Intuitive
Daddy’s little girl turns eight this weekend. She has a vocabulary years beyond eight. She recently used this vocabulary to ruin yet another word for me.
(Years ago I mentioned how the word “meteorologist” had forever been ruined for me when I realized it sounded like “meaty urologist” and how almost all TV weather casts now result in me thinking about a portly physician).
These are the perils of having a precocious child who reads a lot. And when I say she reads a lot, you should know that more than once I have found an abandoned book she had propped up behind the bathroom faucet so that she could read while brushing her teeth. Some people channel-surf. Shelby book-surfs. Books are all over our house and half of them are ones she wrote herself.
She ruined the word while our family was seated around the dinner table. Jacob asked Laura a question about something I don’t even remember. And then he asked another. And another. He was having fun and maybe just trying to tweak her a little. Finally she laughingly suggested that he stop asking so many questions and try and “be a little more intuitive” about the situation.
Shelby piped up in mock disbelief, “You want him to be more like an Eskimo?”
Silence fell. Blank faces were shared while Shelby sat there with a mischievous grin. She knew she had us and relished the moment while she was the only one in on the joke. Did you get it? I’ll let you off the hook.
Inuit. That was her wordplay. One of the two main indigenous people groups that comprise Eskimos are the Inuit. She had probably just finished reading some book about a plucky Inuit girl who saved a wolf or something.
And henceforth when I hear the word “intuitive” my brain is going to see that little devilish grin at my dinner table and translate it into “Inuitive” and wonder what Eskimos could possibly have to do with the situation.
Happy birthday, sweet girl.
A New Chapter
I’m going to do my best to keep the melancholy in check with this post, but I won’t be able to avoid it. Consider yourselves warned. Our little guy turned thirteen today.
Thirteen.
I haven’t lived full time in a house with a teenager since I was a teenager.
Jacob is a great kid. Smart. Funny. Athletic. A wonderful big brother. And I have to admit there are unexpected benefits of having him grow up on me. For example, I’ve always been a big University of Kentucky basketball and football fan. But I’ve struggled with being able to enjoy watching UK with anybody (Laura’s not a big sports fan). Seems like everybody else I know is either a little too into the game, or not into it enough.
But now when it’s time for a big UK game, Jacob’s my guy.
I’m starting to realize that some of the wistfulness of having ones kids grow up is softened by the development of a new kind of relationship. I used to not really like the thought of having a teenager, but now that I have one, I have to say I really like it.
Because of the one I’ve got.
McSurrender
I don’t hate McDonald’s. I’m just tired of eating their food.
The root cause is a combination of picky-eating kids and a (presumably) evil genius in the McDonald’s marketing department. As a parent, there are times (long car ride) when a quietly-accepted McNugget is worth its weight in gold. And when it’s time for lunch on a car ride, there is always a McDonald’s nearby. It’s as if Ray Kroc himself conjured the interstate highway system for the sole purpose of linking his restaurants into a sentient matrix.
But recently I have begun to sense my family turning a fast-food corner. We have yet to progress to any of your more exotic haute cuisine like, say, Taco Bell. But lately we’re not getting nearly as strong a lobbying effort for McDonald’s from the back seat.
And that makes me happy. Again, nothing personal against McDonald’s, but you must agree that there’s something unsettling about how McDonald’s food all smells the same in your car regardless of what you ordered. And the way a lone wayward fry can make your car smell like a vat of oil for a week.
Let’s be clear. I’m not some kind of gourmet snob. Give me a sack of White Castles and a tub of Skyline chili to dip them in, and I’m a happy man. (As a distance runner, my theory is that one must consume a certain level of grease to keep one’s knees from seizing up).
But McDonald’s? I’m just tired.
A couple weeks ago Laura had a Sunday School function after church so the kids and I were on our own. (I would have cooked them a healthy, delicious lunch myself but Laura’s group was meeting at our house). My plan was to go to Fazoli’s, which offers me the opportunity to feed pizza to happy children while enjoying some kind of pasta for myself. I am a little ashamed at how much I was looking forward to my Fazoli’s.
But on the way I made a wrong turn and popped out on a main thoroughfare going away from Fazoli’s. Do you know how sometimes when one little thing goes wrong, it spins off in unexpected directions? Sort of like when you find yourself at work wearing blue socks with khaki pants because the phone rang while you were brushing your teeth that morning and interrupted your routine?
