Pokémon Go: Advice for Parents

I signed up for a Pokémon account.  It wasn't on a whim; I really wanted to find out what the fuss was about so that I knew what I was banning in my classroom when I get back to school in the fall. Now that I've had it for two weeks I am second guessing my assumption that I will ban it.  Further to that, by allowing my kids to participate with me while I played I have noticed a number of lessons available to them that are typically really difficult to work into their lives authentically.  I call them:

The Rules of Pokémon Go - for Parents.

Lesson 1:  Stepping to the Side

The Rule:  When you Play, you must Step to the Side

It was interesting watching this one develop in my 7 year-old.  We were hanging out in a small village during summer-break with narrow lane-ways and I had given my phone over to my son so he could finally play Pokémon Go.  The only rule I had at the time was that should he wish to actually do anything with the game he must first step to the side of the lane.  Safety is important but I realized quickly that there was a great life-lesson in this.  When a new Pokémon appeared he would quickly step to the side and then look down at the phone to play.  I imagined him as a teenager receiving a text message, or an adult looking for directions or talking to a client and I thought I'm seeing one of those social graces we all wished we saw more of in life - people capable of stepping out of the way when their day is inevitably interrupted by their electronic device.  Here was my 7 year-old developing a positive social habit without any real direction from his parents.

Lesson 2:  Multi-Tasking

The Rule:  Only Look Down when there is an Alert

As a teacher I often see students who have difficulty task-switching.  Whether it is the social conversation they are bringing into the classroom, the game that they can't stop playing, or the conflict of the day they can't seem to leave behind.  It is a habit of mind to be able to be present where you are even though you are surrounded by distractions.  By asking my son to look up while the game was being played I was asking him to set a bearing and trust that he will arrive there without having to watch the map the whole way.  I could have taught this same lesson through Geocaching mind-you, but this was an opportunity that was more in his wheelhouse.  Every time he was forced to pull his eyes from the screen he could engage in conversation, ask questions about the things he was seeing, and be present on our walk.  I was allowing him a chance to train his ability to prioritize tasks in a way in line with our social values.

Lesson 3:  Ettiquette

The Rule:  Don't talk Pokémon Constantly

Mom hates Pokémon.  Well actually she seems to be frustrated by anyone who might fritter away time engaged in a 'video game'.  I created this rule out of my own shame early on - I was afraid that others were going to see us playing and then unfairly judge us so I wanted to keep very quiet about it.  It wasn't a very good rule because it was formed out of pride, but it had an unintended lesson in it about Ettiquette - especially for kids.

Mom doesn't know anything about Pokémon.  She doesn't really even care enough about it to learn anything about it, and as a result when there are three boys (myself included) sitting around giggling about where and how we found what creatures she is left out.
It is important for kids (and all of us) to learn that we can exclude others simply by choosing to engage a small group of friends in very esoteric conversation.  There is nothing inherently bad about talking about Pokémon, but the awareness that not everyone in the social-circle is going to understand or share that passion can help a child avoid conflict.

Early on in the phenomenon that is PoGo'ing I witness a group of teens bantering about which Pokémon were where and who caught what.  I was with a group of men waiting to play soccer and we all (regrettably) shared a deep annoyance and disdain for this group of kids choosing to be frustrated by some cultural behavior that we saw as different, and unintelligent.

I was glad that I chose to try and understand it before carrying that attitude for very long.

There is one final lesson worth mentioning, but I mention it only as an aside to this article because it really doesn't have an accompanying rule:

Lesson 4:  Life

I was out for a walk with my kids.  They were engaging in conversation with me, and excited about what might be around the next corner.  We were engrossed in random chats about this and that and after our very first visit to a PokéGym my son shares his disappointment that our Pokédex doesn't have stronger more competitive creatures that would allow us to win, even once.  My son has already shown signs of being hyper-competitive, particularly when it comes to his younger brother.  I have seen him pack up a fishing rod simply because someone he was with caught a fish first.  He's one of those kids who puts a lot of stock in 'winning out of the gate' and we have to coax him to remember that the joy of competing comes from knowing you can lose at any time, and to remeber that you can't catch any fish if you're line isn't in the water.


Pokémon Go has allowed us one more glimpse into real life.  There will always be someone who has been training harder, or training longer, or paying for premium, or just simply more prepared than we are at the time -- until there isn't.  Your passion is a choice, and when you find others who are passionate you gather with them to learn, compete, and train with but you're not always going to be the best... or early on, even competitive.

I looked at my son PoGo'ing and I saw myself dropping out of hockey, avoiding basketball, leaving the theatre before the audition and took a moment to put my arm around him and say 'I understand'.



If you've learned lessons from playing Pokémon Go with your kids leave a note in the comments or mention @stayathomegang #PoGoParents on Twitter.

The Pride of Parenting

The telltale heart of being a parent is that ever present aroma that accompanies that cardinal sin; Parental Pride.  Oh, you may take careful steps to double, nay, triple-bag those double deuces that the two-year old drops in his diapers, and you may place that waste in the waist-high pail that waits outside the walls of your child's room, and you may even endeavor to emigrate that excrement to the exit, but no matter how you slice it, the smell seems to seep right back in.

And that smell is the Pride of Parenting.

If, at this point, it is unclear what I mean when I pronounce this Pride of Parenting then I humbly encourage you to consider the following:

a)  There appears to be an innate natural drive to having children.
b)  Leading up to having children, there appears to be an innate natural tendency to inaccurately judge the skills and values of those who insist on allowing their children out in public.
c)  Having children is humbling, not in small part due to the amount of crow you are required to eat, when realizing just how small minded we were about the context and condition of those parents we shamelessly judged while slug-a-bed we wallowed in the murky, tepid waters of prenatal self-righteousness.
d)  Parenting a child is rife with doubt, feelings of supreme inadequacy, hopelessness, fear, and regret and a particular awareness that there are people out there still enjoying life in part b).
e)  In order to survive d) one must realize that children seem to (at the best of times) grow and develop in spite of everything we appear to be doing wrong, and arrive as a semi-competent adult due (in no small part) to blind luck, or divine intervention.

BUT... every so often a parent will adopt a policy akin to b) where they start to believe that they are doing something right.  Or doing something well.  Or doing something better than other parents.  And that, my dear friends, is the Pride of Parenting.

It is a fetid, ugly thing and I feel it is my duty to warn you of its perils while seeking my own redemption for committing such a heinous thing as believing I might be on the road to being a successful Stay-at-home Dad.

