Searching for Super Man

Look, up in the sky there was a bird, but he settled on a low branch of the tree across the street; warbling his disgust at being disturbed by the commotion. There was a plane, too. Several, in fact, soaring majestically overhead; off to the bliss of faraway places; unaware of the pain and suffering below. There was, however, no Superman. No tights, no cape, no fancy emblem, no truth, no justice, no American way. Just pain and anger; blood and tears.

“Help me! Please! Help!”

Time slowed as the lines of reality merged on that rectangle of cement until nothing concrete remained. Metal and rubber and flesh became one; each entity lost in the embrace of the other.

“It hurts! Please help me…I can’t get up!”

The boy’s voice was delicate compared to the speeding locomotive rumbling along the rails, shrieking its warning in the distance, and, yet, his cries struck faster than a speeding bullet. Help arrived, not by leaping over tall buildings, but with feet firmly planted on the ground.

The boy squinted through the tears and sunlight at the looming shadow. Hands of average strength reached down to disentangle metal, rubber, and flesh. Arms of exceptional normality scooped the boy off the sidewalk. Eyes, gifted only with the ability to see through fear, examined the bloodied, dirt-encrusted knees. Lungs, powerful enough to blow out candles, exhaled five quick, calm words: “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” Back muscles, powerful enough to support the weight of fatherhood, carried the mangled bike and bruised ego of a young boy six blocks home.

“I fell, daddy…it hurts.”

“I know, buddy…you’ll be okay.”

The bird, having quickly forgotten the recent upheaval, resumed its cheerful chirping. The planes, never faltering in their flight, disappeared into the clouds ahead of their pitiless roar. Time regained its traction as the boy relaxed in the arms of his super man.

My Lyrical Mythology

It’s that time again.

The first day has dipped below the horizon in the rear view mirror of this school year, I can connect most of my students’ names with their faces, and the first essay is striking procrastination into the hearts of nearly one-hundred seniors. In years past I’ve pondered writing this first assignment—an informal essay examining personal mythology—along with my students, but I always seemed to find something else to do instead. I’m not proud of that fact, but regrets won’t get it written this year either.

Like most of my students, I’ve spent the past few days contemplating what shapes my understanding of my place in the universe. We started the year discussing Joseph Campbell and the idea that a mythology is the set of beliefs true to the people they’re about. So what’s true to me? What beliefs do I hold that help me understand life, the universe, and everything?
I’m not an overly spiritual person so, while I do believe in the existence of a power far beyond human comprehension, most of my beliefs aren’t deeply rooted in one particular organized religion. I believe that the universe is full of mysteries and that, while we think we’re hot stuff, humans are pretty insignificant in whatever grand scheme is in place. I believe in morality, the Golden Rule, and the absolute perfection that is the peanut M&M. I believe that you’re only as old as you feel and I feel pretty darn young (despite Rice Krispie knees and my students’ blank faces when I reference The A-Team or The Facts of Life).

I believe that attempting to ignore Dr. Phil on the guest lounge television of the Honda dealership while waiting on an oil change and tire rotation is not conducive to brainstorming. Despite the distractive bickering of whiny husbands and controlling wives seeking approval from the good doctor, there is one belief I can’t shake—a belief that would have been the first scribble in my notebook if I hadn’t told myself to stop and find something more significant. Instead, I turned my back while this belief miserably moped from the corner like a dismissed diva, furtively followed my thoughts from behind the Honda merchandise cases like a painfully shy child, nervously nagged from the showroom Civic like a backseat driver, boldly burrowed into my flesh and refused to let go like a hook-fueled pop-40 hit, and brazenly burned holes in my soul so big guilt finally gushed out and the only choice left was to accept that down to my very core I believe “life is grand, love is real, and beauty is everywhere.”

I’ve always loved lyrics and the way songs speak to the significant moments in life. A song that bounces around your brain as a catchy, breezy summer sing-a-long for years suddenly morphs into the perfect description of how you feel about the boy/girl that’s got your heart palpitating. A power-ballad that you loved to scream at the top of your lungs while driving down the highway with your windows down suddenly morphs into a tear-inducing reminder of the boy/girl that’s left your heart shredded and disfigured. A song you liked as a teenager annoys the hell out of you in your twenties, but returns sweetly during mid-life musings. Sometimes the simple maturation that comes with the passing years is all it takes to awaken new appreciation for the way words fit together in a song.

