I Are Stupid Too

Last week was a tough week in our house.   I think we’ve been kind of spoiled with the generally mature behavior of Shelby and Ashlyn as the years have gone by, so when they do something monumentally stupid (which most teenagers tend to do on a fairly regular basis) it comes as quite a shock to their mother and me.   We often remind ourselves, as we did again last week, just how lucky we are that they aren’t out drinking and doing drugs like a lot of kids.   They aren’t at wild parties every weekend or chasing every guy they see.   They don’t dress like they plan to be on a street corner looking for business.   They seem to genuinely care about others.  They are good kids.   Seriously.

But, sometimes…

Shelby is almost twenty-two and will be moving into an apartment very soon, so it’s understandable that she would be stretching her wings of independence to see how far they spread.   She forgets, however, that she still lives in my home and the walls there don’t allow for a lot of stretching and certainly no flying.    Ashlyn, who at 18 wants to be considered an adult when it comes to doing what she wants, but can brilliantly play the “I’m still a little kid” card when it benefits her.   They may be considered "Adults" by some standards , but only if they are graded on a curve.

Although we might have an occasional test of our parental authority from Shelby or Ashlyn (and multiple ones from Taylor), last week they hit us with a series of surprise attacks in a very short period of time.   Staged one after the other with little chance to rest or recover in between, Connie and I were left battle weary and ready to place our finger on the big red button of doom:  the nuclear option of taking car keys and keeping them under house arrest.

Before I explain what happened, let me say that I understand that in comparison to what a lot of parents deal with, their infractions were relatively minor.  I completely get that.   I also don’t care.  We play by the rules set in our house, not in someone else’s.    As parents our rules are tougher than some, more lenient that others.   All that matters are that our rules and expectations are clear.  

Our week of discontent started on Sunday night, when Shelby and Ashlyn changed their initial plans of coming to our house with some friends to watch a movie into going with a friend to his grandmother’s house to watch a movie there.   This, of course, did not make Taylor happy, since she was included (by nature of living there) in the first plans, but excluded from the second.   It doesn’t matter how often it happens (and it happens a lot), I never get used to the emotional drama of teenage girls.

Before they left, Connie and I clearly told Shelby and Ashlyn that they needed to leave for home at 10:30pm.   Our reasons were sound:

·         Shelby had to work the next day

·         they were in someone else’s home and should not stay late

·         that gave them plenty of time to watch a movie

·         because we said so

They had not been gone 30 minutes when Ashlyn called to say that they were going to get pizza with their friend and his grandmother, so they might need some extra time to watch the movie.   It was a reasonable request, and being reasonable people, we agreed.  After some negotiating, we added an hour to the time they needed to leave.   Don’t say we aren’t fair minded.

We told them to text when they were leaving.

At midnight we texted Ashlyn, since we had not heard from them.    She responded quickly, saying that the movie was almost over and they would leave as soon as it ended.   I asked “how long?” and she replied “fifteen minutes.”

Forty-five minutes later we texted them back and asked where they were.   The response was, “we’re talking and getting ready to leave.”   Apparently not.

For once, it was Connie who got up to wait for them and give them the glare of shame as they walked through the door.   It’s usually me that plays bad cop, but I think she was afraid I would say something I would regret since I’d been in a grumpy mood for a few days anyway.   Unfortunately for the girls, and something none of us really knew, Connie’s “bad cop” mode apparently goes into overdrive once it gets past 2am, so when the girls finally walked in at 2:15, she was not her typical happy self.

Leaving the parenting in her capable hands, I was sleeping peacefully in my cozy bed, but she told me the next morning that she gave them a pretty strong lecture on responsibility and doing what you say you’re going to do.   There were feeble attempts at explanation from them and threats of future consequences from her.   In all, not a lot was accomplished, but everyone went to bed appropriately disgruntled.

Monday night I arrived home from work to learn Shelby and Ashlyn had been invited to spend that night at the home of a young lady from church, along with a  couple of other girls.   Not a big deal except that...again, Taylor was not invited.   The drama is never ending.   I don’t blame Taylor for being upset, and I don’t blame Ashlyn and Shelby for wanting to hang out with friends without their little sister tagging along.    It’s a vicious Catch-22.   If one is happy the other can’t be.   Either way, Connie and I are left in the middle and that means that almost always, we aren’t happy.

Since this was a sleepover, we didn’t have to worry about them overstaying their welcome or driving home late at night.   Connie and I slept well with the knowledge that they were safe.  

A little after 5am, Connie got a text.    “Are you seeing the stars?”    It was Ashlyn, who can get as excited about a cute kitten or a prancing deer or a particularly brilliant cluster of stars as anyone in the world.    Rather than running outside to look at the wonders of the pre-dawn sky, Connie and I both were in awe of the fact that they were obviously still awake. 

As we left for work that morning, we texted them to remind Shelby that she had to be at a staff meeting at 10am.   We also felt it was necessary to remind her that she should come home, shower and look somewhat appropriate for work.    Why we did this, I do not know.   It’s been a long time since I’ve stayed up all night long and then had to function for work or school the next day.   If I stay up much past midnight now, I’m a fuzzy brained drooler most of the next day.   I need a mass consumption of coffee to function as it is.   

Shelby was fine and made it home in time to clean up and dress nice for work.   I shouldn’t have doubted, but sometimes as a parent you see patterns of behavior where there isn’t one.  

But sometimes, there is…

That afternoon I was at work when Shelby called to say that she was going to drive 30 miles over to Maryville to see her soon-to-be roommate Lindsey so they could discuss all the stuff soon-to-be roommates need to discuss.    I told her that there were severe thunderstorms rolling in and the radio was predicting high winds.   She said that Lindsey told her it was clear in Maryville, which in Shelby’s mind meant no harm could possibly come to her.   Rather than argue, I simply said, “you’re going to do what you want, so I won’t waste time trying to talk you out of it.   Be careful…love you.”    I would like to say that I was practicing reverse psychology, but it was really just resignation to the knowledge that I could not win the battle.