For those who might be regular readers of my irregular ramblings you may, at this point, say to yourself, "Self, I read those irregular ramblings often irregularly and I thought that man was doing things just fine."  No really, I give you permission to say that to yourself.  And sure, maybe you weren't looking to harshly judge me.  Maybe you actually thought, "hey, good on you man, you're taking on the responsibility of raising two boys with your head held high and an army of support behind you."  Maybe you truly believe I can help you consider something valuable that will help you become the parent you know you are capable of being.

And that my friends is the Pride of Parenting.

So as I settle into the irony of writing this message to you, know that I'm really just writing to ask forgiveness for thinking that what I was doing was "working" any better than what someone else might be doing.  It's true!  Listen, I actually hear myself think things like, "well I'm sure not going to be that dad that races to the side of my boy when he falls down..." or "You won't catch my boys in organized sports/school/scrapbooking too early." or "these boys of my will grow up to be resilient and confident men because I love them openly and with signs of physical affection like a hug, or a kiss."  or "I wonder what my wife thinks I do in this #microoffice of mine for such a long time..." but I digress.

I'm working to raise my kids to be independent, strong-minded, men of integrity... with a delightful sense of humour and killer smiles.  As I start to see evidence that it's working I realize that in my zeal I have forgotten to let them be boys.  Vulnerable, frightened, and reliant on the knowledge that there is someone there next to them to catch the bike when it falls, hold their hand in the thunderstorm, or just simply let them cry when they fail.  You see?  I got caught up in my own Pride of Parenting.

My son will wander off in the middle of an event to see the sights explaining that he "was bored, so he went for a walk."  Or he'll disappear into traffic because he saw something cool, and says "Dad, what are you worried about, I looked both ways?!"  I half expect him to be out in the backyard grilling meat on the barbecue before the end of summer announcing that he "was just jonesin' for something juicy."  But he's FOUR.  Maybe I shouldn't make him stand in line to apologize to the desk-clerks for making a scene in their lobby, or let him wash the dishes when he asks.  Maybe taking the training wheels off his bike and letting him take the neighbour-kid's homemade jump the next day is too soon... Maybe these signs of hyper-independence really are symptoms of what happens when you ask him to fold his own laundry and ride the bus to work in the morning; doing things earlier, writing things earlier, reading things earlier, producing his first symphony... I'm realizing more and more that I've had a part in all this...  Before I know it he'll be grown up and resentful just like we were and I'll have let him miss the best part of being a kid:  Being a kid.

In my reflection I've realized something important, and I hope you have too.  AND I hope the next time my four-year old says "Dad, can I help you use the band-saw." I really hope that I'll remember to say, "you know son, I think you're too young for that... let's wait and cut-off your fingers tomorrow."

Postscript:

No son's (in whole or in part) were harmed during the writing of this article.  I think... wait, I hope they're still in the yard.  Oh right... phew, we already put them to bed.

Make Your Own "Canorpheum"

In 2007 my wife and I spent some time touring the jungle in Borneo.  Whilst we were there I got the unique opportunity to play some of the authentic village instruments, in particular anything percussive.

 I searched high and low while we were there for some small instrument I could bring home as a special treasure and ended up bringing home 9 plate sized gongs... and they do get played now and again, especially by some young boys of mine.

What I learned from the trip though, is that the "authentic" instruments from villages in Borneo are not the ornate and beautiful carved gems that many of us might see in an import store down Specialty Lane in Super-Hipsterville, CA but are put together from the most basic materials that scavenged from the nearest renovation project.

For instance--  The instrument I am playing in this photograph is largely old wood floor boards which have been sized so that they make different sounds.  These are tacked onto old plywood with what looked to be shoe tacks, and the blocks themselves rest on rubber cut from the soles of old flip-flop sandals.  A couple Balsa-wood sticks from the forest and some paint and you've got yourself a pretty ingenious indigenous instrument.

Since that trip I have been longing to create my own unique instruments, and I have finally found the resources I needed to do so.

It started with some empty Pringles cans which I collected post 4 year old birthday party.  Add in some scrap planking and screws that were left over from the bed I made (in the last post) and some rubber bands stolen from the junk-mail rolls that perpetually appear on our front doorstep and I had myself a design for what I have called The Canorpheum.

I'm in between on providing the schematic on how to make one yourself... seems excess... but I have it for anyone that wants to comment.  I was lucky that the boards were already cut almost perfectly for the box itself.  I had but to chop a couple boards here and there, and use a drill and jigsaw to make the template for the cans to sit in.

Now all it needs is some paint.  I'm using the iPod to create some unique stencils of the boys (Fotofiti for anyone who cares).  Take a listen:

Stay at Home Furnishings

So last week I was involved in a production of one of the world's only Parkour-Plays as part of a #GIGYYC grant that was won by a friend of mine late last year.

He phoned at the end of January to say that he could have ~$1200 if he could put up a play inspired by Parkour by March 30th.  He just needed a script...  And as proud as I am of this project we are all overwhelmingly proud of (every ticket was sold) my wife knew that it was keeping me from my real passion -- dumpster-dive furniture fashioning.

That's right.  Be it known that I have always had a real knack for handy work, in particular carpentry.  And there is no subfield in carpentry more respected and awe inspiring than that of quality home furnishings.  Yes, I know it seems like I have never actually built anything, but when you've spent as long as I have thinking about building stuff, I'm practically an expert.

In all seriousness-- I get this phone call midway through March:

Tom, I have an odd favour to ask, you see there's this old palette I saw in the alley behind the church, if you get a chance while you're out with the boys to swing by and pick it up--

Sorry what?!

An old palette, look I saw on the internet [during a late night in front of the t.v. of course] that you can make a headboard for a bed from an old palette and I was hoping you'd pick one up for me.  I know it's weird but ---

Yes, it's weird.

but, really, don't feel obligated to pick it up...

and when your wife says that -- well let's just say I wasn't married yesterday.

"Seriously Dad, you built this?!" Not likely...

She didn't however mention that this palette was 7 feet tall at the time she suggested I pick it up.  I did manage to shove it into the back of the van on a wild tangent to my normal daily errands and didn't give it much more thought until (while sitting in the Mr. Lube line-up) a kind sales clerk mentioned "Ha! Sorry, I didn't realize you had two kids [in the back of the van] can't hardly see the second one for the giant palette in the way."

