Dr. No

If the stats for this site were an EKG, the time to declare the patient a goner has long since past. I’ve been flat-lining for more than twenty days now, and thankfully it was just the website – it could have been a lot worse.

I’ve picked up some really weird viruses in my lifetime. Like the one I got in Venezuela (not Hugo Chavez) that messed up my inner-ear and made me feel like I was going downhill in a roller coaster – even when sitting still. Or the ear infections when I was eleven that had to be drained weekly with a siphon.

For four-weeks now I have been nearly out of commission with the worst and strangest bug ever. It started as a mild case of the flu, but from there something went horribly wrong.

The virus attacked my neuro-muscular system and may have even gotten into my bones as well. At times I felt like someone was putting their foot in the center of my back while gripping my shoulders, and lifting up with their full force. It felt like I was being broken in two – no kidding.

I couldn’t breathe, sit or lie down without incredible pain. I sweated so badly at night I broke out in a horrible rash. I could only walk by swinging my entire body from side to side, and a short trip would leave me winded and ready for bed.  If this is what eighty-years old feels like, I am not sure I am looking forward to it.

Mild relief came in the form of 1000 milligrams of Advil every three or four hours. While Percocet did a great job of getting me stoned out of my mind – I couldn’t exactly enjoy it because it did nothing for the pain (we are talking serious pain).

Here is the part where the reader gets to play my mother: “Haven’t you seen a Doctor yet?”

Mom actually went so far as to insist I roll up to the drive-thru window at our local Mt. Sinai and have myself admitted (for….being in pain, I guess).

Yes, I did consult with our GP many times – three in fact. On each occasion he would look me over and sigh and say: “I’ve been seeing a lot of people with similar pains – I think it’s a virus. Drink plenty of fluids and take this muscle relaxant (which did nothing except increase the high to psychedelic levels), and call me if it gets worse.”

That was that.

I accepted his pronouncement the first time with a slight grunt as I stumbled out of the office. After the second “useless” visit (and a negative blood test for Lymes Disease – my suggestion, he thought I was nuts but went along for the ride) I began to wonder if I should give my chiropractor buddy Mark a call. I wasn’t really sure what he could do since  my back was so tight it simply could not be manipulated, even by a thousand monkeys typing on a thousand typewriters, but the pain was demanding action and anything seemed better than this Obama-like wait-and-see policy.

Men have been known to drop dead at their desks, less on account of sheer boredom, than from their amazing ability to rationalize away significant pain. I don’t think of myself as having the patience of Job, but I soon found myself again sitting on the crispy-white paper examining table wondering what other pearls of wisdom the good doctor had for me that day. By now I was really, seriously, conclusively going to pick up the phone and give Mark a call if the boy cried wolf one more time.

Cue the sigh – cue the look of concern and the pat on the back with an encouraging: “Well, at least this time you are able to sit for longer with less pain! That should count for something.” As I grumbled while putting on my clothes, he reminded me again that I was not the only case of strange inexplicable pains he was treating.

“Be patient” was the best he could offer. I hope that wasn’t some kind of weird doctor pun.

Did I pick up the phone and call Mark? No, I didn’t. I really dont know why. Something was just not letting me make that move.

Friday night rolls around and I am feeling much better. I can actually walk with only a few spasms slowing me down. People aren’t stopping to look at me anymore. I bump into my friend Mark and that opens up the floodgates. I pour out my weeks of misery to him and tell him how frustrated I have been with “those conventional docs.” He just smiles as he listens and nods his head.

“Well, its a good thing you didn’t call me,” he says.

“Because I have been laid up in bed with the same thing for two weeks now. I too was talking to Dr. So and So and he gave me the identical advice!”

The good word for today is: Trust your doctor, but trust your gut even more.

Credit Worthy

The Talmud says you can learn a lot about a person by judging, not their proficiency at the three R’s, but the three K’s -

Kohwsow – Their Cup; can they hold their liquor?

