They will remain there until sometime after the Millenium begins.

No, brother of mine, you only think you've gotten rid of the books. You are not so easily cured.

#38 - Happy Mother's Day!

Today has been an especially nice Mother's Day for the Woody household. I didn't have to work too hard to get the Woodyettes out of bed this morning. Once I reminded them that this was Mommy's Day, they both "jumped" out of bed (their word, not mine) to help me make breakfast for her. We gave her our little gifts and cards that the girls had made. Then off to Church where Daddy sang a solo consisting of a poem that he'd written literally a week ago. The trick there was to set it to music that didn't make everyone want to stick their fingers down their throats. It worked, because Mommy loved it.

We've also heard from my son today. Woody Junior (hah!) lives with his Mom and Step-Dad in Minnesota. [Insert your own brain-in-perpetual-deep-freeze joke here] My son has always been pretty good about calling on important holidays, and Mrs. Woody certainly appreciated hearing from him. We're standing by to ring in that important time in his life when he casts aside the uncertainties of adolescence, and enters the unholy terror of adulthood. Serve him right, I must say. (For any of you who claim to be my son: "Just kidding!")

Actually, my son is quite an eclectic collection of talent and accomplishment. Primary among them is his uncanny ability to make my hair turn spontaneously gray at any given moment. Also, he has the soul (and now, apparently, the wardrobe) of an artist. At least, that's what I presume from looking at his blog. Oh, yes. My son has a blog. I will link you to it after issuing the obligatory warning that his blog is, oh, let's say PG-97 material. Meaning even I am too young to read it. So here it is: Woody Junior's Blog.

I also have another daughter who does not blog. At least, not that I know of. Frankly, I suspect she's a tad too busy to be able to spend much time surfing just for the halibut. She lives on base with her Air Force hubby and my granddaughter. The heck of this arrangement is that she now lives on the east coast, and I keep forgetting that it's, like, a hundred hours later, so when I look at the clock and think, hey, 7:00 would be an okay time to call my daughter, Mrs. Woody gently reminds me that to do so on a school night would mean having my son-in-law call in air strikes on our mobile home. *sigh*

I must tell you that the Woodyettes had a banner day today. Part of what made Mommy's day so special was the fact that both of her little Woodyettes sang in Sacrament Meeting today! This is significant because my girls are not the bravest souls on the planet. You know how chameleons can instantly change color and blend in with their backgrounds when they sense danger? My daughters can blend in with the scenery while the chameleon is still trying to figure out how to make its skin turn mauve. They'll sing in Primary just fine, thank you, especially when parents aren't around to hear them, but standing in front of "hundreds of people" (to use the Elder Woodyette's description) seems to terrify them.

This has been painful for Mommy and Daddy every time the Primary kids sing in Sacrament Meeting. Especially when you consider that Daddy has a ham-bone that obviously came from the Pleistocene Era and belonged to a pig that could easily devour your house. I'm not saying I'm stage-struck - I'm saying I'm stage stuck. So to have my girls both make like clams under attack every time they go up to sing is a direct reflection on my gene pool. Today, however, they both broke with tradition. First, Woodyette Number Two could actually be seen mouthing the words to the actual song the rest of the kids were singing! Breakthrough indeed! Then, if that excitement weren't enough, Woodyette the Elder put her head down and plowed through the entire second song! Mom and Dad were in a catatonic trance! What a day!

It just doesn't get better than that.

So, life for the Woodys is good today. We love our kids - all of them - and they love us. Mommy had exactly the kind of day we wanted her to have.

To all you Moms out there, present or future, we wish a wonderful Mother's Day and many more throughout the year!

UPDATE: Busy night tonight! Now that I have my son's blog address, I decided to add him to the ol' blogroll. Just realize that he is, after all, a teenager, and as such does not feel a need to comply with any given FCC regulation.

Also, Woodyette the Younger - codenamed Doodle Woodyette - has been feeling left out of the blog game, and requested one of her own tonight. So, you will find her new blog listed on my Offspring roll as well. Both Woodyettes wanted to share their Mother's Day experience with you. Enjoy!

#37 - A Moving Experience

I despise moving. Moving, in my mind, ranks right down there with dental care and federal elections on a list of things I'd rather be doing today. I really don't care for packing things up, tossing them on a truck, then unloading them, carrying them into the new house and unpacking them. It's an experience that makes me look back on wisdom tooth extraction with fondness. In my mind, moving would be a lot nicer if we could just leave the old house as is, with all its stuff, and move into the new house with all its stuff. Nothing would fit for awhile, until we bought new clothes and things. And, of course, the new house would have to be pre-decorated to Mrs. Woody's liking, but I still think it would be easier than the traditional moving experience.

For those of you who happen to be my family, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that we are most definitely not moving. The bad news is that we may as well be moving.

A well known American sociologist, Dave Barry, has carefully documented the female need to rearrange furniture. He has said that a man may occasionally wake up in an entirely different house if the wife gets motivated enough. Some facetiously call this the "nesting" urge. Hah. Birds, at least, have sense enough to just abandon the nest when they no longer like where the big sofa is sitting. The rest of us will rearrange the furniture until our backs begin looking to enter the Federal Back Protection Program.

Such is the case here at La Casa Woody. The time has come to give the Woodyettes separate rooms. This is because the Woodyettes have entered that stage of life known scientifically as the "Stage Where Two Girls Get On Each Other's Nerves Often Enough That Mommy and Daddy Have Had Enough" stage. While my two youngsters generally get along very nicely, they seem to require space away from each other more frequently of late. So, Mrs. Woody feels that this would be a good time to give them their own rooms. Also, we have both a family room and a living room. The original idea was that we would do all of our entertaining in the living room, and the family room would be where we rested and relaxed and watched some TV on occasion. We also have an office that sometimes doubles as Mrs. Woody's scrapbooking place. The "office" actually supports our homeschool. Small as it is, it will become the older Woodyette's new bedroom, the family room will be consolidated with the living room, and the family room will be converted to the new homeschool/scrapbook/project area. It will be large enough to give Mommy and the girls room enough to hold school there by day, and Mrs. Woody can be our Scrapbooking Maven by night.

Of course, these will not be the only rooms involved in the move. As long as we're moving furniture around, we need to involve our bedroom. At least one big piece needs to go in there, which necessitates moving our entire bedroom around. Also, our closet - the floor of which I've not seen in some two years - needs a little, um, straightening.

So far, the only rooms in the house that won't be involved in this pseudo-move are the kitchen (thank goodness!) and the laundry room. We have no way of switching them with other rooms, or consolidating them, so they stay where they are. On the other hand, the kitchen could use a little rearranging... the girls have reached that age where they need to help with setting the table and doing the dishes, but aren't either one of them tall enough to reach the dishes where they're presently stored, so I may have to do that, too. So, okay, the kitchen will "move," too. But not the laundry room. A man has to draw the line somewhere, and I'll draw it at the laundry room.

So, we get all the benefits of moving to a new house without the actual new house. It will definitely be less expensive this way.

Unless my medical insurance lapses anytime soon.

#36 - Deficit Blogging

"I haven't seen any blogs lately," quoth Mrs. Woody.

I nodded. "Well, you know, I've been pretty busy lately. I just haven't had time to catch up on the 'Sphere; or get worked up about issues much less write about them."

"Those weren't the ones I meant," she replied.

I concurred. "I know, I know... but the Muse can't get through when I'm so distracted."

It's true. Because I'm not one of the full-timers in the 'Sphere, that means I spend my time where my attention is most needed. Generally, I'm either working a real job ("More work! Fewer resources!") or working at home. Either way, I've not been terribly prolific these past several weeks.

On the other hand, could there be some deeper meaning to Mrs. Woody's comment?

My extended family (along with my ex-wife) call me "the Great Communicator." They're kidding, of course. What they mean to say is, "Eventually he'll get around to telling someone about it, if he hasn't died first." This tends to be a problem during certain uncomfortable situations. For example, a surly gentleman might be at the door, and I'll suddenly look at my wife and say, "Oh, nuts! I forgot, Honey... they're repossessing the car today. I meant to tell you..." (Note: this particular scenario has not materialized, but I wanted you to know it was entirely possible. This is precisely why Mrs. Woody now handles the finances.)