So then I get this email a couple days later with about 19 sites related to at-home-scrap-recycling-keep-your-husband-busy-projects with no other explanation than --- this was what I was thinking about.

Now and again I wish that my life was more like the movies and she would send me a message saying "this is what I was thinking about." and it might come with some sort of pseudo-sexy attachment suggesting perhaps a little romantic rendezvous was heading my way... but no.  Just links to DIY sites... as though she's saying -- hey, do it yourself.  Yes, that's what she said.

But I'm inspired.  I'm feeling handy.  I can do this.  And you know what... I think largely because of the success of Mindfire (the play) I felt a little... well... indestructable?  As though I could do anything... so -- and here's my proudest accomplishment, I turned off the internet, turned on my time lapse and you can watch the results of my efforts w/o commentary and reserve judgement for yourself. (p.s. when the composer for the music reads this and watches the movie then I expect that artist to contact me with the correct permissions and attribution rights just like when that artist contacted me before he cut my head from my blog-photos and pasted it onto unicorns frolicking near rainbows...)

In the end the project cost maybe $100 and it took three solid days working with and around my two sons.  But it was fun, and it felt good to finish it, and for the first time I was really proud of my handywork.  Like I might actually be able to build nice things too.

Things of note:

Supplies (for those interested in facsimiles)

Wood = knotty pine, cheap cheap at the local hardware mart (6" sideboards, 8" top-board and 10" runner)
Stain = Minwax Wood Stain: Classic Gray 271
8 x 2" bolts, washers, and wing-nuts
2" #8 wood screws
1 1/4" #8 wood screws
6 x corner brackets
Wood glue
1 old weathered palette from some back-alley
Grand total ~ $70


The extra cost came from the steel finishing plate added at the end, totally frivolous and extravagant but super-keen!

Final Version (three days in)

Steel plate not shown in this picture
 -- but you can see it on Instagr.am!

I can't wait to show off my next project...  It involves music and Pringles (tm).

What Bored Dad's Do

I admit, it has been a while.

I wanted this to be a weekly journal of sorts, something to read that would let my friends know how the boys and I are doing, and something to read that might give you a snicker or two at my own expense.  Come Christmas time though, I found I really had nothing more of interest to say.

Life has become routine.  The mistakes I make now are simply expressions of earlier mistakes I had hoped I would overcome.  I've fallen into a holding pattern and the system has stagnated.

And What a Glorious Stagnation.

The honeymoon is over.  If phase one of staying at home is intense passion for creating new experiences with your children, then phase two is the calm indulgence that follows.  A balance between sustaining the children and realizing that you (as an adult, and an individual) have an identity, an individuality, a purpose beyond serving others, and suddenly you find yourself indulging fancies that serve only you.

Where you used to plan your day to suit your kids, you're now planning your kids to help suit your day.  You have systems by which you are able to sequester moments to yourself to do the things that stimulate your intelligence and restore vigor to a life that has become routine.  Like a marriage, the early passion and immaturity of the early years is sedated, and allows for more distance, and more space for "self".

And like a basket full of peanuts at the pub, you convince yourself you will only eat an handful, and the next thing you know you need a second beer to wash the first basket down.  Then you find yourself battling the guilt of leaving all those shells behind.

December I joined a panel of teachers as a facilitator for an Open Online Course, and started the process of engaging education in a whole new way (for me).  This was the first peanut.  This created that desire to have another, and then another...

January found me writing a "poem-a-day" with a group of Australians in an online forum.  A creative outlet that flexed the brain-muscle.  I invented a new style of poem called "The Sudoku" complete with a programmed spreadsheet to help calculate the poem's structure.  If you put all the words in the poem nine to a line for nine lines you get a perfectly filled sudoku square (words in place of numbers).  I learned what a Sestina was, and how to write one.  On the side I rewrote "The Velveteen Rabbit" from the viewpoint of a teacher who yearns to become real... Stay at home parents should not have time for all this!

February I was invited to write a script for a friend who has won a grant to bring "Parkour" to the stage in Calgary.  March 30th is the deadline to have a show, thankfully I'm not involved with the production of it, just creating the words behind it.  The working title is called "Have Kourage".  Meanwhile this same friend had me dress as a "Sexy" Lumberjack at a Lise Watier new product release party.  Inspired by my rekindled manhood I promptly came home, installed a window in my back-door and converted a toilet to dual flush.

Sometimes My Reality is Like Your Imagination

Now in March I'm finding I've got that dry, parched feeling you get when you've eaten too many salted nuts, and I'm looking for something to wash it all down with... and thankfully I've found the restorative properties of my boys to be sufficient refreshment.  The next event to plan is a four-year old's birthday party.

I'm so stoked.

What Bored Dad's Do.
(Yes, that's fresh roasted Kale-Chip hair)

The party is to be a blend of engaging learning activities, collaborative and cooperative, that stimulate both the kinesthetic proclivities and intellectual capacities of my young men.  The event will be accompanied by a carefully constructed script, likely performed in costume... I look back on the selfish events of the past three months and realize that, as in all things, with proper reflection and firm grounding in "who you serve" those momentary relapses to self-indulgent fantasy can worked to polish the best parts of self so that our children can enjoy days dedicated to remembering the gift they were, how ever many years ago.

Community Affairs

For those who love to read The First Folio, and would like a new spin on the Elizabethan formula, I dedicate this to you.

A quick note on how to "read" this script.

1. It has never been performed, and contains a few details I would likely change in a workshop.
2. It is written following the grammatic rules of Shakespeare's First Folio, in essence, much of the punctuation is written for actors and not for accuracy.  In layman's terms: breathe only at periods, and audibly at semi-colons in the verse.  Stress misplaced capitals and words with an additional e, and don't forget to follow the iambic pentameter.
3. As with many of the Shakespeare plays, the use of verse is to lend some importance to the characters who are speaking, and prose is used for more "common" language.
4. Unity can be read as a singular entity or can be a chorus of characters.
5. Written staging is minimal (as they are often in Shakespeare's plays) to allow for flexibility in adaptation.

Download the original file here.

Community Affairs by T.C. Andrew is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Dadvent Conspiracy

"I can do this."

That's how it starts for stay at home dads. They get a great idea, they have a wife who believes in them and at least one child who looks up at them with big glowing eyes and gives them the feeling that they are a world beater just before they fart and giggle. The kids I mean, usually not the wife.

Well, whatever. I said I was going to do the Dadvent thing, and one item on the list was to make a gingerbread house from scratch.