The first time I heard those ten simple words, “Life is grand, love is real, and beauty is everywhere,” so exquisitely arranged, I was watching Roger Clyne & the Peacemakers perform at Pop’s in Sauget, IL. I started my relationship with Roger’s lyrics back in the early 90s and the days of the Refreshments, but we separated when he sought independence from the constraints of mainstream radio and record companies. Despite not being together, the memories we made through those early songs still held a special place in my heart and the lyrics guided me through the fog of youth. I connect more to Roger’s songs than those of any other artist despite the fact that he often sings about the arid Mexican borderlands while I’m stuck in the humid Midwestern Ozarklands. So ten years later, when I discovered Roger was coming to the St. Louis area, I knew I had to see him, had to rekindle the flame.

I stood in the smoky darkness of Pop’s seediness while riff-propelled words eased their way into my ears and settled in my soul. Songs both familiar and new drifted from the stage. That night Roger reminded me of the power of music with ten simple words in the song ‘Better Beautiful than Perfect’. Ten simple words that fanned the passionate embers once again into a steady blaze and burned deep into my mythology: “Life is grand, love is real, and beauty is everywhere.”

Life is indeed grand—absolutely grand. While I believe humans are insignificant in the ultimate scheme of the universe, I passionately believe that life is worth living. Sure I grumble when the alarm rings at 5:05 a.m. and I’d rather ‘snooze’ then stumble out from the comforting warmth of my bed, wipe away the eye boogers (great social equalizer that they are), and hope for the grogginess to fade quickly, but I would never pass up the opportunity to experience the complex reality of being human. I’m fascinated by what it means to be alive: literally and figuratively. I’m amazed by the way the human body works and the way the human brain allows us to process interactions with internal and external stimuli. I’m astounded to think that the experience of being human connects me to every other human who has graced this planet and even those who’ve walked on the moon. I’m thunderstruck when I ponder how I go through the same motions (which is why my dance moves are a bit dated), breathe the same air (with a few more additives), communicate the same way (well, with some minor additions like Twitter and texting), eat the same food (pizza’s been around forever, right?!?), and struggle through the inevitable ups and downs of life as my ancestors. And therein lies the true grandness of life: it’s a struggle, it’s a challenge, it’s complex, it’s a choose-your-own-adventure, it’s strict rules to follow, it’s a clear lake with a muddy bottom, and it’s certainly never quite what you expect. But that’s exactly what makes it amazing and so worth the effort.

Love is real—but not just fairy tale archetypal happily-ever-after love. Love is real because it is bound to the same complexities of life: it isn’t perfect, it has flaws, it’s fickle, and it takes work to get it right. It’s easy to see that the concept of love exists within the human experience. Hollywood, romance novels, and Disney-groomed singers tell us that every day. But while I know that love exists, I know that it is real because it isn’t simple. It forces us into the midst of universal battles between passion and anger, desire and hatred, yearnings and revulsions. Love that we have for friends, family, and significant others is filled with these battles. For instance, I absolutely love Mini-Me and ‘The Wubster’. I would do anything for them, give anything to them, and sacrifice everything because of them. I’ve loved them from the moment I first laid eyes on each of their disgusting little faces (What? They were covered in afterbirth…once they’d been cleaned up they were adorable). Those boys are my pride and joy and I can’t believe how something as small as a one-minute-old child can evoke such strong emotions. Of course, as much as I love them, at times they drive me crazy and remind me how much I enjoyed my former freedom. There are moments (see some of my earlier blogs) when I really, really miss sleeping in, lazing away weekend mornings, eating a meal without someone having to poop as soon as the food arrives, looking at the front door and not seeing the time-out corner, or relaxing the moment I walk in said door after work. Love is real because it forgives my selfishness, impatience, and frustration in those moments. Love is real because actually returning to a life of those moments would be vapid and meaningless.