So as I looked for a place to turn, I noticed a new burger restaurant I’d heard good things about. I’ve wanted to try it for a couple months. It was right there in front of us, and since Jacob and I love burgers, and surely they offer a chicken nugget, ring, or finger for Shelby, this would be a great Plan B. We pulled into the parking lot and I immediately became disoriented. I should have called a timeout right there and immediately retreated to Fazoli’s. But I forged on.
The parking lot was tiny and full, so I went around to the other side. Here I encountered a dead-end and even fewer parking spaces (all full) with a sign telling me that there was additional parking in the rear, but on the side of the building from which I had just come.
And here is where things get fuzzy. I think I saw open space off to the side and figured I’d just go over there and park, and drove out of the burger place’s lot. I immediately encountered signs telling me I better doggone not park there if I was going to that burger place, since those spaces belonged to another business. I turned to go back around one more time (my mind was reeling), and then something happened I still can hardly believe.
As I tried to work my way back out to the street, I realized I was literally driving through the outer reaches of a drive-thru lane of an adjacent McDonald’s.
All of the frustration of the last few minutes built into a wave that crashed upon our old Toyota Camry. I gave up. Sometimes not just electricity but electrical engineers seek the path of least resistance. “Kids,” I asked dejectedly, “what do you want from McDonald’s?” The sack was in my hand before I considered how easily I still could have just gone back down the road to Fazoli’s.
A man can do a lot of thinking as he marinates in fry fat fumes. I wondered if possibly, just perhaps, the evil marketing genius sat in a meeting one day and proposed that if they just angled their drive-thru lanes just so, they could entrap some tiny percentage of customers who weren’t even trying to go to McDonald’s.
I’ll never look at a wretched fly struggling in a spider’s web the same way again.
The Way It Used To Be
Special notice for those keeping score at home: this post uses Blatant Christian Writing Formula #3 (the speck in the brother’s eye compared to the log in your own). Thank you.
Mark
I have mentioned in these parts that I am a runner. Some runners claim running can be a spiritual experience for them. For me it’s usually not. I just like to go outside and run around in a Forrest Gumpian manner. But I do run enough that assuming I have at least a few spiritual thoughts a year, one of them is bound to happen while I’m running.
And running on Easter weekend probably increases those odds.
So last Saturday I went out for a morning run. The Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday has always felt a little odd to me. Good Friday feels like a day for somber reflection. Easter feels like a day of celebration. But that Saturday always leaves me feeling sort of cold inside. No stone rolling away on Saturday.
I ran by a church near my house. This church always interests me because it’s one of those with the old-fashioned marquees out front where they put pithy little sayings like the ones you sometime see forwarded around in an email loop. Things like “Seven days without prayer makes one weak.”
They had one message on the sign months ago that I spent way too much time pondering. The sign said:
CHURCH THE WAY IT USED TO BE
At first I didn’t think much about it, but something about it nagged at me even though I knew it simply indicated that they probably have a traditional worship style. Then I saw it again a few days later and realized the nagging feeling was that maybe they weren’t just advertising their worship style, but perhaps they were criticizing mine. Our church, while somewhat conservative and traditional, does sing modern praise songs and uses video screens for various purposes. I suspected maybe they don’t approve of churches that don’t “do church” the way they do. The way it “used to be” when it was done right.
And then my sarcastic side took over. The next time I drove by I was ready for action. I slowed just a little as I went past and hurled an Easter egg at the sign. Just kidding. What I really did was sneak a peek down the side of the church building. Just as I expected, I spotted just what I was looking for:
Air conditioning units.
“Well, well,” I smiled to myself, “I guess they’re not going back too far to the way church used to be.”
And then I started having more fun. Why, with two-thousand years of Christian church history, did this particular church decide that the way to do church peaked sometime after electricity and air conditioning but before the advent of praise music and women wearing slacks on Sunday? I imagined a church service there in about 1965. I saw a wise elder rising spontaneously to his feet and commanding everybody’s attention right in the middle of the service.
“Wait!” he would have shouted with steely resolve. “Do you see? Can’t you tell? THIS is EXACTLY what a church service should be. We shall not change anything about our church from this point forward, because to do so would only diminish it. This very day, my friends, we have perfected church.” And all the members would have applauded (or said “amen” or whatever constituted appropriate public affirmation in 1965).