...And then I got this great idea. I was reading this "Do One Cool Thing with your Kids" app called Timbuktu (because you know all the coolest people you know get their ideas from cool-help books) and they posted a gingerbread recipe and I was like... woah there. This is the one.

"An amazing recipe to bake Gingerbread cookies with kids! via @TimbuktuMag"

Now hold on to your shorts (you who are lucky enough to live near either of the tropics) because this is where it gets wonderfully elaborate.

See there is this app I once used called 123D Make. (I include the details at the end 'cause it's free and like porn for geek dads... was that too crass? Sorry...)

First you draw a design, like this:


And it turns it into a 3D model that you can play around with like this:


But the best part is it lets you print off a template to build the model! Like this!


Remember what I said? "I can do this."

One 3D model design, one order of gingerbread and one wildly eclectic and adventuresome dad and we have the makings of a true sensation.

So I pulled up the recipe and I baked. And I rolled. And aside from getting the instructions backward at times, and putting it in the oven, and suddenly realizing that you can't cut gingerbread out using a template after it's been baked -- so pulling it out of the oven... I was able to start cutting, and trimming, and shaping, and then, when it was all done I knew I would soon have the COOLEST gingerbread tree ever created and my 3 year old would look up at me and realize that he has the single greatest father ever created and there would be angels dancing on my back lawn under the cover of twinkling stars... with a lute! Yes a lute, or maybe a Lyre.

Well, that's how I saw it going in my head.

Here's the timelapse:


So I ran into a problem. There was an inescapable design flaw. The template was built for cardboard I was definitely going to be working with -- well probably better tasting cardboard but it swells when it bakes!

My heart sunk and my dreams were dashed. There would be no more NHL in 2012. And my gingerbread tree wasn't going to be a stand-alone 3D-model, and my 19 month old was going to grow up a drunken reprobate... (Sorry to all you drunken reprobates who might be reading this... I mean no offence) And my beautiful wife, in all her house-coated glory, would look at me with sad eyes, and say, "Hon, -- the garbage?"

On to Timelapse 2. Did I want my sons growing up knowing their dad was willing to give up? Did I want them to think it was okay to be beaten by a bread? Did I have enough courage to press on, and was there enough icing sugar in the pantry to fix this disaster?


I did it. It wasn't what I thought it would be. It was better. Like marriage. Like my kids. Like my first prostate exam... will be... dear God I hope.



Dadvent. Tomorrow my kids will wake up, and we will break open bags of candy and together we will systematically destroy my sculpture and make it into something better. A memory... of time spent in the same room, making meaning from something utterly meaningless.

That's a door I want them to open. That's the conspiracy.

---

The "Two Apps I Mention and Endorse but Receive Nothing Aside from a Retweet in Return From But I Endorse Them Anyway Cause I Care About You" Header

123D Make Intro by Autodesk Inc.



Timbuktu - Free stories, fun and games for parents and kids by Timbuktu Labs, Inc.

Raising Napoleon

Let's make one thing clear; I am not, nor have I ever been a particularly avid history buff, or comic book grazer.  So when my wife gave birth to Bruce Banner and Napoleon Bonaparte I had no idea what I was in for, or how much I was going to have to catch up on to make everything okay.

I love my kids.  Deeply.  Dearly.  I do.  Even the fact that they can be so easily charicaturized  (yes, that's a word, now shut-up) as two anti-heroes does not defeat my deep and dear love for these two boys.

Bruce Banner was first.

I love that in pop-culture descriptors "mild mannered" always seems to accompany these deeply broken individuals who become super-heroes struggling to maintain moral integrity while wrestling with great power.  And this defines my 3 year-old.  But where's my SHEILD manual for dealing with this catastrophe.

I often wonder, if they could pull off a number of seasons of Muppet Babies, why not Avenger-Babies? Something that I could have gained some insight from.  Seriously, other than superman, I can't think of a single hero who's back-story about who raised him, and how it was done from diapers through adolescence was inspiring, accurate, or intelligent.

Like Bruce Banner, my son was born with a genetic defect that becomes magnified later in life.  Though in his case it would seem this came from his father, my son received his "malfunction" from his mother.  The layperson might see these people for what they appear to be:  beautiful, caring, charming, inspiring, thoughtful and empathetic human beings.  People are apt to like them.  Love them even.  Because, really, they are.  But underneath lurks a green monster, and something, or someone let the monster run free in my son.

It starts with a furrow in the brow.  You see it coming but in your naivety you pass it off as just a harmless flurry of intense thought, and you wonder why his gaze has fixed itself on you.  Then, slightly off put by the fact that this boy who typically vibrates, and rambles playfully has suddenly stopped and fixed two blue eyes directly on you, you realize that those furrowed brows are hiding an increasingly disturbing emotional build-up.  For the more observant you'll see it start in the fingers, as they curl into tight little fists.  Then the muscles in the upper-arms and chest will tense up.  You won't notice it at first, but suddenly you will become aware of a low guttural growl that seems to emanate from the floor and walls, and if you're not mistaken you can actually see them flex in an out in time with the deep breathing happening in the tiny frame before you.  A neck vein starts to pulse, and the smallest hint of green appears around the fringes of his lips and ears.  Not possible you say to yourself, no child can turn himself green.  This low growl gets louder as those typically large and pouty lips draw back into a teeth-baring grimace and suddenly you see a monster before you where once a beautiful toddler was.

And then the yell.  Hands are down, he's bent at the waist just enough to jutt out his jaw and lean forward. And with the ferocity of fireworks in a match factory your hair is blown back by the sheer force of pure-anger that erupts from this small frame which seems to have grown thirty-sizes.  Your only defense at this point is love.  You must pray that all the love you can muster from deep within your soul will suddenly rise to the surface and like the Care-bear Countdown, calm the monster and return the boy.

I wish I was exaggerating.

There are more times in a week when I "hear" the worlds "HULK SMASH!" coming from the playroom than I care to reveal.  Moreover I had a chance this week to actually use the phrase "If you're going to be smashing your brother's head into the floor, please do it on the carpet not the hardwood."  Which brings me to Napoleon.

Here again the body-politic would see a demure child with heart-melting bright blue eyes, and a smile that you want to keep in a jar and share with the world's most down-trodden. Underneath hides a scheming, megalomaniac with a significant inferiority complex, and, as this one year old learns to speak apparently, a bad french accent.  And this time the genotype can't be blamed on mother.  Nope.  This one is all me.

