raisingsupergirl

[raisingsupergirl]

Another Over-Simplified 2022 Retrospective

You know how it’s hard to start working out again when you’ve been lazy for a while? Yeah well, apparently when I said I was going to take a few months off from blogging, I underestimated how hard it would be to start back up because three months became an entire year. A year of so much awesomeness left completely undocumented… Oh, the humanity! How could I have let such a thing happen? Well, I guess I was too busy living to write any of it down. But it’s a new year, new me, as they say. And I’m back. I’m not sure how frequently yet, but I’ll post at least every month so something like this doesn’t happen again. And in an attempt to salvage my mistake, I’m going to cram my entire 2022 into this one post. So grab a snack, sit back, and enjoy my year in review.

For me, 2022 was a year focused on the future. With the trainwreck that was 2020 (and the cringe-worthy sequel the following year), my family was more than happy to wipe the slate clean and look to the horizon. And with a new home, new schools, new hobbies, and new goals came new challenges. But for the most part, they were exciting challenges. When we first moved into our house, I saw it as a blank slate of sorts. And since then, I cleared acres of trees, brush, and soooo much poison ivy from my fence rows and creeks. I planted apple trees, peach trees, plum trees, blackberry bushes, blueberry bushes, and more. I had ground leveled, rocks removed, and septic systems fixed. I repaired storm damage and cleaned up piles junk left by the previous owners. I (with the help of a gracious family friend) built an office out in my shop at the beginning of the year, and at the end of the year we started working on a bar with plenty of potential for gatherings of family and friends for years to come. It’s been countless hours of hard work and sweat, but man, it’s totally been worth it.

And speaking of family and friends, you didn’t think 2022 was all work with no play, did you? Sure, I may be a bit of a work-a-holic, but even I know the real secret to happiness is spending time with those you love. And I spent the majority of my rest and relaxation with the three people I love most on this planet—my wife and two daughters. We built snowmen in January, hunted Easter eggs in April, explored creeks in May, had soooo many Sunday fundays through the summer (which are hands-down my favorite memories of this past year), trick-r-treated in October, and played indoor games when the weather turned south for the winter. I had a few date nights with my wife (not nearly enough) and even one with my daughters (our daddy-daughter dance might be my second favorite 2022 memory). The kiddos kept up with their familiar sports of soccer and softball and even picked up a couple new ones (my eight-year-old started jiu jitsu and my five-year-old started gymnastics), and they only injured each other a couple of times “practicing.”

Of course, our furry family members are worth mentioning, too. Luna loved playing in the snow, exploring the creek, and hunting rabbits. Fancy loved tearing up toilet paper and looking ridiculously cute. We even nearly gained a stray cat, but it hid on top of my wife’s van engine when she picked up the kids from school, and one of the kind ladies there took it home (phew!). Other than that, we added a beta fish named Yondu, found a few wild surrogate kiddos around the property, and rumor has it that the Winches might be adding another fur baby in 2023…

But the fun didn’t stop with just my immediate family. Since we finally lived somewhere that could fit more than a few people at a time, we had plenty of friends and extended family over to join in on the shenanigans. We had an Easter dinner, a sushi party, a pool party birthday, and I hosted the first annual Indeportence Day with a few of my guy friends (it’s a super-exclusive event that celebrates the awesomeness of ‘Merica, and I’m sure I’ll talk more about it at some point).

And at the center of most of those gatherings was food. So much food. And most of it was made possible by two very important purchases. First, my amazing wife bought me a Blackstone griddle for my birthday, and at the end of summer I bought a pellet grill on clearance. And let me tell you, I cooked ALL the things with those two wonderful gadgets. On the griddle I cooked a zillion different stir-frys, seafoods, burgers, breakfast spreads, steaks, and other succulent meats (including a random go at sloppy joes, which turned out great). And on the pellet grill I smoked tons of veggies, briskets, pork butts (pulled pork goes wonderfully on nachos btw) and other pork cuts (steaks, chops, ribs), all the chicken parts, more steaks (you can never have too many steaks), and some mac-n-cheese. Heck, I even smoked chili, which might be the best way I’ve ever made it. But of course, not everything can be made on the Blackstone and the Pit Boss (contrary to the claims on their respective Facebook groups). So I did take the time to make some yummy pastas and soups and whatnot the old-fashioned way. Most of it was fairly well received, and now I’m forced to commit to a New Year’s diet…

As you know, food isn’t the only delicious treat that can take a gathering to the next level. For those who choose to imbibe, adult beverages are another surefire way to make a few memories. And since most of my 2022 gatherings took place at my home, it only made sense to make my booze at home, too. So I expanded my quarantine hobby to epic proportions (I mean, what’s the point of building a bar if I don’t have anything to serve?), cooking up dozens of batches of IPAs, stouts, shandies, amber ales, meads, and spirits, to name a few. And again, most of them went down smooth and kept my guests coming back for more.

By now you’re probably thinking, “Did he even leave his house in 2022?” Well, I tried not to, but I did venture out occasionally. Among my more notable excursions were going to the STL Cardinals opening day (seeing Pujols and Molina kick off their last season was something I’ll never forget. Nor was watching my two friends win over $1,000 at the craps table beforehand) going to the Lemp Brewery haunted house (it was seriously creepy knowing the history of that place beforehand), taking a week-long vacation with my beautiful wife to the Dominican Republic, and going to a handful of local festivals (Country Days and the Bloomsdale Fun Farm were the most memorable).

Of course, not all of 2022 was sunshine and pool parties. We lost some dear family members and close friends. Gas prices soared and temperatures plummeted. At times I cried, I shouted, and I wanted to give up. But as I write this, those aren’t the things that stand out in my mind. No, in retrospect, my 2022 was a great year. One that a single blog post can’t possibly do justice. I left out a lot, including some great memories relating to my “day” job and my writing, as well as a lot of little details that I wish I could cement in the annals of Raising Super Girl. But as I said, I’m going to do better. I’m going to take more time to unpack my adventures, my challenges, and my thoughts. As always, it’s mostly for myself and my family, but I do sincerely appreciate those of you who choose to come along with me. After all, what’s the point of all of this if it can’t be shared? Happy New Year, friends. I can’t wait to document whatever 2023 has in store.

[raisingsupergirl]

New Year’s Clarity

Want to know what the scariest part about being a blogger? It’s the possibility of people figuring out who I really am. Thankfully, I only have a hundred or so readers in any given month, and I doubt any of you scrutinize over the things I write as much as I do. But as you know, what happens on the Internet stays on the internet. Which means every word I write can potentially be dredged up at any given time. And what I write is bigger than any hidden addiction or past sins. What I write is what’s on my heart. My thoughts, opinions, and patterns. All out there for you to pick up and magnify whenever you feel like it. And my situation isn’t unique. Your 21st century world is filled with all kinds of similarly stressful transparencies. We’ve never been more connected, which means we’ve never had to be more “on” all the time than we are right now. Never more guarded and careful. And unless we take an occasional step back from digitized society, we’ll lose ourselves in it. Which means our traditions of temporary New Year’s resolutions have never been more uniquely suited to cure what ails us.

As many of you know, I’m pretty big on New Year’s resolutions. I like to drop as many of my distractions, habits, and dependencies as I can muster. It started out as a Lenten fast, and then it shifted to the beginning of the year. And currently, it’s a three-month retreat of sorts, from January through March. The things I “give up” are a little different every year, but usually it includes some mix of social media, YouTube, mobile games, junk food, alcohol, tobacco, etc., etc. And I replace them with things like regular exercise, a more stable sleep schedule, reading, intentional reflection and mindfulness, planned time with the family, etc., etc. And while those surface changes have obvious benefits, there’s something deeper that makes me really look forward to giving up a life of carnal cruise control on an annual basis.

Clarity. In the moment, it feels like a deep breath of crisp morning air to calm a stumbling, overworked heart. It floods over me as all other distractions wash away. And my favorite Bible verse weaves through my thoughts: “Be still and know that I am God.” I sink deeper, think sharper, act slower, stress less, and appreciate more. It’s enough to make me wonder why I don’t live that way all the time. But I’ve come to terms with the true nature of my yearly fast. I’m aware that I’m putting the cart before the horse (AKA works before Grace). I’m still exerting my own efforts, actively replacing one thing with another by sheer force of will. Alcohol isn’t inherently bad. Reading isn’t inherently good. And so, the only actions that are sustainable are the ones that reflect what’s on a person’s heart. And of course, that’s a rather vague term, but I’m talking about all the secret stuff, the foundational inner psyche or spirit or id or whatever that I’m scared my readers will learn about me. In fact, it’s what I’m scared I will learn about MYSELF. But the fantastic thing about my three-month “shock” is the reminder that I don’t actually have anything to be afraid of.

