Let's Hear It for Buffets and Chinese Delivery

(This post is a modified version of an earlier article)

I love to eat out. Food is definitely my weakness. God forbid that I ever end up under a mountain of insurmountable debt. But if I do, people will likely find me comatose under a pile of credit card bills filled with charges to Ruby Tuesdays (awesome ribs), Mexican restaurants, and enough Chinese delivery to put me in the running to be our nation's next ambassador to Beijing. Still, as much as I love it, there's no getting around the fact that eating out changes drastically once you become parents. No more hitting restaurants around 7pm for a slow-paced and enjoyable meal. Appetizers and intelligent adult conversations as you wait for your dinner become things of the past. Now you find yourselves battling senior citizens for the best seats at places that offer early bird specials. With kids, going out becomes a major logistical operation. there are diaper bags, bibs, strollers, and hand wipes involved. The word buffet takes on a whole new meaning. Buffets mean no waiting. No waiting means less screaming, fewer emotional meltdowns, shorter periods of scrutiny from bothered co-patrons, and less money spent on sedatives to calm your parental nerves. If you're lucky, you can be in and out before your kids ever realize that they've missed the opportunity to become a public spectacle.

Oh sure, Meredith and I occasionally attempt to eat at a restaurant where the waiter or waitress actually takes your order and brings your food to the table. But with three small kids, such outings are far from fun and relaxing. Loaded down with diaper bags, collapsible strollers, booster seats, and enough hand sanitizer to sterilize an operating room, my wife and I lead our tiny troops out of our minivan and into the unsuspecting establishment. Once inside, we immediately see the hostess' face turn white with dread as I utter the words, "Howard, party of five." The five to ten minutes that we wait for our table seems like an eternity as we try to keep our impatient little bunch together. Like alternating goalies in a Stanley Cup final, Meredith and I take turns attempting to keep our crew in check between our dancing bodies and a corner of the all-to-small waiting area. Finally, just when we can't deflect another puck, the hostess leads us to our table. Passing young dating couples, friends enjoying an evening out together, and various others just trying to savor a quiet meal, I can see the look of Dear God, No!! in their eyes as they spot our boisterous brood heading for their area.

Once seated, Meredith and I zip through the menu as quick as we can. Our waitress barely has time to say, "Good evening, my name is..." before we hit her with a whole list of drink and entree orders. Sorry, no time to order drinks, appetizers, and main dishes separately in our parental world. After ordering, we try in vain to manage the madness of spilled drinks, overturned salt shakers, multiple bathroom trips, and little people enamored with the sound a metal spoon makes when banged repeatedly against a restaurant table. All the while, the restaurant's liquor and beer selection grows more and more appealing with each passing moment.

Finally, our food arrives. Meredith and I get the kids served as fast as we can. Then we proceed to down our meals at a rate rivaled only by starving refugees. It's not that we're hungry, it's just that we know the window for escaping without a major kiddie meltdown is rapidly closing. Once finished, my wife and I grab our macaroni and chicken-finger covered children and break for the door.

One paid check and a hectic journey across a busy parking lot later, our little platoon is back in the minivan. Mission accomplished. Troops fed. On the surface, Operation Meal Out was a success. But it will be hours, if not days, before Mom and Dad recover from the traumatic ordeal. I still love eating out. But since my current insurance plan doesn't cover emotional therapy, I think I'll stick to the buffets and Chinese delivery until the kids are older.

Somewhere Between Bigfoot and Donald Trump's Tears

I'm a schedule kind of guy. There's a lot going on in my life. I've got my own business. I've got a marriage. I've got three awesome but inevitably demanding children. And, with mid-November nearly upon us, I'll soon have North Carolina Tarheel basketball to watch. In short, there are a lot of demands on my time. To make things even more challenging, I usually work from home. On the surface that sounds like a great gig--and in many ways it is. But you'd be surprised how slow production goes when you're working within shouting distance of the fam. It's hard to stay on schedule when you're breaking up arguments over who gets the Incredible Hulk cup at breakfast, or trying to calm down a child you can't understand because they've burst into your office scralking (screaming, crying, and talking at the same time). Throw in the three or four times a morning my wife breaks my concentration with screams of "Calm down, your father is working!" or interrupts me with requests like "Can you take a break to help me with just one thing?" and you've got the potential for some mounting frustration.

The point is, when you've got a hectic life, routine helps. Daytimers can be like second Bibles. Scheduling well and sticking to a plan can be the all-important difference between accomplishing what must be completed in a day or finding yourself behind the eight ball because today's unfinished tasks have overflowed into tomorrow's already full plate. That's why, every morning after I get my daughter off to school and spend some time praying, I open up my daytimer and lay out a strategy for getting things done. I love getting it down on paper. On paper, my plan always works--I can fit everything in.

