I hate putting it that way. I feel like a kid – especially a girl – isn’t bound to compete at every turn. I don’t want any of my girls to feel obligated to take up the fight, for themselves, their families, their race, their gender … their anything.
I learned a ton when Grace took the high road before.
So she didn’t sign up for the LEGO Ninjango Obstacle Course a few weeks ago. I wrote about it here on the CD. She’d even picked out a friend to sign up with. She’d planned it all out, which parts she’s excel and which were better suited for her friend. We’ll call her Jaylen.
Interstate 95 and I got to know each other a bit last weekend.
Elise and I fought through massive downpours from Charlotte to the Georgia-Florida line. Joaquin churned well off the East Coast, but his thuggy thunderstorm friends decided to bust out a few windows in the Carolinas all the same. We turned off onto 95 and heard this from the GPS:
“Next turn, 542 miles.” Interstate 95 lasts a while.
It changes, from the stretch in South Carolina where you see pickups with lots of mud and deer stickers and South Carolina Gamecocks logos, to the stretch in Georgia where you see pickups with lots of mud and deer stickers and Georgia Bulldogs logos.
Not just because of the age of most of my co-workers. I’m not sure exactly, but I’d estimate 88% of my colleagues are young enough to be my little brothers and sisters. And that’s fine with me. A campus with a bowling alley, two food courts, bier garden and pool tables shouldn’t be only for the young.
Grace spent time with me recently at Red Ventures, and asked at least 11 questions.
She did the same on a visit to Wake Forest University for a soccer tournament. She dug the fact that you could live, eat, sleep, learn, and play all, right there. Just like at daddy’s work. She asked about everything, from “do college kids have bed time?” to … well …
Our faith. Our family. Our mortgage. Or, little holes in our heels that keep us secured to various Star Wars action figure playsets. The figures I grew up playing with had them, and any official playset had pegs.
It helped the stiff-legged rebels and bounty hunters stand up straight.
We have Cheerwine. Barbecue. A whole month to commemorate barbecue, in fact. If there isn’t a minor-league baseball team in your town, there’s one in the next. The mountains are that way, the beach the other. Right in the middle ain’t too bad, either.
Did I mention the barbecue?
The Carolinas are loaded with day trips: Asheville, Greensboro, Wilmington north of the line, Greenville, Columbia and Charleston south of it. Mountain apples. Loucountry boil. And a good 12 months of grilling season. If it isn’t God’s country, it’s at least Jesus‘.
The holidays are here, and just as I found that spirit coursing through my veins – was it the bowl of sugar-cookie dough chilling in the fridge? My admission that I’d definitely split a pizza with Jan from the Toyota commercials? – I get horse-collar-tackled by a rogue virus.
A Santa makes his rounds, I find myself with Vapo Rub on my chest, fever rousing me before it’s time to make the donuts, and the realization that the fam might have to do it without me today.
I’m happy to share on this very Christmas morning our latest edition of 6 Words. It’s the Christmas special. I’m not talking the Full Houseor Growing Pains Christmas specials – I mean the Hemingway-prodded means of getting you all to condense the season.
So in all my 6 Words harvesting and cavorting with stellar bloggers, Rory of Time Out for Mom tossed a question my way – then suggested it might not make a horrible post.
What’s Christmas all about for a dad?
It might not be the Black (Ops) Friday shopping or Poinsettia patterns or Advent calendars our wives might do, or the wish lists or accelerated sweets consumption and dreaming our kids might do (well, maybe on the sweets consumption … ) but for dads, Christmas is more than just a time the NFL playoffs begin to take shape and your NBA team’s aspirations for the playoffs begin to take shape.
There’s Santa. There’s the challenge to pick that perfect gift for a special lady. But mostly, it’s Christmas. It’s taking your role in creating the magic.
Grace this year has asked for an Elf on the Shelf. This is new to us. This is … white, to us. I’m not sure where this is headed, truthfully. It feels like a gateway, this elf. What’s next? J Crew? Duck Dynasty? Split the difference with some Taylor Swift?
I wrote about the Elf on a Shelf you people cavort with, and never considered he’d find his way into our multi-cultural yet tortilla-centric home.
I found a darker-skinned elf on eBay for $35. I thought there was a conspiracy at play until I noticed y’all are paying around $30 for the pale version. A $5 variance between races is within the accepted range. Barely.
Kiss your kids and hug them tightly tonight, you said, mom bloggers.
Reform gun-control laws, you said, concerned liberals. Outfit schools with armed guards, you said, National Rifle Association. In the aftermath of the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary in December, everyone had an idea of something to do.
Some said to ban assault weapons because who needs them, anyway, or to ban the term “assault weapon” because it’s unfair to those who love multitudes of rounds in their gun-firing experience.
What should I do, though, a low-middle class dad with three kids in two schools, a right-leaning registered independent who owns no firearms and could more easily match up Star Wars characters with their weapons than actually purchase ammunition?