We’ve all got habits and biases. That’s part of being human. A part of being a living organism. We find the easiest ways to live long and reproduce, and we stick to them, creating well-worn ruts in our road that become hard to escape. Often, we don’t want or even need to escape them, but obviously some of our ruts, while being the easiest ways to survive and cope at that time, aren’t the BEST, especially long term. That’s why we need to step back every so often to remember why we started them in the first place. They had some inherent benefit, some allure that drew us in initially. But it’s human nature to want MORE, so it’s good practice to occasionally redirect that desire to what’s actually fruitful. And we can’t do that if we’re stumbling through a cloud of what’s quick and easy.

That’s why I do what I do every year. I need the reminder that I’m not in a tailspin. I need to remember that I’m not a fraud and that the world isn’t going up in flames. I need to be still and know. In short, I need clarity. Physically, mentally, and spiritually. And I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m not the only one. In fact, I have a few friends participating with me this year. Their changes don’t look exactly like mine, but their needs are the same. And they’re simple. Simpler that society would have us believe. And I feel like if enough people did something like this on a regular basis, our world would look much different. And since I’m pretty sure I’m not the wisest man in history, I’ll bet many of you have had a desire to do something like this before. Some of you are probably even doing it already. Likely even better than I am. So, what does resetting look like to you? How do you achieve clarity to remember who you truly are? And if you haven’t taken that step yet, what’s holding you back? How can I help? I’m only a comment away… for the next few days, anyway. Come January 1st, I’m out until April. So, happy winter, y’all. See you in the spring!

[raisingsupergirl]

Christmas, Charity, and Middle-Aged Dreams

Isn’t this just the BEST time of year? A galvanizing chill in the air. Nonstop Christmas songs on every radio station. United Way bell ringers reminding us that no shopping center entrance will be safe until after the holidays... Nah, just kidding. Giving is great. Don’t you just love that fuzzy feeling you get after donating your hard-earned time and money to bring someone else joy? Oh, you actually do? Well, that’s awesome for you because I definitely don’t. At least… I DIDN’T until fairly recently. Yes, it’s an unfortunate truth that charity has never come naturally for me. I hardly ever have free time to give away, and being the primary breadwinner means that when I give away my money, I’m giving away my FAMILY’S money, which is a hard pill for me to swallow. I mean sure, I donate to some reasonable charities, but it usually feels more like an obligation than an opportunity. And while I truly do love easing my patients’ pain, I also get paid to do it. So yeah, I’m a little stingy, and I probably always will be. But something interesting has been happening to me recently. Something I can’t take any credit for. And no, it’s not like it’s a Christmas miracle or anything. More like a middle-aged parent miracle, if I’m being honest. Exciting, right? Well, for me it is, even if it’s also been a little terrifying.

I first noticed it when we moved into our new house. Like with any new thing, I couldn’t help daydreaming about all the fun memories we were going to make here. And I immediately got to work making sure those daydreams would become realities. First off, I gave up a potential office space so my kids could have a playroom to call their own. Then I worked tirelessly to clear a three-acre yard so my kids would have space to play tag, hit softballs, and splash around in the creek. And then I even started saving up money to build a deck around our pool so—you guessed it—my kids could have friends over for epic pool parties. It was the strangest thing. I’d finally moved into the home of my dreams, but it seemed like I was now nowhere to be found in those dreams. In fact, when I started to think about it, it felt a little I was giving up on my own dreams altogether. Which, of course, came with a fair amount of mid-life crisising leading into the holiday season.

My wife bought my kids a basketball goal for Christmas this year, and it’s awesome… now. But when we first got it, it was just a pile of metal poles, a dozen bags of bolts, and an instruction manual the size of the Holy Bible, King James Version, large print. I know I really shouldn’t complain. My wife bought literally all of our Christmas presents (except her own, of course). But when I looked down at that jumbled mass of scrap metal, I had some thoughts that I never would have said aloud. Until I spent five hours wrenching, tightening, lifting, loosening, and tightening again. Then I would have screamed those thoughts at anyone willing to listen. Thankfully, it was just my dog and me in the shop, but she sure did get an earful.

Anyway, as I was piecing things together, I had occasional visions of my friends coming over and playing some unforgettable pick-up games (no blood no foul), but they never lingered long because the real driving force was the joy that this indoor basketball court would bring to my girls for years to come. And it wasn’t even the idea of me playing WITH them. It was just them. And even their friends, too. Sure, I would have some fun shooting around, but THEIR potential joy was so much greater than my own that I faded from that dream, too. And that’s when I started understanding my strange newfound charity (yes, I’m using that term loosely) and what it means for my future.

First off, I’m realizing that I haven’t actually given up on my dreams. In fact, I’ve accomplished a lot of them already. The more selfish ones, anyway. And the older I get, the less my dreams have to do with me because there are people in my life who have a lot more potential to grow them into world-changing realities. Realities that will continue to grow long after I’m gone.

How obvious is it that this is a new idea rattling around in my brain? As I read it back, it does sound a little like I’m giving up. Like I have one foot in the grave already. But I promise it doesn’t feel like that. And if you’ve ever been a middle-aged parent, you probably know what I mean. In fact, you might not even have to be a parent. As I said earlier, it was just as exciting to me that my kids’ FRIENDS would find joy from the things that I worked so hard to provide them with. It’s almost as if I’m discovering a new part of myself—a part that really does enjoy giving away my time and money to bring joy to others. And even though I haven’t worked it all out yet, I know that it’s a real change happening in my life. And I can’t wait to see how it evolves. Don’t worry, though. I still have plenty of selfish plans, too. I mean, did you REALLY think I could get by without my own office? I need SOMEWHERE to dream, right? And if I build it, they will come. Merry Christmas to me!

[raisingsupergirl]

Merry Portmas to All!

I never was big on traditions. My parents never got too worked up over stuff, and that carried over to me. The holidays were always special, but we didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. And so, when I met my memory making, holiday decorating, picture taking wife, I did my fair share of smug eyerolling. But as I get older I find myself enjoying traditions a little more. Maybe it’s the nostalgia. Maybe it’s just easier when it becomes a bit of a routine. But I think the biggest thing I like about traditions is that they hold me accountable. Take the beloved holiday of Portmas, for example…

What, you’ve never heard of Portmas? Whoo, boy. Well, okay, tell you what—just pull up a chair, and I’m going to tell you a little story. It’s the story of how Portmas was born. And it all started with a good friend of mine who goes by the name of Glassjaw (or 3veye, depending on who you talk to). Now, I’ve known Glassjaw since high school, and we’ve been close ever since. Heck, in college, he let me shave his hair into a mohawk. THAT’S friendship, amiright? And even though our lives have diverged at times over the years, we’ve managed to stay friends. Even after we both got married and had kids, which is no small feat. So, let’s fast forward to about 2015. Christmas Eve. Both of us were new dads, which meant our kids were snuggled in their beds, and we were waiting for the right moment to perform our traditional (there’s that word again) fatherly Christmas Eve duties in our respective homes. Which also meant we were both chilling on the couch and drinking festive adult beverages. Now, I don’t know who texted whom first, but at some point, Glassjaw mentioned that he was drinking a bottle of port wine like he did “every year” on Christmas Eve. “Huh,” I thought,” that’s a weird choice. But I kind of like it…” And then I asked him what Christmas movie he was watching, and he replied with two words that I knew would be the foundation of something very special: Die Hard.

That’s right. Glassjaw was drinking port and watching the best Christmas movie of all time, just like he did “every year.” And I wanted to be a part of it. There was just something about the curious obscurity that spoke to me. And so, with that idea logged in my brain for an entire year, I bought a bottle of fine port wine and set it aside for that special day. And on the eve of our savior’s traditional (again!) birthday, I shot glassjaw a text and told him the Christmas movie I was going to be watching for the evening: Gremlins.

The list of non-traditional Christmas movies grew over the next year, and the port stayed the same. Oh, and I also continued to wear history’s gaudiest plush blue robe through the Christmas seasons, which has become a strange tradition (ope!) in itself. And then I caught wind that another friend of ours named Drutlol was doing the same thing, also inspired by Glassjaw’s creativity. So the three of us started thinking… what if we had Portmas together the next year. And so, we did. Not ON Christmas Eve, of course. Our wives would never allow that. Instead, we got together at their work office a couple weekends before, and we added the fourth member of our little high school friend group, Covey. Thus, Glassjaw, Drut, Covey, and Winch sat down to the first official annual Portmas in 2018.

That first year was magical. Things just kind of fell into place. I’ll never remember how exactly our bylaws came into being, but we’ve stuck to them, and they are as follows. 1) Each year will have a host. 2) The host will be responsible for selecting one new Christmas movie to accompany the perineal showing of Die Hard. 2) The host will provide the meal for the evening. 3) The host will select a craft for the attendees, preferably tied to the evening’s movie selection. He will also provide all materials for said craft. 4) The host will select a secret word or phrase that, when said by an attendee, will nominate said attendee for hosting the following year. 5) All attendees will bring one bottle of port wine to be shared with the group. And as of writing this, that’s it! A recipe for success if I’ve ever seen one.