Beauty is everywhere. I’ve always been fascinated by the marvels of Earth (opposable thumbs, thunderstorms, chocolate, snowflakes, volcanoes, roses, aurora borealis, the duck-billed platypus) and those beyond (shooting stars, Saturn’s rings, comets, Pluto [I still believe in you!], nebulae, black holes, galaxies far, far away). I wake up every day ready to experience the beauty of the world around me, whether it’s something I see every day (the smiles on my wife and kids’ faces) or something I’ve never experienced before (if I could give you an example it wouldn’t be something I’ve never experienced, natch) because I know that beauty can be found in all aspects of the universe. Actually, not all aspects. Truth be told, I see nothing beautiful about those burrowing, hideous, eyeless critters that terrorize the poor, defenseless grubs seeking sanctuary in my yard and the blades of grass that just want to keep their roots in the dirt and keep reaching for the stars. One of my students read this and proclaimed, “Moles are so cute with their little snouts and feet!” What was I to do? Crush her idealistic view of one of nature’s cruel jokes? Nah. Instead I’ll simply follow her example and search out the beauty of nature, the beauty of mole…traps. Of course, I guess I understand. I think Mini-Me and ‘The Wubster’ are absolutely adorable, but, while my wife and I may think they’re lovely, the boys are not always viewed as such in public. When we go out to eat at restaurants there are times when people around us smile and wave and enjoy watching the boys play, and talk, and make a mess. There are other times when the boys’ behavior makes the people around us want to puke. Beauty’s certainly in the eye of the beholder, but at least that eye doesn’t have to look far to find rewards.

So, yes, life is grand, love is real, and beauty is everywhere. The world around me is beautiful, complex, imperfect, amazing and unique and, as part of it, so am I. Roger and the boys are coming back to town in October. If you want to find me I’ll be there in the Duck Room, standing towards the back, singing along to those ten simple words.

Happy Birthday, ‘Wubster’…a tad late!

But, you see, here's the problem: this post isn't late simply because I'm un-loving, lazy or overwhelmed with the start of school. That's not it at all!

Your mom and I actually put a lot of thought into your birthday. We've just been faced with a conundrum (yes, conundrum): What do we get the kid whose big brother already has everything?

We thought about planes, trains, and automobiles (rest in peace, Mr. Hughes), but Mini-Me has enough of those to share when he wants.

We thought about musical instruments, but Mini-Me already has the First Act 'Orchestra and Rap Metal' set (it was a Toys R Us exclusive) complete with bonus tuba, maracas, and key-tar. There are plenty of instruments and toddler-angst hooks to go around at our house.

We thought about plaid sweaters, tube socks, and footy pajamas, but that's what crazy third aunts twice removed are for.

We even thought about just wrapping up toys we already had around the house since you have more fun with the gift wrap anyway. Even if you did complain, we figured you can only say 'kitty' and 'mama' so your argument would be lost on us. Luckily for you we have consciences.

Eventually we settled on a last minute Target purchase: the Fisher Price Little People Farm.

It's awesome!

It comes with a farmer and the stereotypical farm animals (no llamas or emu here), it makes different animal noises when you open doors and push buttons, and it doubles as a headache inducer when someone crams all the pieces inside the silo--including the tractor--and immediately wants them all back out--including the tractor, which apparently expanded. There's even a way you can make animals slide down the roof…at least that's what Mini-Me does when he plays with it. In fact, he loves it! He plays with it more than you! He plays with all your birthday gifts more than you!

So what did we get the kid whose brother already has everything for his birthday? More toys for his big brother. Now that's a sweet gig!

Rachel of Troy: The Face That Launched 1000 Tantrums

I totally understand. Her face was etched in my mind the moment I first saw her fourteen years ago. Well, technically, it was the fuchsia dress she was wearing, but that's a different story altogether.

Turns out she's still driving the boys crazy.

But I'm not jealous. No sir. Not one bit. I'm too exhausted to be jealous.

Mini-Me and 'The Wubster', though? They've got the greenest blue eyes I've ever seen.

The other night was supposed to be a fun, treat-filled, quality-family-bonding kind of evening. Mini-Me read (was read) forty books, completing the local library's summer reading program, and we wanted to celebrate. Plus, he didn't cry when I dropped him off at the sitter's. It was a good day!

Turns out the boys had other plans. They were blood thirsty. They were ready to divide and conquer. They were hell-bent on waging warfare on hallowed grounds.