And so it was and still is today. Church the way it used to be. In 1965, anyway.
The sign’s message has long since changed, but I still think about it every time I go by. I thought about that sign a little bit longer than usual last weekend after I ran past. But without humor or disdain. Maybe I was more reflective because it was Saturday and Jesus still hadn’t gotten out of the tomb yet this year.
And that’s when it hit me.
Easter Saturday may feel weird to me every year because it’s stuck between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. But that’s just because of what happened a long time ago. You see, when Jesus got up and out on that first Easter, He never went back in.
Stuck in a tomb is only where He used to be.
But not anymore.
The Music Man
Posted by Mark in Entertainment on March 9th, 2010
On Friday night Laura and I attended a high school production of The Music Man. It was really good. The producers can feel free to use that quote on future playbills:
“It was really good.” – The Ark of Mark
I had never seen The Music Man before and knew nothing about it going in. In fact, starting Friday morning, I kept getting the tune “do you know the muffin man” stuck in my head in anticipation of the play, even though I was pretty sure it was not part of the show. (Having seen the play I can definitively proclaim that The Music Man and the Muffin Man are in no way linked – unless maybe it happened in a sequel).
One of my very favorite things about seeing a classic play or movie for the first time is what I like to call the “so THAT’s where that came from” moment. You know the moment I’m talking about. You’re watching some iconic movie and a character says a famous line and your brain hears something familiar and says, “Oh! So THAT’s where that quote came from!” My personal record for such moments probably happened when I finally got around to seeing Casablanca (or as it’s known in English, “White Castle”). For those of you as uncultured as I am, Casablanca is where we got such gems as “here’s looking at you, kid”, “play it again, Sam” and “kiss my grits.”
I’d like to quickly share with you four such moments I had while enjoying The Music Man.
The first is straightforward. Turns out it’s where “Seventy-Six Trombones” came from. You know, the ones in the big parade.
The second is more personal. During my childhood, every time any reference was made to Gary, Indiana, my dad would start singing a catchy tune. Maybe you’ll recognize it if I share some of the lyrics. It goes like this:
Gary Indiana Gary Indiana Gary Indiana
It is testimony to the brilliant catchiness of this tune that I can remember it from my childhood, considering how few times Gary, Indiana could possibly have come up in casual conversation with my dad and thus inspire him to break into song.
The third moment was when a barbershop quartet sang a song called “Goodnight, Ladies.” I was (and still am) a fan of Cheers. There was a Cheers episode where a barbershop quartet comes into the bar and Norm asks if he can fulfill a longtime dream and sing with them. The chorus they sing is from “Goodnight, Ladies” and now I know it came from The Music Man.
Finally, a quick Google search confirmed my suspicions about my favorite “aha” moment of the night. One of the early numbers is called “Trouble.” This song is how the main character convinces the town that they need to spend money to form a band. As I listened, waves of vague familiarity washed over me. Then a big wave hit. Suddenly I wanted to jump up and shout, “Hey! This is just like on The Simpsons when Lyle Lanley came to town and convinced everybody to build a monorail!” I love the monorail episode.
Perhaps it does not speak well of my cultural IQ that I am so delighted that an iconic musical helped enrich my appreciation of Cheers and The Simpsons.
Sticker Shock
I was walking through a parking lot recently and glanced down at a familiar bumper sticker that’s been around for years. You know the one. It says:
QUESTION AUTHORITY
I find its tone a little presumptuous, especially considering it’s intended to promote independent thinking. Every time I see one of them I have the same reaction:
Sticker: QUESTION AUTHORITY
Mark: YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME
I’ll question what I want to question, thank you very much.
But this time I noticed a delightful little detail that I enjoy even more than the inherent contradiction of the message itself. Underneath the bold QUESTION AUTHORITY message was printed, in very small letters, the name of the company that printed the bumper sticker.
Followed by a copyright symbol.
Valentine’s Day 2010
Posted by Mark in Current Events on February 12th, 2010
Hello again. I am not even going to look up how long it’s been since I last blogged. I know it’s been long enough that I feared possibly forgetting how to blog. Then I remembered it’s really just typing.
(I signed up for typing class in high school sort of on a whim. I must say it was a solid choice and has probably saved me entire days of my life over the course of my career. When I was in high school we used actual typewriters, some of which didn’t even have to plug into a wall. I guess they were wireless communication devices in their own charming way).