The second year, our attendance grew substantially, but most were only there for the food. So the core members were free to celebrate the hallowed tenants of Portmas in style, which included crafting bloody homicidal Santa heads (what happens at Portmas stays at Portmas… Maybe that should be a new bylaw). Unfortunately, COVID-19 derailed our 2020 plans (said everyone ever), so our third annual Portmas was delayed until 2021 (this year, in case you were wondering), and guess who said the last secret phrase? That’s right. Yours truly. And I had some extra special stuff planned for the evening.

For me, nothing says Portmas like homemade bulgogi stir fry and Batman Returns. The food went over wonderfully with the other attendees, but we opted for Christmas Vacation instead of Batman Returns because, after 2020, we all needed a good laugh. Thankfully, a couple remnants of my original Batman plan survived, namely the secret phrase (“I’m Batman) and the craft. Anyway, it was a great year—what’s that? Oh, you want to know what the craft was? Oh, it was nothing big. Just hand-cut and painted Batarangs (if you don’t know, just look at the pictures. They speak for themselves) followed by a throwing competition and official judging (I won, in case you were wondering…). And despite our lack of safety protocols, not a single person ended up with sheet metal stuck in their chest. All in all, a complete success.

As I said, I’ve never been one for traditions, but the birth of Portmas has taught me something very important: Life’s busy. And it just keeps getting busier. In that busyness, it gets harder and harder to carve out time for loved ones, especially old friends when hanging out doesn’t always involve entire families. And so, we need things to FORCE us to get together because, when we make the effort, the result is ALWAYS worth it. Portmas is a perfect example of that, and I would encourage you to give it a try if you feel the spirit of John McClane calling to you, shouting in that jolly voice, “Yippie ki yay, mother—” Anyway, whether you decide to adopt our holiday or not, I hope that I’ve reminded you of other traditions of this season and of their deeper meanings. And of the other seasons, too. Our year is filled with important celebrations—all with their own reasons for gathering with friends and family. And for MY friends and me, 2022 is going to have one more holiday to add to the list. That’s right. June 2022 will see the birth of the first annual Indeportence Day, also known as the Porth of July. Though,  we’re probably going to have to be a little tighter with our safety protocols once exploding fireworks are thrown into the mix. But until then, brave readers, merry Portmas. May your own holiday traditions bring health and happiness to you and yours.

[raisingsupergirl]

A Dance to Remember

Here I was complaining last week about not remembering my kids’ childhood, and then this awesome thing happened Saturday that I couldn’t forget if I tried. This little thing called a Daddy-Daughter Dance. Of course we’ve all heard of them. And truthfully, they’ve always sounded pretty lame to me. A bunch of over-enthusiastic dudes being publicly dragged around by their spoiled kids? No thanks. Well, like most things assumed without having any actual experience, I had it totally wrong.

“I love you for working so hard for us,” Avery (my seven-year-old date) said to me Saturday night as we drove to dinner. And she meant it. The day before, I had talked to a dad whose son “hated” when he went to work. Literally cried over it. It broke my heart because I knew the bind he was in, but it also made me deeply appreciate my family. It would be easy for them to look down on all of my efforts to support them. They could think I was neglecting them or trying to hold some superiority over their heads. In fact, someone once warned me against that very thing. This person said I was headed down a dangerous path that could lead to disaster. Unfortunately, I’ve never really been able to forgive that person for judging me on that level. But in a way, I’m glad it happened because it forced me consider that possibility and realize that I WASN’T headed down that path. I’m outspoken, ambitious, active, and stubborn, but I’ve never been arrogant. And it really is easy for me to put my family first in my heart. And apparently, my kids are picking up on that despite the fact that I don’t get to be around as much as Mommy. And THAT’S what made Saturday night something I’ll never forget—a seemingly small choice with a big result.

The holidays are busy for everyone, and I’m no exception. I’ve been working overtime every week, trying to catch up on required professional development (continuing education), and filling in the gaps with time-sensitive editing projects. So, my gut reaction to being invited to the Daddy-Daughter Dance was to shake my head and say, “I don’t have time.” But the thing was, I DID have time. It was on a Saturday night when I would typically be “recharging” anyway. And a brief image of my daughter going to school on Monday morning, listening to her friends talk about the dance that she didn’t get to go to sealed the deal for me. So instead of vegging on the couch, I chose to spend a night on the town with the most amazing seven-year-old in the world. And from the moment she walked down those steps in her JoJo Siwa unicorn dress, dimples stretched up to her ears, I knew I’d made the right decision.

I handed her the flowers I’d picked up from Walmart an hour before (at the advice of a wise coworker), and she absolutely beamed. “I love them!” she exclaimed, and we snapped a few pictures while fending off her jealous little sister before taking off in the always-classy Dodge Grand Caravan. As I pulled out of the driveway, I asked Avery if she still wanted to go to Pizza Hut. Of course, she happily said yes because what kid is going to say no to pizza? But then I asked where she would choose if we could go anywhere. She thought a second and then said, “That new Chinese place.” Good choice, but still not thinking big enough. “Okay, but… what would be even BETTER than Chinese?” She thought again, and then I could see something spark in her eye. She’d caught on. “Sushi?!” she asked, hoping against all odds that we were about to have her favorite food in the world. I nodded. She squealed. And we were off on our adventure.

Have I ever mentioned that Avery likes to talk? Yeah, that’s doubly true when she’s one-on-one and being treated like the princess that she is. On our short drive, I learned that her favorite subject is science, that people haven’t explored the ocean floor because there’s too much pressure, that I was going to meet her three friends at the dance, and that we HAD to get fried dumplings at dinner. And the whole time, she was literally bouncing up and down in her big-girl booster seat. She grabbed my hand as we got out of the van and headed in to Shogun, and she didn’t let it go for the rest of the night unless she absolutely had to.

We ravaged some sushi (and fried dumplings) in short order, and overall, the dance went off without a hitch. Avery found her friends. She made an epic paper gingerbread girl. She showed off her dance moves. And she wanted me by her side the whole time. That last part, however, was bittersweet. Every time I watched her squeal and giggle with her little cluster of friends, adjust her hair in the mirror, or even go to the bathroom by herself, a little voice in my head whispered, “It won’t always be like this.” I know it’s silly. I know every moment is a blessing. I know nothing stays the same forever. But when moments THAT special are so few and far between, it’s hard to not squeeze too hard. And I’m not ashamed to say I did a lot of squeezing.

So… maybe I was a little over-enthusiastic on Saturday. And maybe I spoiled Avery a tad more than normal. But so what? The little voice in my head was right. It won’t always be like this. So I’m glad I made the most of it while I had the chance. And you can bet that I won’t have to fend off Avery’s jealous little sister next year because I’ll be taking two little super girls on a date night that none of use will ever forget.

[raisingsupergirl]

Remember When...

I’ve been feeling kind of bad lately, and it’s all Facebook’s fault. Surprise, surprise. But this one’s different. You know those little “memories” that pop up? The ones that show you the meal you had in 2016 and the bathroom selfie you took in 2012? Well, lately, they’ve been showing me nothing but baby pictures. Some of my youngest daughter, but most of my oldest one. She’s seven now, so none of these pictures are THAT old. But the thing is, I don’t really remember any of them…

I mean, it’s not that I have amnesia or early-onset dementia or anything. I remember the pictures. I remember taking most of them, even. But I can’t remember what my little babies were LIKE at the time of taking them. The sound of their laugh. Whether they liked to sleep on my left or right arm. Or even which one started walking first (well, my seven-year-old started walking about three years before my four-year-old, but you know what I mean…). Honestly, I don’t remember much about either one of them at all past who they are right now. And for a hot minute, I thought that was a real problem.

I’ve never had the greatest memory for details. Can’t remember most of my teachers’ names growing up. Can’t remember most of my own students’ names past a year or two ago. Couldn’t remember my wife’s birthday until a few years ago, either (it was a major achievement. Celebrate me). But this is different. I’m not good at remembering FACTS, but concepts and ideas are my jam. I remember how people “are.” How they spend their time. What their talents are. How they treat other people. I can profile a person after one meeting and recall it years later (after someone tells me their name, of course). At least, I used to be able to. Until this fiasco with my kids. And a part of me just assumed I was a horrible father until I brought it up to my mom the other day. Her response was only six words long, but it laid my fear to rest.

“They haven’t really done anything yet.” It sounded so simple coming from her. Completely obvious from the beginning. I mean, I guess I needed to hear it from someone else because I wouldn’t believe it myself. In reality, they’ve done a BUNCH of stuff. They do things every day. They learn things, say things, throw giant temper-tantrums. These are things that make them unique. Things that I should remember… right? Well, honestly, probably not. Those things are pretty forgettable in the grand scheme of things. Though, you couldn’t have convinced me of that even a few weeks ago.

You see, my kids have always had big personalities. Avery is inquisitive, goofy, and kind. Annabel is, well, a whirlwind of screams, laughs, and… other noises while also being fiercely in love with her family (which includes her stuffed animals). But my mom was right. They haven’t really done anything to set them apart. Until recently, that is. Both are in pretty much every sport they can be by now, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Most kids do that, and most kids are better at them than mine are. But within the last couple of months, Avery (my oldest) has really started to develop some unique interests that I just might remember a year from now. And it all started with Lego.