Kahsow – Their Temper; quick or slow to anger?

Keysow – Their Wallet; generous or cheap?

I’ve often wondered if a modernized version might expand Wallet to include how you protect your valuables.  Are you a paranoid nut who wears one of those motorcycle chains to gird it to your pants? Or do you causally leave it on top of your car like a hot cup of coffee or box of donuts and then drive off? (You know who you are)

I like to think of myself as an in-betweener. I’m that guy who keeps his wallet inside my jacket but then drops it somewhere in the house and spends hours looking for it.  Its somewhat frustrating, but I can deal with that because I know it didn’t just up and walk off on its own.

But,  let me lose my wallet for real, and I go out of my mind. I’ve got Experian and TransUnion on my speed-dialer for those “just in case” situations.

Imagine then how I felt pulling into a popular gas station the other day and spying a credit card on the ground right at my feet. In my minds-eye I could see this poor person frantically driving across town, retracing their steps, calling the credit unions to block their accounts and tearing their hair out worrying about restoring their precious credit score.

I looked closely at the card and realized that I knew this person! In fact, I taught her son two years ago, and their youngest child still attended the school where I teach. Whoa! Talk about Divine Providence!

I quickly called the school and got both her home and cell numbers. A call to the cell put me straight to voice mail and my heart pounded a little faster. Was I too late? Was she already hysterically tying up the line with banking institutions? I left a lengthy message on the house phone calmly assuring her that someone she knew had the card and not to worry, and then sat down to wait and see what would happen.

About thirty minutes later my phone rang.

Hello?” I said.

“Hi!” She chirped.

“I got your message. Thanks for calling me. You know, I wasn’t sure I had lost it or not, and was going to look in my purse when I got home. But I got your call first. Wow! That is like, so nice of you to call. So I guess you want to get the card back to me?…..”

What?!!

Where was the sense of urgency? Where was the gasp of relief that the card was in my hands and not those of a hoodlum quickly burying her credit line to the hilt? I know some people can be pretty blase about money, but this was really over the top! Especially since she is not from a well-heeled family.

I don’t know. Part of me wants to say that this is a classic Chicken Soup for the Soul story save for one missing ingredient…. a grateful recipient who understands that she just witnessed a miracle. On the other hand, I am so intrigued by her lack of concern and easygoing nature. Maybe she’s onto something?

The Good Word for Today is: Take a deep breath and remember – Its only money.

LJ

Make it Last

“Look at this pocket watch. Ten dollars from a vendor in the street. Its worthless. But bury it in the sand and in a thousand years men like you and I will kill for it.”

Renee Belloq (Paul Freeman) to Indiana Jones, in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

I recently celebrated a BIG birthday (not 30 or 50), you can guess. To honor the occasion, my parents gave me a generous cash gift with clear instructions to spend it on something of lasting value.  Not food, clothes for the kids or paying bills; a “collectible” for life’s great photo album.

I put a lot of thought into what might fit this description. Here is what I came up with (either or, not all):

1. Fly to Colorado and spend a week knocking off a few more Fourteeners with a hiking buddy

2. Set myself up with a good pair of skis and a season pass to a local mountain

3. Finally get a zero degree sleeping bag and some up-to-date gear and bust out of the house for two weeks on the AT

4. A year of guitar lessons to fix bad habits picked up along the past twenty-five years of hacking, and learning how to solo like a pro

What a year this was going to be! Money is one of those things that liberates the mind and creates a feeling of broad expansiveness; of endless possibilities. What a gift!…..

You know where this one is heading….don’t you.

It wasn’t one of those  “Man plans and G-d laughs” sort of things; one way or another, none of these grand ideas came to fruition. Oh, I did spend the money in the end, but on pedestrian items of pressing need; just not groceries.