I hung up the phone and for the next five minutes I thought about her driving to Maryville and back that night.   As I’ve said before, I am the worst case of all worst case scenario thinkers.  I generally stop just before the involvement of  marauding zombies or rampaging dinosaurs, but pretty much every other conceivable bad thing that could happen crosses my mind when it comes to the safety of my kids.   I picked up the phone and called her back.

“Hello?”  

“Hey Shelby,” I said.   “Where are you now?”

“I’m coming through Oak Ridge on the way to Lindsey’s.”

“Okay…I’ve changed my mind.   You can’t go to Maryville.   Turn around and go home.”

She thought I was joking.   “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“But we had planned to meet today for almost a week.”

“You should have thought of that before you stayed up all night last night and most of the night before.”   

I let that sink in and then gave her my justification.   “You are tired, and you will likely be driving in a storm in heavy traffic.   I have no idea what time you will come home tonight, and after the last two nights I don’t expect you’ll choose to come home early.   Finally, you are driving a car in my name and under my insurance.   If you are tired and have an accident you could not only hurt of kill someone, which would be horrible and something you’d have to  live with if you survive, but you’d also destroy us financially, since I would have a share of the responsibility.”

It was one of my more well organized and logical rants and one which she obviously had no reasonable response to.   There was silence for a moment and then a very frustrated “Fine, I’m going home.”

The line went dead and I immediately began to dread what I would face when I got home.   Would I get the silent treatment from Shelby?    A lecture from Connie that I had gone too far?    I expected the worse, but instead got “absolutely normal” Shelby; calm and excited to show me some crafts she was doing for display in her new apartment.   Any resentment she felt toward me she hid well…or else she knew that she would soon be escaping the warden’s prison and there was no point stirring things up now.  

Later, I finally asked her if she was upset and she said she had been disappointed but understood why I had done it.    This was the mature Shelby I was used to dealing with.

Tuesday night, Ashlyn went to dinner with a lady from our previous church who has been a dear friend and Christian mentor to Ashlyn for several years.    Due to scheduling issues, they had not been able to meet for quite a while, so Ashlyn was excited to get together and catch-up on all that had been going on in their lives.    I have always been grateful to this woman for taking the time to meet with Ashlyn and listen to her problems and encourage her.   She’s young enough to be fun and cool to Ashlyn, but she’s also a wife and mother of two, so she’s a great mature role model as well.

The plan was to meet across town at 6pm and as she was leaving Ashlyn said, “Can we all watch White Collar at 9pm?”   White Collar is one of the rare shows that we can all watch together.   I watch it because of the witty scripts and characterizations.   The four ladies of the house watch it to get lost in the eyes and smile of actor Matt Bomer.   

When 9pm came and Ashlyn was not home, my first spark of worry arose, but it was minimal.   I knew they had a lot to talk about and that the restaurant didn’t close until 9, so I let it go.   Twenty minutes later I made the first call to her cell-phone and got only voicemail, and this continued for the dozen or so calls I made across the next forty-five minutes. 

I asked Shelby if she had heard from her and unbeknownst to me she began texting Ashlyn’s friends to see if they knew anything of her whereabouts.   At 10pm Connie and I were trying to find the cell number of Ashlyn’s mentor, which we somehow didn’t have.   I hated to call her home, because she had two small kids who might be asleep, but we were very close to doing that.  Finally Shelby came upstairs saying that Ashlyn had called and was on the way home. 

Connie reminded me not to be mad when she came in, but I wasn’t.  I was mainly just relieved.   She came in smiling her Ashlyn smile and said, “Sorry, I didn’t know my phone was on silent.”    I wanted to say that if she wasn’t in school, church or a movie, there was no reason for it to be on silent, but I didn’t.   She apologized again for being late, and said that they talked until the restaurant closed and then sat in the parking lot talking some more.   She had no idea that we were all so worried.   Kids never do.

We gave her a brief reminder to just keep us informed about what was going on, and she tried to deflect our concern by saying she was perfectly safe.   What kids don’t get is that while they may be perfectly safe where ever they are, if we don’t know that, then we are envisioning them stopping for gas and getting carjacked, or running off the road into a tree-lined ditch, or any number of horrible things that happen randomly.

I told her something I had told Shelby that afternoon when we talked about her driving to Maryville.    “No one ever plans to have an accident, but you CAN plan for ways that might keep accidents from happening.”    (You might have to read that a few times for it to make sense, but trust me, there’s a slight bit of genius in that logic).

Wednesday night was uneventful, and I was grateful.    I was getting too old for this.

Thursday morning Taylor and I drove to Kentucky to spend time with my parents and left Connie with the two troublemakers.    I thought that after the issues of the last few days that it would be fairly calm and uneventful for my sweet wife.   That night I called her just before 10pm to check in and say goodnight and I could tell from the noise in the background that something was going on.

“The girls and some friends are going to the midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises,” Connie told me.   This did not cause me to worry.   I don’t begrudge them being young and doing fun things.   The theater is less than 10 minutes from our house, so it wasn’t a big deal.  There would be lots of people since it was opening night, so I knew they would be safe.    I was actually a little jealous that they were getting to go and I wasn’t.

The next morning Connie called me a little before eight and asked if I had been watching the news.   I told her that we had not turned on the television that morning and she told me about the shooting in Aurora, Colorado.   My heart shook at the thought of my girls sitting in a dark theater at the exact same time, watching the exact same movie.  

I asked if they were okay this morning and she said they were still asleep and didn’t know about what happened, but something in her voice let me know there was something else wrong too.   After some prodding, she finally told me that she had told them when they left to come home immediately after the film.   That should have been some time just after 3am, since it was a nearly three hour movie.   She had told them to text her when they left the theater so she would know they were on the way.   She woke up at 4:30 and realized that she had not received a text.  She got up and found the light in the living room still on.   Hoping that they had just forgotten to text or turn out the lights, she looked outside and the car was still not in the drive.  

Kids cannot comprehend the sudden panic that takes over a parent when their child is not where they are supposed to be when they are supposed to be there.   It’s a full body experience that can wake you completely from a groggy slumber until every nerve in your body is screaming. 