"This is exciting! Mommy hasn't been to the library with us, yet. You can show her where all the books are."

[Ten years in the area and we just got library cards this summer. This relationship was long overdue.]

"Why?"

"Well, she just hasn't. She has to work during the day when we've been going."

"Why?"

"Mommy's not a teacher. She doesn't get as long of a summer vacation as I do."

"Why?"

Hindsight has proven this interrogative style to actually be a code system more complex and difficult to break than that used by the Wind talkers of WWII. Mini-Me was positioning himself for battle while distracting us with redundancy.

Inside the serene lobby of the library the subterfuge continued.

"Mommy, this is where we return our books. I can do it!"

"Mommy, this way…this is where they keep my books."

"Mommy, here are the Thomas books."

Rach and I looked at each other and shared a "Wow! What an independent, responsible boy he's becoming. This is fun!" moment. It was a fleeting moment.

Hearing the code words "Tank Engine," 'The Wubster', a tank engine himself, toddled his mommy towards the non-fiction books and out of Mini-Me's sight. This could be post-traumatic stress talking, but I'm pretty sure he was laughing deeply and maniacally at the time.

"Where's mommy? Mommy! Mommy! I want mommy!"

"Shhh, buddy. She's with 'The Wubster'. She'll be right back. Shhh. We're in the library; we have to be quiet."

"WAAAAAAAHHH!"

[That font's called 'Matisse'. I was looking for 'EarPiercingScreamWhenIReallyHaveNoReasonToScreamInAPublicPlaceExceptToMortifyMyParents'. It must not have transferred over from my old computer. ]

"I WANT MOMMY! WAAAAAAAHHH!"

"Buddy, please! Shhh. Let's go get your reading prizes."

'The Wubster' toddled Rach back into sight wearing an 'I've-got-mommy-and-you-don't' smile. Mini-Me, content that mommy was nearby, focused his attention on his reading prizes, especially the day-glo green book bag that was too large and therefore sure to eventually cause issues on top of the jealousy. It did.

For the time being, though, I perused new picture books, Rach sifted through board books with 'The Wubster', and Mini-Me quietly loaded up his new bag with Bob the Builder books. It was another fleeting moment.

"Whoa, buddy! You've gotta lotta books there! Why don't you just pick two of those so other kids have some to choose?"

"Why?"

"Because ten Bob the Builder books are too many."

"Why? I want all of them! WAAAAAAAHHH!"

'The Wubster' looked up from the board book he was chewing on, realized Mini-Me was stealing the show, and sought his own glory.

"Unngh unnngh unnnngh ennhh Ennnhhh EnnnnHHHH!"

"WAAAAAAAHHH!"

"EnnnnHHHHH!"

"Mommy I want up! WAAAAAAAHHH!"

"Hey! Why don't you go with the sacrificial lamb mommy and pick out two DVDs. I'll take care of the books."

They did. But it wasn't easy. Nor was it quiet. The book bag became an issue.

Finally with tears wiped and books and DVDs in hand, we headed for the front desk. 'The Wubster' sensed time was running out to make his presence known, so he made his presence known. Rach escorted him out of the building before Marian could offer a single shush. Turns out Mini-Me's incredibly attentive.

"Where's mommy? Mommy! Mommy! I want mommy! I WANT MOMMY! WAAAAAAAHHH!"

"Buddy! It's the library. You can't cry in the library. They have signs about it."

*sniff* "Where?"

"Up there." I pointed to the arched entry over the children's area where the word 'Kids' is written in at least ten different languages. It was worth a shot.

Mini-Me paused briefly as he looked up.

"I WANT MOMMY! WAAAAAAAHHH!"

Rach heard the tantrum from outside, came back in and, from 100 feet away, gave him a look that grabbed him by the ear and dragged him out of the library. Kicking and screaming, of course. I was left alone in line, wearing my cloak of mortification and drowning in the now awkward silence.

    "Why's that boy crying, mommy?"

    "He must be tired. He's had a long day."

If only they knew the Trojan War brewing in front of their eyes.

If only we were smart enough to go straight home.

"Let's run to IGA real quick."

"I want to go in!"

"Only if you promise not to cry."