So I haven’t been blogging much lately, which worried me a little for a while, but then I remembered that only about five people check my blog regularly and they’re smart enough to learn that they only need to check it every couple of weeks.
Today I have a thought to share about Valentine’s Day, or as it’s known around these parts, the holiday preceded by a week of awkward sideways glances cast by the dozens of male engineers in my building who try to pretend they don’t see each other during their lunch hour while they shuffle around like cattle in the holiday aisle at the Wal-Mart adjacent to our campus. Their facial expressions reveal a sense of shame at being seen shopping for their dearest ones’ gifts at a humble Wal-Mart, but they soldier on because the Wal-Mart is so conveniently located and so doggone cost-effective that the pros of the efficiency outweigh the cons of the awkwardness. It’s really just not a pretty sight.
Or so I’ve heard.
As part of today’s Valentine theme I will avoid the blogger tradition of singing the praises of my own personal Valentine. (How much do I love her? I love her so much that I will spare her the indignity of being written about by me).
So right now I’m thinking of how I can get rich off of Valentine’s Day without leaving my office or quitting my day job. What with our sluggish economy I figure it’s the least I can do for America. My idea is to provide a vital service that benefits all my co-workers and potentially allows them to escape the horrifying awkwardness of standing in a Wal-Mart checkout line with their boss while holding a $3.95 aluminum foil-wrapped heart-shaped box of institutional-grade chocolate.
My idea is to have about 500 bulk-discounted roses delivered to my small office every year on about February 7th. According to my field observation in the Wal-Mart, a good 90% of my co-workers make their Valentine purchases sometime after the 7th. I could apply a huge mark-up because engineers (trust me) would place a very high value on not having to face each other at the Wal-Mart every year. Within five years, I bet I could build up a loyal clientele of 30 or so guys who would come to depend on me for all their Valentine’s Day fare. I could stock Valentine’s cards for them also, because I’d only need to pick out one sentimental but not overly mushy card each year and buy 30 of that same card because I’m pretty sure Kentucky law ensures that each of these husbands would be taking the card home to a different wife. Besides, when was the last time you saw two women compare the cards their husbands gave them (especially when they can tell they came from Wal-Mart)?
I think this is pretty much a foolproof idea.
(Oh, and of course I’d need to offer some sort of chocolate supply, but I’ve already got that figured out. I’m going to form a strategic alliance with all the Girl Scout Cookie people in my office).
Look for the Union Email
Posted by Mark in Current Events on January 15th, 2010
So lately we’ve been seeing lots of maneuvering in congress related to this whole health care reform thing. Fear not! I am not about to offer any attempt at political commentary. I generally avoid such conflict because most of it is just not worth the trouble.
But there’s been a new development of late that gave me a great idea. I am purposefully going to be vague about the policy details behind this, because I don’t want to look them up, and you probably don’t care about them anyway.
One of the ideas floated recently is that so-called “Cadillac” health care plans should incur new taxes to help defray other costs of health care. This concept presumably led to a hearty round of backslapping among the assembled reform supporters. And then another reform supporter in the form of a big labor union pointed out that, um, many big labor unions that are supporting health care reform have union members with Cadillac health care plans, and they’re not so keen on the whole new tax thing.
So what do congresspersons generally do in a situation like this when one of their bright ideas runs afoul of one of their loyal constituent groups? (I’m being bipartisan here. Truly).
1. Slap themselves humbly on their collective forehead and say, “Gee, we didn’t think that idea through fully. Maybe we should come up with a better way.”
2. Slap the bearer of bad news a five and say, “Oh, we didn’t mean we were going to tax YOUR expensive health care plan. We’re going to tax everybody ELSE’s expensive health care plan.”
And thus was born the idea of taxing Cadillac health care plans, unless said plans are affiliated with a labor union. In case this does happen, I’m already thinking ahead. I doubt my plan would qualify for the new tax, but I am feeling empathy for those who would have to pay more taxes than others just because they don’t have a union card. I am also feeling entrepreneurial and ready to ride to the rescue of the disenfranchised.
Thus, I am proud to publicly announce my intention to organize a new labor-union called the National Brotherhood and/or Sisterhood of the Independent Occasional Blog-Reading Nincompoops.
Anybody can join by sending in their $25 annual dues to an account to be named later. What do NBAOSOTIOBRN union members get in return?