Every family has at least one "Great Communicator" and one "Bulletin Board." My sister is our Bulletin Board. She's the one who calls every single member of the family at least once a week so she can be the one to break the news to someone else. I once took to calling her "Eyewitness News" until I realized it was a misnomer: She doesn't so much witness things as find out about them vicariously. Also, like any good bulletin board, you'll only get the information she contains if you ask. Which I never do.

Anyway, I simply have a nasty habit of forgetting to mention things that happen on a daily basis. For all my wife knows, I could have been promoted to CEO of my company. That fantasy hasn't been reflected in my paychecks, though, so I think she's still aware that I haven't had a real promotion in over ten years. The joys of direct deposit.

I've also learned over the years that some wives feel like Internet Widows. This isn't usually true in the Woody household, because Mrs. Woody and I both happen to be geeks (and I say that in a most loving way!). She's also a teacher, and spends just as much time online as I do. So if she ever feels like a Widow, I guess I can retaliate by feeling like a Widower. But we never do. We spend just as much time snooping over each other's shoulders as we do surfing on our own.

That's why I was only mildly surprised when Mrs. Woody heartily accepted my blog habit. I suspect she immediately deduced that she would, in fact, get more information out of her hubby by reading his blog than she ever would in the course of everyday conversation. Especially when I branched away from the political rantings of the Woundup in favor of my familial writings on The Inner Dad.

The way I see it, via The Inner Dad, my wife now knows that I am indeed aware that we have two youngsters still living with us. I even know their names, despite the fact that I only ever refer to them as "the Woodyettes." At least I recognize the fact that they are of differing age and height. Hair color, even.

Thus, when Woody hits a dry spell - for whatever reason - Mrs. Woody worries. Her best source of hubby-generated thinking has dried up! Disaster looms!

Aw, who'm I kidding? The one person on the planet with whom I communicate regularly and frequently is Mrs. Woody. This is as it should be. If for no other reason, Mrs. Woody can read me like a book and has a knack for asking just the right question to get my mouth motor running. Also, if Mrs. Woody ain't happy, I ain't doing my job.

So, I guess what Mrs. Woody really meant when she pointed out that my blog was running a little dry was that she missed what I write. She is, after all my biggest fan.

I live for my fans.

#35 - Saturday TV

It's Saturday morning in the Woody household. Although the morning is waning, only one Woodyette - the older one - is awake yet. The smaller one must be having another growth spurt.

Now, when I was a kid, Saturday morning invariably meant vegetating in front of the venerable Boob Tube. You name it, I watched it. I'm not ashamed to admit that in my Saturday-induced sloth, I watched everything from Magilla Gorilla to Josie and the Pussycats (I grew up with co-ed siblings and some sacrifice on my part was expected). The primary reason I have mush for brains today is because I memorized the entire stable of Warner Bros. cartoons.

Woodyette Number One wandered out to the TV room and asked to watch...

Rachael Ray.

I kid you not. Rather than watch some made-to-dumb-down-kids TV fare, she would rather watch one of the Food Network divas in action.

She's been somewhat obsessed with Ms. Ray of late, probably because her "$40 a Day" show takes her to so many neat locales in the country. My youngster loves travel shows, and equally enjoys cooking shows. Her Rachael Ray fixation, then, is no big surprise. Personally, Ray's kilowatt grin is a bit much for me after a half hour or so, but I do enjoy her "30 Minute Meals" show... good stuff!

(On a related note: Mrs. Woody and I are back on our modified Dr. Phil's "Rapid Start" program for awhile... Suddenly even Emeril's cooking is starting to look good!)

Anyway, and most unfortunately for my daughter, Rachael does not appear on the Saturday morning radar. She had to settle for "Blue's Clues" and "Rolie Polie Olie" instead.

I must say she's taking the disappointment well.

UPDATE: Baby Sis points out my failings as a speller of childrens' shows. I blame "Magilla Gorilla."

UPDATE II: Also "Gigantor."

UPDATE III: Rachael is on in the afternoon! Saturday is saved!

#34 - Found Another One!

Thank goodness for Dave Barry's blog. Apparently there's a whole slough of International Days of which I've never been aware. Dave points us to another one.

International Respect for Chickens Day

It appears to be sponsored by an organization calling itself "United Poultry Concerns." This bothers me somewhat. In my experience, your average fowl has but one concern, which is how to stay one step ahead of the axe. Here's the money quote, though:

Chickens are cheerful, intelligent birds. The mother hen tenderly cares for her chicks, and roosters protect their families and flocks.

Huh. I must admit, my own experience with chickens has been anything but deserving of respect. In fact - and here I must apologize to family members who thought they'd safely put this experience behind them - we used to raise chickens.

My Dad was the world's greatest armchair hobbiest. He would find something to obsess over, read everything he could find on the subject, ask as many people at work as would talk to him about it, then rally the troops to implement the scheme. We tried livestock twice. Once with rabbits, and again with chickens. In each case, the objective was a noble one: we would raise the livestock as a means of supplementing our food stores. Rabbit, when cooked correctly, is actually rather delectable (tastes like watered-down chicken, of course). The chickens would be layers, then eaten when they could no longer provide our daily cholesterol pellets.

The problem, of course, was in (literally) the execution. When the time came to actually need to off the animals, Dad always developed cold feet. He had been raised on a farm as a boy, and I guess he figured it would be a simple matter to just go out, club the bunnies, skin 'em and fry 'em. He would spend days preparing us mentally for this traumatic experience. Then, when he thought the time was right, we would have this conversation around the dinner table:

Dad: So, I was thinking that we need to get those rabbits killed so we can try some rabbit stew for dinner. Greg (shooting a bemused glance in my direction), think you can handle that?

Me: Beg pardon?

Dad: All you need is a good baseball bat. You have one, don't you?

Me: Baseball bat?

Dad: (wondering how this genius could ever have sprung from his loins) Yes, son. A bat. You do have one, right?

Me: Um, yeah...

Dad: So, just take the rabbits out one by one, club them with the bat, then chop off their heads with my hatchet. Might want to wear old clothes since there's likely to be some spatter.

Me: Ummmm...

Ultimately, of course, we sold the rabbits.

When Dad announced that we were going to get fresh eggs every morning, we all - simultaneously - gave him the same reaction:

"You're kidding."

He assured us he was not, and set us to work preparing to become chicken ranchers. To this day, I have no idea whether we were really even zoned for keeping poultry in our backyard, but others had done so, and I'm pretty sure that was the extent of Dad's research. We built a coop under one portion of the house where an upper bedroom overhung the garage by a few feet. We fenced it in with chicken wire, built some nesting platforms, and waited for Dad to procure the pullets.

Naturally, no sooner did we have the chickens safely ensconced in their new home than we realized this was going to be another disaster in animal husbandry. We had five hens. At least, we assumed they were hens because one or two of them actually did lay an egg or two apiece. And that was it.

I don't remember exactly how long we had those blasted birds. I do, however, remember spending copious amounts of time fighting with my siblings over whose turn it was to muck out the coop. As far as I could tell, that was the entire breadth of their output. We put food in, they pushed muck out. No eggs, just chicken scat. We also spent more than our fair share of time chasing the stupid birds all over the neighborhood. They seemed to be masters of escape, and if they made it over the back fence, we had an uptight neighbor to deal with.

Finally, Dad realized the experiment was doomed to fail, and made plans to rid us of the chickens. Former Idaho farm boy that he was, his first instinct was to eat them. "No problem," he announced. "You just wring their necks, pluck their feathers, and broil 'em." So, naturally, when the time came, we had another conversation. I was readier this time:

Dad: Well, son, we need to...

Me: Forget it, Dad.

Dad: (feigning surprise) What do you mean, "forget it?"

Me: Exactly that. If you think I'm going to pick up one of those feathered menaces, wring it's neck, chop off it's head, and pluck it, you're out of your mind.

We briefly considered having one of the neighbor boys do it. They were an interesting set of teenage brothers that lived across the street and Dad figured should have landed in jail before now. Surely they would be interested in a little creative neck-wringing? But when even they turned us down, Dad knew he was licked. In what seemed to me to be the opening of a really bad made-for-TV movie, we found ourselves one day driving our old Volkswagen bus out to a nearby chicken ranch - a real one - and releasing them just outside the fence.