No, in this child we have a combination of long-standing franco-canadian heritage mixed with a healthy dose of english pride just waiting to be told, "you can't" or "please don't" or "stop" so he can excuse his ensuing behavior with the thoughts: "they should've known better."

Napoleon truly didn't fully emerge until the words started to form.  It's not mama, but "mamon", it's never no!, but a sharp "NON", and beyond that it's mostly mumbling and gesticulating with that incredibly powerful index finger.

Now I assume that the original Napoleon didn't have any trouble drawing people into favour with him.  A man who is able to anoint himself emperor and have countless fight and die on behalf of his autocracy would have to be incredibly charming.  We've got that nailed.  The original Napoleon was reputed to be remarkably small in stature. There again-- compliments of dad.  The original Napoleon was french.  I thought we might have to have an intervention the way this child scarfs down croissants, and certainly his ability to turn his nose up at any other food lately smacks of parisian heritage, but the real coup-de-grace comes with his language development.  I thought we might have a psycopath on our hands as he started walking around pointing and shouting "pain, PAIN!" but then I remembered that's bread-- en francais.  Children have a notoriously difficult time with the sound of the letter "L" but the french got around "l'eau" and "lait" with "wine" and believe me we're getting enough of that around here too.

As I said before, our history books and comic books never tell us the true story of what it was like to raise these icons, but there are days when a little dickie-wearing, button coated, silly hatted Napoleon is lying ass up, trousers down shouting "I weel not have my pants changed!" while kicking his two stubby little legs furiously sending "le poop" around "le room".

As a father, you often win, but when you have a 19 month old look you over as if he's plotting to overthrow you within a fortnight for making him sit through another "peetiful american meal".  Then you realize that he's actually manipulated a giant green-monster into his employ; sometimes you feel like you have to sleep with one eye open.  Or both eyes.  Well, actually I'm an insomniac.

And it isn't helping that while you held him down trying once again to wrangle a pair of elastic-waist Wranglers back on he is shaking his finger at you and blurting something akin to:  "Oh, you theenk you've whon thees one papa, but watch your back, mon amie, because me and dat giant, we are going to come in da night and burn your village to da ground. Dunnut theenk we won't."

Thankfully this week the pressure is off.  While "Bruce" was throwing a fit over why I wouldn't let him put his dinner back in the fridge so he could have "Gorilla Munch" he interrupted Napoleon who was in the pantry plotting out exactly how to arrange the shelves to "make eet look like an axy-dent."  Caught, he instictively threw his hands in the air in the universal sign of "wasn't me" and got his finger caught in the door as it came off the hinges at the giant green hands of "The Hulk".

So lately the military genius has been working at slowly getting back at the reactive scientist.  "Oops" he says "deed I heet you in the mouth wit my wadder boddle? Oh je m'excuse... was that your cookie I ated... Oh my I was theenking, did'ee want that toy destroyed, was that your favoreet? please won't you forgeeve me?  You see this giant purple finger of mine, still weeping from the pain you caused eet?  Yes, I have not forgotten eidder.  Sleep well mon frere.  Sleep well..."

I am just not equipped to raise Napoleon.

The Dadvent Calendar

I got to thinking today, what do we do at home to celebrate the season of advent?  For those that despise the season; how I can make it better for you?  For those that love the season; what can I do to add to your rich and stalwart traditions?

 

by Aesop, on Flickr - some rights reserved

Each year at our house, particularly now that we have young children, our Advent-House makes an appearance.  This is a wooden advent calendar that has drawers in it.  These drawers are meant to be filled with "treats" for the children to enjoy each day leading up to Christmas Day.  No doubt many who read this might share a similar tradition.  Rather than focus on treats though, I really want the advent season to help celebrate our family.

 I've arrived at something I believe to be worthy of sharing.  I call it "12 Days of Dadvent".  Something for Dad to do with his children to celebrate another year end, and bring relationship to the forefront of family life during arguably the most fundamental season for bringing families together (whether they like it or not).

 In order to participate (yes, I am asking you to participate) you don't even need an actual advent calendar.  What you need is a drawer, a shoe-box, a container, or  a pocket and then follow the instructions below.  You might need a couple days to get together your resources, but I promise you they won't cost much (if anything) and they won't be hard to find.

 How it works, in a nutshell: Each day of advent your children will open a drawer, envelope, fireproof safe, containing a surprise.  This surprise might simply be their favorite candy, or it might be one of the following 12 suggestions which they get to enjoy with you during that day!  You'll need to write-down, or print off a list ahead of time to ensure they're in there - if you don't want to go that far, you could just follow @stayathomegang on Twitter, and I'll be posting my advent list tagged #dadvent2012)

My Suggestions

feel free to comment with your own extra-specially great ideas use the comment feed below or add to the conversation on Twitter

1. Cook an extra meal and deliver it - We all know someone, or some family that has had a tough time this year, and could use a "pick-me-up".  Discuss with your children who it might be fun to surprise with a meal, and then (if they're old enough) prepare it with them.  Create a simple card to go with it that says something akin to:  Thought you could use the night off.  Then deliver it, anonymously or as a family.
2. Make a Christmas Card, or write a Christmas Letter - You might want to do this for someone in your life in particular who is special to you and your children, or it might just be something that you mean to do every year and you put off.  Whether it's a letter that you simply write to each other, or it's something you choose to send out take the time to tell someone in your life about the things you've gone through, or are thankful for this year.
3. Go for a walk during the evening - Pretty straightforward, but when it's something that you're children start anticipating through the course of the day it can quickly become something bigger than "just another night to walk the dog".  Around here, there's all kinds of reasons to be out at night during the winter.
4. Video yourself singing Christmas Songs - Whether you post them to your social network of choice or just watch them over and over yourselves a family that sings together laughs together.  And who doesn't want a family who laughs together?!
5. Make a Gingerbread House (if ambitious, do it from scratch) - There's something about bringing together baking with building.  This activity is both frustrating, and at times hugely rewarding but more importantly it is an activity that requires many hands, and time together.  If you're a stay-at-home or you're just looking for something to do in the evening this is an activity that can highlight strengths and weaknesses and helps celebrate each other.
6. Go to a Seasonal Event - There are lots of artists and venues out there hosting holiday events during the weeks leading up to Christmas.  Why not spend some time as a family choosing one at random and trying it out?  Many are free, and many you won't try otherwise so why not pick one some morning and book the day/evening off to go and take it in?
7. Cuddle up with a good old Christmas Movie - I am nearing the end of #noTVnovember and realizing the joy that a good old family movie night can bring.
8. Learn about a Christmas Charity - Notice I didn't say donate?  Sometimes learning about charities can be as important as choosing one to support.  Do this together.  Let your children lead the discussion.  Enjoy the time poking around at the organizations that are active this time of year.
9. Do something on your "Honey-Do-List" - Your children will love discovering that their treat of the day is to watch Daddy have to do some menial job that needs to get done, and they can put their feet up an enjoy the sweat and frustration as he tries to patch that hole, paint, or repair.  We've all got chores hanging over our heads, whether it's finally stripping the beds to do the sheets, or dusting the baseboards there is some odd job that you can all do together, ideally to blaring music that the advent calendar has instructed you to do.
10. Take a funny Family Portrait - if you're a stay-at-home then send it to your spouse at work.  If you're up to it, post it publicly for all to laugh at.  If not, just enjoy it at home.
11. Decorate a room - No doubt you have extra christmas lights, or decorations, or oddities and knick-knacks that you wouldn't put out publicly.  Get the kids together and choose a room that you can all decorate together.
12. Read about Christmas - It turns out there's a lot of history about the Christmas Season that the common layperson doesn't know.  I know this because today while I researched the tradition of advent (a tradition I've followed for years without asking why) I found out all kinds of great stuff that I didn't know -- for instance why Shakespeare wrote "12th Night" and how it is (or isn't) related to the 12 days of Christmas.