I am not without some degree of understanding. Obviously, you simply cannot be the father to seven children and husband of a working woman and pull off numbers one and three.  Desiring those was a desperate attempt to hold on to a younger, more mobile me.  Its a struggle I deal with fairly often, the balance between responsibility for myself and those who depend on me. I suppose I will eventually grow up and take it in stride. Maybe.

What really bothers me is that I couldn’t pull the trigger on the other, more obtainable items. I am afraid there are more unpleasant forces at work there that pervade my whole relationship with money.

For starters, I have a difficult time spending money, especially on myself. Having subsisted for years paycheck to paycheck I’ve developed a condition that I call “Wallet Anorexia”; an illness whose symptom features constantly second-guessing each purchase.

“Do I really need a new pair of shoes? Nobody will notice the hole in the bottom of these…so long as I shuffle my feet when walking.”

“I’m not that hungry. It’s what….? Forty minutes until I get home?

What is so strange is how selectively this disorder shows itself. I can spend like a drunken sailor on others; it is doing what I need for myself that is such a drain. Why should that be? Most people tend to be generous with themselves and cheap to others. That really puzzles me.

What I have often wondered, and I hope not to be true, is that I simply cannot attach value to things. Not to say that I can’t distinguish a jalopy from a Rolls, but even in that scenario, what is it really worth if one day I will be dead and unable to use it? If so, why bother spending money on it in the first place?

Wow! Am I really so morbid?

Sounds like a question for Dr. Jones, just not Indiana.

The good word for today is: Give yourself permission to do fun things that you enjoy. You only live once.

LJ

Ten Camels For Your Daughter!

If you want proof that women are still treated as chattel in the Middle East, send your daughter to a seminary. These bastions of higher learning have replaced the dowry of yesteryear with a promise that if you give them your money, your daughter will move to the head of the eligibility line.

It is an incredible system that has figured out how to convert our worst fears (the 38-year-old spinster still living in the basement) into a lucrative money making machine. The asking price begins in the high teen-thousands which includes a bed, a roof and a camp-issued mattress. Food is somewhat Spartan with most schools providing one meal a day.

Admittedly, when compared with the costs of a year of Ivy League partying, this is quite a bargain. Especially if they deliver on their promise to save my big girl the heartache of months of speed-dating, cheap drinks overlooking the harbor and fossilized conversations with young men who are just a few years past playing with Legos.

So why the gripes? I suppose it isn’t the published price that is gnawing at me as it is the “…er oh…Didn’t you read about this in the handbook?” comments that each come with little price tags. This is sounding more like a wedding already! Whats a few more bucks when you’ve spent thousands already?

Like a trip to the Dollar Store, I am scratching my head wondering how a few cheap items could possibly amount to such a bill.

Here is a brief look at week number one:

The school requires our girl to lease a cell phone through an exclusive provider who, no doubt, offers a lucrative kickback for this monopoly. The basic plan costs $44 a month (not counting 16% VAT) and comes with a generous 500 minutes and an insurance plan. But they ALSO require you pay them a $199 deposit for the phone which just might be refunded if you smile the right way and return the phone without a nick or ding. What exactly the insurance plan covers is as mysterious as some of the meat dinners she will consume.

If she wants to unpack her bags she needs to pay a $100 security deposit for the room. Which, by the way, does not come standard with window screens or a plunger. Will there be mold and damp on those walls come year end? Pretty likely if you ask me.

Should she opt to do laundry, and what eighteen year old girl wouldn’t, she has to fork over $75 for the privilege of using the machines. Soap and dryer sheets are optional.

Then there are book fees. You simply cannot be successful unless you have the right study guides which just so happen to be published by the teachers who teach those same courses. Kaching!! And another $40 vanishes into the school’s pocket.

We know that weeks two and three will bring the first of many care packages from the states (Note to world: Israel has not discovered peanut butter, or so I gather), and the dreaded cell phone bill which is going to be astronomical as they always are.

When all is said and done, these next ten months will tally up close to twenty-two thousand dollars.