That was, fortunately for us, the end of Dad's attempts at animal husbandry. Oh, we kept birds for awhile in the old chicken coop. Parakeets, mostly, as I recall, but they all died or flew away, and the coop slowly disintegrated over time. But our careers as animal ranchers of any kind died when the chickens were deported. My experiences with the chickens enhanced my later experience with domesticated turkeys in Guatemala, but that's a story for another day.

The web site for International Respect for Chickens Day encourages us to "show the world that chickens are people, too!"

Right. I'll go pop one in the crock pot right now.

#33 - Peace Disturbed

So today was International Noise Awareness Day. I had no idea such a day existed, but then I also learned just the other day that some sap put together a day to celebrate trees for cryin' out loud. Like, Euell Gibbons came back from the dead to worship his favorite meal, or something.

As I pondered the implications of a day dedicated to being aware of noise, I admit to being just a bit flummoxed... How does one adequately address noise in a world where... um... what is it, Sweetheart? Daddy is blogging... Your sister did what? Go see Mommy, please. Daddy can't answer that right now.

Where was I? Oh, noise awareness. Right. Anyway, I was wondering how in the world one could possibly not be aware of noise. Especially here in sunny Southern California - traffic capitol of this world and every new planet they're discovering around stars that could have ours for lunch. While I admit I can pretty much ignore most traffic noise, those doggoned traffic reporters that fly overhead at all hours of the day and night can always get my attention. In fact, one of those turkeys flew (har!) overhead just a few hours... what now, Sweetie? Daddy is really busy right now... No, I can't make your sister stop doing whatever it is she's doing. Didn't you talk to Mommy? And what did she say? Alright, then. Why don't you try that? Thank you, Sweetheart...

Sorry. Let's see... I was talking about traffic helicopters. At least, I think I was. Oh, well. No matter. The issue here is Noise Awareness. I tend to feel that this is tantamount to kids asking why we have a Mothers Day and a Fathers Day but not a Kids Day. Every parent has this conversation. I even remember asking my Mom about it, and she gave me the standard Parental Answer: "Honey, every day is Kids Day." We never liked this answer, but I understand it now. Especially when my kids are... Sweetheart! Please stop yelling at your sister! That's not helping anything! No, I'm not yelling at you! Well... yes, I am! But I'm the Daddy! Your room, please, and close the door!

I really apologize about that. I truly did intend to have a meaningful discussion of what apparently has become important enough to merit having an International Day dedicated to it. I wonder if they've managed to get this message out to those twits who somehow believe I like their over-bassed thumpa-thumpa music while they're driving neck-and-neck with me on the freeway. Unfortunately, these guys always catch up to me when I'm driving my Honda, which has no air conditioning and forces me to drive with my windows down. You can just imagine how much I appreci... Sweetie! What?! What do you want now?! You two are screaming like banshees in that room and the entire neighborhood can hear you! Settle down and quit making so much noise!

Um, lessee... I keep losing my train of thought... Oh, yes. The boom-box crowd. Really, I don't understand how these guys can function at anything above the level of your average paramecium, given the amount of nerve damage they must... WHO'S SCREAMING? Did someone get hurt? How? On the bunk bed ladder?? WELL, GET OFF OF IT AND LET YOUR SISTER CLIMB DOWN!!

Sheesh.

Anyway, go read up on International Noise Awareness Day. I'm certain it's incredibly important, but I'm having a hard time getting behind it. I mean, it's not like I'm a party animal, or anything, and I certainly don't go around polluting the neighborhood with a lot of racket.

All things considered, it's pretty quiet around here.

#32 - My Poor Sister...

This sort of thing would never happen with the Woodyettes.

No, in the Woody household, that same scene would involve Harry Potter. With two (count them: two) Hermiones. And it wouldn't be "Candy Man." It would be "I Am a Child of God."

Context is everything.

#31 - Tax Relief

I haven't filed my returns so late in years. Really, since I got into using SpeedyTax, or TurboAudits, or whatever the heck software I'm using these days, I've been filing my returns as early in February as possible so I can get those crucial refunds into my atrophied checking account. ("Atrophied," I guess, is the wrong word. It gets plenty of exercise. "Emaciated" is, perhaps, a better fit.)

The problem is that, somehow, mysteriously, I wasn't able to find last year's file. You see, one of the real benefits of using the same software every year is that they can read last year's file directly into your current return. So, when they ask you all those Big Brother questions about what deduction you took in support of pygmy water buffalo research the previous year, you don't even have to look. The computer already knows all that.

The trouble, of course, is that last year's refunds bought last year's new computer. Now, I'm darned certain that I went through all the hoops of transferring all my files from the old machine to the new one. I am, after all, a techie in my professional life, and I know how to do such things. Still, when I installed the new tax software this year, you can imagine my panic when I was completely unable to find anything even remotely resembling last year's return. The panic grew when I was also unable to find my printed returns!

Anyone who knows me recognizes my genius for organization. My files are immaculate. This means that when I put a file away somewhere, it doesn't matter where because it will always be there. The trick is that I generally have absolutely no idea where "there" is from one year to the next. So, okay, I'm not a genius. In fact, I'm not organized enough to be the village idiot, so forget the "genius" line. You never heard that from me.

Needless to say, I searched high and low (and everywhere in between) for those files. Nothing. Mrs. Woody and I traditionally have that money spent (virtually, anyway) two or three months ahead of filing, so we really needed to get our taxes done. Soon.

In a true act of desperation, I turned to the IRS's web site for help. I was relieved to find that I could order a copy of my return for last year because I filed it electronically. Technology finally comes to the IRS! Glory be! I dialed the number listed on the web site, picked my way through their menus, and then began the real nail-biting stretch: They said the copy would be mailed anywhere from 10 to 14 business days later, and that would put me this close to April 15!

Fortunately, they lied. I got the copy sometime over the weekend and filed our returns last night.

I am, as you can imagine, relieved. I am also, as you might expect, chiselling my return directly onto my computer case, rather than rely on some ancient 6 month old magnetic media. I will also staple my paper copy directly to my stomach in a waterproof bag so I can keep it with me until next year. Or maybe I'll just burn a copy onto a CD and keep it in my lock box...

Nah. Where's the fun in that?

#30 - Debt Is as Debt Does

Being a normal family, Mrs. Woody and I deal with debt. It's not that we're big spenders, by any means (and I do mean any means). We've just had circumstances over the years that have kept us in the gunsights of a couple of credit cards. Fortunately, both cars are paid off (210K miles on the Honda and counting!) and things are looking up. I measure this in the decided lack of nag calls from creditors. The smarmy ones where the friendly computer calls you and expects you to "hold" for a "very important message" from one of their representatives. I've written elsewhere about computerized phoning, which I consider to be a terrorist activity subject to provisions of the Patriot Act.

Anyway, we have debt, but it's not a real issue at the moment.

So, explain to me why having a fine on our library cards can cause such a panic?

I have successfully put off any number of creditors over the years. I've been harangued by the experts. I have stared down (figuratively, of course... they never show their faces) such luminaries as Bank of America, Ameriquest, and MBNA. I have pooh-pooohed Discover and American Express. I can even hold off my utilities for a week or two until my next paycheck arrives and I can keep them from disconnecting us.

But levy a fine on my library card, and the world comes to an immediate and complete halt.

It's no secret that Mrs. Woody and I are dedicated homeschoolers. That is to say, Mrs. Woody is a dedicated homeschooler, and Woody provides vital services such as being a taste-tester of questionable culinary creations. Mrs. Woody is, however, the Headmistress of our academy, and the Woodyettes are her devoted students. Part of Mrs. Woody's game plan has always included a weekly trip to our local library. Our particular branch has a terrific children's librarian named "Miss Regina," and she does a weekly story night that the kids love. We also have a steady supply of library books in our house. The Woodyettes (7 and 5) are both avid readers. They're very much into series like "A to Z Mysteries" or "Magic Tree House." "American Girl" is a perrenial favorite. They've been reading "Little House...," "Nate the Great," and all things Potter.