1. An annual email confirming their membership is in good standing. (Handsome laminated card available for an additional modest fee).
2. Aggressive public advocacy, in the form of a carefully worded press release posted on the union’s website once a quarter, proclaiming the intelligence, diligent work ethic, and general physical attractiveness of union members.
3. A legal way to save thousands in taxes by following the rules currently under consideration in congress.
Oh, sure, congress will probably come up with some wacky rule that in order to receive the union tax break, the union will actually have to administer the actual health care plan. We all know such a rule will have more loopholes than a Berber carpet. We can work something out. I bet NBAOSOTIOBRN members can qualify for the tax break if the union simply serves as a consultant regarding health care decisions. I envision some form of automatic online consultation that would take place when a member pays his or her annual dues:
Q: Should I participate in my employer’s healthcare plan?
A: Probably!
Q: Now that I’ve paid my $25 union membership and consulted you about my health care choices, can I claim the thousands of dollars congress is offering as a special benefit to union members?
A: Our lawyer assures us we cannot be held legally liable if you do!
Q: Thanks!
A: No problem. See you during enrollment next year.
What’s not to like?
(This is where I would like to point out to any member of congress, the IRS, or pretty much anybody who might have a real legal objection to this idea, that satire is a legally protected form of speech. This is satire. As far as you can tell).
The Humble Servant 2 – Ping Pong Wizard
Posted by Mark in The Humble Servant on January 9th, 2010
Happy New Year. Today let’s review yet another time in my life I experienced an enhanced level of involuntary humility.
The summer before my senior year of high school I was fortunate enough to be chosen for a program for Kentucky high school students. I was invited to spend a few weeks living on the UK campus and taking a small number of classes (not for college credit). It’s a pretty neat program that’s been going on for roughly thirty years now. Some enterprising legislator had the bright idea (or borrowed it from another state) that perhaps something like this would encourage students to attend in-state schools, or give them a head start on college that would benefit our commonwealth somewhere down the road.
This program was a really good experience for me. It was sort of a practice run for college without the pressure of the whole grade point average thing. One important lesson I learned is that if you get insufficient sleep for enough consecutive nights, it is in fact possible to fall asleep upright on a science lab chair in the middle of a lecture. Another important lesson I learned is that if you’re a seventeen year-old boy and are preparing to spend a chunk of your summer intentionally keeping a respectful distance from ubiquitous smart, cute, high-achieving high school girls, you might want to double-check and make sure your girlfriend back home isn’t going to break up with you upon your return. Not that I’m bitter.
All the boys in this program lived together in a single dormitory where we discussed deep issues such as life goals, theology, and whether boys or girls had a more closed-minded definition of physical attractiveness. This last topic eventually led to an experiment wherein every boy or girl in the program was asked who they thought was the best-looking attendee of the opposite sex. Whichever gender chose the largest number of different individuals as best-looking must therefore have a more open-minded view of physical beauty.
(You might be interested in knowing the results of this non-scientific survey. I would be delighted to tell you, but I don’t remember. I think the numbers came out roughly even. Sadly, all I remember for sure is that the survey did not remain anonymous and my name did not appear on the comprehensive list of boys receiving votes as best-looking. One of my friends received one vote and found himself unsettled by the knowledge that out of all those girls, there was ONE who thought he was tops. He could not figure out who she was. His quest to find her may have led him to some diagnosable disorder by the end of the summer. Somehow I was not sympathetic to his plight despite the luxury of peaceful assurance that NONE of these girls voted for me).
Perhaps the saddest part of the somewhat humiliating prelude above is that it’s not even the humiliating story I set out to tell you.
The boys’ dormitory had a ping pong table in the basement. Every night a small crowd would gather to play. I was pretty good because we had a ping pong table at home. I even had my parents bring me my favorite paddle when they came for a visit. Every so often I’d go downstairs and play four or five matches and then just retire undefeated. I was unbeaten all summer.
(I almost wrote that I was the King Kong of ping pong but then decided it would be a really awkward thing to say. My feeling is that anything worthy of an eye-roll that is said inside parentheses cannot really be held against the author. I imagine parentheses as a sort of warm, happy place for the amateur writer. Like a non-threatening mental Snuggie. While I’m getting this out of my system let me also say that I have always thought Parentheses would be a great name for the Greek god of the digression).