And so, with good reason, I am very much feeling like I am investing a wedding just to make a wedding (I mean a cheap one, no Vera Wang dresses, no fresh flowers or bar and a one-man-band).

Then there are daughters two and three….

The good word for today is: To borrow a recent quote from a respected physician regarding the oft heard claim that: “America spends more per capita on health care than any other nation” – “What else would you like to spend your money on? More shirts? A nicer car??”

Gay…Uh…Guy Talk

According to the Wright, Bernat and Adams scale for Homophobia, I am a flaming homophobe (emphasis mine).

Check out the online version here to see how you rate:

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/assault/etc/quiz.html

Maybe it was how I responded to number 22: - It bothers me to see two homosexual people in public - that did me in.

I guess it does, depending on what they are doing. Reading the financials or preparing for a board meeting…no biggie. Delicately dropping slices of oranges into each others multi-pierced lips…I’m outta here.

Like every other metric, this test  has real limits of applicability. While it may very accurately predict that given the choice of two roommates, I will pick the straight guy over the other one, the scale makes no consideration of personal values.

For example, I do believe all people are entitled to be treated as G-d’s creatures regardless of their personal weaknesses and inclinations. As such, I am for gay-rights when it comes to equal pay and protection as a minority class.

The test also does not explain why we have these opinions and what that might say about us. There was a time when saying anything that could be construed as homophobic was an invitation for others to deride you for being insecure about your own sexuality. That was nothing but a scare tactic to advance a more militant homosexual agenda while planting seeds of doubt in the minds of millions.

I am a very comfortable heterosexual who is happy in his own skin.  And yet, a recent conversation between friends really set me off and has put a strain on our friendship….even though I know it was nothing but a bad joke.

I am a huge fan of male bonding. It is a by-product of hundreds of days backpacking with great guys over rugged terrain, thousands of hours of intense Torah study in an all-male yeshiva system and countless days mentoring young students as a teacher for the better part of 12 years.  There is no substitute for a best friend who really gets where you are coming from.

And so, when I discovered that a group of my friends had spent two days white -water rafting in lieu of a bachelor party, I inquired about the quality of the male bonding experience.

That earned me raised eyebrows, knowing winks and a: “What’s with you and this male bonding stuff?”

To which another fellow from the group chimed in: “Good thing we didn’t take you along; I don’t know if I could stay in the same room as you.”

Now it was all followed with back slaps and hearty yuk yuks, but it left me really unnerved. No, I didn’t think for a moment these guys suspected me of being a closet homosexual. What upset me was that I felt I had very limited options to best respond.

If you observe male behavior, you know that ninety-five percent of guy talk is some attempt at humor, teasing or bragging (the other five percent is NASCAR.)

I am a sensitive guy. Sure I could have ripped into them in a playful way, but that isn’t my style. I couldn’t defend myself without making the situation worse. I was just stuck there with nothing to say and a silly smile on my face waiting….waiting for them to walk away and stalk someone else. I didn’t feel gay, but I did feel emasculated.

The good word for today is: If you don’t have thick skin, you can make up for it by not having a thick head.

LJ

Money For Nothing

The last few days I have been particularly nervous and scared. Ever since the baby was born a year ago we’ve been talking about my wife quitting work, but its been a fairly academic conversation.

And then, two weeks ago, in a moment of frustration with how much time I am missing from work taking care of household duties, I let the genie out of the bottle. I gave her my word that she could quit and go back to mommying 24-7. Mind you, the smile and hug that accompanied that announcement was pretty awesome. But still…

And why not? Its what she wants. Its what she has always wanted. This whole double earner thing has really been more of a “double burner.” We are often so wiped-out come the end of the day, there is scant energy to just say goodnight and brush our teeth.

The trouble is, this is the most expensive time of our lives. Seven children, five who are enrolled in private day-schools, one heading to learn abroad for the year and one infant who needs constant attention…

We need MONEY.