So there you have it; 12 days of Christmas Advent where you can spend some QT with the family and look like a super-dad while you're at it.  And that's why I call it "Dadvent".

In This Episode...

If you read this blog, and you must, because you are... whatever, my last post was about turning off the television for the month of November.  And we have... I mean we did.  I mean we are... what do I mean?  I didn't really think about how many ground-rules would be required ahead of time:  Is Netflix in-bounds, what about TV apps on the iPad, how much iPad constitutes a table-addiction, can we watch YouTube?  What if we rent a movie?

Add to that the toddler had a tooth-ache (okay a four-molar-alarm that required medicinal intervention) and a ridiculous dump of snow during a cold-snap and it was starting to feel like my TV moratorium was poorly timed.

But so was Sandy.  With all disasters comes a lack of timing, or rather, what time is the right time to have a disaster?

I lament.

And I shouldn't!  It's been good.  No, it's been great.  Well mostly great.  It's alright.  It's going fine.

This was the 1YO BEFORE the TV went off...

We're half way there right?  Are all months this long?

Enough of the side-talk, here's the deal.  I've learned some stuff already.

1.  TV can be therapy for stressed adults:  There is an onset of anxiety as one faces the prospect of an evening at home without the ability to disappear into suspended-disbelief with some reliable characters who have become replacements for our friends and community.  Thank goodness our mobile devices afford us the same distraction  (As our hands literally go numb from holding them too long).  At the same time my wife and I have had to turn to other things for therapy.  Sometimes it's even each other.

2.  A toddler's brain is much more plastic than mine:  It took but one day for the irritating nagging from my 3YO to turn on a movie, or a show for him was replaced by the beautiful requests of a regenerated 3YO boy who wants to explore his own creativity.  His one-liners have been captured on Twitter (#noTVnovember).

3.  Productivity in the rest of my life is directly related to productivity of my evenings:  Once I get the hang of finding things to motivate me to do the things on my to-do list then I start my to-do list earlier, and finish things more effectively.  In fact, much of my to-do list is finished prior to starting dinner, which means after dinner I find myself lacking things to-do... oops.  Maybe you find it easy to find ways of washing the carpets, reorganizing the junk-drawers, framing and hanging photos, rematching bags of 'lost' socks, and tightening toilet-seals, but before the TV went off these are things I "just couldn't get to".

4.  Even though our brains aren't as plastic... adult too can benefit from a vigorous reversal of the creativity dampening brought on by photon bombardment.  Case-in-point:

The Basement Campsite.

I have had the tent up in the basement for a while, mostly to air it out and double check that the seams are still good, because it's too small for the whole family now, and who the heck has time to go back-country anyway...  So I promised the 3YO on a whim that we'd set up a campsite a while back.  This past week we did it.

You don't need much, just some imagination, some time, and some eager toddlers.  We took down our Hallowe'en lights and put them in an upside-down milk crate for a campfire.  Nearby drum-sticks made grade false-kindling and the hula-hoop we've never used forged a perfect pit.  The lawn chairs came out of winter storage, and the plastic picnic table from the yard was brushed free of ice and deposited near the tent.  Some sheets and table cloths provided ample 'foliage' to create a back-drop and the pool-noodles double as amazing roasting-sticks.  A little background music provided by the Nature-Sounds playlist on Songza, and we had ourselves a retreat...  We've spent hours now, hiding from Augustus Gloop and trying not to fall in the Chocolate River (arrived at solely by the 3YO I promise you) and searching for animals with our plastic binoculars.  The tent doubles as a great wrestling mat, and the old toddler tunnel gives us great protected access to our new home in the basement.

Lest you think no TV only works for creatively-stunted Dads; Mom recently endeavored to design and create a new bed-spread for the boy complete with stenciled letters and airplanes to match the theme of the eldest's room.

Though the idea was sparked over a year ago, the impetus to follow-through only happened this week.  And the look of joy, and sheer excitement from the boys as the stencils were peeled back today was enough to make all the frustration of not being able to turn on the television during those tough times worth it.

Some might ask, "Do you actually miss anything?"   I'd argue I was missing more before it went off.

No TV November

I pledge to turn off the television for one month.

I'm going public with this, because I know there are others out there that need this.  They need to join my anonymous support group for TV addicted stay-at-home parents and they need to STOP, cold-turkey, today.

--Plus my wife won't let me do, "No-Shave November" (or more colloquially; "Movember"*) because my beard is ugly and scratchy.  So this is my compromise:  She, and the rest of my family are OFF TV until December 1st.

No, I don't believe it can be done.  No I don't believe you're an awful failure of a parent if you can't do it either.  I'm just saying let's try this together, and do it for our prostates... and if you don't have a prostate, do it for my prostate.  Actually that just sounds weird... just do it for fun... because you hate your life, and you want to make a positive change for your family... and there's no hockey anyway.

Listen-- in the masochistic world of stay-at-home parenting there are some tried and true methods of escape.  

First and foremost, it seems, is the television.