I never understood or even considered this feeling when I was growing up, and when I was in college and still living at home, I was just as thoughtless and unaware of my parent’s feelings.   I think back now to the nights that I was out late and did not call (even though we didn’t have cell phones back then, it’s not a great excuse for worrying the people who love you most in the world).  

While in college I began working on the tech crews with the local community theater.  I loved the creative, open-minded atmosphere, and the people were amazingly fun and sweet.  After almost every performance there was a cast and crew party and there were a few nights I didn’t come in until dawn.  

Did I do anything wrong at these parties?  No (whether you believe me or not), I did not.    I have always been a bit strange about not bowing to peer pressure, so despite what might have been going on around me, I was either too clueless or simply didn’t care to be involved.   I didn’t drink or do drugs.   I mainly sat around and talked and enjoyed the energy of the people.     I never did anything at those parties that I look back on now and say I am ashamed of…except…now I wonder if my parents ever lost sleep or had that terrible parental fear that I get now.   If I did that to them, then I am deeply and sincerely sorry.   

Connie called and got Ashlyn on the phone, who explained that they were hungry after the movie and were now at IHop with a lot of other moviegoers, waiting on food.    She apologized and said that she had reminded Shelby that they were supposed to go home immediately, but was overruled by the power of pancakes.   Connie was not happy.

The shootings put things back in perspective somewhat, but we were still not happy with the choices the girls were making.    Like I said, they weren’t necessarily doing anything wrong except not honoring what they had told us they would do, which in hindsight is not a very big deal, but also a VERY big deal.   

We have told the girls many times through the years, and I’ll bet others have heard a variation of it as well, “it’s easy to lose trust and very difficult to gain it back.”    

I talked to Shelby over the weekend and asked what she had been thinking throughout the week.   She said she didn’t know and that she felt like she wasn’t doing anything right anymore.   She said that sometimes it felt like twenty-some years of being responsible was too much and she was pushing back.    I told her that I understood and that sometimes we get in a pattern of making bad choices and that it’s almost like our mind gets temporarily rewired that way.   I’ve been at points in my life where I thought every decision I was making was wrong.   The only way out is to recognize it and start asking for help.   Prayer is always the first place to go.

I told her to err on the side of too much information when it comes to her Mom and me.   If we know where they are and that they are safe, we’re much less likely to be upset.   Not knowing is such a horrible feeling to a parent.  

If you think I am too hard on my kids, you may be right, but it’s only because I love them so much and want to protect them.   I know that they will do stupid things, because all kids do stupid things and because I did an amazing amount of stupid things (and still do more than my fair share).    I don’t want them to repeat my mistakes.   I was lucky to survive some of them.

When I was just out of high school and stretching my wings a bit too, my friend Rodney and I went to Louisville one afternoon to see a movie.    As we pulled into the parking space at the theater in Rodney’s old yellow Ford, we slammed particularly hard into the concrete parking barrier.   I looked at Rodney and he said, “My foot went all the way to the floor, man.   The brakes are gone.”

Now, any logical people would have called someone, maybe a wrecker or AAA or their parents, but not us.   We went inside and watched our movie and came back out and got in that same yellow Ford.   I’m not sure how we didn’t catch a light on Bardstown Road.    I don’t know how we got onto Watterson Expressway or exited onto Interstate 64.   It made sense at the time that we could do it, just as drunk drivers are positive that they can drive safely or people who text think they can do that while paying attention to the road.   I can’t speak for Rodney, but I admit to being a little nervous, yet I didn’t offer up a single suggestion that it was a terrible idea or that we should not be doing it.

Amazingly, we made it the thirty miles back to our exit and even somehow maneuvered that big curve on the ramp taking us back into town.   It was less than a half mile from Rodney’s house that a car pulled out in front of us and with no brakes he had no choice but the swerve wildly and take us off the road and head first straight down a steep embankment.   We came to sudden stop that was so jarring I can still feel it in my teeth some nights.  

We were watched over that day because we not only survived without a scratch, but more fortunately, we did not kill anyone else.     Even if I was to combine all the stupid things my girls have done so far, it wouldn’t come close to how stupid that one incident was.     I understand “stupid” all too well.

I hope my kids make smarter choices than I did.   I hope they understand that sometimes even the littlest decisions can have a huge, life-altering impact.   Unfortunately, there are no time machines to correct our mistakes.   All we can do is hope and pray that we live through them so we can ask forgiveness and learn not to do them again. 

My Happy Place

The first time I stepped inside a movie theater I fell in love.   The sound of fresh popcorn popping in the lobby welcomes you along with the rich buttery aroma that seeps into your lungs and surrounds you like a hug.   I loved how the people in line are almost always in a good mood, knowing that they will soon have crunchy snacks to enjoy and cold drinks to sip, and just beyond the door lies escape from their mundane world.  I loved the careful balancing act of carrying a tub of popcorn and a large soda while simultaneously trying to hand the attendant my ticket.

Stepping into the dark theater and finding that perfect seat still makes me feel like a kid again.   I love being transported to new and distant places.  I love the craft of a well told story.   I love characters that come to life and change for the better throughout the run time of the film.   It is a hopeful place for me, and when I step outside afterward, into the bright light of the afternoon or the crisp cool of the evening, I always think I am entering a world that was better than the one I left just a few short hours before.  

I love movies. 

Saturday afternoon, Connie suggested that we go see a movie, and she didn’t have to twist my arm.   It was miserably hot, as it has been for most of the summer, so the cool, dark theater would be preferable to doing anything that involved going outside.  

The popcorn smelled the same, and the lines were nearly as cheery as usual (although slightly more subdued, since this was an art-house, limited engagement theater and most of the clientele was over-40).    We entered the theater and chose our seats just as the pre-show was winding down.   It was then that I realized that I would probably never enter a movie theater again without looking at the exit doors to make sure they were closed.  