And so for eleven of the nineteen years we are married she has worked. With no degree or college education she hasn’t been able to land the best of jobs, but they have done their part to keep our family afloat, and I am grateful.

The real problem is me. I am a sensitive guy, but no Mr. Mom. While I love my kids (for three hours at a time), I am not cut out for shouldering the burden of running a happy home. My wife works from 9:30 -2:30 daily which leaves zero time for basic things like food shopping and laundry. I’ve had to step in and fill the void, but at a serious personal cost to my time and flexibility. She knows I am wearing thin, and so the decision to quit is equal parts her freedom as mine.

We need a MOMMY.

Some cold, hard facts: After taxes, my wife nets about $1300 a month. BUT it costs $650 a month for babysitting, leaving an actual net profit of $650 or so. Is it worth it?

Is another$650 a month worth all that time and energy considering it is going straight to tuition?

Is another $650 a month worth having a wife who is tightly wound and unable to find time to take care of herself?

Is another $650 a month worth the disruption of normalcy in my own life; both personal and professional?

On the other hand, there are teachers who we know who are making less than half of what we do, who need to be paid. If she quits the most obvious cuts will be passed along to the private schools and our five-figure tuition bill. Is that fair or moral?

When you live as part of community, so much of your thinking is designed around not just what it good for you, but for others too. And yet, that does not mean that taking care of your own family is a totally uncalled for and selfish. This is not going to be easy on any account.

I have a sneaky feeling there are a lot of Good Word blogs that will come out of this decision.

To be continued…

The good word for today is: Moral decisions are so hard, and that is why we grow the most from them.

LJ

Whitewashed

There are a few things dads really need to be great at, and coaching your little league team is not one of them. Top of the list, dads have to be amazing story tellers. Not like JRR Tolkien, more like Stephen King.

To have a lasting impact on your boys, you’ve got to scare the BeJeezus out of them with harrowing tales of “near misses” and “never heard from him agains.” When that boy is fooling around with a twelve-gauge, you want your scowling face etched in his brain to scare him off from doing something really funny to impress his friends.

An excellent example: Long before the the dangers of those seemingly innocuous MySpace photos, my dad was earning frequent flier mileage telling over the story of the sad-sack who failed to report on a job application an arrest for a minor offense that occurred twenty years prior. The punchline was always: “Needless to say, he didn’t get that big cushy job and was blacklisted from working in that field… oh, and was never heard from again” (or something like that).

With every retelling  (and likely having to do with our progressing age and dad’s frustration that we weren’t listening to him), the guy became a bigger idiot and the urgency not to screw up, and if you do, at least own up to it, became more pronounced. Fortunately, like most teenagers, my brain was awash in hormones and so I can’t honestly say that dad’s scare tactic worked… most of the time. I was not a repressed teen who cowered from taking my chances every now and then. Quite a few streetlights and automobiles probably wished I had. Oh well.

What I did take away from those warnings, and has carried with me into adulthood, is the perspective that the world is a very unforgiving place. Despite much talk about giving others the benefit of the doubt and forgiving and forgetting, most people live and die by the first impression and last memory.

I am struggling mightily right now with giving someone a fresh start. Last evening I was introduced to my son’s new teacher for the coming year. I’ve known this guy for over twenty years and always felt uneasy around him for reasons I cannot explain. Our careers overlapped some time ago and the company let him go because he was inconsistent, untruthful and talked a better job than he performed. That was five years ago and I really would like to see him in a better light. I want to believe that he’s changed and grown up, but I can’t and I know why. You only need to look at the events of this past week to figure it out.

The whole world watched as a man who settled molestation charges out of court was proclaimed the greatest entertainer ever. There were Glory Hallelujahs, and Hosanas for a “true black hero” (what??!) who broke down barriers for other colored folk. And of course, thanks to an excellent job done by his handlers (who couldn’t figure out how to milk his reputation AND keep him alive) he will always be known as the best daddy (I wonder what kind of stories they guy who dreamed up Thriller told his kids).