There's just one problem. When you're married with kids, unaltered plans rank somewhere between sightings of Bigfoot and Donald Trump crying on the list of rare occurrences. Jimmy Ray Jimbob's claim that a spaceship of aliens "come along and snatched me outta my deer stand cuz they said they was wantin' to study intelligent life on earth" is far more believable than any father claiming to work from home without familial disturbances.

Of course, I love my family more than work. Any writing project I'm involved in is not as important as my wife and kids. It's not that I don't want to be available to deal with all the situations or help with family demands that arise during the day. It's just that, last time I checked my direct deposits, my kids don't pay me very well. In fact, they're takers. My first-grade daughter has been living rent-free under my roof for over six years now. Except for a two-year phase in which she wanted to become a princess, she hasn't even offered to get a job and help with the family expenses. Her two younger brothers, William and Carson, seem content to simply play and watch Sesame Street. No ambition. No vision. No asking themselves, "What am I doing with my life?" Nope, they just want to have fun and bother their sister. Other than breaking the world's record for most questions a four-year-old can ask his father in a ten-hour period, William has no real goals. Carson, meanwhile, just wants to eat, hide half-eaten lollipops in clean laundry, and sit for as long as possible in poopy diapers. My wife works as much as she can, but she and I agree that we want her devoting most of her attention to being a mom (a role she's gifted at). That means that family income falls predominantly to me. I don't want to put work before my family, but I've grown accustomed to making sure we have electricity and enough food to eat too.

And so, flexibility becomes everything when you're a dad--especially if you work from home! At home, the snares and conflicts of family life can catch you even during the work day. You still have to meet all the demands of your job; you've just got to learn to be okay with the fact that it won't all go according to plan. That project you were going to be wrapping up by 6pm so that you could relax and watch the ballgame at eight, often has to become the task that you're still working on at 11pm because--well--daddyhood called somewhere during the day. Yep, as a father, you have to know ahead of time that, while your daytimer might make for a fun read, it still belongs in the fiction section next to Cinderella and Barak Obama's My Life as a Moderate.

If you're a work-at-home dad who sometimes deals with the frustrations of trying to run your business or please the boss while simultaneously answering the call of scralking little people and a wife who expects you to have time for "just one thing," then take heart! You're not alone! We're in this together, brother. Just take life where it's at. Pray for wisdom to pick your battles. Hopefully, you'll know when it's time to step out of the office to help with family matters and when it's time to lock the door and pretend you can't hear Armageddon occurring in the next room. And talk to your wife--A LOT! Meredith and I have drawn boundaries, only to cross them and have to talk and redraw them again. The key is communication. Keep sharing feelings and expectations, and make sure your wife feels free to do the same. Don't let the frustrations that often accompany the conflicting demands of work and parenthood spark arguments between you and your wife. Just keep trying. And who knows? Maybe one day you'll come across Bigfoot on a camping trip or find yourself passing a Kleenex to Donald Trump.

Hello weekly dadlosophites! Sorry for the late notice, but no new post this week. Been busy hanging out with the guys (see last week's post). Look for the next Dadlosophies post next Monday, November 2nd, by 11am. Have a great Halloween guys!

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Kindred

Guy Friends: I Need 'em

My wife says I need more friends. I suppose she's right. The guys I feel closest to still live in North Carolina, where I spent most of my life. Here in Georgia, I really don't have close friends. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of guys I know. A lot of them I like and would enjoy hanging out with. But when it comes to people I feel like I can totally be myself around or have a natural inclination to hang out with, I really don't have those kinds of friends. I know some guys from church and in my neighborhood that I think I could potentially be close to, but at this stage of life, it's difficult to build new friendships. I think most guys feel the same way. Once you have kids, life becomes consumed with work and family. It's all you can do to make sure your wife doesn't feel neglected, much less have any time left over to hang out with the guys.

Women are different. They're naturally more social than men are. My wife can strike up a lifelong friendship with someone in the car line at my sons' school for cryin' out loud. Just the other morning, she met her friend Sylvia for coffee at 9am. She called me at noon to tell me that they were just finishing up and that she was running to the store on her way home. How the heck can you have coffee and just talk for three hours? Guys can't hang out that long unless they're watching a ballgame, playing golf, dealing cards, or tracking something they intend to kill. Even then, we don't say that much to each other. Words aren't that important. We bond just being together while we do something. Women bond through talking, expressing emotions, and validating each other's feelings. If one of the guys asks me how my day was, I usually respond with something like, "It was good; you?" To which he will likely respond, "It was good." Boom! Conversation over. Pass me a beer and a bag of nachos, and turn the game on. If, however, you ask my wife or one of her girlfriends how her day was--trust me--you better have already peed; it ain't gonna be a brief conversation.