Avery has always had a love for little things. Arranging knick-knacks in creative ways and hoarding pretty rocks. But she didn’t have the maturity, talent, or opportunity to do much with that love until she found my old box of Lego (I’m trying by best not to incorrectly say “Legos” here…) out at Nana’s house a while back. Of course she had to steal the whole giant box and bring it back home, but even then she didn’t do much with it. She’d stack a few blocks, fly a dragon around for a couple of minutes, and then leave the whole pile strategically strewn so I could step on every sharp corner first thing in the morning. Then, about a month ago, we started watching Lego Masters and everything changed.

I’m not sure what it was about grown men and women creating fairytale lands out of toy blocks that sparked something within my little first-grader, but day after day her interest grew. And so did her own creations. And not just Lego, either. Drawings, paintings, photographs, videos. She doesn’t seem to share her Daddy’s love of telling stories quite yet, but maybe that’ll come. Or maybe not. That’s what’s cool about this. I’m starting to see not just a passion for creating but some specific ways that she PREFERS to create. Some ways that she has real talent for. To the point where this girl asked for a table for Christmas. A TABLE. And not some fancy drafting table or anything. Just a folding table bigger than the one she’s got out in the garage so she has more space creative create. Why she chose the garage to be her creative space, I can’t rightly say. I mean… it’s not like Daddy spends most of his creative time out in the shop or anything…

So yeah, I don’t remember much about my kids as babies. That’s because babies are like whiskey. You have to spend a lot of time and look very closely to appreciate the differences between them, and to most people they just smell bad and cause headaches. And also like whiskey, they get more interesting with age. Which is exactly what I’m excited about. I can’t wait to see how these two little super girls continue to grow. And hey, if my memory never gets any better, at least I’ll have this blog to look back on. Assuming I don’t forget what it’s called…

[raisingsupergirl]

An Open Letter to Health Insurance Companies

Dear American Health Insurance Companies,

First of all, congratulations! 100 years ago, you didn’t exist. You were born during the Great Depression, and you charged fifty cents per month. By the end of the Depression, your hospital-based plans were called Blue Cross, and your physician-based plans were called Blue Shield. But you quickly realized that you couldn’t make enough money when you focused on insuring people who used your services (sick people). No, it would be better to insure healthy people and take their money without giving anything in return. Brilliant! But how would you do this? By digging your claws into the government, that’s how. Specifically, you “convinced” the IRS to make employee-based insurance benefits a tax write-off for employers. Man, what a masterstroke. By the end of WW2, y’all were insuring pretty much the entire American workforce, whether they needed it or not. And since then, most of us have grown to assume we DO need coverage, FULL coverage (whatever that is), whether we use it or not. Yep, y’all have done pretty well for yourselves. Unfortunately, some of us have started to take notice…

The year was 2009. I’d just graduated college and started my first physical therapy job. I’d also just voted for Barack Obama. That man was going to change the healthcare world forever. He was going to develop the USA’s first universal healthcare system. Coverage for all. Rich, poor, healthy, and sick. We were all going to be able to rest easy at night knowing Uncle Sam would be watching over us. No more hidden fees. No more confusion. No more ridiculous $5 copays EVERY TIME someone came in for physical therapy treatments (sometimes as much as three or four times per week)! Just flat, affordable monthly rates no matter what our healthcare needs happened to be. I mean, that’s what my young, naïve healthcare provider brain dreamed, anyway. And then I woke up five years later and realized monthly premiums for my family were going to be twenty-five percent of our household income. And if we actually ever needed to use that health insurance, we would still have a $2,000 deductible, twenty percent co-insurance, and a twenty-dollar co-pay most places. Even back then when I didn’t know what most of that meant—or that average American healthcare costs were around five percent of their income just ninety years earlier—I still knew that I was getting a bad deal. But most importantly, I knew that my family literally couldn’t afford it. And since necessity breeds creativity, I started looking for another option, and you—health insurance companies—were on the chopping block.

Enter Christian Healthcare Ministries. I don’t know who first told me about CHM, but I’m indebted to them. You saved my family. At first, I was terrified. After all, it’s not even a real health insurance company (yet another example of how effective your century-old brainwashing scheme has been)! But it was affordable. And the more I looked into it (and ran it by my insurance agent/father-in-law), the more I realized it was legit. Like, REALLY legit. They had a solid history of covering costs as promised, a sterling list of reviews, and a pass from the government back when citizens were literally penalized for not having health insurance (yeah, your claws were in REAL deep…). And so, I dove in head-first, and I’ve never looked back.

In case you’re blissfully ignorant of the competition (I know you’re not, but I’m sure you’ve managed to blind at least a few other people who may be reading this), let me tell you about my specific situation, as it stands today. My monthly premiums are $234/month for my whole family. That sounds too good to be true until you consider that my CHM plan doesn’t cover ANYTHING until a case exceeds $5,000. Yep, my family pays for pretty much everything out of pocket. Horrible, right? Wrong. With a family of four, we have NEVER exceeded the $2,500 per year that we put into our “cafeteria plan” (a tax-free savings account to be used only for medical expenses… hey, maybe Uncle Sam is good for something, after all). My kids get sick often. They go to the doctor a few times per year. My wife has regular check-ups. Heck, I even buy contacts and glasses with it! And here’s the reason(s) why we’ve survived on a shoestring healthcare budget: Hospitals and healthcare providers LOVE cold hard cash. Why? Because insurance companies only reimburse them a small percentage of their submitted claim amounts (which is why healthcare prices have inflated so much—to keep up with ever-dropping insurance reimbursement rates). So, when we tell them that we’re paying out of pocket, a fifty-dollar bottle of amoxycillin becomes FIFTEEN dollars. God bless America.

But I can hear you high-up insurance executives scoffing already. “Yeah, but you just said you don’t spend more than $2,500 per year on health care. That’s definitely isn’t true for everyone. Your ‘insurance’ plan definitely isn’t for people who have more complicated medical issues…” And you’d be right. Psych! You’re totally wrong. Because when a claim is over $5,000, my CHM plan pays for everything up to $325,000 (at this point), and every year that we don’t use that amount, our maximum coverage increases by $100,000. “That’s highway robbery,” you say. “What about the donut hole between your cafeteria plan and the $5,000 claim minimum? Also, what average American would be able to afford multiple smaller medical issues in the thousands of dollars per year? Broken arms, minor surgeries, routine medications. These things add up!” And you’re right. They sure do. But you know what else does? A fourteen-thousand-dollar insurance premium! That’s almost twelve-hundred dollars more per month than what I’m currently paying, or over fourteen thousand dollars more per year. FOURTEEN THOUSAND! And that’s not including the deductibles, co-pays, and co-insurances. You insurance types are smart. I don’t need to break down the math any more for you. You know you’re doing America wrong. You’ve known it for a long time. And now a few more people know it, too. And the thing is, I’m not saying CHM is the only other option. I’m not necessarily even saying they’re the BEST option. There are a ton of other companies out there doing it better than you. And you’ve been thriving on lingering ignorance for too long. But not anymore.

Before I go, let me say one last word as a healthcare worker. Remember those ridiculous five-dollar recurrent copays that my physical therapy patients had to pay when I started my practice? Well, now they’re typically around forty dollars for most private insurances. Do you know what we charge patients who pay out of pocket (those who don’t have or don’t use insurance)? Fifty dollars. That’s ten dollars more per visit than those who are paying astronomically-high monthly premiums (and other hidden fees). And physical therapy is a worst-case scenario. Since we don’t have the money to pay for top-dollar government lobbyists (like physicians do), our patients have to pay co-pays every time (unlike umbrella coverage for recurrent specialists like pre-natal exams). We’re the worst it gets, and it STILL doesn’t make financial sense for most of our patients to carry your inflated insurance plans.

In closing, I’ll say again: congratulations. Y’all have accomplished the impossible. You’ve sold water to drowning men for nearly a century. But get ready. We’re starting to come up for air, and we’re seeing clearer now. God willing, more than a few of us will have the courage to do a little research, take our health and our finances into our own hands, and take the plunge. Yes, the waters are deep. Yes, they’re uncertain. But they also hold onto that most essential spirit of our great country: freedom. And that’s something that—despite the claims of your best marketing campaigns—you’ll never truly be able to provide. Not with your current model, anyway. So, here’s one last word of warning to all of you doing the backstroke in your piles of gold: sink or swim. If you wait too long to make a change, it’ll be made for you.

Sincerely,

‘Merica

[raisingsupergirl]

The Work Hard Fallacy

Deer hunting this past weekend was… interesting. My brother and I were hyped after seeing deer all week, and then, on opening morning, we overslept. And that meant I didn’t make it out of the cabin until just after sunrise. As I approached my tree stand, I jumped up a doe about fifty yards away. And then, about twenty-five minutes later, another deer trotted across a ridge that was too far away to take a shot at. Again, despite the alarm clock blunder, I was hyped. But then… nothing. For the rest of the weekend. A few squirrels and an overactive woodpecker. That’s about it. If I’d have just woken up on time, I’d have likely had at least two shots at providing some meat for my family. But surprisingly, as I sat there in the silence of the woods, I wasn’t the least bit upset that I’d missed my chance.