Although I enjoyed the movie a great deal (“The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel,” which is now on Connie’s all time favorite list), the sanctity of the movie theater experience has been slightly disturbed for me.  I can no longer fully escape the outside world.   Lessons have been learned that will not be easily forgotten.  I’m sure I will not be the only one to take my eyes from the screen occasionally to check doors and glance around for any signs of strange activity.    It will become a part of our national consciousness, much like men approaching a cockpit door, or large trucks parked and abandoned in front of government buildings.  

It’s sad to think that my kids will grow up in a world where nothing is completely safe.   I don’t remember having to fear about home invasions or school shootings when I was a child.   I don’t recall every wondering if I would return home after going to church or a movie.   It’s a sad reality that makes up our life today and our kid’s tomorrows.   We have allowed our world to get out of hand.

I’m glad I “got back on the horse” and saw a movie so soon after the shooting.    I honestly believe that if you don’t live your life because you have a fear of dying, you’d just as well be dead.    I don’t want to lock myself in my house and never leave.   I don’t want to live in fear.   I don’t want that for my kids either.   I want them to see movies…and I want them to see the world.   Despite all the potential danger and the crazy people, it’s still a truly beautiful, magical place.      

Keep the Change

It is often said that “change is inevitable” and that is certainly true.   Most change comes in almost imperceptible increments over time:

·         One gray hair becomes two, then ten, then a hundred, then a head full.

·         We step on the scale and have gained a pound…then suddenly our clothes don’t fit…then we look in the mirror and say, “who is that fat person?”  

·         The naïve puff of a single cigarette or the taste of a solitary drink or the brief escape of a tiny pill start out controlled, but become an addiction.

We see change in our faces.   We see change in our spouse, in our kids.   We don’t always notice because it happens so slowly.   Some days we just wake up and say, “how did this happen?”

Like most people, I’m not a big fan of change.   I find comfort in stability.   I always have, even when I said that I didn’t.  When Connie and I first married, she told me that no matter what, she did not want our marriage to get “comfortable.”    She described it as the “death” of romance and excitement.   I promised that we would not fall into that trap and we would never become “comfortable.”   

We failed.  Miserably.

We did become “comfortable.”   Extremely “comfortable,” in fact.   She admits now that she likes our comfortable life, and it has not been what either of us would call a “death.”   Romance is definitely still there, just different.   It’s not always roses and candlelit dinners.  Sometimes it’s bringing them a cup of coffee or rubbing a sore back.   There are many ways to show your spouse you love them.   The best way is to not expect anything in return.

Having children changes your perspective rather quickly.     Happiness becomes less about what you think you’re going to do with your life than about what you want for someone else.   For most of our marriage we have lived inside a rare bubble of family unity, safety and (for lack of a better word) “coziness.”   We were blessed with three daughters who generally enjoyed being at home with us and (most of the time) got along well with each other.   I was spoiled.

The last few years have been a little different.   That incremental change process began speeding up.   The girls got older, their individual goals and dreams began to form and challenge our carefully established status quo.   Now I am facing what I have so long tried to ignore and hoped would just go away.   My family is going through drastic changes.   Life as I know it will never be the same.

In the last month, three momentous events have occurred in the lives of my daughters (and therefore, mine and Connie’s).    Taylor finished Middle School and will begin High School in the fall.   As our baby, this is difficult to deal with and not just a reminder, but a relatively violent slap in the face that we are getting older.

Ashlyn graduated High School last week and will start college in the fall.   Although she will still be living at home and commuting to classes (which makes me selfishly happy), it is still a major milestone.   Connie and I both agree that Ashlyn graduating is hitting us much harder than Shelby’s graduation three years ago.     I’m like that father in the car commercial.   I still see Ashlyn as that little blonde haired toddler, so quick to give a hug and a smile.    So young.

Then, last Saturday, Shelby and her friend Lindsey signed a lease on an apartment, and she will be moving out this summer.   Like I said, I have been spoiled by having all my girls at home for so long.   Shelby has been commuting to college classes for three years, and although I knew the day would come when she would go, it doesn’t make it any easier.    I wasn’t ready for her to grow up.  

I wasn’t ready for me to grow old.

I went with Shelby and Lindsey to look at the apartment complex and if you’ve heard the expression “bouncing off the walls,” that was their reaction to the possibilities of moving out on their own.   I was happy to see their incredible enthusiasm, but as they danced from room to room, pointing out decorating options and paint colors, I felt like I was suddenly dropped underwater and was watching it all in slow motion.   

That night, we held Ashlyn’s graduation party.   Our house was full of celebration and laughter, and as I sat in the corner, resting from a long day of food preparation and the trauma of being abandoned by my oldest child, I quietly watched as my girls interacted with their peers and family.   They are so different from me; more adventurous and open to new things…more relaxed and happy.  I don’t think change will kick them in the stomach like it seems to do me.   I hope not.  

I hope they stand firm in their beliefs but keep their minds open to the possibility of their own misconceptions.  

I hope they hold themselves to a higher standard, but do not place judgment on others.

I hope they realize that “going with the flow” doesn’t mean letting others take you down a river of destruction.  

I hope they find comfort and peace in their hearts, but keep their mind open to the beauty and mystery that life offers.  

I hope that they strive for positive change, and don’t let the things that are out of their control bring them down. 

Most of all, I hope I haven’t screwed them up too bad.   I am sure that one of the major concerns I have with them moving on and moving out is my insecurity that I haven’t done enough.   I have mini panic attacks that there is some major life lesson that I was supposed to teach them but somehow forgot.   What if they don’t know how to balance a checkbook?   Or boil eggs?   What if I never told them that Wrestling is fake or how to put air in a tire?   There are so many things to teach and so little time.

It’s not that I don’t have faith in them.   They are amazing girls who fortunately take more from their mother than they do from me.   I just don’t have a lot of faith in myself.   Some things never change.

Why I am an Angry Person

A few weeks ago I attended my daughter's graduation ceremony from Community College. It was a wonderful program with inspiring speakers, good music, and the promise of a better future for hundreds of graduates. As I watched my daughter cross that stage and take another step toward a life of independence and adventure, all I could think of was, “Why can’t those idiots behind me shut up?”