Don't even get me started on telephone conversations. With the exception of business calls, my longest phone talks last between thirty seconds and two minutes. I'm on the phone just long enough to know who I'm talking to, relay or receive any relevant information, find out if I am expected to be anywhere at a later time as a result of the phone call, and, if so, when and where I am supposed to be. Beyond that, I have no reason nor desire to stay on the phone any longer. It's short and sweet; a cell phone company's nightmare; no going over my minutes.

Women, on the other hand, are the reason cell phone company CEOs own vacation homes in Europe. They can talk on the phone for hours--ABOUT NOTHING! I can get off the phone after a forty-five second exchange and tell you exactly what has been or will be accomplished because of my talk. My wife, by comparison, can walk in the house on her cell phone, remain engaged in the same conversation while she unpacks her groceries, keep talking as she prepares an entire dinner, and not hang up until food is on the table and the kids have washed their hands. After which, if I ask her what she and her friend were discussing, she's likely to say something like, "Oh, Mary (or Sylvia, or Angela, or Stacy...) was just telling me about her day."

Yep, women have a whole different outlook and expectation of relationships. Men want someone they can hang with. He doesn't have to be deep or ever discuss a single human emotion. Heck, it's not even essential that he has any emotions. As long as he owns power tools we can occasionally borrow, we're good. Women, on the other hand, want someone to talk to, connect with, know on a deeper level. It's two different definitions of friendship.

All that being said, I'm seeing as I get older that it is important to make time for friends. Being married with kids is a high-pressure life. You're responsible for making sure your wife and kids feel loved and secure. You struggle to provide for their future as well as their present. All the while, you want to be a great example for the little ones you know are looking to you to learn how they should behave and what kind of people they should grow up to be. I need guys I can talk to. Sometimes, I just need to vent while they listen. Other times, I just need to shut up and listen to their stories so that I realize I'm not the only one struggling to try and be the man I should be. We're all baffled by our wives, tested by our kids, and stressed out (at least at times) by the daily concerns of life. I don't just need friends, I need the right kinds of friends. I need guys I can respect, who I know share my passion to be a godly, faithful, and loving husband and father. Those are the kind of men who can help me with their words, while inspiring me with their example.

Yes, I want to enjoy watching the game or cutting up over a tall cold one; but I need the occasional meaningful talk and good advice too. So, as a husband and a father, I'll make more effort to build the relationships I need here and now. I have no intention of listening for an hour while you tell me about your relatively uneventful day. But if you can help me be a better husband and father, I'm all ears.

The Slower Moments

Normally, when I sit to write my weekly Dadlosophies post, I have a specific topic in mind. Maybe it's the state of my minivan, the materialism and expense of modern-day birthday parties, or the discouragement of discovering that the second sock I just spent twenty minutes looking for was hijacked and made into a hand puppet days earlier. To be sure, when you're a dad (or a mom) there's no shortage of material. But today, as I sit at a local coffee shop, sipping my $2.39 cup of mediocre coffee and listening to a CD by someone who sounds like a graduate of the Bob Dylan linguistics academy, I have no particular topic on which I feel the urge to expound. Instead, I just want to share a little about my weekend. After all, while fatherhood is certainly a fast-paced existence--full of dips, climbs, zigs, and zags--it also has its slower moments; times when, if you're lucky enough to catch yourself and realize that you need to soak them in, make for the simple but special memories that make all the challenges of parenting worthwhile.

My two oldest children spent last Friday night at their grandmother's. My wife's mom is always great about wanting to spend time with the kids. Occasionally, when she's feeling really bold, she'll invite the two older ones to sleep over. It's always interesting to notice the transformation that just twenty-four hours can bring. My mother-in-law never fails to pick the kids up in her usual, "Oh, aren't we going to have so much fun at Nana's house" demeanor. There's talk of the popcorn they'll pop, the movies they'll watch, the park they'll go to, and so on. The kids cheer and jump up and down with excitement. My mother-in-law smiles with delight at the joy on her grand kids' faces. How could such happy people ever have anything less than non-stop fun? Then, less than a full day later, my mother-in-law returns, her car riddled with McDonald's fries, her hair slightly less kept than the day before, and the words can I please have a sedative? written all over her face. Meredith and I emerge from the house to see Nana unstrapping two angry midgets who have taken the place of the delightful children who left the day before. Tears and yells abound as the two continue their heated exchange over a Happy Meal toy, each desperately trying to be the first to present their case to mom and dad that the toy is rightfully theirs. Sometimes we convince Nana to stick around for a while. Other times, she doesn't even turn off the car.