I wasn’t upset because, well, how COULD I be? First off, the cold didn’t bother me like it used to. Maybe it’s because I’ve put on a few layers of natural insulation over the years, or maybe I’m just getting tougher in my old age. Either way, my numb toes and achy knees didn’t dampen my spirits like I remembered. Secondly, the sun was shining. The trees were swaying. It had been a long time since I’d just sat in silence. I mean, with a full-time job and two daughters a home, is that really a surprise? So, despite having a ton of things I COULD be doing to catch up at work and home, I relished the opportunity to just sit and BE STILL. I listened to nature, spoke with God, kept my eyes sharp, and thought about stuff. Nothing in particular, really. Just whatever came to mind. Though, there was one thing I kept coming back to…

As my brother and I had settled into our comfy cabin the previous evening, we’d chatted about the usual things: Family, politics, religion, home projects, the laziness of today’s society… And that last one really got me thinking. As I’ve said, I’m a hard worker. I enjoy staying busy. But it’s not something I feel that I was CREATED for. I mean, God doesn’t NEED me to put in fifty hours a week and then come home and work on silly little projects. No, he wants me to love him with everything I have to offer and love other people as I love myself. But for me, a part of that process is experiencing new things, helping people, and creating stuff. And because of that, I stay busy. But that doesn’t mean EVERYONE is called to a busy life.

There’s this little convenience store near our hunting cabin. It’s called Scherrer’s. And when I say little, I mean it’s barely bigger than our aforementioned hunting cabin. But it’s packed full of row upon row of the most random things. You can buy a pair of jeans for three dollars. For a few bucks more you can snag a rebel flag thermometer. The lady behind the counter will make you a heaping braunschweiger sandwich for another three dollars, and she won’t be wearing a hairnet or gloves while she does it (never mind a mask). She will, however, be talking your ear off about all the great deals they have in stock—things like 1980s DVDs and five-pound bags of potatoes. And she’ll mention to her co-worker that she saw another great deal on a four-wheeler on buy-sell-trade, but she’s not sure if it’s worth the drive to go and get it. And after you’ve got your jeans, your thermometer, and your sandwich, you’ll have to hand over nine dollars in cash, because they don’t take credit or debit. Why? Because the company wants to charge them for using a card reader, and that’s un-American. In short, these people are exactly who Hank Williams, Jr. sang about in “A Country Boy Can Survive.”

I say that with utter sincerity and a little jealousy. You see, these people love deals. They love stretching every dollar and making it mean something. They love supporting their little community just as much as they love maintaining their independence, so they’d rather work on their own terms than get rich by slaving away for someone else. It’s a slow, modest life, and they’d have it no other way. For me, it would be purgatory. For them, it’s heaven. And I think that’s amazing.

The world is a big place. Can we all agree on that? The USA is a big place, too. Across a single state, you’ll have countless communities that all think and see the things in slightly different ways. And that includes work ethic. Some believe humanity was curse to work the land—to toil away our lives. From dust we were created, and to dust we will return. Others believe working is a worldly lie—that we need very little to survive and all else is a distraction. Still others believe that money is a means to an end—a measure of self-worth. A way to prove who’s the best and a chance to be remembered after death. The views are numerous and diverse. Some of them are healthy; others drive people to an early grave. Some power innovation and invention; others lead to recession and destruction. And the most destructive in any of these cases is when people take their work ethic to the extreme, setting it above all else in one way or another.

As I said, each individual is called to a little different purpose in life. I believe I was created in large part to write. I put thoughts, ideas, and challenges down on paper. They’re not usually profound or life-changing, but every once in a while, I hit a vein of truth that helps someone. The thing is, this part of my purpose isn’t my WHOLE purpose. I’m not supposed to quit my job as a physical therapist, forsake my family, and spend every waking moment that I have left typing away at my keyboard. I have so much else to do. So much to experience. So much to learn and enjoy. And that’s true for everyone. We’re complex creatures with complex needs, passions, and goals.

So, whether you spent this last weekend sitting in the middle of the woods or working your butt off from sun-up to sun-down, I hope you saw the experience as an opportunity instead of an obligation. God needs literally nothing from us. He didn’t create the Earth for us to abuse and drain. Nor did he create it to toil away at and lament over. No, he created it for us to experience and enjoy. So, go! Enjoy it in whatever way you were created to do so. And hopefully I can remember my own advice the next time I’m complaining about working too much…

[raisingsupergirl]

If You Ain’t First, You’re Last

Last week was rough, y’all. First off, it’s been friggin’ cold. At least the sun has been shining, but it won’t be long before the light forsakes us, too (can we stahp the daylight savings madness yet?). Secondly, I was busy. Real busy. I worked 50+ hours, including returning to an exercise class that I teach in the evenings, which meant that I worked out seven times in the span of five days, so my body was fairly wrecked. I was also on the music team for church, so I had to make time to practice for that to avoid sounding absolutely horrible in front of God and everybody. And that meant very little time with my dear family, which always makes things harder. And lastly, unexpected expenses kept cropping up. Amongst other things, my wife needs work done on her car, and our upstairs bathtub (which the seller of our house was SUPPOSED to have fixed) is leaking into our downstairs bathroom (which, until recently, we had thought was from my daughter having accidents on the floor… I’m sure we’ll hear about THAT in therapy in about twenty years…). Yeah, all-in-all, the week had me saying some naughty words in my head. Until Sunday rolled around and leveled me in the best way possible.

I’m not a morning person. Y’all know that. So waking up at 5:45 for Sunday morning music team isn’t something I look forward to. Mostly because it means I can’t stay up watching movies and “recharging” on Saturday night. But man, once I drag myself out of bed, it’s all worth it. Every time. And this past Sunday was no exception. As I said earlier, it’s been cold, and it was chilly Sunday morning, too, but it was an energizing chill. As I drove to Fredericktown, MO to practice with the band, I watched the sun come up over glistening fields, setting fire to seas of fog. I took deep breaths, embracing the silence, embracing His majesty. And I listened to the fourth song in my upcoming music set over and over.

“I’m no longer a slave to fear. I am a child of God.” It’s such a simple hook. And that’s exactly the point. A lot of contemporary Christian songs don’t resonate with me. Doubt, pain, longing. I experience these things different than a lot of Christians. I don’t really need pep talks to remind me that things are going to get “better.” Mostly because, well, the life I’m living is one that I’ve built. I worked hard to get here, and I love it. But as most of you know, working hard and living a “good” life doesn’t amount to squat in the end. There will always be that emptiness that comes with the let-down after temporary accomplishment. And there’s only one thing that can fill it. “I am a child of God.” I literally shouted that to the Lord on my way to church. And everything else melted away.

Of course, I wasn’t perfect on the stage (too bad I hadn’t made more time to practice…). But my mistakes didn’t dampen my spirits. If anything, they deepened my tender happiness. First and foremost, I am a child of God. I am held. And that resonated through my pastor’s message and reverberated on through the rest of my day. Which was amazing, by the way. My family went out to my brother’s farm, and we celebrated my mom’s birthday. Sixty-degree temps, grilling, laughing, and hay-riding with the people I love most on this earth. It was exactly what I needed to round out my Sabbath.

My daughter learned the days of the week recently, and she was talking about how Sunday was the first day of the week. I had a gut-impulse to set her straight. To explain how Sunday was the last day of the week because we start a new work and school week on Monday and because God created everything in six days and then rested on the seventh day. Instead, I explained these points but then said it’s probably not a bad thing to put Sunday at the beginning of the week. I mean, can you think of a BETTER way to get started? I mean, why wait until the end of the week to remember what the point of all of it was?

When Jesus said, “So the last shall be first, and the first last,” he promised “payment” for all who come to him, whether it’s in the first hour or the eleventh. Sometimes that’s easy to forget for “lifers” like me. The road is long, and even though the promised reward has never changed, it sometimes feels like it’s never getting closer. That is, until I remember that I AM a child of God. Not eventually. Not someday. But right now and always. Forget all the distractions. All the working and bills and things. I’m living in the arms of the creator, and that’s all that matters. And whether Sunday is the first day of the week or the last, whether or not I treat it with the full intentionality that the Sabbath deserves, it’ll always be that moment of clarity. That deep breath during the long journey as the sun crests over the horizon and reminds me where I’m headed. I am a child of God.

[raisingsupergirl]

The Great Animal Cruelty Debate

Our dear cat Fancy got spayed and declawed this past week. Naturally, the event caused me to question everything I thought I knew about right and wrong. I talked to a lot of people about it before her surgery date, and I always received mixed reviews. Mixed because 100% of the responses were in favor of getting her spayed but the responses to declawing ranged from “Whatever” to “Think hard about whether you want to do that.” The funny thing is, the one person who loves that cat more than life itself (my four-year-old daughter) was the one person who absolutely wanted her to have it done.

