It feels like he and I have been at it for so long that the next argument is just a continuation of the last. It does not take me more than just a second to whip myself into a fury at the slightest hint of his mouthiness. I don’t give him a chance to try to weasel his way out of chores. The warden is on duty 24-7.

My wife, God bless her, has tried to be his advocate, and it does nothing but cause friction for everyone in the house. Frankly I feel slighted when she tries to calm me down.  Lately, however, I’ve seen that her patience with him has run thin as well. It definitely isn’t fun. Although I feel for her, I’m glad that he no longer has her apron to hide behind. Maybe he’ll understand that I’m not being overly grumpy, but that his actions are causing the friction.

A few weeks ago my wife went to attend a family wedding. Finances kept us from all being able to go, and my son and I were left to our own devices. I was dreading this time alone with him, and I could see the trepidation on my wife’s face as she boarded the plane. She had that “I just threw a lit match in a pool of gasoline” look.

After we left the airport my son and I drove home in silence. As he teared up at the thought of missing his Mom, I started a mental calendar that I could check off the hours counting down her return. Eight days to go.

The first day was tough. Not because we we were strangling each other, but because I could see the pain he was going through. He had never been away from his Mom, but I had been away on business many times before. I invited him to sleep on Mom’s side of the bed so I could keep him company, and he accepted.

Day two and all’s well. My son came home from school, did his homework, took his evening bath, went to bed at the right time, all without having to be told to do so, or having only been asked once. My eyebrows arched. Who was this kid, and what did “they” do to my real son? This behavior went on for the rest of the week. Pleases, thank you’s, I’s dotted, T’s crossed, dirty dishes in the dishwasher after every meal. A beleaguered father could get used to this.

Day five. Laundry day. My wife left me a “Honeydew (Honey do!)” list, and she also left instructions on how not to turn the laundry into shop rags. It was not until mid-weekend that I remembered that the laundry needed to be done. At the time I was up to my elbows in brake fluid and motor oil. I walked into the house, washed my hands and called my son over. I told him that now would be a good time for him to learn how to do laundry, and that we would do this together. I showed him how much soap to use, and what colors to wash first. We set the dirty clothes piles on the floor in the order they were to be washed, and I left explicit instructions for him to come out to the garage and call me when the washing machine buzzer finally went off because I had more instructions for him.

I came back into the house when he called me back, and I instructed him to move the wet load into the dryer, put in a dryer sheet, set the timer, and pop in the next wash load, add soap and set the time on the machine too. I then told him that we would have to pull the dry clothes out of the dryer and spread them out on the couch to keep the heat from setting creases and wrinkles in the nice clean clothes. I left instructions to call me again when the buzzers sounded.

I went back out to the garage and went back to working on one of the vehicles, secure in the thought that he would call me when the time came.

Hours passed. I lost track of time. I completed my task in the garage and was getting ready to start dinner when I realized I had never been summoned for the important step of spreading out the warm laundry. My temper started to simmer. Here we go again.

I stormed in the house getting ready to “rip somebody a new one”. I rounded the corner of the hallway and just froze.

My son was sitting in the exact position I had left him in, playing a video game on the computer, the floor was devoid of laundry piles, the washer and dryer were empty, and all the piles of laundry were freshly washed, and were neatly stacked by color on the couch.

While I tried to hide the excruciating pain caused by the cramp in my left eyebrow muscle I asked him why he had not called me when the buzzer went off, he matter-of-factly told me that he knew what to do, and that he didn’t feel the need to bother me.

I’m sure I looked around the room trying to find a hidden camera or some whiff of a reality show crew hiding in a closet with boom mikes and spot lights, but nothing. No punch line reality show ambush. Just me …. and the sound of crickets.

I sat down for a minute and tried to process all this new stimuli. You’ll have to understand this was a first. I had never experienced this from him before. If only his Mom was here to see this. (A-HA! There it is! NO APRON!)

After cooking dinner I spent the rest of the meal looking at my son suspiciously, making sure his breathing and blinking were not on a mechanical cycle, or that all his moles and birthmarks were still where I remembered them to be. I was not completely convinced that this “person” eating dinner with me was my son.

The 8 days went by without a hitch. There were only 1 or 2 very minor incidents over the course of the week, versus what almost seems like 1 to 2 flare ups every half hour that seems so familiar. Eventually my wife returned and the normalcy that is our life has started to slowly creep back into or daily routine. As much as I missed my family being together for those 8 days, I also miss the attitude my son displayed for that short period of time.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s a great kid and I love him to death. Straight A student, over achiever, smart as a whip. I get nothing but high praise for him from teachers, family, and parents of his friends. We (he and I) just need to find a middle ground where we can co-exist. I want to wean him away from his current behavior and steer him towards a much more appropriate, productive one. I know that I also need to apply the patience that I exude for all others to our own relationship.