What is the secret? LOVE.  The world has invested too much in this guy to let him go down in history as one of its losers.

The good word for today is: People are willing to look the other way for people they love. Forgiveness comes when you’ve invested deeply in a relationship. Put in the time and hearts will widen to accommodate some big flaws.

LJ

Does Not Compute

There are certain moments in our lives that are defined by a repetitive pattern of behaviors be they personal to us or universal. Take for example the year following graduation from High School. Forty-years of backpacking, vision questing and other forms of self-exploration has given this time-slot the moniker: “The Gap Year.”

Or if you like, think of the political “Lame Duck Term.”

In our home, the moment school ends until camp begins (WHY DO THEY DO THIS??) is known as: The Black Hole – a mysterious time where hour upon hour vanish in a haze of semi-consciousness.

Popular activities during The Black Hole are: Playing computer/PlayStation until your eyeballs freeze, driving parents crazy asking to play just a little longer, waking up at obscene hours of the morning to play computer/PlayStation so you don’t get caught, fighting over who got more time, throwing controllers on the ground in disgust and a good dose of healthy screaming to boot.  Anything that can be deemed even remotely constructive is out of the question.

For the truly devout there are self-imposed “hunger strikes” resulting from marathon sessions that can last upwards of five hours.

Do we have a screen addiction problem? Well… yeah.

Our family’s computer habits has been a source of much debate and consternation over the years. We’ve implemented no less than twenty different systems to keep it in check with a wide range of results. We’ve placed moratoriums on play, on purchasing new games, on whether you were allowed to watch others play and if that counted towards your “screen time;” always a bandage but never a cure.

“So why don’t you just pull the plugs or throw the darn thing away?” Oh my. The number of times both my wife and I have held back from putting a foot through that machine is evidence enough that we know how simple a solution that would be, if it were only so easy.

Lately we’ve been reading and learning more about a condition called NLD, or Non-Verbal Learning Disability, (see the piece titled Obamavision for what prompted our renewed interest in this.)

Its one of the worst named conditions in the book. You hear it and think: “How sad, your child can’t talk.” Not at all. Actually one of the chief indicators of an NLD is an exceptionally high verbal capability. They open their mouths and out falls the Encyclopedia Brittanica. What they cannot do is read social cues and interpret context. Their world is a steady jumble of misunderstandings and lost data which leads to a pronounced increase in anxiety levels.

Children with this condition shy away from team activities like sports since they have trouble picking up the rules and no court sense at all. They tend to be phobic and very stubborn. Their high anxiety puts them at risk for severe and sometimes violent outbursts when frustration levels lead to a meltdown or overload.

Two of our children have been diagnosed with this condition. One actually has Aspergers, which is related and on the same spectrum. Another two are strong candidates although they have never been formally tested. My children eat a limited number of foods, hate sports and summer camp and are prone to shutting down in the face of sudden transitions. We have really got our work cut out for us.

It is no wonder why children with a NLD would be drawn to the comfort and stability of computer games. In particular, the children love online fantasy adventures where they can assume a magical new role and interact with strangers within the same gaming community. In an odd way, they are learning socialization and team play.

So for now at least, the screens are staying put, and the steel-tipped boots are staying on our feet.

I think one of the hardest things for a parent is drawing the line between what you don’t like and don’t approve. Maybe my frustration stems from looking at this computer addiction and wishing things were different; wishing that my son(s) would just once grab a mitt and a ball and say: “Pops, lets go throw one around shall we?”

The good word for today is: Shared DNA does not mean shared interests. Respect those differences and take time to really understand their importance.

LJ

Be Like Mike

I do not believe in UFO sightings and brook no hopes for Elvis’ imminent return. And yet there is something very tantalizing about fantasizing that Michael Jackson may not have died, but orchestrated a final PR stunt to cast off mounds of debt, flee from unwanted children and retire from the entertainment world with some sense of dignity. Not the way a real man would handle such challenges, but hey, this is Michael we are talking about.