Everyone has an opinion about everything these days. And that’s nothing new or negative. But it’s the current trend to be unyielding and ruthless with those opinions. And I had a patient the other day who really put things into perspective. “You know,” he said, “it’s legal for humans to have abortions and cats to get spayed. But flip that around and we’d start a war.” Think about that for a moment. Then think about it again. “But humans have more rights than cats,” you say. Tell that to PETA. “But we have to control the cat population,” you say. Why? What’s wrong with more cats? Why should they be punished because they’re skilled survivors? If we suddenly stopped spaying and neutering all cats and we had a massive overpopulation… then what? Would the Earth collapse into utter ruin? More likely, we’d have a global eradication of all rodents, and then the cats would start slowly starving and dying off. Thus, nature would eventually self-correct. Would it be pleasant for humanity? Absolutely not. But that’s exactly the point right there. It would be inconvenient not for cats but for US.

Why are some people so against getting cats declawed? Because it’s “cruel,” right? But what about spaying them? Disregarding the pain and trauma of surgery, who are we to take away an animal’s most basic reason for living? If someone had told your teenaged self, “You can either keep your fingertips or your reproductive organs,” which one would you have chosen? Mmhmm. That’s what I thought. “But why did you need to get Fancy declawed at all?” you ask. Why couldn’t we have just learned to carefully clip her claws, get her those little claw covers, or just stop being so superficial and get used to the idea of shredded furniture? Well, convenience, that’s why. Same reason we got her spayed. We didn’t want a little preggo cat that would lead to us taking time to find homes for the kittens (and thus leading to the global cat overpopulation and subsequent inevitable collapse of mankind), and we didn’t want destroyed furniture. COULD we have kept all of her body parts intact? Of course. But we as humans have a need to control things. And this way, at least little Fancy gets to live out her days amongst the people who love her. Oh, and before you ask why she couldn’t have been an outside cat, that would not only have been animal cruelty (Missouri winters suck royally), it would have been daughter cruelty. Because, as I said, my daughter could not survive without cuddling with that little feline on every available occasion.

I mentioned briefly that we, as humans, like to control things. That comes in the form of domesticating wild animals that are naturally solitary creatures. It comes in the form of keeping our homes tidy and safe from claws. And it comes in the form of passing judgement on one another. We all have our own particular worldview. And we believe in that worldview with all of our heart. And no two of us see things exactly the same. That’s because most of these views aren’t absolute truths. Being a Christian, I DO believe in certain universal truths. But the topic of declawing isn’t one of them (nor is mandatory vaccination… oops). You’ve got an opinion on it. So do I. And neither opinion reflects the goodness of our hearts or the purity of our souls. It’s that way with so many things, and I’m thankful for the recent reminder.

On another note, our precious Fancy is all healed up and just as ornery as ever (but she can no longer sucker punch our geriatric dog in the face with her claws). Her health, happiness, and safety are now fully our responsibility, but then again, they have always has been. Same goes with my kiddos. Which is why we let our oldest animal lover dress up as Cruella de Vil for Halloween and our youngest animal lover dress up as a coat, er… Dalmatian. We didn’t spoil the moment by explaining the animal cruelty that they were inadvertently promoting. Nope. We let them rock those costumes and trick-r-treat until they nearly passed out. And only a part of that decision was swayed by the Dad Tax on their candy haul…

[raisingsupergirl]

Take a Picture, It’ll Last Longer

We all have that childhood home. That place we compare everywhere else to. That place where all of our dreams still take place. Weird thing is, when talking to my older brothers recently, their childhood home is different than mine. It’s weird because we all grew up in the exact same house. Well, houses. When I was seven, we moved from our double-wide trailer to our “mansion” in the woods. So, my brothers (seven and eight years older than me) spent their formative years in the trailer while I did so in our new house. And these are the thoughts that have consumed me for the past couple of days ever since we officially said goodbye to the only home our two daughters have ever known.

Memories are curious. What we remember isn’t exactly reality. We remember a curated version of reality that best suits our psyche. I remember our mobile home layout incorrectly, but it still feels accurate in my mind. I remember flashes of video games, go-karts, and catching fish, though I’m not sure how much of all that is from my own experiences and how much is from stories my family has told me. My next house, however, I remember vividly. It’s where my life really started. It’s where I learned to think for myself, learn for myself, appreciate nature. Here I experienced love and loss, fear and freedom. All from the moment I first moved in there when I was seven years old—the same age my oldest daughter is right now.

So, this house I just sold… This house where my wife and I spent a decade of our lives, where we brought both of our daughters home from the hospital, where we truly began our family… What will it be to my daughters? Will Avery (my oldest) remember climbing in her special tree, playing toys among the river cane garden, and swinging “fire sticks” with her daddy in the rain? Will Annabel (my youngest) remember helping Daddy feed the fish in the aquariums, hunting Easter eggs in the back yard, and ripping open presents in our dining room on Christmas morning? Will they remember closing the pocket doors on our living room so Googly (our robo-vacuum) can’t get out? Will they remember exploring the cellar or going on family walks around our neighborhood? Or will our 130-year-old house simply fade away? And if they forget all of those wonderful memories, what’s to stop me from doing the same.

Seriously, this is a real fear of mine. The specifics of 317 South Henry Street are fading so quickly. When we went back one last time this past Sunday, it already didn’t feel like home. We moved just a couple months ago, but I still felt strange walking back through the doors of the “old” house. To be fair, I’ve never had the greatest memory. I mean sure, I can tell you random facts that most people would have to Google to believe, but I couldn’t tell you who my fourth-grade teacher was if my life depended on it. And that’s the main reason I started this blog. It’s why I love writing. Assuming Y2k isn’t running a little late, the words that I post here will be around long enough for my children’s children to read. I’ll be able to look back to every single week since my kids were born and relive the thoughts, events, and emotions that my little family was going through at the time.

Like this week, we carved jack-o-lanterns, then went to “Boo at the Zoo” with my co-worker and her kids, and the rain held off just long enough for us to see pretty much all of the displays (except the giant light-up pumpkin, which was already turned off by the time we got there). My oldest daughter like the animatronic dinosaurs the best, and my youngest’s favorite was the flamingos (she loves them right now. No idea why). And after we went to Mom’s for family dinner the next day, we came back home and watched the movie Annabel has been obsessing about this whole season: A Nightmare Before Christmas. And just by writing these words down, the events will live on for decades.

Yes, memories will eventually fade. Houses will sell. But words and pictures last nearly forever. And more importantly, our FEELINGS toward certain memories and events resonate deeply long after the specifics of those moments blur. So, the best we can do is live in the moment, appreciate each thing for what it is, be present and thankful, and record it all as best we can. Because we’ll eventually have to say goodbye. And all we’ll have left are the pictures.

[raisingsupergirl]

Good Earth

“It’s pronounced bonne terre,” the lady proclaimed in a French accent from behind me as we floated along the subterranean lake 200 feet beneath Bonne Terre, MO. Our tour guide just smiled and nodded, but I turned around and countered with, “We say it wrong so we don’t get confused and think we’re in France.” She shrugged. I chuckled. Five minutes later, the lady complimented our tour guide on his correct use of the word tangential. He was flattered. I chuckled again. Here we were, exploring a billion-gallon underground lake in the bowels of the earth, and this lady couldn’t stop swooning over words. What a nerd, right?

Okay, so yeah, I’m a writer. In fact, this past Sunday, I felt even more writerly as I sat at the Quad Con Comic & Toy Show in St. Charles, MO selling the fruits of my labor. Well, the fruits of labor from hundreds of authors and dozens of volunteers, of which I am just one. But I was the one sitting behind the booth, complimenting creative cosplay costumes and talking up Havok Publishing’s anthologies. And honestly, it was a blast getting out there and being an author in the wild, which I don’t do often. Why? Well, because I get distracted. And in the three days leading up to the comic con, I got REAL distracted thanks to some friends staying at my house. Writer friends, in fact. But other than Sunday, our activities had nothing to do with writing.

My friend Ben arrived Wednesday night, which meant staying up late and catching up, and then Thursday, I showed him how to brew beer, which included plenty of sampling, followed by the grilling of all the meat known to man. And then eating all those meats. Followed by more hanging out, discussion, and debate into the early hours of morning. When we finally woke up Friday, we decided it was a good idea to journey to the center of the earth. Or, at least, the depths of the Bonne Terre mine (pronounced bon tear for all of you non-locals who have thoughts of Frenching it up unnecessarily…). I’ve lived near it most of my life but have never gone, so this was the time. And boy, what a time it was. Its vast man-made caverns, towering pillars, and shadowy depths staggered the mind and stimulated the imagination. Learning that the original miners carved and blasted out such a structure by candlelight, being unable to see farther than two feet, was a humbling experience. Learning that entire generations of mules lived and died down there, and literally went blind in the process, was… a little depressing. And learning that the owners were growing an underground garden in those depths was a clear indicator of where I will be headed at the first signs of the apocalypse.