Last night I took the girls to Story Night. While they listened to Miss Regina read stories about dinosaurs, I was at the checkout desk pleading for my life. "I have come to redeem myself from Purgatory," I said. The librarian chuckled and said, "Here to pay a fine, hm?"

I was in no position to quibble. Our library cards are the only things standing between us and an Amazon.com-induced bankruptcy.

I gladly - even gratefully - paid the fine. It was unusually hefty since we got caught in a web of circumstance that prevented us from getting our books returned for something like two whole weeks past their date. Still, seeing how excited the girls were at being able to check out some books that they really, really, reeealllly, pleeeeeeeze Daddy can I get this one, pleeeeze, pleeeeze, pleeeeeeeze! wanted was worth every penny. All 1,920 of them.

You can't put a price on a reading child.

#29 - Grandpa Blogging!

The Inner Dad also has a secret life as The Inner Grandpa.

I've always enjoyed my family dynamics. Seems I never do anything the easy (or, at least, traditional) way, and putting my family together has been no exception.

I served for awhile as a Sunday School teacher, working with the 16 through 18 year olds. I actually enjoyed that calling, because they were old enough to get most of my humor. Kids need to get my humor if they're going to learn anything from me, and I don't always remember to make it age appropriate. Just a week ago I substituted in Woodyette Number One's Primary class and had the kids rolling on the floor, but that may have been because their little heads were about to implode.

In that Sunday School class, I one day introduced the concept of family. I started off by saying something like, "I have three children (Woodyette Number Two was still in the oven at this point). My first child is younger than my oldest child and my youngest child was my first experience with pregnancy."

[Wait a beat or two...]

"Before I married Mrs. Woody I was an adoptive parent."

[Lights go on.]

"Ooooh! You were married before and adopted your kids!"

But you should have seen their faces before I explained myself.

Anyway, the truth is that I have two other children from my first (or "starter," as Mrs. Woody puts it) marriage. My son is 17-going-on-making-his-father-89 years old. He lives with his Mom and has a step-Dad, who, as far as I'm concerned, came from Smallville. As parents I salute them for being able to deal with this hormone-explosion who carries my name and causes most of my gray hairs. He's a good kid, but this is a tough age.

My oldest child came to us as a teenage foster child. We knew instantly that she was a perfect fit with our family, but had to wait until she turned 18 to do an adult adoption. She married a terrific young man in the Air Force, and they are currently stationed in Washington, D.C. They have a daughter who is every bit as adorable as her mother was (um, is!) and who also happens to be a year older than my older Woodyette. Confusing, I know, but at least it gives me something to talk about at church socials.

My granddaughter just turned 9. Her Mommy called me the other day to tell me that she is doing her very first science project. Grandpa couldn't be more tickled. There's a kind of poetic justice in watching your child go through the same hoops she put you through whenever a project or report was needed at school. It just feels... good.

The topic, in this case, is the solar system, and my granddaughter is doing a poster on Saturn. Good choice. I've been happy with mine ever since we drove it off the lot. [Rim shot.] She struggles a little with memory, and this has been a great way to motivate her to remember details. "How many moons?" Mommy asks. "About 30!" she enthuses. Grandpas love to hear that sort of stuff.

So, my daughter knows that Grandpa wants photos of the poster and a complete debriefing after the fair. She has a digital camera now, so no excuses! Grandma Woody (heh!) will likely put them in a scrapbook sometime soon.

I don't get to see them too often nowadays, but I can still participate.

#28 - Help! I've Been Annied!

Among the countless things a person might enjoy on a Saturday, you might not think going to an elementary school production of "Annie" would be one of them. I certainly didn't think so.

For one thing, I burned out on "Annie" years ago. It came out at the height of my Cynical Period as I was between high school and going on a mission for the church. Suddenly, the entire country was inundated with "Annie" wannabes. At least half of them lived in my home town of Simi Valley. At least half of them appeared to be LDS.

Not long after my mission our stake put on a production of Broadway vignettes, one of which was (surprise!) "Annie." My parents and I split music director duties, and Mom drew "Annie" duty. Whew! A couple of years later, as I was entering my starter marriage, I was asked to assist Dad as an assistant musical director for a touring company version of "Annie." In a rare moment of lucidity, I bowed out before the production actually toured. They folded a year or so later after lawsuits killed the production. Seemed "Annie" was still a "hot" property even a year or so after the movie came out, and the copyright holders were none too pleased that anyone (even from Podunk, USA) would dare to compete with the "official" touring company.

By that time I had long since had my fill of precocious little girls with the lung capacity of a dirigible.

Skip ahead a couple of decades. My own precocious little girls (same lung capacity, but much more shy!) both enjoy "Annie." They have the 1982 version of the movie in their catalog. This is the version that Leonard Maltin called "claustrophobic," and I have never disagreed with him on that point. I can watch it, oh, once every two or three years without getting nauseous. You know that cutesy scene in "You've Got Mail" where the little girl sings (badly) "Tomorrow?" Hurl time.

So, given all that, you can imagine my trepidation at watching an elementary school production of this over-hyped musical, especially given that my own kids don't (and won't ever) attend public school. Not once, but twice. On the same day.

Woodyette the Elder has two little friends from church who do happen to attend this particular elementary school. They have become good friends over the past year, and the Woodyette's one regret is that she can't play with her friends during recess. They all go to a book club that meets at a local library every week. Mrs. Woody thought it would be a good show of friendship to have the Woodyettes go to the show and support their friends. It was decided that all of us would go to the afternoon show to see one friend (the show had two casts to accomodate all the kids) and then the older Woodyette would return that evening with one parent or another to see the other friend.

From the moment the lights went down and the canned music began, I found myself being strangely entranced by the entire experience.

If I were to look at the whole thing from a strictly critical point of view, it would have been a complete disaster. In the first show, key characters mumbled lines, cues were dropped, "Annie" didn't quite have the top notes required for the role, and the staging was fairly wooden. Not surprising given the fact that they had to get 50 or more kids on stage during the production numbers and give them something to do other than perform personal hygiene for parents and family (and a few hundred others) to see.

Still, once the house had been called, the actor in me - the one who has performed in more than a handful of community theater productions over the years - got into the show. Generally speaking, when I witness a bad production of anything, I feel embarrassed for the performers. My worst nightmare is to be in a production that falls flat for any reason. In this case, I found myself thoroughly enjoying the fact that the kids were up there having the time of their young lives. It didn't matter to me that most of them looked like deer in the headlights at one point or another. When it came to crunch time, they went through their moves with all the precision of the Keystone Cops without a rehearsal.

I loved it. Twice, even.

So, the next time an elementary school decides to do a production of some hackneyed, full-of-itself musical, I'll probably buy a ticket.

Maybe even two.

#27 - A Mind of Woodyette's Own

Woodyette the Elder has decided to blog.

She's been bugging Daddy for weeks now to have a blog of her very own. Being not-quite-eight, I haven't really given it much thought, but she's been persistent. So, Daddy finally helped her create one.

Announcing: Jelly Woodyette

There's a whole insider-only explanation about "Jelly." That's a polite way of saying you won't hear about it here.

So, she'll be coached on such wonderful stuff as privacy issues and appropriate content (such a concern at this age!) and then... PUBLICATION.

The world may never be the same.

I know I won't.

#26 - There I Spied Her

"Where do you think you're going?" I asked her. She appeared to be struggling, as if not sure where she was or where she needed to go. I regarded her with pensive eye.

"Slippery in here, isn't it?" I continued. She seemed to pay me no heed, as if I were the least of her troubles. As opposed to the giant danger I truly represented. I watched her move back and forth. Gliding, really. Hanging from a thread I couldn't see but understood to be there.

I flicked some water in her direction. That got her attention. Instead of tentatively moving across the sheer face of the cliff, she suddenly understood that there was a new imperative. She acquired an immediate sense of purpose. Unfortunately there was little by way of shelter. A few vague early morning shadows flicked across the cliff, but offered no protection. No sense of safety.

She also seemed to struggle with the lack of foothold. Occasionally there would be a misstep, but she would somehow attach that thread to an unseen anchor and pull herself to relative safety once again. A few steps in one direction or another, then another fall. How she maintained her composure enough to reattach that thread time after time was beyond my capacity to understand.