Don’t laugh, but in the last few years I have honestly tried to become a more tolerant person. I have attempted to overlook the blatantly obnoxious, oblivious, self-involved behavior of our current society. I have tried to make excuses for them, such as “they just don’t know any better,” or “it was the way they were raised,” or “someone must have dropped them on their head when they were kids.” I tried (hand on a Bible), I really, really tried.

But it’s gotten to the point that bad behavior is not just overwhelmingly prevalent, but has become accepted as a societal norm. We hear so many people talking about “Freedom,” that people think that means they can do anything they want. God Bless America! Home of the Free and the Rude!

I’ve ranted before about bad behavior in movies, but it’s pretty much everywhere now. You might expect bad behavior in a bar, or a ball game, and almost certainly at a family reunion, but I’ve noticed it rearing its ugly head at Church also. What used to be a place of absolute reverence and respect; is now a place where people chat during songs, during the sermon, and even during prayers.

When I was a kid, if I was bored, I drew quietly in a bulletin. If I got loud or misbehaved in any way, I was promptly taken outside and dealt with. Take my word for it, those hard wooden pews do not feel good after a spanking. I learned my lessons quickly.

Youth today don’t get spankings, and in general it seems that parent’s drop them at the door and don’t look their way again until they get in the car to go out to eat for Sunday lunch. I’ve noticed the youth in our church line up across a row and talk, laugh and pass notes throughout the entire service. They don’t even have the decency to sit on the back row like my peers did. They sit toward the front where everyone behind them can watch them misbehave. Everyone, I guess, except the parents (who are probably too caught up in their own conversations to go up and grab their kid by the earlobe and drag them out for some good old fashioned lessons in proper church behavior).

My girls know that I’m watching, and I’m proud of the fact that they also seem bothered by the bad actions of their fellow youth. Often they will come and sit with me and their mother on Sunday morning and when I asked them why they aren’t sitting with their friends, they have answered “they talk too much during the service.” It gives me a big Dad smile.

Another thing I’ve noticed in church lately is how many people do not take advantage of the nursery facilities. I don’t have a problem with that. In fact, I think kids should get used to being in the service and learning to be quiet and respectful. But (and there is almost always a “but”), parents need to use some common sense and have respect for others.

If you have small children, sit in the back and on the end of the pew. That way you can get up and step out quickly when they cry or act up. Don’t bring any toys that make noise or can be used as a horn, drum or hammer. These suggestions may seem too obvious, but apparently not. It happens on any given Sunday.

I’ve noticed that one mother brings books for her pre-school child, which I whole-heartedly agree is a good thing. I would not expect a child to sit still and listen to a sermon with multiple Old Testament references and themes based on eternal damnation (and to be perfectly honest, if I could bring a copy of Berenstain Bears to peruse during some of the drier sections of certain sermons, I’d be happier too). This particular mother though, doesn’t just bring her child books; she chooses to READ them to her during the service. I’m not talking about a onetime occurrence, but every Sunday morning. I’ve actually had to move where I sit (which is a major concession in a Baptist church, where seats are leased on a lifetime basis) because if I continued to sit near her and listen to her soft narration and turning of pages, I may have eventually lost my religion.

Of course, we are inundated with examples of bad behavior in media, and more often than not we see that behavior rewarded. How many reality shows do you see that follow a family who is respectful, loving, kind and generous? Between Jersey Shore, the plethora of “Real Housewives,” the Kardashians, the Teen/Dance Moms, the know-it-all cake boss/restaurant gurus, and any number of B-grade star wannabes who allow cameras to follow them around; we don’t have a lot of quality role models. Rude, loud, selfish, ignorant and greedy gets the attention these days.

All of this is a great reminder of something I have tried so very hard to ignore. I don’t like people. Not any of you reading this right now, of course, but those other people. We know who they are.

As we sat in the cramped seats of Thompson Boling Arena to watch Shelby graduate and listened to the hoots, hollers and air horn blasts coming from the large family of morons behind us, my lovely and much more tolerant wife leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “Can we request to sit in the non-redneck section next time?”

Sadly there isn't a section to escape bad behavior.  Not anymore.

I am not exaggerating about this group, and if you do not believe me, you are welcome to ask my wife or any of our other family members who were present. The people behind us behaved like they were sitting in their back yard, drinking beer and waiting for the cock fight to start. I picture them arriving at the arena on a large flatbed truck or in an old yellow school bus (so old, I imagined, they had bought it from a church, which means it had been retired from service twice). They came there to honor “Billy,” whose name they screamed loudly and often throughout the entire ceremony. I later learned (and I swear this is true) that his name was “Billy Bob.” I can’t say that I was shocked.

I tried hard to ignore them, but considering that they raised their voices to be heard over the arena speaker system, I couldn’t help but hear most of their constant chatter. Apparently one of the three women sitting directly behind us was pregnant and would soon be giving birth, although based on appearances, it was difficult to tell which one it was. They talked about OB/GYN visits and the use of drugs during childbirth (they were all for it). Then the soon-to-be-mother, with incredible conviction, said “if it’s a boy, I’m pushing him back in until he comes out a girl.”

I wanted to turn around and educate her a little bit. “Hi, I’m not a doctor, but I used to watch ER all the time, and I just want you to know that it really doesn’t work that way.”

I wanted to turn around a lot that evening. I wanted to tell them shut up. I wanted to say, “There are other people who would like to hear what is going on and maybe even hear their loved ones name called out at graduation.” I wanted to say, “Did you ever think that Billy Bob might be humiliated that you’re up here acting like you’re at a tractor pull?”

I didn’t do any of these things, of course. I didn’t say anything to them. Fortunately, they did have a lull in their conversation when Shelby’s name was called, so we did hear it, or that might have been the proverbial straw that sent me to jail that night for assault. I was frustrated though, and it affected my enjoyment of the evening because I couldn’t just relax and be in the moment.