This last July 4th found my family and I settling in for the fireworks display at the local fairgrounds. We made it to the grounds plenty early enough to get a good space and were even able to enjoy the local parade where tractors outnumber floats.

The inspiration for this post began as dusk was setting in. My girls were playing in the space between the row of parked cars, directly behind our vehicle and that of a friend, when a couple of boys made their way over to play too. This, in and of itself, didn’t bother me much. If the kids are good kids then the more the merrier. These kids weren’t all that good and, to make matters worse, their parents were nowhere in sight or at least weren’t making themselves known. We let the kids play while occasionally reminding the boys they were being a bit rough. Each time they were corrected we would look around in an attempt to find someone that might claim them as their own.

It wasn’t until the boys got decidedly rough, knocking my daughter to the ground, that an adult surfaced from the crowd. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that I was reaching down to grab the kid by the scruff of his neck. She came bounding over in all her glory announcing that “you do not play with girls that way” and after a few moments ushered the boys off to their vehicle. Glancing after her I was able to see there were in fact several adults setting around that could have acknowledged these children.

As I mentioned, had these been well behaved kids I would have been fine with them playing with my kids. What I have a major problem with are those lazy parents that seem to lie in wait for the good parents to arrive. It’s as if they scan the horizon, or as much as they can, without actually moving, and send their children off to “make friends” without the courtesy of a warning cry or casual wave.

I see this happen all the time. The good parents stand with a look of concern, anger and occasionally pity on their face as they crane their necks to make eye contact with any adult that might own the savages that have invaded their mostly manageable family unit. More often than not the parents never make themselves fully known and instead you hear the scream of a child’s name followed by a rush of activity as the savages vacate the site.

You see, for the lazy parent this is an ideal situation. Once their children have invaded the good family it’s impossible for the good parents to simply let the children leave again without knowing the kids are heading back to their rightful owners. This is one of those things that make up the good parent. At this point the other parents can simply fade into the background.

Do us all a favor will you? Quit punishing the good parents and actually look after your children yourself or, for the love of all that is good, wear matching shirts so we can lump the lot of you together.

In this country, did you know that you need to be 18 years old, and meet a slew of other requirements (including some kind of background check) to even be eligible to take an animal home from the local animal shelter? This is to ensure the animal will be placed in a good home, be well taken care of, fed properly, etc., etc., etc. (call your local shelter to check the veracity of these statements). Yet every day, newborns are taken home from hospitals by parents who didn’t want them to begin with, have substance abuse problems, or are simply still children themselves. What chance do these children have? Who are their champions? Sadly, these newborns’ futures are pretty predictable.

Whenever I hear of another sickening story involving the aforementioned I find solace in parenting blogs, albeit a small number. Unfortunately, loving, being proud of, and caring for your children is not nearly as newsworthy as its alternative, otherwise, we’d all be celebrities.

If only all children could have the childhood they all deserve. If only deserving couples who, for whatever reason, are unable to conceive could take over the parenting of unwanted infants children. If only all children’s futures were as important as those of pets. If only.

My wife writes…

It’s horrible to hear about some of the things people do to each other, but even more heartbreaking when the victim is a child; somehow worse still when it’s their own child… These kinds of stories make me want to hold my own children close for a moment and say a little prayer of thanks.

You’re right, it does seem that sometimes we as a society care more these days about treating animals humanely than other humans. I’ve also often thought how ironic it is that you have to get a license to drive a car, after taking required classes that explain how to properly handle one and a test to show that you can do so successfully. Not the case with parenthood, and the end results are so much more important. If only there were some sort of license required to be a parent.

I find it heartening to talk with other people (whether in person or in a forum such as this) who are just trying to be the best parents they can be to children who, thankfully, will never understand exactly how lucky they are.

Snag some Hot Chocolate and cookies and get comfortable. This is going to be a long one.

Last year was my initiation into the world of Pinewood Derby Racing. I have waited all my life to be involved in this event. To me, Pinewood Derby is the embodiment of many things I hold dear in life, and it is a metaphor for everything that Scouts and Scouting should be – Craftsmanship, Sportsmanship, Camaraderie, Competitiveness, Honesty, Father/Son Togetherness and bonding and a host of other -ships’, -ness’ and -sty’s.

Craftsmanship and Father/Son Togetherness- you get to build something cool with your kid, and impart some of your knowledge and wisdom. How special is that?!

Sportsmanship and Competitiveness- The kids learn (or are supposed to) how to win and lose gracefully. Very important in my book.

Camaraderie and Togetherness -  All the scouts get to participate in something meaningful to them and see something they all built in action. Very exciting.

Honesty – Ah, honesty. I purposefully saved you for last.