Speaking of apocalypses, after the mine tour, we headed to “America’s largest haunted house” with some more friends in order to properly celebrate the Halloween season. And I don’t know about America, but it was certainly the largest haunt I’d been to in Missouri. It was good, too. Plenty of oversized animatronic monsters and overzealous actors to make me scream like a girl at least once, so I consider it a win. We finished off the night by watching the original Nightmare on Elm Street, and then went to sleep dreaming about the thing we’d really been waiting for…

Guns! Bullets! Targets and cans and exploding things! There’s just something about shooting stuff that puts a redneck at ease. But more than that, it was the time spent outside on a gorgeous day, the laughs, the competition, the creativity, and okay, yeah, the shooting stuff. We won’t talk about how expensive ammunition is right now (and we won’t get into anything political. Nope, won’t do it) because while you CAN put a price on fun and happiness, it’s best not to. After all, we can’t take our money with us when we die.

And that’s what I had to keep reminding myself last week, because fun IS expensive at times. But that’s only because other people put in work to maximize our fun. I mean, I explored a billion-gallon underground lake, for heck’s sake. And if the owners didn’t pump out a million gallons of water per day, it would be completely filled to the brim in less than seven years. And that’s saying nothing of keeping things clean, careful, and creative. But those things don’t MAKE the experience. They only highlight the depth of the human experience. And that’s what this past week’s adventures reminded me of.

It’s hard to be a writer without having anything to write about. And it’s hard to have anything to write about without going out and experiencing the world. The lady behind me during the cave tour was hell-bent on telling her story (“I have a scientific background,” she’d announced proudly) instead of taking in the awe-inspiring adventure unfolding around her. As she was flexing her linguistic prowess, I REALLY wanted to turn around and say, “Well, you may have a scientific background, but you’re sitting behind two authors, and most literary authorities would say pronunciation should be informed by colloquialisms and local usage rather than historical sources in order to retain the most relevant meaning. Oh, and I ALSO have a scientific background.”

But of course, I didn’t say that. Instead, I made my little dig and then went back to the tour. Because I enjoy refilling my creative cup. I love writing from a place of experience because it forces me to truly appreciate my daily experiences. Because there’s SO MUCH to experience on this good earth (which is what Bonne Terre means in French, if you haven’t caught that yet). And as it turns out, there’s so much to experience UNDER it, too. So here’s my advice to you (and myself): remember to enjoy the world in which we live. It’s not enough to talk about it, write about it, and correct the pronunciation of it. No, we’re here to experience these creations in deep and meaningful ways. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Right after I stop typing. Which would be right… about… now.

[raisingsupergirl]

Building a Solid Foundation

So, my seven-year-old daughter started basketball last week. It was her first time on the court and, well, it went better than expected. I mean, she wasn’t stellar, but after her performance in soccer and t-ball over the past few years, I didn’t have high expectations. She loves being with her friends, loves waving at her parents, and loves jogging around away from the action. That is, if she’s not busy picking at her fingers or staring off into space. And all of those things were still true this past Saturday, but it was… different.

For one thing, Avery actually touched the ball some. She even dribbled a little. She was holding out her hands and asking for passes, and she even blocked some shots. In short, she wasn’t the worst kid on the team. In fact, she wasn’t even in the bottom half! And THAT made Daddy’s heart very happy. Which was a good thing, because the inside of that gym was LOUD, so for the first time, I couldn’t yell at Avery to pay attention or to go after the ball or to stop picking her nose. The only thing I could do was sit back and watch.

At first, it was nerve-racking. I can’t handle not helping and coaching and teaching. It’s in my nature. I want the people I love to be their best (even if that’s not what THEY really want). Which meant I was white-knuckling it for a couple of quarters. But by the second half, I just kind of… let go. And by the time the final buzzer sounded, I realized that, for the first time at one of these train-wreck sporting events, I was actually enjoying myself. I mean, sure, our team got absolutely stomped. We were SO bad. But that was okay. We got out the first game jitters, and the fundamentals where there. Knowing which basket to shoot at (usually), dribbling the ball instead of tucking and running (mostly), and passing to open teammates (sometimes). With the foundation laid, there was hope for them to get better throughout the season. And that, my friends, is truly why I enjoyed the game.

The other day, a friend of mine shared some good news with me. His career took a major leap forward. It was something he’d been working on for years (decades?), and it had finally happened. His future was finally secure. His family would be taken care of. He was on cloud nine. And… a part of me was jealous. I wasn’t able to fully celebrate his success with him because—wait, I didn’t KNOW why I couldn’t be completely happy for him. And it was in that moment that I started smiling.

It’s a strange thing when one realizes that jealousy has no further purpose—that it no longer serves as a source of motivation. That it’s only an old, useless habit that needs to be rooted out and left to wither in the sun. And that’s exactly what happened to me in that moment. I realized that I had nothing to be jealous about because I finally had everything I wanted. Well, not everything, but I had the foundation.

I don’t know what being middle-aged is like for everyone, but for me, it’s an emergence after years of desperate struggling for stability, purpose, and validation. It’s a gift of satisfaction as I look around at my beautiful family and the life we’ve built together. And it’s a promise of so much more. More Friday pizza nights, more Saturday yard work, more Sunday morning church and afternoon pool parties. More long days at work so we can save up for new projects and toys and vacations. And yes, more grueling pee-wee sports. All because the foundation has been laid.

All life starts out as a blank canvas. A spark of potential within a mother’s womb. From that first instant, we’re bombarded with STUFF. We’re laced together with specific genetic code, we’re nourished with whatever our mothers put in their bodies, were born into different states of security and belief and possibility. We’re in a tail-spin before we ever take a breath. It’s the unfortunate truth that some will never regain control—never learn who they’re truly meant to be. Some don’t even know that’s a possibility. They just assume life is a train wreck from start to finish. Heck, I’m pretty sure EVERYONE feels that way at some point. I know I did. And that’s why I’m so passionate about this topic. I didn’t know what I could have until I had it. Until I spent years laying the foundation of some unknown future only to look up one day and see everything clearly.

Of course, there will be surprise twists and turns in the adventure that is my life. If there weren’t, there would be no point in building a foundation. I only need something to fall back on because I WILL eventually fall. Maybe I’ll even fall apart. Who knows? Tomorrow, everything could crumble to dust and leave me with nothing. That’s just part of the deal—my Lot in life, so to speak. And it’s okay. Because I’m standing on the rock today. And I’m thankful that, at least for the moment, my feet are firm.

[raisingsupergirl]

Thank God for Failure

I caught myself getting a little frustrated last week—slipping into that same old “what am I wasting my time for?” self-doubt. It was little stuff. I’d made my first all-grain beer, and it looked like the fermentation had stalled, leading me to believe I’d wasted almost an entire day making a sloppy porridge. Also, I’d put so much other work on my plate that I didn’t have time to decorate for Halloween, which is my favorite holiday. And so, frustration. Frustration at my over-commitment to things. Frustration at my failure to create delicious beer. Frustration that I didn’t have enough time to get better at the things I loved. And there, lurking just below the surface, was fear that I COULDN’T get better at those things. And that’s what really killed my joy.

As I’ve said before, I went through quite a transformation last year as I realized my core motivation in life: “achieving adventure.” Before that, dead-end failures and mundane tasks threatened to drown me. But as I started understanding my journey better, my fire for life rekindled. Then we moved to our new house and I had SO MANY adventures waiting for me. More than I could ever accomplish in a lifetime, in fact. But that was just the challenge I was looking for. At least, for a while.

They say old habits die hard. And that’s certainly true with my tendency to fall back on the words of Ecclesiastes. “Vanity of vanities! All is vanity!” What’s the point of it all? Work your butt off for sixty years, then end up worm food that nobody remembers. And even if they DO remember, who cares? Those people will die, too, and to cosmic dust we all return—tiny, insignificant specs… Okay, okay. Things got a little dramatic there for a second. I blame Ecclesiastes. Anyway, it really is hard to pour EVERYTHING into something and then realize that it wasn’t enough. But the crazy thing is, “not enough” is an insanely ridiculous concept. Not enough for WHAT, exactly? Take my beer, for example. What was my goal? Did I want to create a blue-ribbon brew on my first attempt? Why? Is it going to be my new profession? Am I going to become PBR’s new brew master? Of course not. I have a full-time job that I love as well as enough of other paying projects to work myself into an early grave. So what, then? Was my first-attempt beer not good enough to impress my friends? No, probably not. But again I say, who cares? I’ll go buy a six-pack of Blue Moon the next time someone comes over, and then I’ll be able to tell them about my epic failure. It’ll be a great story. So, I guess there’s just one real answer to my question:

My beer wasn’t good enough to cure my deep-seated search for self-fulfillment. No biggie, right? Yeah, well, you have the same problem. In fact, we all do. Humans are hard-wired for it. If you believe as I do, you’re pretty aware of the only true source of fulfillment: dying to self and living for God. But there’s a ton to unpack there that includes finding joy in every daily act because our loving Creator anticipated each of those moments, because he’s walking with us as we experience, fail, grow, succeed, etc. And that line of reasoning (again, too much to unpack here, so come on over sometime and we can discuss it over the aforementioned six-pack) led me back to the truth of my “failure.” And that truth required me to answer this question: Is it easier to be THE best at something or to try MY best at it?