The situation left me wondering what is the right thing to do. How do you teach other people how to behave properly? I don’t think my asking them politely to “keep it down” would have worked. I got the impression that they would have kicked my seat and said “Move somewhere else if you don’t like it!” By implication, that left me with two choices: a) move somewhere else, or b) start liking it. I didn’t like either of those choices.

I was also afraid it could escalate in other ways.  These ladies had the look that if they had not been in a bar fight recently, that they at least knew every move in the WWF catalog, and although I was pretty sure Connie could handle one or maybe even two of them, three would have been just a little bit too much (plus, I'm fairly confident that the rest of the clan would have joined in the battle, including their feral looking children sitting behind them).

The other problem when confronting crazy, rude people is that their unbridled belief in their right to FREEDOM and doing whatever they want to the detriment of others could well extend to their personal right to bear (and use) arms. Not that all gun owners are crazy, rude people (and I know several gun owners who are polite, well-balanced citizens), but I can pretty much guarantee that if you have a guy named “Billy Bob” and at least two women with “America: Love It or Leave It” tattoos on their upper chest then there is probably a gun rack in the back truck window and a handgun in a purse.

My frustration with bad behavior only goes so far.

It's not a bomb...

There was a lot of backlash when the TSA first installed full body scanners at many of the nation’s airports. There were concerns of privacy and how much the security personnel would see and what would happen to those images. I’m sure that many women were very concerned (with great reason), but I didn’t really worry about it for myself. I already had a pretty poor body image, so all I felt was a bit of sympathy for any poor TSA agent who had to cast their eyes upon my unrestricted frame.

In response to the backlash, TSA adjusted the image so that (supposedly) the shape is standardized and only the area where contraband is suspected will be highlighted.

Something like this:

Of course, we have the option to bypass the scanner and request a pat down, but I’m not a fan of strangers laying hands on me. It’s awkward and I never know whether to look really uncomfortable (which I am, but might make me look guilty of something) or to try and relax and go with it (which might make them think I’m enjoying it). It’s far too much pressure when I’m already worried about the twenty ton metal tube I will soon be trapped inside for a four hundred mile an hour rocket ride five miles above the earth.

So I always go through the scanner. I don’t worry about the potential radiation, although I probably should. I already have a cell phone to my ear for half my day and I live in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, where animals routinely grow extra legs and no one eats the local fish. It just gets to be too much to worry about, and I could already serve on the US Olympic Worry Team.

Now, after all the fuss about what the image would show, the tricky thing about the new full body scanners is that you have to get almost naked to go inside. Shoes off. Belt off. Coat, jacket and sweaters off. Nothing in your pockets (even a tissue). It’s only you and a thin layer of clothing.

I think I’ve mentioned before that one of the more difficult things for me is removing my belt. I’m kind of at an “in between” size right now. Not quite snug in one size, but too big for the next size down. Since I don’t aspire to the idiotic teen male trend of having my pants hang down to my upper thighs showing my underwear to the world, I keep my belt tight and my pants around my waist. Once my belt is removed and I step unsupported into the body scanner, I am required to raise my hands over my head (see photo above) and remain still. This is not so easy and I know it is just a matter of time before a video of me hobbling out of an airport scanner with my pants around my ankles ends up on YouTube.

This past Monday I showed up at the Knoxville McGhee Tyson Airport for my flight to Washington like I had done for the last three weeks and many times throughout the last ten years. Being an experienced traveler, I have learned to wear the same basic clothing when I fly. My logic is that once I found an outfit that gets me through security without issue, I will stick to that. It makes sense and in general, it works.

Monday I arrived and after checking my luggage and getting my boarding pass, I made my way to security. After a short wait in the serpentine control line, I started filling the gray plastic bins with my personal items: belt, wallet, cell phone, two tissues, boarding pass and shoes. In a separate bin I placed my laptop and then pushed them all into the conveyer for their fun ride through the tunnel of no secrets.

I then waited behind a slightly older gentleman who apparently had neither flown nor watched the news in the last ten years. He also did not appear to have the capacity to listen, since every two minutes there was a loud and clear announcement blaring through the entire area stating that you need to remove your shoes, belt, etc. He ignored all of those things, threw his oversize bag on the conveyer and marched proudly forward.

The TSA Agent sent him back to remove his shoes, watch, coat, cell phone, and clearly said “Do you have anything else in your pockets.” The man shook his head and said, “No.”

He stepped into the scanner and didn’t raise his hands. The agent pointed at the large sign inside the scanner (about 12 inches from the man’s face) that showed a clear diagram of a body with their hands over their head. The man put his arms straight out. It was brutally obvious at this point that the man was a career politician. No one else could possibly be so oblivious to their surroundings.

Once he finally grasped the correct standing procedure and the scanner ran, he was stopped and informed that he had something in his right pants and left shirt pockets. He stepped back through the scanner and emptied a few dollars in change, some car keys and his boarding pass into a bin and tried again. I wanted to suggest that this man must have been hiding something and in the interests of security he should submit to a full cavity search. Unfortunately, he was cleared on this go through and he began the slow process of gathering his belongings.

Swift and practiced, I stepped into the scanner and planted my feet on the painted yellow feet on the floor and my hands in perfect symmetry with the diagram in front of me. This should be quick and painless and I would soon be on my way to the gate.

The scanner bar made it’s quick half turn and I was motioned by a TSA agent to step out and wait to be cleared to proceed. It only takes a few seconds, twenty at most. I don’t even look back at the screen anymore because I am the model of travelling efficiency and I know that there can be no problem.

I knew something was wrong when the eyebrows on the TSA agent standing in front of me went unnaturally high. He looked at the female agent to my right and said, “We’re going to need a supervisor.” I watched as she lifted her radio to her lips and in soft, calm voice said, “Supervisor to One…we have a Groin Alert.”

I turned to look at the screen and the cut-out human diagram displayed there, and sure enough, dead center of the crotch was a bright yellow square.

Supervisors must be trained to respond rapidly to “groin alerts” because by the time I looked back a very tall and intimidating man was standing within inches of my face. He gave me a quick look up and down and then without a hint of humor, said, “Sir, do you have anything in your pants?”