Though for many years the television was my humble adviser, my gracious friend, my companion and my confident, years later I look back and see the shallowness and contrite nature of our relationship.   Sure it  carried through on its promise of hours of entertainment.  Yes, it showed me the world as I longed to see it, it filled me with hope of a new and amazing tomorrow, and promised an amazing new car and shoes that would help me to fly.  But it didn't tell me I was going to have to get off the couch and work for it, it just came at me with more and more interesting flashing lights and loud noises.  (A man's arch-nemesis -- watch for my blog on why a man can't pay attention to you at a bar...)

So there might have been a time when I would shake the hands of the inventors of the original home-television sets, and said,

"Well done.  I shake you warmly by the hand.  Your work has brought joy to our homes particularly around the dinner hour when my young family can be distracted from sitting side-ways in their chairs, flinging potatoes into the air, and smearing tomato sauce onto their clothing.  Finally there is an escape offered after a long day at the factory."  

Now I simply wish to shake these geniuses, and yell:

"For the love of all that is good and holy, please do not submit the world to this plague.  You have no idea the reality you will forge with the phosphorescent demon of nature!"

Let me explain:

As October turned cold this year, and the positive physio-emotional response to being a new stay-at-home parent started to wane, the poisonous and addictive affects of the television-drug began to do its work.

If you don't relate to this affliction already then let this serve as a warning:  You will tell yourself, "I'll just let them watch 10 minutes in the morning before breakfast.  My kids are not going to be raised by television like I was." and you feel good, you feel real good because the one year old is not screaming for yogurt and the three year old hasn't yet destroyed the house.

It's a high.

It's a horribly wonderful high that, like the morning coffee, becomes less and less effective the more and more you abuse it.  Soon those ten minutes are just not enough to combat those bleak, dark mornings of late-fall.  Ten turns to twenty, twenty to forty, and pretty soon you're back on the television train and there's nothing you can do about it.

Sure you can turn it off by 8, maybe 9am.  Sure you can stop anytime you want to.  But do you want to?  Do you really want to leave it off when the 1YO is napping, the 3YO is not, but Netflix is calling to him saying, "I have Mighty Machines... Big and Mighty Machines..." and in that beautiful whine he's saying, "Daddy can I watch a movie now, please... I don't want puzzles... I don't want to do colouring... I don't want to paint... I don't like it outside... I don't think you're a very good parent anymore, I'm going to tell the next stranger I see that you abuse me and then the police are going to take you away to jail because not letting me watch TV is illegal..."

The time has come to take a stand-- To enter "the program" and get off the glow.  What started as a summer for exploration, enjoying the outdoors, frequenting the zoo and the playground, by the end of October, now looks like an advertisement for comfortable furniture.  Enough is enough, and I don't care what episodes I am going to miss, I am going OFF the sauce!  AND no matter how painful it may become, my kids are too.

If you believe in what I'm saying then make your pledge in the comment feed below.  I will be there for support; updating my status, and adding some pointers along the way @stayathomegang on Twitter #noTVnovember.  Let me know how it's going for you!

PS.  If I do make it through this and you don't... well I only have a low-grade addiction as my house has no cable so in theory this should be easier.

And for my next trick I'm going to go off the internet.  I'll call it "DSL-free December".  Just so you know I've already started cutting down, and this post was written by hand.

Footnotes:

*No Shave November is a solidarity movement to raise funds and awareness of men's-health related issues. Men grow the most offensive facial hair they can for one month, and a few of them get sponsors who support them in this.  I've heard it all started with a group of Finnish lumberjacks who got lost in the woods of Eastern Alaska in the 1950's during the month of November and one of them got Testiculitis or something.

**No beards were shaved during the writing of this post.  Well, here anyway...

Holy Hannah I'm gonna be a Hockey Dad...

There comes a time in every Canadian father's life when he rolls over checks that the time on the alarm is in fact correct, shakes off the weariness of a sleep cut short and then wonders deeply, "who the #*$& invented the NHL?!"  He will then endeavor to wake his child to force feed him remicrowaved porridge drenched in maple syrup in a valiant and unsuccessful attempt to mask the flavour.   He will have to bang the frost off the hockey bag stowed carefully along the coldest wall of the garage, away from Mom's keen sense of smell.  Then he'll toss the boy in the trunk, strap the gear into the back-seat, realize his folly, grab his coffee off the top of the car then drive down the road to the nearest hockey rink where he will make a gallant and bleary-eyed attempt to tie skate laces together on the wriggling and writhing wrong foot of an all to ungrateful brat of child.  Finally he will be able to refill his coffee and stare grimly across a dank smelling refridgerator of an ice-rink at boys who can't skate, chasing around a black puck while leaning too heavily on their luxuriously priced hockey-stick which they will outgrow by the end of the season.  As consciousness begins to defrost, he will realize that he's been staring not at his son who is skating circles in his own end, but the "Timbits" logo on the front of the jerseys.  That will remind him the level of coffee in his cup will not be enough to fuel the trip home and he will have to stop yet again in that cattle-train drive-through and add yet another doughnut to the growing girth around his middle.

At least that's how I see it going.  That is my nightmare.  Oh, how I pray I don't become a Hockey Dad.

The oldest unfortunately is shaping up to be a left-handed virtuoso, a marvel of physical achievement, a tour-de-force all compactly wrapped in the 20th percentile height/weight category.  It is with great pride and deep anxiety that I watch this 3yo take to the street to play hockey against the neighbourhood giants.  These eight to twelve year-olds have years of experience on him!  Towering above him, missing teeth, smacking well worn sticks against the pavement, they seek to intimidate and he stares up at them unphased.

"Give me the ball." he demands, and in the next fifteen minutes, he will out maneuver, out run, out play and out score some invisible opponent while chasing a ball he barely gets to touch often in the wrong direction and without worrying about what team he is on.  In those fifteen minutes he will get bowled over, tripped, start a fight with a five year old, and pretty much look like the oft-celebrated goons from the 1970's Summit Series.

How can I NOT put him in hockey this year?

We're a family of nerds raising a jock.  This week I "published" a children's book written in iambic pentameter with illustrations I made myself using an iPad.  I'm a drama teacher.  I play recreational soccer.  I can skate, but I can only turn right, and I can't stop.  I use a hockey stick to hold up the Thai Chili Peppers that grow in my indoor green-house, and I worry that other hockey dads are going to beat me up.  The only reason I know anything about hockey is because I listen to sports radio during my morning commute so that I can at least hold my own in conversation with the arrogant 14yos I teach in middle school who know every player on every roster on every team in the NHL...  and no one is going to want to talk to me, especially since my tiny little 4yo spark-plug is poised to become the next Theoron Fleury (without the unfortunate history, and subsequent torment), while their 6yos are still trying to figure out which part of the jersey is the front.  Who am I to hold him back?