If you said it’s easier to try my best, you’re a dummy. But no more than most people (and yes, I’m most people). I mean, think about it. Someone has to be the best despite effort level, but when is the last time you literally gave something EVERYTHING you had? I’m not asking when the last time was that you did something perfectly. I’m asking when the last time was that you focused on something 100% and didn’t finish until you could find no better way to do it. If you’re being honest, the answer is probably, “Never.” Seriously. But that’s because people don’t HAVE to give anything 100% anymore. We’re not running for our lives and hiding from saber-toothed tigers. We’re not rationing potatoes through the winter so we don’t starve. No, we’re taking pills to battle our depression because our neighbor down the street thinks we’re fat. And the thing is, I’m not saying our state of affairs is our fault. Humans have actually SUCCEEDED. Our frontal lobes were created big enough to not even make it a real competition. We’re so far at the top of the food chain that we can cruise through life and still be ahead of the rest of the planet. But what does that leave, then? If our purpose isn’t survival, then what is it?

Living life fully. Basking in God’s creations, emulating his creativity, striving for his intentionality. And no, I’m not saying we will ever be perfect. I’m not even saying we should TRY to be perfect. What I am saying is that we should rise to the challenge, relish failure, and step up to the plate again. God finds joy in our persistence. He loves when we pick apart an intimidating task and better understand the complexities of his creations. He smiles when we pour our heart into a sloppy stick figure drawing and hold it up to him saying, “Look what I made, Daddy!”

In the same way, our half-hearted attempts don’t mean much to Him because they don’t mean much to us. Most of the time, people use, “I tried my hardest” to disguise the fact that they DIDN’T try their hardest. Because they’re ashamed of their “failure.” But the only people who fear failure are the ones who doubt their ability to improve. I’ll say that again: The only people who fear failure are the ones who doubt their ability to improve. And then they give up before they ever truly get started, blaming God, bad luck, and their own inadequacies for their “failure,” despite the fact that they missed the whole point—the pure enjoyment of TRYING. Trust me. I know from experience.

So, for now at least, I’ll keep pouring everything into new experiences. I’ll get better at brewing beer, at landscaping, at physical therapy, at editing, at writing, at being a husband and a father. I’ll never be the best at any of those things, but who cares? The best are just stardust like me, anyway. And now’s my time to shine.

[raisingsupergirl]

There are three parts of vacation that make it really special: anticipating the upcoming fun, experiencing the events as they unfold, and reflecting on what it all means. Now, looking back on this past weekend, my heart is full. It’s good to be home. It’s good to see my sweet Luna and my sassy Fancy. It’s good to be back in my own bed. But my mom had this vacation planned for months, and it was exactly what our family needed—a simple getaway at the lake for a few days without any deadlines or demands. Just a whole lot of fishing, boating, canoeing, and swimming. Wildlife greeted us around every corner, including tame deer, a hungry snapping turtle, kamikaze Asian carp, a dock cat named Skittles, and my brother’s lucky guess of pelicans invading the Midwest. We had mountains of homemade meals and buckets of tasty drinks. S’mores around the firepit and laughs around the poker table. And even a little sushi on the way home to Missouri. Like I said, it was nothing elaborate, but my mom put a ton of work and money into it, and the rest of us sat back and recharged our spirits. I mean, there’s just something about being around loved ones who just “get” you, ya know? Even now, as I prepare to return to work, I’m optimistic. I’m reminded of the people and things I work for. I appreciate that work. I’m actually excited about it again… even if I might catch myself daydreaming about the lake every once in a while.

[raisingsupergirl]

Shrink the Camel; Be the Camel

So, after my 50-hour work week, I was going to write this long, profound blog post after church this past Sunday (first time back to church since we moved into the new house, and it felt SO good!). Instead, I weed-eated, brewed some beer (first all-grain!), and played baseball with my girls. That’s where I’m at right now: my plate is full. My cup is full. My heart is full. And honestly, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I mean, it sounds like an easy answer, but let me explain.

I told a friend recently, “It’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to become a published novelist,” because he knows the dream I’ve been chasing. And because of that, I asked him to keep me accountable. His response was somewhere in the realm of, “Boo-hoo.” Really, he said I needed a period of settling into my new house and new schedule, but it’s possible that I imposed some of my own guilt into his response. And the ridiculous thing is that the guilt I’m feeling is over my own happiness. Mostly because I could see myself slipping into this domestic bliss forever. And I came to the realization a few months ago (thanks Gravity Leadership!) that it would be okay if that were the case. I’m here to spread the Good News and to help people in need, and I’m doing that. Everything else is just a bonus. But some of those bonuses feel so close to my heart and my “reason” for being here that I just can’t let them go. And one of them is writing.

So, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what that means. And I think a big part of it is re-imagining the parable, “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven.” Years ago, I assumed it meant that money and power corrupted people. Now I know that it means that those who are rewarded on earth find it harder to pray longingly to move closer toward the Spirit of God. Why? Because we’re too busy cutting the grass! And making beer and playing baseball with beautiful daughters and yes, even playing in the church worship band. So many THINGS get in the way of the SPIRIT! And it’s driving me nuts.

Okay, yes, I know that I SHOULD give myself time to acclimate. And the fact that I’m aware of my shortcomings gives me solace that I will find my equilibrium. But it’s going to have to be a concerted effort—a deliberate balancing of my material blessings and my heavenly goals. So, help keep me honest, will you? Don’t hesitate to ask me how my spiritual life’s going (so many of my church family have already hinted at that very question! Oh, how I love them!). And in the meantime, ask me to hang out. Get me into some fellowship and important conversations. I need it

Okay, well, it’s time for dinner, so I gotta go. Thanks for listening, friends!

[raisingsupergirl]

She’s Got a Lip Fungus They Ain’t Identified Yet

Parenting is full of deep, joyful moments. Moments that change a person. Moments that make life worth living, like the ones I wrote about last week. But that doesn’t mean it’s all sunshine and bliss. Some things just downright suck. And I’m not talking about the whining, the behavioral issues, the disciplining. Those are the things I expected—the things I signed up for. No, I’m talking about the other things. The terrifying things. The things that make me feel like I have no control, that I’m failing as a father. I’m talking about injury and illness. And my seven-year-old Avery has a real talent for these things.

Thankfully, she must have a decent immune system, because she doesn’t often come down with colds and whatnot. But she gets hurt all the time because she’s floppy like dear old dad. From her severe concussion several years ago to her multiple elbow dislocations, she’s always falling over and hurting something. But that’s not even the worst thing. No, the worst thing is that her skin sucks. Yes, her skin. She doesn’t have psoriasis or eczema or anything, but her epidermis gives up faster than her opposing soccer team did this past weekend. Seriously. Mosquito bites cause mountainous welts. She breaks out in hives at random times, especially when she happens to be running a fever, and she’s had ringwork more times than I can count. Oh, and then there’s this most recent thing…

It started out as what looked like a pimple on her face, pretty much the first day of school in a new district. Every girl’s worst nightmare, right? Well, it gets worse. And I mean that literally. One bump became two, and slowly it crept down to her chin, and then she got a spot on her eye. Within two weeks, she also had a spot on her leg, and all of it was growing. “Why didn’t you take her to the doctor sooner!?” Shut up. Like you’re the world’s best parent, or something? Stuff like this is weird. It happens so slowly. You assume it’s going to go away. Then you look at your perfect little angel one morning and realized she’s being consumed by a flesh-eating virus. Well, bacteria, actually. One trip to Convenient Care diagnosed it as impetigo. Oops. But a $60 bottle of antibiotics kicked those critters right in the teeth, so to speak. Within a week, her sores started healing. And even if Avery complained about the awful taste, she squealed with joy the morning she took off her bandage and saw that it was getting better. Though, in that moment, my heart broke a little.

Up until then, I hadn’t realized how self-conscious she was about it. I mean, she’s only seven. She’s so focused on external things (her new cat, exploring the creek, etc.) that it’s hard to see the things she’s struggling with internally. And even though she prayed most nights that her face would get better, this one just didn’t register with me until I saw the absolute joy in her eyes when she realized she was healing. Thankfully, she didn’t have any emotionally scarring moments—no coming home crying because some bully made fun of her or anything. But I can’t help feeling awful for not paying more attention to her.

Like I said, parenting comes with its ups and downs, and most of them are go much deeper than the skin. Like, where did she get this impetigo? It likely came from one of two places—either playing in the aforementioned wet-weather creek or cuddling with her aforementioned new cat. So, I’m danged if I do and danged if I don’t, but I’m not about to deprive her of either of those things. No, I’ll choose the lesser of two evils, the one that brings her inner joy with the risk of external pain. Especially since a $60 bottle of antibiotics is way cheaper than years of therapy…

Wait, did I say $60? I meant $105. You know, because we just found a sore on her little sister’s leg, too. Parents of the year, right here. Remember to get your autographs.