But Nana's continual willingness to voluntarily be alone with small kids for extended periods of time--while a fascinating study in human behavior--is not the main point of this article. No, I want to focus on the time I got to spend alone with my youngest, Carson, on Saturday, and the time I spent with my family on Sunday. Carson is only two years old, but he's old enough to feel left out when the older ones get to do things he's not yet ready for. So, to make Carson feel special, Meredith and I took him to a family festival in Atlanta Saturday morning. It was cool for Meredith and I to have some time with just Carson. Sometimes, the little guy gets lost in the madness of the Howard household, so it was nice that he got to be the center of attention for a while. The highlight, for me, was walking beside a pony while Carson took his first ever "horsie ride." My little guy grinned from ear to ear as he rode round and round, his tiny legs barely spread wide enough to straddle his mighty steed. It was awesome seeing how happy he was and hearing him say "nice orsie" over and over again as he pet the pony's mane. Later that day, Carson and I sat on the couch together to watch a college football game. I don't even remember the score of the game; I just remember I couldn't have been more content. I was right where I wanted to be. Sitting on my couch, my little buddy snuggled up to me in his baseball cap, my arm around him while we watched the game. Sure, he was there largely because he wanted some of the chips I was eating, but so what. I could tell by the look on his face every time I squeezed him close and told him that I loved him that he was kinda glad to just be close to dad too.

By Sunday morning, the Howard household was back to normal. Emerson and William were home. Despite the hectic pace of getting ready for church, we all made time to sit and have breakfast together at the kitchen table. William chose that moment to display his newly discovered talent: the ability to cross his eyes. What made William's performance even more hilarious was how badly it freaked out his mother. Once William knew he had Meredith on the hook, he refused to let her go. With every "Hey, Mom, look at me," that William threw Meredith's way, he elicited screams, cringes, and comments like, "William, stop it before you ruin your eyes!" Meanwhile, Emerson, Carson, and I couldn't help but die laughing at the sight of Meredith squirming uncomfortably as a giggling William continued to shoot her cross-eyed looks.

Later that afternoon, while Meredith and Carson napped, Emerson and William helped me clean up their toys. Then Emerson asked me if I would teach her to play chess. I'm no chess guru, but I know enough to show a six-year-0ld the basics. So, for the better part of an hour, Emerson and I played chess. The TV was off (when it comes to my daughter, football has to wait). The sun was shining through the windows to the kitchen. We could hear a few birds chirping outside. Work that needed attending to sat untouched the entire day on my desk in the office. All in all, it was a great day.

Life's crazy. As a self-employed freelance writer, it's easy for me to let work and the pursuit of an income crowd the time with my family. School activities, daily errands, and trying to keep a house full of rambunctious little people in relative order, could easily keep Meredith and I going non-stop. But you know what? Sometimes, you just need to stop anyway. If you're waiting for a convenient time--or even a practical time--to stop and take a break to enjoy special times with your kids, then you're likely to miss many of the priceless moments you could have experienced. Most of the really awesome memories I'll enjoy looking back on later are just simple things. They're first-time "horsie" rides, cross-eyed looks over a couple of scrambled eggs and a pop tart from the other side of the table, and a beginner's game of chess on a Sunday afternoon. Thank goodness for the quieter, slower times. Feel like you need a break from the craziness of work and the daily routine? Block out a day just for the family. Make the work, the cleaning, and the errands wait while you laugh together in the living room or at the kitchen table. Trust me, the craziness of life will be waiting for you the next day when you return.

Where Were These Kinds of Birthday Parties When I Was a Kid?

Just over a week ago, my son, William, turned four years old. Birthdays are always a special time, especially when it's a small child's. I'm a forty-year-old, married father of three. My own birthdays aren't that exciting for me. Each one means I'm one year closer to that unfortunate day when I don a pair of Bermuda shorts, throw on some black dress socks with an IZOD shirt, grab a metal detector, and delusionally think to myself, "Oh yeah,... I look good." Nowadays, all I want for my birthday is a nap, the chance to watch what I want on television for one day, and the knowledge that my prostate is okay. I usually don't even remember it's my birthday until I enter the kitchen the morning of to find my beautiful wife greeting me with a cup of coffee, a soft kiss, and a pleasant, "Happy Birthday, Honey." Then, I proceed to dish out kisses, hugs, and expressions of appreciation for the hand-drawn cards the kids have made me. All the while, I pray under my breath that the two younger ones won't ask me to tell them what the scribbling on the front of their cards are pictures of. One year, I seriously hurt some feelings by suggesting that a picture intended to be me and my son playing baseball was, instead, a portrait of two blobs of Jello fighting for space in the same bowl.

