Category: Family

Happy St. Parker’s Day

On March 17, as you all celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, my wife and I will celebrate the day as we have every year since 2003 — as St. Parker’s Day.

This year, our son Parker becomes a teenager. Lucky number 13.

He was originally going to be named Patrick. Then, on March 17, as my wife was in the middle of hatching our second child, she proclaimed, “His name’s not Patrick. It’s Parker.”

Her doctor told her she didn’t have to name him right then. “IT’S PARKER!” she said. I think she shot lasers from her eyes, but I can’t be certain.

From that day forward, Parker Whitfield Gibbons launched into the world full on. Because he has me as a father, he has the blessings and/or curses that come straight from me. He wears his heart on his sleeve. He can’t sit still for more than 3 seconds tops. Chattering? An art form.

But I’ve made it 30 years past my 13th birthday with these traits, and I think I’ve done OK.

So today, on the occasion of St. Parker’s Day, I would like to impart some wisdom to my son as he embarks on the next stage of life.

So, Parker, remember:

Words matter. Sure, we all know the bad ones do. They sting. They hurt. If you’re receiving them, they’re tough. If you’re giving them, you know you have that voice inside that says, “That hurt someone.” Remember that voice. But also remember the power of kind words. You and I go on lots of adventures, tromping in nature and finding exciting things. You may not realize this, but more often than not, as we are wrapping up our adventures, usually in the car ride home, you say to me, “Thanks, Dad.” That means more than you will know, at least until you become a father.
You will love someone and they will break your heart. Or, you may break someone’s heart. It is going to happen. And you both will be OK. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not the next day. But you will move on. And you will find that person.
Lift the lid. I grew up with three older sisters, so that was easily corrected in me early on. Trust me — this is an easy way to be a good young man.
Never take your talents for granted, and never believe you can’t get better. As you have heard me say probably too many times, “Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard.”
Play fair. It’s always better to lose with dignity than to win by deceit.
Do the things you don’t want to do so you can do the things you want to. Life is hard work, and not all of it is fun. But doing the things that are not high on your list of Want To is a requirement for a fulfilling life.
You are not the main actor in anyone else’s play. You are only starring in yours. And that’s the only one you have full control over.
You were fortunate to be born into a very big family. And they will always be there for you. But you also need to always be there for them. And sometimes, you need to make sure they know you’re there.
Your two biggest passions are sports and nature. Your favorite sports teams will let you down. A lot. But nature will always be there for you. If your team loses, remember nature. A walk in the woods cures many ills, including a heartbreaking loss.
Negativity is the breeding ground for unhappiness. If you find yourself in that place in life where you are only finding the negatives in situations, recalibrate. If every time you go to a restaurant, you only focus on the thing that was wrong, you’re neglecting all the things that were right. Let the right things drive your experiences.
Never stop being you. And never stop trying to be a better you. I’m 43, and I’m still a work in progress. And that’s OK.

Happy 13th birthday, my man. And here’s to many more adventures. And in case I haven’t told you lately: Thanks, Parker.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Charleston. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

Animals Family

Murphy’s law

Murphy defends his home turf against all intruders.

I have had some great dogs in my life. I’m talking first ballot Hall of Famers.

When I was a kid, I had BD, a German Shepherd who was the greatest dog a boy could ever have. When I was in college, I had Montgomery, a purebred mutt that was the first joint purchase my wife and I made some 20 years ago and was the most loyal friend you could ever ask for. We had Maggie the Attack Basset, a noble and gentle soul who showed aggression at about the same level as a dandelion. And we currently have Maddux the Stoic, a boxer who is regal and obedient and fiercely protective.

It’s like a Mt. Rushmore of canine companionship.

And then there’s Murphy. Murphy is our Dachshund. He’s kinda dumpy. Our vet once suggested he go on a diet, as he was meatloaf shaped. He really doesn’t listen well. Or, really, at all. I’m pretty sure his eyesight is going, mainly based on the fact that he routinely walks into the sliding glass door when trying to go outside.

He has never met a trash can he has not tried to turn over. If there is trash inside the can, all the better. Let’s spread it around the kitchen for everyone to enjoy! No trash? No problem! Let’s tip it over and just root around inside and shred the plastic bag.

When we take him to the beach, he will go to the ocean and drink the water.

If you are in the kitchen, there is no place he would rather be than between your feet, usually stealthily sneaking up there so that you don’t realize he’s there until you almost trip over him as you go to open the oven.