In what would be his most glorious act of narcissism, Michael could relive his golden days for a week at least (does anyone remember that North Korea is preparing to launch an ICBM this coming weekend? Gotta love the news cycle) and use the proceeds from this ramped up attention to float his dubious retirement package.

Just a thought for those conspiracy theorists out there: Remember the weird ending to the Billie Jean video? Where Michael climbs into the bed and vanishes in thin air. Prophetic you think? Here is the link in case you want to chew on that one:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=En-cHBv7UpA

This crazy idea got me thinking how we all have days or weeks where work, the kids, marital discord and financial stress reach a level where the thought of moving to Montana and starting life over under the pseudonym “Hank” has real appeal. How hard would it be to just “take a wrong turn and never look back,” as Springsteen said it?

As tempting as such a thought might be during a heightened fight or flight moment, we all know that this proposition is pretty near the bottom rung on the selfish-selfless spectrum.  If our lives have any purpose, it is in confronting these feelings of weakness with strength and seeing the challenges as gifts to stretch us beyond our comfort zones and reshape our identities into something more magnificent.

If that is too daunting or lofty, then consider making a trade: swap one selfish thought for another: “I cannot fail here. I cannot just up and run. There are people depending on my strength and leadership. I’ve worked so hard to build a good name for myself; a solid reputation as a caring father and devoted husband, I am not going to throw it away because life’s got me in the meat-grinder.”

The good word for today is: Don’t be like The King of Pop who spent his life “dancing” around problems and accusations; step up and take it like a man.

LJ

Wonderwoman

Yesterday was Father’s Day.

Hello?!!

I said yesterday was FATHER’S DAY!!

Urgent! Father’s day has gone missing.

Consider, if you will, these vital statistics:

Number of cards received: 1 (Electronic, which doesn’t count since you make up one design and mail it to every male in your address book)

Number of phone calls received: 0

Number of cute projects brought home from school: 0

Number of times the word RELAX was used on the radio or in print (spoken or implied – i.e. pictures of dads reclining in a hammock, etc.): 54

Is that some sort of subliminal suggestion? “Dad, its okay if you step out of the picture, we’ll be fine without you?” Or perhaps this is just a reflection on the sorry state of daddyhood?

Notice that Mother’s day is all about bright colors, shiny shoes, clothes and lipstick. Mother’s day has movement and direction; its about girls going places and doing things.

Is there some vast feminist cabal behind all this?

I might have thought so until I witnessed my wife in action.

We spent Fathers Day in typical American fashion – shopping. I even got to pay for everything! Walking back to the car with two small children in tow, we were nearly mowed down by (yes, a woman) a crazed driver. As we jumped out of her very important way, I shouted through her open window: “Pay attention!”

Well, that sure told her!

I turned to face my wife for confirmation of a job well done, a little congratulatory pat on the back, only to be met by two dilated, blazing eyes. Now, you don’t mess with a redhead under normal conditions; you sure don’t want to get in her way when her children are in danger. Think grizzly bear in a dress. She stormed off to confront this woman who looked far more the Amazon than Linda Carter ever did.

Despite no gold bracelets to deflect bullets and no golden lasso, my wonderwoman stood her ground. When that Amazon opened a mouth more suitable for a convict, only then did she decide not to pursue the matter further.

I will never again wonder why Father Time is always depicted as a decrepit old man and why we are at the mercy of Mother Nature. (Really, giving hurricanes male names just doesn’t have the same edge: “Watch out for Hurricane Rinaldo!”)

Mom’s are great. Dad’s can be real turkeys.

The good word for today is: Guys: Strength is not measured in muscle mass. There is nothing as strong or secure as a hug from a mom/wife. Go get yours today. Oh, and let’s not be such turkeys.

LJ