But, as I said, kids' birthdays are much different. A child's birthday usually ranks second only to Christmas in terms of excitement and anticipation. William is certainly no different. For several months leading up to his fourth birthday, he asked almost daily, "Daddy, is today my birthday?" Each time following up his question with the same request: "Daddy, when I turn four, can I have a skateboard?" Fortunately, my relentless bargain-hunting wife found just the perfect sized skateboard on one of her consignment sale safaris. I wrapped it the night before William's birthday and left it on the kitchen table. Meredith and I couldn't wait to see the look on his face the next day when he ripped into his special gift. The moment certainly didn't disappoint. William was so ecstatic that he even let his sister play with his other birthday gift (an almost unheard of gesture in Kids Who Can't Yet Read world ). My little buddy beamed with pride as he coasted up and down the driveway, still dressed in his choo-choo train jammies and wearing his studly, one-size-too-big, Spiderman skateboard helmet. All day long, the skateboard never left his side. If William wasn't riding it, then he was confidently carrying it under his arm, helmet still on, strutting like an old pro who'd just kicked some serious butt at the Munchkinland X-Games.

Of course, the highlight of William's birthday was his party. We reserved one of those places with all the jumpy things. The kind where you pay, take off the kids' shoes, and then let 'em run wild. The kids love it. They don't even notice the floor burns from all the sliding until you get them home and put them in the bath. They even like the overpriced cardboard-like pizza. Heck, when you're a four-year-old, life just doesn't get any better than running and jumping on giant, inflatable, jungle animals.

Which brings me to my question: Where the heck were these kinds of birthday parties when I was a kid? Oh sure, we had parties; but the birthday parties I went to normally consisted of cake and ice cream at someone's house, a couple of goofy party games, and some poor kid going home crying because he inadvertently wound up with a cut-out donkey tail tacked to his ass while playing an otherwise uneventful game of pin the tail on the donkey. Try passing that off as a birthday party today and you're liable to find yourself labeled the lamest parents in the subdivision (your only rival being the dad who still wears his 'Frankie Say Relax' T-shirt to the community pool and the Mom down the street who hands out fruit at Halloween). Today, a child's birthday party requires serious event planning. Instead of hosting one in your own backyard, parents are expected to rent out inflatable amusement parks or places with giant, dancing mice who cause the birthday boy or girl's younger siblings to have nightmares for at least two weeks. And if that weren't enough, moms and dads are also expected to provide gift bags for every child that attends the party. When did this start? I never got a gift bag when I went to one of my friends' birthday parties. No, in my day, we went bearing gifts and got nothing in return. Instead, we just watched the birthday boy or girl tear into their booty. All the while, we sat giftless off to the side, sucking the last remnants of Betty Crocker icing off of our paper plates and trying to act nice so that we wouldn't get our butts spanked for being rude when we got home. Now everyone who comes to the party has to get something. What is this, communism?

Oh well, what are you gonna do? I guess the most important thing is that William had a great day. As a dad, that's my job: to make sure that my kids' birthdays are memorable. The truth is, it doesn't take a jumpy place or an expensive party. As Meredith's consignment sale magic shows year after year, it doesn't require the newest, most expensive, or state of the art gifts. All it requires is being there and making your little boy or girl feel like the day is just as big a deal to you as it is to them. My kids' birthdays aren't about making sure they have the nicest or newest stuff. It's about reminding them that they are one of the most precious blessings in their daddy's life (along with their mother and siblings). Happy Birthday, William. We look forward to your fifth birthday next year. I just hope it doesn't get here too fast. And while we're on the subject, tell your sister and brother to stop growing up so fast too. I've still got plenty of room in my office for more of those hand-drawn cards.

Hello loyal dadlosophites! Due to our family's recent move, the worst flooding Georgia has seen in a century, and a bit of traveling over the weekend, I've not been able to prepare a new Dadlosophies entry this week. I'll be back next Monday with a new post. Please continue to remember in your prayers the many families who lost loved ones and suffered tremendous financial loss during the recent flooding. See you next week.

Kindred