"I promise…"

[Twenty feet into the store later]

"Unngh unnngh unnnngh enhh Enhhh EnHHHH!"

"WAAAAAAAHHH!"

"EnHHHHH!"

"Mommy I want mommy! WAAAAAAAHHH!"

 

 

 

Save Ferris!

I'm pretty sure I got Buellered today.

Mini-Me woke up complaining of a "yucky tummy" and both he and 'The Wubster' did feel hot to the touch, so I called the sitter and ditched 'Advanced' computer training to take care of my boys.

I don't think I gave Mini-Me enough time alone to hold the thermometer up to a light bulb, but if I did, he certainly deserves an Oscar for acting like holding it under his tongue was going to strip away his soul and three toenails.

The kid has me thinking he knows more than he's telling.

So what if he wouldn't eat, took a three hour nap, still had a fever in the evening, and actually fell asleep when we tucked him in. Once he found out he was staying home this morning his demeanor changed, he shifted into eighth gear, and he lost focus just long enough for me to catch sight of a twinkle in his eyes.

He's only three and he's wise beyond his high school years.

Pray for us!

Top Ten Nuggets of Knowledge I Learned on My Summer Vacation

10 – Flying with children is a great way to practice hands-on explorations of new math!

For instance, I learned that ((2 children + 0.23 naps) / 6 adults) x (10 hours of flying / 7 time zone changes) = (FUN!) x (Sarcasm / Joy of stepping foot in Hawaii)

However, ((2 children + 3 interrupted naps) / 6 adults) x ((10 hours of flying x (1 missing plane + 1 broken fuel pump + 1 unexpected deplaning + 1 LONG line of frustrated passengers + 300 frantic phone calls + 1 time out ) / 3 hours delayed) / (- 7 time zone changes)) = (MISERABLE EXHAUSTION – Sarcasm) / Home Sweet Home

Really, it's not hard to compute as long as you keep your integers separate from your binomials and always remember to carry the aspirin.

9 – If you need something carried, I'm your Sherpa!

We tried to pack light. We really did, but packing light while travelling with two kids too young to haul their own luggage—one of whom can't walk by himself yet—usually meant whoever wasn't carrying 'The Wubster' was loaded down with the bulk of the bags and our big-hearted family members picked up any leftovers. Since 'The Wubster' is a momma's boy I carried a lot of stuff. To top it off, our room at the resort is one of the furthest from parking. That's cool because it's right on the cliffs along the ocean, but uncool when hauling bags to and from the car, and especially uncool when they turn on the sprinklers along the section with the 75° incline and zamboni-smooth concrete. Tenzing Norgay never complained, though, and neither did I.

8 – 'The Wubster' is a natural Karate Kid.

When Mini-Me first encountered sand on our trip two years ago he knelt down and squeezed it as hard as he could. 'The Wubster' broke out 'The Crane Pose'. I sorted through the pictures last night and there's not a single one of him in the sand with both feet down. Watch out Johnny Lawrence

7 – You can ruin a hot dog…and fries.

"No, Mini-Me. You will eat what we bought you. That's dinner. There's nothing else and especially no dessert! It doesn't taste bad…it's a hot dog."

We were on our way to see the lava entry at night on the Big Island and made a quick stop at an L&L Drive In to pick up the traditional plate lunch fare which we had enjoyed at another L&L the first night on the island. While Karen, Mah-Geh!, and I ordered Hawaiian-style, Rach and Mini-Me went for traditional Americana with a cheeseburger, hotdog, and fries.

It's not unusual for Rach to not enjoy food. A hint of onion here, a whiff of most other vegetables there and the food is ruined. Mini-Me takes after her…sort of. For him, though, it's a lack of turkey here or a lack of refried black beans there and he'll turn up his nose. Typically, though, hot dogs fly low on his radar and will do if they must. I wasn't surprised when Rach said her burger was bad. I chalked it up to an overzealous chef who was a bit free with his onions. Mini-Me's complaints, though, were attributed to his over-tired condition. When he continued to refuse to eat both the dog AND fries, I finally stepped in and took a bite of both.

"Stop whining…just let me see it." [CHOMP] "Mmm…sthee…ith naht bad. Ith justh a hawt dawg" [GULP…COUGH]. "What about the fries? Just eat those."