I do worry about the injuries and the life lessons learned by competitive hockey players.  We're all aware of the hazing, and the spinal injuries, but lately all the talk has been the concussions... and good Lord is my son's head large.  But he loves hockey.  He wants it.  As a stay-at-home dad, and a Canadian, it is not only my curse, but my civic duty to support him in this.  Anyone have some old gear I can borrow?

Oh well.  I guess it could be worse; at least I won't ever end up a soccer mom.

Wait... what week is it?

In the life of a stay-at-home parent there comes a time when you only know the day of the week because the school calls to ask why the child has not yet arrived.  Weeks blend into each other, and the day no longer matters as much as the time-of-day.

Remember when the oldest still napped?

 I haven't been doing this for very long, but it has happened. I can't remember if that thing that happened was yesterday, or last week, or happened to a friend of mine... and that's without the sleep deprivation that most mothers enjoy while Dad is catching a few zzz's under his desk at work. I didn't know "Stay-at-home-Dad-brain" was a thing. Maybe it isn't. Problem is I wouldn't remember anyway.

Whaddya mean it's not Hallowe'en?

Perhaps it's just the inevitable result of placating the toddler schedule daily, rather than embracing the onset of early-middle age by doing things that are more age-appropriate. My friends remind me that it's not normal to be out of the house "doing stuff" every day of the week. That the growing middle age spare tire is a natural way of God slowing us down. The laws of causality are often misinterpreted -- we should not be pushing through this degeneration, rather we should remind our children to do this part of parenthood earlier in their lives.

What??!! Oh that'll get me in trouble with the masses. 

Bear with me, this brief anecdote should explain a few things, and then you can go back to wishing you were younger when your children are hanging off your knees begging you to "play with them." I was 10 at my dad's 30th birthday party. Old enough to be helpful, but not too old to be any trouble. That made me 20 at his 40th. Old enough to be trouble, but young enough to think it was cool to be there with my girlfriend. That made me 30 at his 50th. Young enough to respect my elders, and old enough to keep my mouth shut... It really was the perfect system. He was my soccer coach for years, but as an adult, we often found ourselves on the same men's team. Did I find it awkward yelling for a pass from my Dad, yes... okay... but... I just started calling him by his first name, and people just started assuming he was my brother. He was the unruly one at my stag, and he still bikes 15km uphill to see his grandson during the week. 

Anyway... what's my point... I don't remember I'm a 33 year old stay at home dad. I'm about 10 years behind where I should be and the silver-streaks are getting clearer by the day. 

 By the way, my dad's birthday's just around the corner. I guess he has taught me something. I guess all that time was worth something. I guess I can be thankful I get all this time with my boys. 

 I think I'm gonna go make him a macaroni necklace.

Thanks Dad.

The End of the First Quarter

"At the end of the first quarter, the score is all tied up and thus far it seems no one
has dropped the ball.  Should we expect more of the same in the second quarter?
This, and more to come after the break..."

How does a dad learn to identify the difference between a common cold and the beginning of a major infection like strep?  We took it pretty easy the last couple of weeks, settled into the school structure, and found some routine.  By all accounts we were aiming for a perfect week, and better yet, the oldest got to have his VIP day at play-school.  Too bad he had a fever, and couldn't do much more than lie on the floor for the morning.  One of the saving graces in it all was that Dad had to be at school with him so when he finally put his head between his knees on the washroom floor we could pack up and go.

But this is just a cold right?

Guns:  You can almost see the smile...

We pushed hard over the weekend, alright, I may have disappeared on a men's retreat to shoot guns and ride horses and reacquaint myself with my masculinity while my wife struggled with her own cold at home with a sick-boy and a 1YO, but hey?  Who's to judge?


By Tuesday the cold hadn't abated, and we found ourselves with a screaming toddler, clutching his ears and shaking because his "breath hurt" and "his brain was making funny noise".

This is just a cold right?

Holistic medicine as per internet instructions here we come!  We can solve this without antibiotic intervention. We're heroes!  Plus we have wireless -  I actually followed this site pretty close to begin with - http://www.ehow.com/how_2308277_treat-earache-toddlers.html .  Please don't judge me.

We got him back to school by Thursday but all was not well with the world, so (as the plan had always been) it was time to go to the clinic and have him checked.

A look in both ears, and the tonsils and we were on our way home for antibiotics for strep.

Ew...

And so, already proud father of the loudest child on the planet, now he's got plugged ears...

But this blog isn't all about mistakes is it?  (As a matter of fact I believe I state in the subtitle that it is...)  Okay fine, here's another one...

Remember, beautiful music and a app enabled phone can make anything look good - proof below:


If a boy looks well after taking Tylenol he probably isn't quite up for a hike yet.
When I say hike, I mean technical, root-protruding, gravel-skreeing, and steep...
When I say steep, I mean switch-back requiring, forehead-grating, tear inspiring...
When I say tear inspiring, I mean Dad must step in and carry all three...
When I say all three, I mean I took the dog too.

Sure, I could have parked at the bottom of the hill and walked 1km to the river.
Or I could have parked at the top of the hill and walked 3km down-hill to the parking-lot and not make it to the river.

No one had any idea how far it was to the river...

See what I did there, I excused myself by pointing out that we stopped before I forced us to make it all the way to the river without even mentioning that I also took the dog.

So with one kid on my back in the Ergo(tm), one kid clinging to my side wearing the Platypus(tm), a backpack reversed on my front, and the dog leash looped over my Wrist(tm) -- wait, I can't (tm) a body part can I? I trudged back UP the hill (Yes dumb-dumb, if you walk the boys down the hill you have to find a way to get back up) proverbial tail between my legs.

The weather and scenery were beautiful and the boys were into it... even if it was a little much.


Why must men always want to do things that are manly?  Especially at times when their manliness is compromised by sickness?  Like even at 33, why do I still play soccer when I'm injured?  Why do I stay up too late on a night I know I'll be up early the next day?  Like watch women's beach-volleyball? 

I have an answer for all that:  Men like to learn, and we learn best when we've lived through our mistakes.

Can you spot the mistake?