There was only one correct answer in that instance, because TSA agents are not known for their appreciation of sarcasm, so I simply said, “no.”

“Okay,” he said. “Are you willing to go through the scanner again?” I quickly agreed to that option because I was almost positive that any other option might not be very pleasant.

I stepped back inside the scanner and silently prayed that whatever had set it off the first time was a technical glitch and would not happen again. The supervisor stood just outside the entry and said, “Sir, please untuck your shirt from your pants and pull your pants waist up as high as it will go.” I did as I was told. “Now sir, please raise your hands above your head.”

I quickly glanced around to see if anyone had their cell phone out filming my moment. I knew that without the extra snugness of my shirt being tucked in, my pants were considerably loose. I had no idea what would happen when I raised my hands. If nothing else, I could prove that I wasn’t carrying a weapon.

After a few attempts to raise my hands and feeling my pants start to slip, I finally pulled them as high as I could and spread my knees a little bit, hoping against hope that this bizarre yoga squat move would hold them up long enough for the scanner to run. The TSA supervisor gave me a strange look but hit the button to start the scanner. As soon as it was done, I grabbed for my pants and stepped outside, waiting nervously to see if my groin was still considered a threat to national security.

After what seemed like a half an hour, but was only about 30 seconds, the screen flashed bright green with the simple word OK on it. The TSA supervisor looked just as relieved as I was, probably because the next steps in the screening process would have been somewhat awkward for us both. He stood by me as I gathered my belongings and I asked, “I guess this happens a lot, right?”

“No,” he said. “Fortunately, it’s very rare.”

As always, lucky me.



.

Alive and Kicking

.

Connie told me last week that she has added something to her bucket list and she was going to make it a priority to see it through. Having seen the 2007 Morgan Freeman/Jack Nicholson film of that name, I knew what a “Bucket List” was and it didn’t really surprise me that she had one. She loves to experience new things and likes a little bit of adventure thrown in. Then she said that Taylor had mentioned something being on HER bucket list, and I was a little taken aback. Why does my 13 year old have a bucket list?


After various prolonged discussions about how we could make her bucket of dreams come true, Connie asked me what was on my bucket list. I had to think for a minute. Then I had to think for a very long time. I knew that I had never made a formal list of things to do before I died, but was there even an informal list floating around in the ether of my frazzled mind?

After giving it some thought during this last week, it struck me that the only thing sadder than not doing what you want to do before you die is to not even have a general idea of SOMETHING outside of our normal day to day existence that we would like to accomplish.

Starting from scratch, I was a little overwhelmed with the thought of filling an entire bucket…so I decided to start small and make a “coffee mug list.” I’m a big fan of coffee, and holding a steaming cup of java in a heavy mug gives me a high degree of comfort. Buckets are little unwieldy, and besides all that, I had a misfortunate run-in with a galvanized metal bucket as a clumsy toddler that left me with stitches over my left eye. Buckets haunt me.

The first thing that popped into my head when I asked myself, “What would I like to do that I haven’t done before” was: Take an uninterrupted nap.

I realized immediately the fault in my thinking because surely at some point as a child I had experienced a nap which was not broken up by a phone call, a crying child, a barking dog or the emergency need for me to replace batteries in the remote control. I reasoned that just because I could not remember something didn’t mean that I hadn’t done it, so I needed to set the bar slightly higher.

“Where would I like to go?” I asked myself. This question is a little difficult for me considering that I spend an average of 30 weeks a year away from home. When you spend that much time eating airport food and sitting in cramped “built for maximum occupancy” seats, the thought of sitting at home in your comfy recliner is more attractive than seeing one of the seven wonders of the world. (Combine my recliner with an uninterrupted nap and I may have found enough wishful thinking to actually fill a large dump truck, forget the bucket). After perusing the web and a spending a few hours watching the National Geographic channel, I still couldn’t find any place that I had an overwhelming desire to visit. I’m sure I would enjoy a visit to Ireland or Australia, Alaska or Brazil, but I’m also pretty sure that I wouldn’t feel all empty inside if I never go there.

I thought about other people’s lists. They seem to contain acts of adventure like Sky-diving, Zip-lining, bungee-jumping or swimming with dolphins. Considering that I can’t play most video games because I get motion sick and I also can’t swim, I pretty much had to rule out most of the standard “thrill” acts that make it on the lists. Living on the edge doesn’t appeal to me. I’m more of a “stay way back in case I trip” kind of person.

My blank list was getting more pathetic by the minute as the implication settled in that I seemingly had nothing to live for. What would people say about me when I was gone? Not that I grabbed hold of life and lived every moment, but that I existed…watching each hour pass from the safe cocoon of my comfort zone.

After berating myself for a good long while over what I couldn’t imagine myself doing, I had a brief moment of clarity when I simply asked myself, “What would make me happy?”

Now, that shines an entirely new light on these semi-morbid proceedings. I don’t need an impressive list of accomplishments to be happy. My joy comes from other things.

-I want my daughters to be healthy, happy and stable. I want them to find a good man who will love them unconditionally and worship them as they deserve. I want them to live the life that they were meant to live without the binds that hold so many of us back. I want them to find their inner peace and develop a strong personal relationship with their maker.

-I want to retire and spend mornings with my beautiful wife sipping coffee on the back deck until the sun becomes too warm and we have to switch to ice tea.

-I want to help my family achieve their goals.

-I want to travel some…but I don’t care about the destination.

-I want to be a better person.

Some of these items are out of my control, but I might be able to nudge them in the right direction a bit. This is my list of things that would make me happy, and now that I’m thinking that way, I’m sure I’ll think of more. I’m a very lucky man to have options. I’m not going to call it my “bucket list.” This is my “Cup runneth over list.”

The Big Deal

I think I’m pretty laid back as a father, which probably has more to do with the quality of my kids than with any specific personality traits I may have mastered. I don’t have to do a lot of yelling and screaming, and when I do it usually backfires on me and requires some type of humble apology and a pathetic explanation that I misunderstood what was going on. Fortunately, my kids don’t hold those mistakes over my head too often and they accept my groveling as part of who I am.