"No, daddy."

"C'mon…here, lemme have one."

I try not to spit food out because I abhor Mini-Me's habit of doing that, but the hot dog and fries tasted like Guy Fieri'd just dished out his infamous 9 volt, sautéed metal, and year-old fryer oil casserole. My taste buds have been mutilated.

The closest experience I could use to describe how it felt is our honeymoon. (Rach, wait! Don't stop reading!)

At the resort's sushi restaurant I made Rach eat a piece of ginger after telling her it was a piece of fish that tasted like smoked ham. I truly believed it was the same thing I had just eaten…oops. Her face contorted in ways even Plastic-Man couldn't mimic.

Needless to say, before making it to the lava entry we made an unanticipated stop at a grocery store to buy Mini-Me dinner attempt #2: yogurt and Cinnamon Life. Who could ruin that?

6 – Mini-Me loves the ladies!

Poor Maggie and Auntie Karen! When they signed up for this trip to Hawaii I doubt they realized they'd spend the entire time hunted by a stalker more dangerous than a rabid rhino and more annoying than the TMZ paparazzi.

"Mah-geh!...Mah-geh!...MAH-GEH!!!!"

"Her name is Maggie, buddy…she'll probably answer if you say it right."

"Okay. Maggie, look out your window…Maggie, why…Maggie, come…Maggie, Maggie, Maggie…"

Sorry, Maggie, for teaching him to say your name right.

Of course, on odd days of the week it went more like this:

"Auntie Karen, what's…Auntie Karen, hold…Auntie Karen, why… Auntie Karen, Auntie Karen, Auntie Karen…"

The kid couldn't keep his hands off the girls and when they weren't around, he wouldn't stop asking where they were. Rach still clung to some status as 'Mommy', but I quickly became a speck of dirt swept under an old doormat Mini-Me wouldn't bother using to wipe his shoes clean.

5 – A $2.48 purchase at Wal-Mart can buy back your son's love…at least a little bit.

Mini-Me fell in love with building sandcastles. Swimming in the ocean was cool for about ten minutes until he walked out of the water and squeezed sand between his fingers. In that moment he also looked at the kids down the beach and developed an extreme case of p-n-s envy…that's pail-and-shovel envy…he's three for goodness sake. Geez!

On our next trip to Wal-Mart, Mini-Me actually wanted to hold my hand, wanted to talk to me, wanted to spend time in my presence. All because of four magic words:

"I'll buy you one."

"A blue one?"

"I don't know what they have, buddy, but we'll see."

"I want a blue one."

"I know"

"Daddy, can I get this fire truck?"

"No, we're here to get a pail and shovel." (No tears…amazing!)

"I want a blue one."

"I know."

"Daddy, can I get this train?"

"No" (Still no tears? Yes!)

"Ooh…waterguns!"

"No. (Cacti could grow in these arid conditions!) But here's a pail…it's green."

"Can I get it?" (Seriously? No tears about it not being blue?!? This is miraculous!)

"Yep…let's go find mommy."

There was no price tag and I didn't care. We were getting that pail and shovel. Blue, green, pink…didn't matter to him…didn't matter to me. It was the only one in the whole beach aisle and it was ours. I'd fight off an army of begging orphans if necessary to secure possession of these sand tools.

Of course, on the way out we found an end cap with a thousand pails and shovels, including plenty of blue ones. All was right with the universe, no tears were shed, and Mini-Me loved me again…for a little while, at least.

4 – Wanna attract ladies at the beach…tell 'em you've got crabs.

The Kailua-Kona area of the Big Island isn't really known for spectacular beaches, so with limited options near our condo, Mini-Me, Auntie K, Mah-geh!, and I walked a half mile or so to one of the only beaches on the main strip. It's a good thing we hadn't planned on snorkeling since this beach connected directly to a harbor full of outrigger canoes, paddle boards, and cruise ship shuttles. Instead, Mini-Me and I used his pail and shovel to build a sand hotel. He worked on the main building while I built a sea wall and then began work on a system of tunnels and bridges.

While digging out the third bridge my hand slipped into a cavern beneath the sand. I thought I saw movement so I called Mini-Me, Karen, and Mah-geh! over anticipating a small crab. As is usual, once they were watching nothing appeared. I went about my business and as I scooped out another handful of sand

"Oh! There he is! He's huge! We're gonna be condemned!"