I watched this aerial ballet for far longer than was prudent, of course. Such a simple problem, but I chose to make it more significant. After all, we are old friends.

The other day I had destroyed her web. No sign of her, that I could see, but the web needed to come down. They all did. It was my duty that day to make a general sweep of cobwebs that seem to accumulate quickly here in Orange County. So, down they came. When I wandered into the bathroom, there was that web I always saw in my shower.

The shower is, by the way, my exclusive domain. My wife has a wonderful, huge oval-shaped bathtub and will take a shower only under duress. The Woodyettes have their own bathroom, so the shower is mine. All mine. Well, mine and the spider's.

We first met three years ago. For those who may study our eight-legged friends, no, I have no idea whether this particular spider truly is the same one I encountered three years ago or some descendent. No matter. They all look alike to me.

Our relationship has always been one of considered mutual ignorance. I pay no attention to her, she pays no attention to me. But the web must go. It's visible. It tells me that some part of the house isn't truly clean, and so it must go. Out comes my duster and away goes the web. But it will return. I haven't killed the spider, and this is a nice dark corner most of the time. She will rebuild. I suspect that was her mission this morning. She was rebuilding, took one little step too far from the web, and...

In fact, this is the first time I've gotten a good look at her (I presume it's a female - don't they generally eat the males?) in several months. Most of the time, here in Orange County, it's the ants. I pay lots of attention to ants. I have killed, by my conservative estimate, enough ants to cover the national debt if you paid me one dollar per ant. The spider gets a few of them for subsistence, I suppose, but I kill the lion's share. Beyond that, we do not appear on each other's radars.

This is why this morning's encounter surprised me so. The silly arachnid never visited my shower before. Why today? Why venture right down into the cone of the volcano, so to speak? Then it hit me.

Ants. There haven't been any lately. Oh, they usually stay underground during the colder months, but rainstorms generally drive them above ground and into my house. We've had lots of rain lately. We've seen no sign of the ants. Perhaps friend spider is getting snacky.

Ah, well. Until the ants return (and rest assured they will return) the spider is on her own. Look, if she gets to looking really miserable, I'll put her out of her misery. I have no compunction. Truly.

All I ask is that she leave me alone while I'm in the shower.

#25 - Warm Fuzzy Moment of the Evening

You know those commercials where the kids haven't gone to bed yet, but when Mom checks on them they're sitting on big brother's bed while big brother holds forth with a story that he's reading himself? You know that warm-hearted yet vaguely smug smile Mom wears in the cut away? I had one of those moments tonight.

One of the Seven Deadly Habits of Children is absolute silence. Or, at least, silence to the point where Mommy and/or Daddy cannot hear them. This always signals Bad News. This is when Mommy gets that other look on her face and sends Daddy to investigate. In the background, Daddy swears he can hear the strident violins playing the Psycho Shower Sequence as he opens the kids' door and discovers that one or the other of them (he'll never get the straight story from either of them) has taken an artistic interest in their bedroom furniture featuring crayon that Daddy can already tell has soaked into the finish. Mommy and Daddy then spontaneously combust as their blood pressures read 500 over, I don't know, say 15,000. That oughta do it.

Anyway, the kids were making that kind of silence. Mrs. Woody either hadn't caught on yet that there was a lack of kid-generated white noise behind her, or her excellent ears could hear what I couldn't. Anyway, I faked a trip to the bathroom so I could surreptitiously peek in on their dirty work.

Both Woodyettes were snuggled on Mrs. Woody's big, comfy recliner sharing a book between them. The book, by the way, was "What Your Kindergartner Needs to Know," and is one of the guides Mrs. Woody has been using to develop curriculum for the five year old. Since they both can read they were busily combing through the book, finding stories to read to each other. They were taking turns, even!!

Before I could quite catch myself, I had one of those aforementioned sappy smiles on my face.

I must confess that I have those moments quite frequently these days. Seven and five can be challenging ages, but mostly they're cute. Mrs. Woody and I only occasionally have to referee when tempers get short, and when one or the other (or, worse, both!) is tired, all bets are off. Otherwise, these small ones are complete angels.

We get compliments all the time. "What adorable girls you have!" they tell us. "So well behaved, too!" We get this at Church all the time. I usually make some curmudgeonly response, but secretly I know they're right.

Bedtime has arrived, and I need to go have Song and Prayer with the fam. We do this every night. It's our own family devotional and it has worked for us from the time Woodyette the Elder was still a linoleum lizard. Even now they are coming in to tell Daddy that it's time for "Toofies."

Catch ya all later. Gotta go brush now.

#24 - Reason No. 3,672 Why We Homeschool

Teachers like this.

Money quote:

The mooning [of fellow staffers] followed a pattern of unusual behavior, including many incidents that went undisciplined, records show. In October, [kitchen manager Debra] McDow wrote to district officials that Bartlett told her son and other children at Pine Grove that she was "(their) worst nightmare."

You just can't buy that kind of education.

#23 - Reading Too Much... or Too Little

Browsing around this evening brought me to this reading of the Proclamation on the Family. On its surface it brings some thoughtful questions to light. Deeper down, I wonder where the mystery is.

The phrase in question is, "Children are entitled to birth within the bonds of matrimony, and to be reared by a father and a mother who honor marital vows with complete fidelity."

First, my caveats. I am no lawyer. I have no patience for legal documents in any form. I break out in hives when I sign for guest parking passes here in my mobile home park. That probably makes me pathetic, and I can live with that. Also, I am no theologian. Oh, I served a mission, and I've taught just about every kind of class a guy can be called to, but I'm no Nibley. Hence the need to take the following opinion with the obligatory grain (or year's supply) of salt.

Then to it. Given the state of society today, that phrase as framed by the First Presidency makes perfect sense. In order to understand that, we need to elevate it to a level not attained by earthly, human laws. Any law we create in mortal society is by definition flawed. At best, it can only mirror eternal law and, at its worst, often mocks that law. As man continues to evolve away from those laws ordained by God, society falls farther away from its highest form. If we use Zion as the standard for a perfect society, then we currently live in Sodom, suburb of Gomorrah.

Scripture is replete with utterances by prophets which speak of an obedient people who live in a God-centered society. In other words, they often describe to us the vision of a Zion people. Zion carries with it a level of perfection that we realize we may never attain in this life. But we can try.

In fact, the Lord continually admonishes us to do better; to be that light that dispels the darker elements of life; to strive for Zion wherever we may live. That said, we also know that today, as never before in the history of the modern Church, families are under heavy assault. In the last twenty years, every Bishop I have served under has decried the increase in abuse found in families in any given ward. One Bishop went so far as to say that when he has Primary aged children sit in his office and tell how afraid they are of their fathers, his heart breaks, almost literally.

The Proclamation, then, teaches us the Lord's standard for families in Zion. Children, by virtue of their innocence, are born with certain rights. Chief among them are the rights of life, safety, and love within the family. Many children are denied even these basic rights, and it makes the heavens weep. Those who seek to nullify those rights will suffer, I am convinced, severe consequences in the hereafter.

As for "entitlement," there is nothing in the spiritual language of the Proclamation that implies "forcing" people to live in a family dynamic. The Church cannot now, nor has it ever denied rights to anyone merely for getting a divorce, for example. If one or the other spouse was guilty of some transgression which led to the divorce, then rights may certainly be curtailed for a time. If a young girl becomes pregnant out of wedlock, we may counsel her to consider marrying the father, but more and more often this may be an undesirable solution. Times have changed, and such decisions must be made even more carefully today than, say, thirty years ago. Were the Church to begin "forcing" people to live in family dynamics, they would be guilty of the very thing that necessitated the War in Heaven.

Do children have a claim on the Church? Certainly. If the Church is collectively doing its job, children will always be cared for. In homes where only one parent belongs to the Church, that parent receives assistance from many sources. Needs of a family, even a broken family, must always be addressed by the Lord's church, or that church has no claim to blessings from the Lord. Should the "ideal" family continue to be defined as a man and woman living in fidelity and creating a loving environment? Of course. The Lord expects nothing less. But the Lord also understands better than do we that today's families are under the heaviest attacks they have suffered since the days of Noah. Today's children are bombarded with propaganda that teaches them to question and mock authority, to pander to their own pleasures, and to win at all costs.