In the last couple of weeks we’ve had some situations that required me to pull back the mask of fumbling idiot and be “serious Dad.” Even rarer was the fact that I was justified in doing so. I know this to be true because Connie did not give me the evil eye while I was doing it.

The first incident occurred on a Saturday night two weeks ago when Shelby and Ashlyn invited a 16-year-old male friend from church over to practice music. As it turns out, there was no music practiced and soon plans had changed into going out to eat and seeing a movie. Life changes fast in the mind of teenagers (or twenty year olds, in the case of Shelby). Their mutual love of music was overpowered by their desire for buttered popcorn and a night on the town.

After some drama and debate over leaving little sister Taylor at home (why can’t they all just get along?), the gang of three left the house with the promise to call later to let me know what’s going on. A while later, while watching Disney channel re-runs with Taylor, I get a text from Ashlyn saying that they were “in Turkey Creek” to eat. For those who don’t know…Turkey Creek is a shopping and restaurant haven that is not in our town but is on the outskirts of Knoxville, about 15 miles away.

Now, before I describe my reaction, let me explain a few things. First, it might sound like that’s not a big deal. Second, it’s a big deal because I say it is.

My text response was this: I am not happy

This prompted a quick text response of “why?” by sweet, dear, oh so innocent Ashlyn and almost immediately a phone call by the same sweet, dear, oh so innocent child. “Why are you upset,” she said, completely unprepared for the hurricane of parental judgment about to befall her.

“Well,” I said, “you have driven to Knoxville without telling me that you were going. It’s Saturday night, so the roads are full of people who have just had a few glasses of wine or beer with dinner. And…you have a minor in the car whose parents think he is at our house or at least in our town.”

“His parents won’t care.”

“Did he call them for permission?”

“No, but they won’t care.”

“I would care…don’t try that with me in the future.”

“We didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“It’s a very big deal,” I told her. “I’m not just responsible for your well-being, but for his as well.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take responsibility.” She said, thinking that at seventeen she could bear that weight.

“No, you don’t understand,” I told her. “I own the car that you are in. I pay the insurance. If anything happens, I am completely responsible.” I let that sink in for a few seconds. “Not that his parents would do it, but if anything happened to him, they could sue and take everything we have. I am absolutely responsible!”

She got quiet and then said, “Sorry.”

I was too upset to let them off the hook, so I said “it’s easy to be sorry after you do something,” and then added “and I’m very disappointed in your judgment.”

That last part probably stung me harder than them. When I heard myself saying it, I thought about the times I had seen disappointment on my parents face. There was nothing worse. I’d have rather been beaten.

I thought of them riding in our van; the joyous mood of youthful fun that left our house had been sucked out by the vacuum of my anger. I didn’t want them driving so upset. In my always churning “worst case scenario” mind, I didn’t want what might be our last conversation to be so harsh.

“Now listen,” I said, calmly. “The main thing is be careful…and know that I love you.”

There was a brief pause, and I can only imagine the look on her face, because Ashlyn responded with “Geez Dad, I hate it when you do that.”

“What?”

“You get all upset about something and get us all upset…and then you say you love us, like it’s all over or something.”

“Oh,” I told her, “it’s not over. We’ll talk about this again. But I do love you.”

“Fine,” she said, in frustration. “Love you too.”

“Be careful then,” I said, “and text me when you get where you‘re going…and again when you leave. Then let me know when you get to the movie.”

“Fine,” she said, although her voice made it clear that it wasn’t. The call ended.

Taylor had listened to my end of the conversation and wanted to know the details, both out of some sisterly concern and also a barely repressed glee that the older kids who had abandoned her at home were now in trouble. I tried to use my explanation as a teaching lesson, telling her that she would do well to learn from the mistakes her sisters make, and hopefully avoid the same problems.

A little later I got a text: We’re leaving.

I responded: Okay, be careful.

Twenty-five minutes later I was surprised when the front door opened and the three silently came inside. “We decided to skip the movie and stay home,” one of them said. They did not look happy, but they did not look mad. In fact, my girls looked different than I had seen them before. They looked like they knew they had screwed up.

It was not a common thing for them. It was not a common thing for me.

When Connie and I talked about it later, we discussed the fact that one of the reasons that I responded so strongly and they took it so seriously is that they have not done anything remotely like that before. They had not done the typical, stupid teenage stuff that most teens do. They had almost exclusively been thoughtful, careful, dependable kids. This behavior, while not malicious, had been a serious error in judgment, and reminded us that they were still going to make mistakes.

Another mistake they made that night was wanting to talk about it when they got home. Since Ashlyn had talked to me on the phone, Shelby led this discussion, and although I had planned to stay quiet until their friend had gone home, I decided that if she wanted to talk about it, then talk about it we would.

She did start with an apology, and it was completely sincere, but when the excuses began I had to cut her off. I explained again that this was not a problem of trust. She didn’t have to tell me that she is a good driver because I know that. Being a good driver doesn’t matter when you’re suddenly staring into the headlights of a drunk driver. Even years of experience can’t prepare you for that.

I tried to explain that no matter how ridiculous my rules and demands might seem, I have only one goal and that is to keep them safe. If I die with the epitaph of “over protective,” but my kids are alive to see me buried, then I will have died a happy man.

It’s not always fun to be a parent. We somehow assume that our kids won’t make the same kind of dumb mistakes and make the same poor choices that we made at that age. We think that our wise guidance will keep them on the straight and narrow path of perfection. When they wander off that path it’s a bitter reminder of how often I stumbled off myself.

So, I’ll try my best to teach them. I’ll pray for them and ask that they be protected from both their own mistakes and the mistakes of others (including mine). I’ll reprimand them when they do something wrong, and hope and pray that I will always have the opportunity to do that. They aren’t perfect, and neither is their father.

And even if they don’t like it, I’m going to tell them that I LOVE them after I get through yelling.