I jumped back as a crab the size of my fist scurried beneath bridge #2. Mini-Me, Karen, Mah-geh!, a woman whose kids were building a castle nearby, and a woman whose daughter was demolishing one of our earlier creations all came over to witness the spectacle. They were duly impressed as I taunted it with our shovel until it lashed out with its pincer. In fact I know there were many other women on the beach who were just too shy to wade through the commotion and examine the extent of my crab infestation.

3 – Mini-Me deviously enjoys waiting until the server delivers our food to tell me he has to poop.

"Look buddy, our food's here."

[Indifferent semi-disgust at the lack of turkey, cheese, and refried black beans followed by a minute or so for me to savor the victuals on my plate]

"My tummy hurts, daddy. I need to poop."

Every time we went out to eat. No exaggeration. Every
time!

I started to get the feeling that the underlying issue wasn't the Cracklin' Oat Bran diet we've put him on, but rather a public toilet fetish.

I went to college with a guy who wouldn't touch a public toilet no matter the circumstances. Mini-Me's the opposite. It was all I could do to keep him from resting his forehead on some of the nastiest toilets in all Hawaii when he was pulling his pants up or down. I know he's a three-year-old boy, but, buddy, you need to learn that when it comes to public toilets, if it looks gross and smells gross it is gross. No why's about it!

The only fear the kid has in public restrooms centers around loud flushing toilets or those awesome new Xlerator hand dryers that pump out an F-15s worth of propulsion to dry your hands. I love flushing/drying with those when Mini-Me's in the bathroom. Consider it payback, young man, for all the luke-warm meals I ate this trip.

2 – Nothing says 'Aloha!' like warm urine on your leg.

I've already mentioned Mini-Me's Hawaiian toilet fetish. So, what better way to wrap up the vacation than by taking him to the bathroom at Kona Airport.

"Alright buddy, let's try to potty."

"I don't have to, daddy."

"I know, but you should at least try."

"I don't have to." [There are those tears.]

"Please try."

[Whining]

"Watch what you're doing. Don't touch the toilet. Pay attention, buddy. Hey! Pay attention! You're peeing on me!"

Turns out he DID have to pee. A lot.

"Sorry, daddy."

Umm-hmm…I'm adding that to my list of ways you love me.

1 – Finding a corner of the world with no cell service truly sucks when you decide to lose your family there.

Yeah, that's right. I lost my family.

This wasn't the standard we-got-separated-at-Payless lost family, though. I'm talking about losing them in the movie-of-the-week style of adrenaline-overload-oh-my-god-my-family's-at-the-bottom-of-3500-foot-deep-Waimea-Canyon-life-flashing-before-my-eyes-will-Valerie-Bertinelli-be-available-to-star lost family.

All because I wanted to find a piece of Tupperware hidden in the forest.

It's fairly well known that I enjoy geocaching (using the Global Positioning Satellites to hunt for 'treasures' hidden at specific sets of coordinates). My wife's put up with it for two years now, but, for the most part, my extended family has escaped the torture. Unfortunately, it's probably their newest peeve and the fodder for night terrors after our hike to Berry Flat Trail.

Since this was my fourth trip to Kauai, I got the brilliant idea to use geocaches as research for new trails and sights we'd never found before. It was working out perfectly: cool stuff to look at plus a cache for me to find. Typically when hunting a cache I'll follow the GPS receiver routing until I get within 1/10^th of a mile and then I switch to off-road mode for the final hunt. What sometimes happens, then, is that the GPS receiver thinks that a particular road is perfect for the approach when in fact it's quite the opposite. That's what happened in trying to find this particular trail/cache.

We turned off the main drag onto a dirt road that took us up, and up, and up, but didn't seem to be taking us where we wanted, eventually went back and parked at an initial fork in the road, hiked down an incredibly rough road-not-taken, discovered that the .5 miles to the trailhead was actually 1.1 miles (oops), and hiked that entire distance along a road as opposed to a lovely, scenic trail as I'd promised the family.