And then somebody decided to hold a ping pong tournament. Of course I signed up for this. What seventeen-year old boy declines an invitation to demonstrate he’s the best at something? When the tournament pairings came out I checked the list to see when I would eventually meet any of the better players I had encountered. My first round opponent was a guy who hadn’t even played with us all summer.
When the tournament began I sauntered in with my intimidating, smooth-surfaced, personal ping pong paddle. It really was much nicer than the cheesy ones lying around the dorm basement. And then my opponent walked in and I immediately made four key observations:
- He was also brandishing his own ping pong paddle.
- He was carrying his own ping-pong paddle in his own ping pong paddle carrying case.
- I did not know there was such a thing as a case specifically made to carry a ping-pong paddle. (They already have a handle, after all).
- A dorm basement full of vanquished foes just may have set me up.
One could easily sense the eagerness of the other boys to witness the epic clash of teenage ping pong titans that was about to transpire. I feigned nonchalance as my foe unzipped his carrying case.
The kid was good. He immediately jumped out to a lead. I was used to playing against kids using what were closer to boat oars than good paddles, and was unprepared to react to his ability to put a lot of spin on the ball. I had been the only one who could do that. My dad could apply fairly healthy spin but I hadn’t played against him all summer. I rallied and crawled back into the match, but continued making too many unforced errors reacting to his spin. It was a very competitive and fun match the whole way.
In the end, much like the Mighty Casey struck out, the Mighty Mark spun the heavily back-spun gas-filled celluloid ball into the net one too many times. I hadn’t played my best match, but this kid hadn’t played any all summer. He was simply a better player.
While only a vague and distant memory now (his name was John, by the way), one lesson stands clear. No matter how good I think I might be at something, there’s somebody better. And I probably don’t have to look very far to find him.
(But I am pretty sure I was better-looking than he was).
Father of the Year 2009
I always get a kick out of those moments in life when I pause and say to myself, “Now this is something I never imagined myself doing.” I get a kick out of the quirkier ones, anyway. Not so much ones like, say, passing a kidney stone.
A good example of an unexpected quirky event would be back in October when I had my photo taken with Count Chocula. Another example would be the time I visited a prison as part of my former job. I should stress that my presence at the prison was requested and not court-ordered. I visited to discuss electric utility sorts of issues, and ended up eating lunch in the prison kitchen where my hamburger and fries were prepared by a friendly prison cook. Let’s just say when he finished his shift in the kitchen he did not have a long commute home.
Last night our family was preparing to sit down and enjoy the Pixar movie Ratatouille. I love Pixar movies and was eager to get started. Shelby wandered into the room carrying a pencil and a napkin. Apparently during dinner she had started doing a little math in her head. For lack of a better description, she was going through doubles (two plus two is four, four plus four is eight, etc). She had gotten all the way up to 64 plus 64 is 128 in her head.
(This is where I hope you remember she’s in second grade because I’m not going to mention it so it won’t sound like I’m bragging).
Shelby had taken her napkin to figure out what came next by writing it down. She’d added 128 and 128 to get 256. She’d added 256 and 256 to get 512. By the time she ran out of napkin she’d made it all the way to 131072 plus 131072 equals 262144. (Don’t bother checking the progression yourself; I just did using a spreadsheet). Here’s the napkin:
I didn’t even know she could do that kind of math yet. Her teacher had recently taught the all-important skill of “carrying the one.” Shelby asked me to make up a few more addition problems for her to try, and I did. And then big brother Jacob got in the act. Modesty prevents me from saying that Jacob is himself an excellent math student. Jacob threw a couple of tricks at her and even introduced the subtraction concept of borrowing from your neighbor only to learn that your neighbor is a loser zero and can’t offer much help on his own, but might be willing to discuss the situation with his neighbor.
They were having a grand time. And then it happened. So fast I didn’t even realize what I was doing until the words were out of my mouth.
“OK,” I said. “Just one more problem and then you’ve got to stop so we can start the movie.”
Yes. I am the dad who stopped his children from voluntarily doing math problems during Christmas vacation so they would watch TV with him. By next year I’ll be putting cigarettes under the tree.
Now don’t misunderstand me to be saying I think I’ve been an overall negative influence on my children. But this incident did make me think. George Bailey’s Christmas lesson was that Bedford Falls would have been a mess without him. My Christmas lesson this year is that the days of leading my kids are numbered, because all too soon I’ll only be getting in their way if I try.
Bah humbling.