First let me explain the "all my life". I was a scout as a child, but scouts in some other countries don’t have Pinewood Derbies. I always read about it in books and always wanted to be able to participate. Having a scouting age son was my ticket to participating in this "sport" vicariously through him.

Rewind one year:

When my son and I finally got the block of wood I struggled with how much I should let him do. There was the danger of power tools to be mindful of, but there was also the little kid in me that wanted so badly to build this thing. The parent in me won out. I designed a cool way to add and remove weight and installed it in the block of wood (at this point I feared I may have done too much and stepped back), and I coached and helped my son in the art of preparing axles and wheels, and had him design the car body himself. I sat him beside me and had him cut the block in the band-saw until the trickier parts. Then he sanded and decorated the vehicle himself. I was proud of him for doing a good job on his first car, and in myself for not taking over the whole operation.

On the day of the race my jaw dropped. Over half the cars there were clearly "NOT" the work of children. And when I say "NOT" I mean these things were detailed, polished, works of art. Not even a 12 year old could have made any of these beauties. The fathers there were not even hiding the fact that they completely built their son’s car for them. I looked at my son’s car and cringed.

Heat after heat of 4 car races occurred, and finally it was time for my son’s race. My heart sank. I knew what was in store. His creation, which he crafted with his own hands, and he decorated with care, came in at one of the the slowest times of the race. He turned around and looked at me with tears in his eyes. I felt his pain. Luckily we had discussed winning and losing all week that week, and I asked him to recall everything we had discussed. He dried his eyes, went back to the race and cheered his friends on. The race went on.

I sat in the stands and seethed. I saw all these fathers congratulating their sons, then turning around and high five-ing each other on a job well done. They even taunted each other "I’ll get you next year". It seems I was one of the few naive, "uninitiated", dads who still let their son build his own car.

Here’s the kicker. There was also a race called the "Geezer’s Race" for parents to curb the vicarious behavior, build and race their own cars, and allow the kids to build their own vehicles. Some fathers built both cars, and in a weird twist one dad ran his son’s car in the geezer race, and the son ran the father’s as his own.

I couldn’t wait to get out of there. There were awards, upon awards. 1st place overall etc., 1st place in age group etc., 1st place in den etc., best looking, best design, etc., etc., etc. Some kids were called up numerous times, for numerous different awards. All the while my son clapped for them enthusiastically. I was so proud of him. Then his name was called. We all looked at each other in surprise. I held him back to make sure it was him they wanted. They called his name again. I sent him up to see what it was about. They announced that he got the "Good Sportsmanship Award".

My First thought: "Somebody saw me seething and decided they better do something". I’m not subtle when I seethe.

My Second thought: "Maybe in this gaggle of cub scouts and parents someone was actually paying attention to my son’s actions."

My Third thought, in response to the first thought: (and this one embarrasses me): "Screw them, he deserves it. He built his own car, which is more that I can say about all you jackasses."

Fast forward 1 year:

So, Back to honesty. Do I want a repeat of last years fiasco? Do I want to teach my son how to lose some more? Do I build his car for him and give him a fighting chance at feeling false pride in actually placing and winning a trophy? Do I sink to the levels that the other fathers have?

We take possession of his block of wood and wheels next week for the January 19, 2008 Pinewood Derby.  I’ve got until then to figure this out.

Our country, as advanced as it is, is so plagued with bureaucracy that it is affecting our kids’ learning. Public school classes will retard a whole class’ pace for the one child that can’t learn at the same rate as all the other kids. This seems wrong to me. You’re probably going to see a rhythm, or common thread, every time I get on these soapboxes, so I might as well just spill the beans. I worry about the direction this country is headed, and I worry for the future of our children, educationally, spiritually and morally. This country’s lackadaisical attitude towards learning is a co-culprit in all this.

My son is kid number 2 for me, but is really my first exposure to the school system since daughter#1 lives with my ex-wife. His teacher told me that spelling is not something they focus on at this point (2nd grade), but that they would do it in later grades. That tweaked me a little bit. If they learn the wrong way first, chances are they’ll never learn the right way. At least that’s how it is for me personally. My wife and I take great pains in raising our kids, and as a result our son has great diction, and great language skills. I am proud to say that he is at a 4th grade reading and comprehension level. We don’t sit him down and use Gestapo learning tactics (directional bright light in a dark room), we simply converse with him without using baby talk, or using non-words, like ain’t. The results are phenomenal.

I know that the teachers in this country are grossly underpaid, specially for the task of helping us raise and teach, our children, but I have to take issue with the amount of in-service days, and general days off scheduled in the school year. If anyone reading this is a school teacher, or knows the answer, please explain to me what goes on during an in-service day.

Just a little bit of personal wisdom, "Spel Chek"(sic) is just a tool, not something to stake your reputation on.