Turns out, after I bolted ahead with 'The Wubster' on my back and found the cache, I reread in my notes that one of the previous cachers had posted "Do NOT follow GPS routing to this cache" and instead recommended taking the YMCA camp road. I hoped to save the rest of the group (Rach, Mini-Me, ma-in-law, pa-in-law, Auntie K, and Mah-Geh!) the uphill portion of the trek, but when I got back to them they were only about 1/10th of a mile from the trailhead. We decided they would continue on to the trail while Auntie K, Mah-Geh!, and I hiked back for the cars.

The return hike and drive took no more than 30 minutes, and as we hiked further and further along the trail we grew more and more confused.

"Doug, they wouldn't have come this far. Did you tell them where the trail was?"

"I thought so. Let me run ahead and take a look."

"Okay, we'll stay here and take amusing pictures looking concerned because right now this is funny" (Not actual dialogue, but it'll help the screenwriters out since that's what happened).

I ran ahead and followed the trail until I reached a point where the trail followed an incline I didn't think they would attempt with 'The Wubster' on Rach's back and Mini-Me in need of a nap.

"No sign of them up ahead."

"Maybe we missed them and they're back at the cars."

I'll spare you the middle part where they weren't back at the cars and we split up to search along the nearby side roads multiple times. I'll also skip the fact that I reran the trail twice, miraculously avoiding exposed roots and inevitable face plants, yelling their names, straining for a response. My run down--and most of the way back up--a steep gravel road that they wouldn't have possibly travelled doesn't merit mentioning either.

Instead I'll fast forward three hours to the point where I sat in the car at the trailhead waiting for Karen and Mah-geh! to return from checking for them back where we parked the cars in the hope that maybe, just maybe, they hitched a ride back there and we missed each other on the trail. As I waited, the panic I'd mostly kept at bay started filling my head with images of falls from cliffs, rabid chicken attacks, abduction by menehune, or some other disastrous fate.

Within a half hour, Karen returned, alone, to tell me she and Mah-Geh! finally found them back where we originally parked the cars. It seems that while hiking the trail, Logan stopped and said, "I am in red dirt stepped so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er." Convinced by the eloquence of a three-year-old, they chose to keep going and assumed we'd eventually just figure it out.

Finally knowing they were safe, I collapsed beside my car, emotionally overwhelmed and physically exhausted. When I finally rejoined them under the trees near the state park's museum, Mini-Me ran towards me with a big smile and I scooped him into my arms, tears in my eyes.

"I thought I lost you, buddy!"

"He's making me sad, mommy! Can I have a cookie now, daddy?"

He wasn't excited to see me, he had no idea anything might be wrong. He was simply excited to see the car because Rach had promised him a cookie and the cookies were in the trunk. Oh to be three again.

Happy Birthday, Mini-Me!

Nothing in this world could be quite as perfect as the smile on your face and twinkle in your eyes while everyone sang 'Happy Birthday' to you at your party this weekend, buddy. Well, having my camera batteries not fail in that moment would have been a tad more perfect, but only a tad...

I had a blast splashing around in the backyard with you and your friends. I'll go ahead and apologize for doing the same thing ten years from now; you might want to start preparing yourself for the impending embarrassment. I also had fun testing my logic skills while expanding the GeoTown track layout for you and making sure there were no dead ends, even if most of the time I spent on it was after you'd already gone to bed. Whose birthday was it?

It's hard to believe that you're officially a 3.0-year-old now! I'm so proud of the little man you've become and I'm looking forward to watching you continue to grow and explore the world around you. I can't even imagine all the things you'll teach me; heck, I'm still reeling from the first three years of lessons.

Prior to hanging out with you, I never would have imagined that spraying sunscreen on a worm would bleach him, cause his skin to peel off and make his insides gush out. I mean your idea that he wouldn't want a sunburn while hanging out on our patio made total sense to me, too.

Without your help, I also never would have realized the true potential of my hand-eye coordination when it came time to catch projectiles, the fun of singing 'Take Me Out to the Ballgame' before bed, the importance of knowing where all the local fire stations are so we can drive by and see if their doors are open any time we're out and about, or the pure joy found in seeing a mailman, 'UPS Man Guy', train, trash truck, balloon, or plane. You're the best teacher I've ever had!

I love you, buddy…Happy 3^rd Birthday!!!