If you were among the General Authorities of the Church, wouldn't you issue a proclamation to set people straight?

#22 - Faith Precedes, Accompanies, and Grows After the Miracle

Faith defines the person. Where the world eschews faith as being far too ephemeral to be reliable, people of faith constantly look for ways to improve their condition based on their understanding of their future state. This is where people who lack faith fall short: they cannot see beyond this life and its challenges, and so they mark their success based on how well they position themselves in life. People of faith understand life as being merely a test. This is where we prove that we can follow our Creator without regard to our relative position in mortality.

Part of that journey of faith involves believing in miracles. For most of us, that means understanding what constitutes a "miracle" as opposed to an explainable event that has no connection with God or his gospel.

Take Geoff Johnston's recent incident with his small son. They found him face down in a pool. After rushing him to the hospital, his condition was critical and his grip on life tenuous. A day later, the boy's prognosis is optimistic and he should be coming home sometime over the weekend. Without any other commentary or knowledge of what happened in that hospital, this is a wonderful story. It gives hope that this youngster will continue to have a normal, happy and healthy life. But there's more - so much more - behind the story.

Geoff himself explains best what happened:

Briefly: While my wife and I followed the helicopter to the hospital we prayed and began to feel the beginnings of faith that we cold save the boy. When I gave what probably sounded like a brash blessing to my boy in the emergency room my faith grew. When I learned all of our family and ward were praying for a recovery I felt slightly better. When I followed my impression to ask for help here I felt a little more confidence. But it was only after my brother Russ told me that my plea at my blog was not ignored, but rather many righteous Boggernacle saints (who wouldn't know me from Adam) were praying for my Quinn... It was then when I finally knew... Sorry if it sounds dramatic but it was then that my tears of gratitude finally flowed. Quinn was going to be fine.

When my stake president later came to the hospital and prophesied that Quinn would fully recover most remaining fear and doubt disappeared. When the doctors told us there was no signs of neurological damage and our Q-dog (the nickname his missionary uncle gave him) would have a full recovery it was fitting, but not surprising.

It's interesting to note how this faith grew step by step throughout this experience. Whenever I have had to take children to emergency rooms, my own faith is sorely tested at the outset. This, I think, is only natural. We feel that we have no control over this child's immediate destiny, and we find ourselves fearing the worst. People of faith, however, turn to the one source they've always believed to be constant. Prayers are uttered in silence to a being that they've probably never seen, whose voice they've probably never heard, but who they believe to be watching everything that's going on in their lives. Geoff marked that as the beginning of his faith.

Latter-day Saints, by virtue of our priesthood, take a more interactive approach to faith. That power enables even the weakest of us to bless the lives of others through authority granted by the Savior himself. Geoff blesses his child and feels his faith grow. Please note that it was not a case where faith didn't exist in the first place. This was an instance where faith had been squeezed for a moment and needed rejuvenation. His understanding of prayer and the knowledge that those close to him were praying for his son continued that rejuvenation. He requests the prayers of others, bloggers and blogreaders alike, to join in those prayers. His call is answered. Faith grows stronger still. His stake president offers his spiritual prophecy - well within his calling - that this child will make a full recovery. Faith has been restored and, like well-polished silver, glows brighter than it did before this incident occurred. Hence the lack of surprise (although sighs of profound relief, I'm certain) when the doctor pronounces his positive outlook.

Can the boy's recovery be explained naturally? Of course. Hundreds of children (and others) will suffer similar incidents where life will hang in the balance and a rapid response by medical professionals will make the difference. But let's consider:

Would medical services have been as rapidly available as they were in Quinn's case fifty years ago?

Would the medical knowledge available fifty years ago been adequate to ensure Quinn's full recovery?

Maybe, and maybe not. Kids have been falling into pools for decades, and medical science has advanced tremendously just in the last fifty years. I suspect his chances for a full recovery would have been much slimmer had he been born when I was. (Note: I'm not fifty yet. But I'm close.) Where does all this advance come from in the first place? People of faith know the answer to that question.

No, the miracle here is that not only will Quinn live, but that he and his family will be able to look back on this incident as a faith-promoting experience, rather than as a near-tragedy. Oh, they'll use that near-tragedy as a teaching tool, you can be sure. They'll be even more pool-safety conscious than they've ever been, and they'll teach Quinn in no uncertain terms how to be safe around them. But they'll also be able to teach Quinn in those same uncertain terms about the power of prayer, the power of the priesthood, and the need for faith. They will continue to bear powerful testimony of those things, which will help rejuvenate the faith of others.

In today's world, this lesson will become its own miracle.

#21 - Sound Effects. Ew.

Here in Woody's House of Pestilence we have a zero-tolerance policy against silent suffering. As I noted before, when Daddy is miserable, whining abounds. Now, Mrs. Woody and the smaller Woodyette are both under the weather. The older Woodyette was threatening, but she pulled out of her dive rather quickly. Still, a remnant remains.

Years ago, Bill Cosby did a wonderful routine revolving around his five linoleum lizards. One child, the one he tagged "the Glazed Donut Monster" was the one with the perpetually runny nose and a sound effect like the Blob on steroids. That one always tickles me, because all of my children (the ones that were actually babies in my house at one time or another) went through that stage. Sound effects and all.

Now that my last babies are a bit older, the sound effects have gotten more sophisticated. And louder. Since they both can be drama queens when the Muse is upon them, everything is done for effect. Subconsciously, of course, but effect nonetheless.

Even now, as I focus on this post, I am aware of an interesting rhythm going on around me. The girls are both watching videos at the moment. The older one chose "The Parent Trap" (the classic, not the knock-offs) while the younger one is enjoying "Zeus and Roxanne." Of the videos I am blissfully ignorant. The sound effects are hilarious. This is what it sounds like when small children refuse to use tissues:

[SHNUUUUFFLE]
[cough]
[HACK]
[SNORT]
"Eww."
[swallow]
[wheeze]
[repeat]

I think there really is a pattern here. They are not by any means aware of it, they're just doing it. Daddy, in the meantime, is silently shaking with mirth. I'm not sure why I find this funny, but I do. Maybe it hearkens back to my days as a missionary in the Guatemalan highlands having extremely immature contests with fellow missionaries. I leave it to your imagination what those contests may have entailed.

Mrs. Woody is already in bed, having wisely put her germs down for a nap. Woodyette the Younger unfortunately had a four hour nap right about the time I got home from work today, which means she will be wide-eyed until about, oh, five o'clock in the morning. The other one is tired enough to fall asleep standing up, but she will refuse to go until her movie is over. Lessee... it's the campground scene where the girls have boobytrapped the golddigger's tent. Nuts. Another 20 minutes to go.

Ah, well. If it weren't for sleep deprivation, I'd have no hobbies at all. The good news is that I don't have any meetings tomorrow. None that I have to stay awake for, at any rate. I should be able to catch a few winks at my desk. In the meantime, enjoy the dulcet tones of our new family band:

The Honking Noses of the Woodyettes.
[snort]
"Ew."

#20 - LDS Lileks?? Oy.

Peggy Cahill has a terrific blog called Speak Up For Truth. She mostly posts about things that drive me to speak out as a Dad in a world gone mad. She provides the deeper backgrounds, if you will, to my generally light-hearted writing. Although, truth to tell, I don't have anyone waiting for me in North Carolina. At least, I don't think I do.

I'm flattered by her comparison of me with Mr. James Lileks, Esq. Actually, the term "LDS Lileks" causes me to chuckle appreciatively. I read his stuff daily, and he's probably waaay smarter than I am. But we do share a love of Daddyhood, and are both hopelessly wrapped around our girls.

Anyway, I consider her stuff to be family friendly, and you can find links to Speak Up For Truth on both of my blogs (this one, and my evil-twin Woody's Woundup). Fix yourself a steaming mug of Postum, pull up the easy chair, and sit back for some deep reading.

#19 - Paralyzed, But In a Good Way

It's Sunday evening, and the family is crowded around the TV. We've been stuck in front of this thing since returning home from Church. This is not a bad thing.

