The Mr. T in Me Part A

                I’m afraid I have a bit of Mr. T in me.  No, not the multiple gold chain-wearing, mountain of muscle who often finds time to “pity the fool” (although secretively I hope I have him in me too, especially the gold chain part), but the Mr. T that my dad had in him.

                When I was growing up, my father was a girls’ basketball coach in west Texas.  This is a very serious position in west Texas; boys play football, and girls play basketball.  It’s just the way of life there.  Every day after my school, I’d walk over to the high school and hang out while my dad had practice.  I was a bit of a mini-celebrity, as all the students knew who my father was.  As I walked down the school halls, the teens would say, “Hey, that’s Mr. T son.” 

                No, my father also does not wear gold chains and throws pity parties while putting bad guys in their places.  The students had affectionately given my dad this nickname because it his tendency to get technical fouls called against him during games.  Let me be clear: my dad does not have a temper at all.   But for some reason, early on in his career, the Mr. T in him would come out on game night and unleash himself on the refs. 

                One morning in particular I discovered my Mr. T.  It is our habit in the mornings to take my wife to work downtown.  We do this so we can take advantage of the HOV lane and get her there significantly quicker.  The morning in question started off on the wrong foot.  As always, I had to get up early, no matter what the baby or my wife were doing, because I always have to take care of the dogs.  This morning, especially, they were being super-annoying.  Even though I got up early, my wife and son slept in, even to the point of ignoring my numerous attempts to warn my wife that she would be late for work.  By the time she got up and going, I was already feeling frustrated; however, it really wasn’t enough to bring out Mr. T. . .yet.

                We eventually got on the road, but the city decided to close the HOV lane that day, and we got stuck in the same traffic that everyone else has to deal with.  This meant that by the time we got home, I was late getting the baby his breakfast, which meant all the way home he let me know how unhappy he was about not getting his food on schedule.  By the time we got home, my patience was exhausted, but it would be pushed even further.

                I smelled it immediately upon opening our front door.  We have pretty well-behaved dogs, but they have one major letdown.  If we do not shut them in our bedroom when we leave, they for some reason they take the open door as both metaphoric and literal permission to let their bowels have their way with the carpet.  At no time when they’re in the bedroom ever do they relieve themselves inside, but only when they have free reign on the house.  I knew for a fact that my wife had been the guilty party who had failed to close the door, because she is always the last one out of the house, and I’m sure that in the rush of the morning it had slipped her mind.  And by the way, this was no ordinary dog mess.  I’m sure the dog had been saving up for this opportunity for awhile and took his time while making his mess (for some strange reason, I even envision him reading a magazine).  So, I put the baby down, and he immediately started crying, probably because he smelled the same God-awful stench that made me want to lose my breakfast, and the fact that he still hadn’t had any.  And just to add a little insult to injury, on my way to clean up the dog mess, I noticed the cat had hacked up a fur ball all over the kitchen table.  The Mr. T in me was ready to explode!

Chaucer’s Revenge

              Today I had an “incident” at Wal-Mart that left me somewhat frustrated by my inability to have confrontations with complete strangers.  So since I was unable to debate the legitimacy of my point with the rude lady at the store, instead, I will immortalize her boorish behavior through my writing. 

                It all started off pretty innocently.  I took my son to the store to buy some baby food for the upcoming week.  A simple chore by any standard, right?  Now, to fully understand this chore, you need to know that all baby food is not created equal.  There are three “levels” of baby food.  As your baby becomes more comfortable with solid foods, you move him up these three levels.  The baby food companies make it real simple on the label to see what level you are buying. 

                So, I was minding my own business when a young woman approached me.  She wanted to know at what age it is appropriate to move her baby from one level up to the next level.  Now, parenting is a complicated thing for sure.  There are as many opinions on parenting as there are parents.  When approached with a question on a complicated question, I prefer to take the, “My opinion is. . .” instead of the, “The right answer is. . .”

                I told her that I thought it wasn’t so much of an age issue as it is a development issue.  As I was reaching for one of the food packages to show her the label, another woman from down the aisle interrupted me. 

                “Actually,” she said, as her tightly crooked nose pointed accusingly at me, “you are supposed to feed them first foods at 6 months, second foods at 8 months, and third at 9 months.” 

                Now, I know for a fact that that is a pretty good timeline when your baby might be ready to move up, but if you read the labels on the food, it’s pretty clear that you should move your baby up a level when they start showing certain abilities such as sitting up, crawling, and making chewing motions.  I felt like retorting back at this lady and her snotty unasked-for answer.   I wanted to point out to the young woman the differences between the rude lady’s toddler, who had been fussing the whole time, and my perfectly-behaved baby boy who smiles at random passers-by, and then ask her whose opinion she should take.  Instead, I put my head down and finished my shopping. 

                Afterwards I couldn’t help but wonder if the rude lady would have been so confrontational about the topic had I been another mom in the store, rather than a dad.  Now, I know I shouldn’t be so sensitive, and that there are just some people who have to be “right” about everything (if you are one of those people, I want you to stop reading and never come back to my blog, seriously), and this lady may have been one of those people.  Still, it was almost like she was defending her own personal turf that I was on.  The way she directly contradicted what I had just said made me think that she wasn’t so much trying to help the young woman but rebuking me. 

                In any case, I went home, got a smile from my boy, my wife listened to my story, and now I get to write about it, so really it’s all good. 

The Best Housedad I've Ever Known

It is a little embarrassing to think that we’ve made it this far in our little sharing experience without talking about the one individual who has impacted me most as a housedad, my mom. 

See, my mom has the type of personality that drives her to always do her best in whatever her hands find to do.  Since she had two teacher parents, she excelled at academics.  In athletics, the solo competitive nature of track and field aided itself to her personality, and she was able to run for Abilene Christian University, a well-respected program.  And my grandpa’s farm-boy past probably encouraged her love of plants, animals, and sciences, which is where she devoted her studies. 

 I can say certainly that going into college, my mom could have pursued any number of interesting, challenging, and fulfilling careers to go into.  I’m sure she would have loved to be a marine biologist or perhaps a botanist, and I’m sure that she would have been one of the best you could find. 

Instead, she and my dad decided to have a family.  But I don’t think this story is the one where the young woman is forced out of career to take care of her husband and children.  Instead, I know my mom made a willing decision to make her family her ambition. 

Because of that choice, she applied the same drive she had in everything else she did and put it into us kids.  I can still remember, early in my childhood, dyeing eggs and having our own Easter hunts, or watching “The Three Stooges” with her in the mornings (I blame this for why I inappropriately laugh at other people’s pain).  Later, she took on the near-impossible task of homeschooling us and pushing us to do better than we thought we could.  I can also remember what a comfort she was to me during my freshman year in high school in a new town, because I could always go to her classroom to get away from everything else. 

I find myself with a similar choice.  I’m not trying to brag on myself, but I feel as though professionally I still have a lot to offer the world.  However if I make the same choice that my mother made and put the growth and development of my children over my desire to be respected in a career, can I really argue with her results?  All three of us kids have attained bachelor’s degrees from a well-respected college and have pursued higher education in our various fields.  Each makes a significant impact in our communities, places of work, and churches.  I think I can safely say that all three of us kids are good, contributing members of society, and our mom was a major part of that. 

Maybe we need more men (not ignoring the women here—just remember what the blog is about) like my mom.  If I can stay at home and give my children the best possible start in life, then who  is to say that is any less valuable to others than if I went out and earned money and gained respect in the workplace?  At a time in our culture when many children grow up without having been taught how to be an adult, maybe we need some grown men (and women) to willfully make the choice to be that person at home.