The other day, one of the Woodyettes (I think the younger one) had requested one of our "family" tapes. This is a series of tapes onto which I have transferred our camcorder stuff until such time that I can afford a good DVD burner. Anyway, the girls both love to watch "their" tapes. The older one had the camcorder to herself right up until her sister was born. That's one tape. The next tape has her sister's birth through first year or so. She requests this one a lot.

Unfortunately, the girls have also reached that stage where they're not shy about pushing buttons on their VCR. You might have guessed that they quite recently pushed "Record" on a tape that I had failed to relieve of it's lock tab.

This meant that Daddy had to set up the camcorder, load up the original tapes, and re-record everything onto VHS. It was a wonderful treat.

This is one of the essences of family history. Just like going through old scrapbooks, watching old family films was a major treat for me when I was growing up. Grandma and Grandpa had a super-8 camera and lots of time on their hands. Every visit to grandchildren, relatives, or the boat was fodder for Grandma De Laurentiis. We all mugged for the camera, knowing that we would be able to have Grandma have us do our wacky stunts in slow motion or backwards, time after time after time on request.

Can't quite do that anymore with our basic VCRs, but it's still fun to watch just how much the girls have grown in the last seven or so years. We always remark about the hair. "Look at that hair!" we say. "She was bald, for pete's sake!" "Yes," points out Mrs. Woody. "She had her Daddy's hair." (For the record, I must point out that I am not bald, but I have a hairline that has receded to the high tide line, if you catch my drift.)

We remember things like Woodyette Number One's "Zen Hum." All kids do something like this, but they usually don't vocalize it to the point my daughter did. Most kids may mutter under their breath, or just stick their tongue between their teeth. The Zen Hum started shortly after she became mobile, if I remember correctly. It was her way of concentrating on a given task. Once she was into something, she would begin a very intense single-note hum. Sort of like the "One Note Samba," but without any rhythm. My own Dad loved it. He was intrigued enough to realize that she hummed on exactly the same pitch every single time. One day he sat at the piano and pegged her at F-sharp (we think she'll be an alto). Toward the end of her humming days it moved up a half step, and by age 5 or 6 it had disappeared for good. Except on tape. Even now, having written this paragraph I realize that words do the Zen Hum absolutely no justice. You have to hear it to understand it.

We've actually been doing this since Saturday afternoon. We have re-transferred something like 9 hours of tape since we had to replace not one but two VHS cassettes. Life around us has pretty much come to a complete standstill. It has taken me two days to clean the girls' room instead of one because I keep coming out to watch "just a bit" of the tapes. We have missed every one of our evening TV programs (we actually stopped in time to catch the replay of "Iron Chef America," which I enjoy), but we have not regretted it one bit.

We've been having far too much fun remembering.

UPDATE: Great. Now I can't get "One Note Samba" out of my head! Help!

#18 - Copping a 'Toon 'Tude

I try not to watch too much TV news. Really, I do. Lately, however, I've been enjoying some CSI-type crime shows during the 10:00 hour (when I really should be going to bed), and local news appears immediately following. Last night I'd seen a teaser for something I had very mixed feelings about: a makeover for Warner Bros.' venerable Bugs Bunny.

I say mixed feelings because my perceptions of the Warner Bros. stable have changed over time. Needless to say, like most boomers I grew up watching Bugs and the rest hoodwink their collective way through a Toon life. I was constantly on the floor laughing my fool head off, but that was mostly because I tended to overact on my better days. Anyway, I loved the schtick and still do. However, having reached fogeyhood (as defined by Dave Barry), I'm not such a big fan anymore of allowing today's kids to grow up with the same influences.

Society has done much too efficient a job of turning yesterday's social gaffes into today's social staples. Attitude plays a huge part, and today it mostly stinks. Authority has become a hiss and a byword, if you will, to be mocked at all costs. All popular media, from movies to magazines to cartoons, propagate the theme that the winner-take-all approach to life is the only one worth having. Cartoons that play to these themes become enablers of that attitude and literally teach the kids how to "cop the 'tude." Just what we need.

I recently watched an anthology of Warner Bros. classic 'toons from the studio's heyday. I was astonished at how I felt. While growing up I remembered those cartoons as being hilarious. Watching them a few months ago I found myself thinking, over and over, "Please don't let my kids see this stuff until they're eighteen!"

Over-reacting? Perhaps. But now consider the new and improved Bugs Bunny (and friends!) under development by the studio today.

The new character is named Buzz Bunny, and he's been given the look of a futuristic (circa 2772 AD) super hero. These characters are supposed to be descendents of the originals. One gal quoted in the Daily News says they look "more robotic." More telling was one youngster they interviewed on our local news last night: "He looks evil."

Indeed.

#17 - Angels Watching Over Me

This is my second majorly nasty head cold of the season. It came on overnight last night. I have no idea how long it'll last, but I'm sure at least part of this is due to the weather we've been having. It has rained on and off for weeks now, and I'm sure the drought - in Anaheim, anyway - is over. Let the pollen wars continue.

Speaking of Anaheim (and pollen), it was announced on the radio news earlier this week that Anaheim ranks Number One as the Allergy Capital of the Country as reported by the Asthma and Allergy Foundation of America, closely followed by Atlanta, Georgia. I think I'm seeing a pattern here.

Anyway, back to my main point. I'm sick. Being the male of the species in this household, that grants me the privilege of being a huge baby about it. I'm certain I've been whining all day long about it, except for the nap I got earlier this afternoon. Mrs. Woody does not get naps, healthy or sick. It's not allowed. Daddy gets all the naps he needs. To be fair, I have encouraged Mrs. Woody to stay in bed whenever she gets migraines and has to deal with that light-sensitivity thing. Unfortunately (or, really, fortunately) she only gets a couple of those in a given year. Otherwise, asking her to lie down for a while is tantamount to asking her to stop being a Mommy.

To tie all this in with this post's title, I need to spin a little narrative. Last weekend Mrs. Woody had me take a turkey out of the freezer. This is the penultimate turkey for this winter. There's still one left. We kinda went overboard this season with those super deals they always have on turkeys during the holidays. Anyway, the plan was to cook the bird last Monday. Turkey, as you well know, will last for days if you're willing to put a little effort in it. Soup, of course, being a mainstay. Monday, however, came and went and we found ourselves just too busy to deal with cooking a turkey. Tuesday passed the same way, then Wednesday. That put Mrs. Woody in a bit of a pickle because we were planning to travel up to visit family over the weekend, meaning that Thursday was do-or-die day. So, on Thursday, Mrs. Woody put the turkey in the oven, and we feasted well Thursday night.

Thursday night was also, as Southern Californians will recall, the latest round of the Storms vs. Humanity title fights we've had all winter long. It promised to pour buckets down here right through Friday. After much consideration and not a little angst, we decided to call off our trip. One of our nieces was a little under the weather (so to speak), and between that and the weather, we just didn't feel like we were supposed to go. We were sorely disappointed, but it happens.

Friday indeed poured, pretty much all day long. (Side note: Satellite TV is wonderful, unless heavy storm clouds sit between your receiver and the satellite that, of course, hosts the very programs you were hoping to watch on Date Night. Just FYI.) We were just beginning to feel smug about cancelling our plans when it happened. I went to bed Friday night feeling that familiar post-nasal discomfort, and by morning was fully engulfed. Yuck.

No fear, though. Mrs. Woody, through propitious circumstance, had only recently cooked the turkey, and spent this morning picking and boiling the carcass. By lunch time we had a huge pot of her wonderful - and healthful! - turkey noodle soup. Twice today I have feasted, and twice I have felt that wonderful down-home comfort knowing that your soup not only tastes wonderful, but was made with far more love than you probably deserve. At least, that's how I view it.

Before dinner, I asked the younger Woodyette to bless not only the food, but Daddy as well. She responded with one of those sweet, pure prayers that only a five year old can utter. Short, but to the point. I know Heavenly Father listens to sincere prayers, and there's no reason to suspect that hers was anything but.

Daddy still feels miserable, but Daddy's Angels - all three of 'em - will keep Daddy as comfy-cozy as possible.

#16 - Seriously Dad

Dadhood is nature's way of keeping men from becoming the insufferable pigs that feminists have accused us of being for decades now. Show me a dad who hasn't gone to church at least once in his life with unidentifiable stains on his tie, and I'll show you a dad who takes himself way too seriously.

True story: Back in the days when ties were required at work (this was during my so-called "starter marriage") I was sitting at my desk hacking away at my computer. One of my coworkers wandered by and commented, "Strained peas?" I was so intent on my uncooperative program that I must have stared at her like she had just come from the mother ship. "Beg pardon?" was my confused enjoinder. "Strained peas," she insisted. "You must have fed the baby strained peas recently, because you have a spot on your tie." She was chuckling, but she was right. I just hadn't noticed. I smiled and assured her that they were delicious, as my son would never have willingly eaten them without a fight.

That's dadhood.

Not taking myself too seriously allows me to enjoy my family at different levels. One of the best things a non-serious dad can do is take his kids very seriously. Acting as if their little problems or conundrums are worthy of Daddy's full attention makes them feel important. I almost drew the line at being Barbie's fashion advisor once, but in the end I relented and offered my opinion. "But, Daaaaad!" she accused. "That doesn't match her shoes!" I wasn't ready to capitulate. "So change the shoes!" I shot back. "But, Daaaaaaaaaad!" came the last straw. "She has to wear the boots so she can cook the dinner!"

I must state, for the record, that she had never once in her short life witnessed either her mother or, for that matter, her father ever cook while wearing boots. I have no clue where that idea came from, and I'm certain I don't want to know. Secretly, I believe that these kids are more sophisticated than we give them credit for, and they come up with this nonsense just to watch Daddy get exasperated. I think it gives them an adrenalin rush.

Thus I spend my days alternately wearing that long-suffering look that my own Dad perfected, or the immensely smug and proud look of a Dad whose kids are already way smarter than he is. It's an interesting combination, and the "conflict" (if one may indeed call it that) fuels my sardonic sense of humor.

Of course there are things that I take very seriously. I also let my children know that parts of life are and need to be very serious. I also let them know, on the other hand, that it's okay to have fun with life. Especially when they're kids.

I hope I never forget that lesson.

#15 - I Am... The CraftMaster™!

I do not consider myself to be an artsy-craftsy kind of guy. I watch my wife while she scraps of an evening and think wistfully to myself, "Must be nice." But I'll never try it. My total contributions to any given scrapbook in our house consist of occasional journaling that she gets me to do. Trust me, it's safer that way.

In times past - during the Messofzodiacs Era - I was a model railroader. When Mrs. Woody and I were first married, I was still revelling in the reflected glow of carefree evenings where we could do any number of things with no interruptions. Jigsaw puzzles, videos, quiet reading time, or hobbies. One of mine was model railroading. I still have my layout hiding safely behind our family room couch with track laid, but in sore need of maintenance. After all, I haven't really touched it since Woodyette Number One was born. Coming dangerously close to "arts and crafts" is the act of putting together a model of, say, a five and dime storefront, circa 1910. We guys mask this behavior by comparing it to building model airplanes or cars when we were younger. Same thing, we argue. It's not "artsy" or even "craftsy," it's just modelling. Or, if you use parts from different kits, you can call it by its somewhat more testosterone-ish appellation, "kit bashing."

Mrs. Woody has served as a poster maker of no small renown in the church. I will admit that, on occasion, I have aided and abetted by giving, erm, technical assistance to make her job easier. I'm not an artist, but I can help.

So why is it that late on a Tuesday evening I find myself making Valentine Boxes for my daughters?

Mrs. Woody was feeling just a tad overwhelmed about tomorrow. Tomorrow is Great Brain Day in our homeschool group. It's a chance for the kids in the group to show off what they've been learning so far this year. They can demonstrate something, perform a musical number, or do a table display. My ultra-shy girls will, of course, do a table display. They will show things they've been learning about the Nez Perce tribe. Even as we speak they are a thundering herd of buffalo. Amazing how well they thunder.

Anyway, on top of the Great Brain Day activities, the girls also were to be prepared with Valentines to hand out, and a Valentine Box each to receive Valentines from others. With so much to have prepared in so short a span of time our Headmistress was feeling a tremendous weight. She laid out what needed to be accomplished, and I arrived at a decision. I volunteered to make the Valentine Boxes.

Mrs. Woody was extremely grateful, but Woody was proportionately nervous. It took me a solid half hour of wandering around the house looking for some sort of inspiration before I decided on a basic design. I found a half sheet of poster board and from it made two simple open boxes. A cut out heart shape with a craft foam heart in its place that the girls decorated. Simple. To the point. Ar..rrr..rrrt... don't make me say it.

Ok... artsy.

I can't imagine that anyone will be seriously impressed with my project tomorrow. However, the girls will have their boxes and will be able to receive their Valentines and have something in which to bring them home.

I, however, am exhausted. May have to call in sick tomorrow. I wonder if this Martha Stewart hormone I've suddenly developed will land me in Club Fed?

Oy.

#14 - Woodyettes Redefine "Interactive"

Shortly after breakfast this morning, Woodyette the Elder asked whether she could play on the computer. Not being Lileks, you see, I have to share the family machine with everyone. Mrs. Woody agreed, since she was in the office doing our finances for the week. She knows she can trump the girls' computer play whenever she's ready to pay a bill online. Daddy has no such preemptive power.

I generally don't have to pay much attention when the girls play, even online. We're both in tune enough to know if they're on a site they shouldn't be. Also, the girls are both still innocent enough that if they saw anything questionable, they would question it. Loudly. So, they spend time (an hour a day limit!) on Barbie.com, NickJr, Playhouse Disney, and so on.

Just now I glanced over at the machine. Both Woodyettes were sitting in front of the monitor, watching a static image. myscene.com has a beauty shop, and the girls were looking at a young lady getting her hair done. They had Little People figures in front of them which they were manipulating in front of the monitor.

They were being interactive.

The older Woodyette pioneered this practice in our family. She has a tremendous imagination. She has always been able to project herself mentally into any image, whether on TV or in a book. The other night I caught her walking a magazine around on the floor. It was a homeschooling magazine and had a photo of ballerina feet in the en pointe position. She was pretending to be a ballerina, using the feet in the photo.

The Little People, in this case, were customers of the beauty salon. Apparently this was more interesting than what the site was designed to do. Both girls were playing together without clicking the mouse more than once or twice in the ten minutes I witnessed. As play progressed, it became a drive-through salon, as indicated by the old-fashioned Little People (the old wooden ones, remember them?) in his vehicle. Later they were joined by a fuzzy caterpillar, although I'm not sure what his function was. Occasionally he becomes the herky-jerky car that sits outside of grocery stores and costs 50 cents to breakdown the moment your child sits in it.

I like to see this kind of interaction because it means the Woodyettes are still not content to let the computer do all their thinking and imagining for them. When the girls ask Daddy to play one of the Harry Potter games (their own hand-eye coordination being still under development), they immediately trot off to their room, don their Harry Potter robes, grab their Hermione wands, and dance around behind Daddy yelling "flippendo!" or "alohomora!" whenever the video Harry does the same. They get way more exercise than I do.

Of course, whenever Daddy decides to play "Indiana Jones" or my latest "Railroad Tycoon" (thanks, Sis!), the older Woodyette still loves to sit right by me and give helpful suggestions. "Try jumping off the cliff, Daddy! What happens if you jump off the cliff, Daddy?" "You die a horrible death." "Can I see it, Daddy?" She has even suggested that I try to build my railroads directly through mountains in timeframes where tunnelling technology was still a decade or two off. Just to see how the software will mock Daddy when he asks for something unreasonable. She lives for that.

So do I.

#13 - Cam's Right... 'Tis Poetry

Brian B of Memento Moron is both a fresh Dad and an (at least) occasional poet. Better add him to the ol' blog roll while I think of it. Anyway, he had written something a while back and posted it here. He calls it a doggerell, my esteemed hermano says it's poetry. I side with my bro here, and link to it as an outstanding statement of the importance of our family ties, both present and past. Being the family history nut that I am, as well as a Dad, that kind of statement is irresistable.

Thanks, Brian, and belated congrats for The Lad!