Murphy does not have the toughness of BD. He doesn’t have the loyalty of Montgomery. He doesn’t have the royal disposition of Maggie. And he doesn’t have the stoicism of Maddux.

He’s got bum eyes, a bit of a girth issue, an inability to pay attention, and an appetite for destruction in the kitchen, of things both inanimate and animate. Not exactly the things you put on your dog resume.

But you know what, that dog does have something none of the others I’ve had did: He has the ability to appear positively worthless, but also be just an awesome dog for just being who he is.

We got Murphy about 10 years ago. A co-worker passed away, and we ended up with Murphy. We had planned to find Murphy a home, and we tried a couple of places here and there, to no avail. My wife and I were sitting with him one night, planning for the next step for finding him a home. “You know,” my wife said. “He’s a pretty sweet dog…”

And so it was written. Murphy joined our home. Murphy routinely dug out of the yard and would end up all over the place. We always got a call (our number is on his collar), usually from someone who had picked him up in the middle of a road, where he walked down the middle of the street, oblivious to every danger around him.

It’s not like he was trying to escape. Well, I guess he was escaping. But he wasn’t doing it with any urgency. He was just ambling about, seeing where life took him.

And I guess that’s what I admire about Murphy. He’s all about where life takes him. He sees something he wants to do, and he just does it. He’s got no strings attached to life, no real higher purpose, and no reason to do anything but what he feels like he should do next.

Don’t get me wrong. He does have some upsides. He likes to snuggle up with my wife, assuming he can sit wherever he wants. And he is a very good defender against enemies of the house, making sure to bark soundly at possums, armadillos, box turtles, and the occasional imaginary invader. But he’s just kinda living by his own creed. Life is on his dime.

There is something enviable about the fact that he just lives his life how we wants to. The other great dogs in my life — they sought me out for affirmation (and dog biscuits). Murphy’s good in his own fur. He’ll just live his life how he wants to, thank you very much.

Now lest you think he is some sociopathic drifter who just occupies my house as a captive plotting revenge and escape, I assure you — he is not a cat. He’s just a simple creature with a simple goal in life — go and be Murphy. And sometimes, that’s OK.

That’s worth at least a few votes on his first Hall of Fame ballot.

Childhood Family

The wait is over

As a parent, one of my key jobs is to tell my children things that make them roll their eyes.

Among some of the things in the Hall of Fame of Dadisms that my kids absolutely love hearing:

When they tell me something isn’t fair, I tell them that the world is not fair, and they should be thankful for that, because it’s not fair in their favor.
When they inform me that they are not interested in performing a task, I tell them that’s perfect because I absolutely wanted to do it for them. I also frequently add that “Enthusiasm is not required.”
“Spirit vs. letter!” They absolutely love to hear this when they try and get out of things on a technicality, of which my wife and I will have no part. We are a spirit of the law household. Also, a monarchy.

But of late, my most common repeated utterance is one simple word, a word that used to be a fine word. Used to serve a great purpose. It’s even mentioned twice in the title of my favorite NPR show. But, alas, my kids have ruined it for me, primarily because it starts about 80 percent of the sentences that come out of their mouths: “Wait.”

I am not sure when it started. But suddenly one day, I realized both had become beholden to starting sentences with “Wait.” And far too often, said sentence involves stating the obvious. For example, let’s say I’m walking in with a handful of grocery bags.

ME: Hey, can you grab the rest of the groceries from the car?

EITHER CHILD: Wait – did you go to the grocery store?

Or, say we’re getting ready for school in the morning, and I am going to take one of the kids to car line. I grab my keys and head to the front door:

ME: Alright, let’s go.

EITHER CHILD: Wait – you’re taking me to school today?

Once it became clear that they were stuck in this verbal record skip, I decided I would do what dads do best – respond with dad commentary. So, when they say, “Wait – did you go to the grocery store?” I will now respond, “Wait – no. I was at the Houston Astrodome. They were giving away groceries there.” Or when they say, “Wait – you’re taking me to school today?” I will say, “Wait – no. We’re going to the Houston Astrodome. It’s grocery day.”

Now, you may think that I am being petty with them, but I know that my message is getting across. And how do I know this? Because both kids have said, “Dad, stop saying ‘wait’ back to me.” My daughter tried to go down the path of “It’s a word. Get over it.” That resulted in a ridiculously long lecture from me on words and their impact over the course of history. Some of it may have even been true.

I’m really not doing it just to jab at them. That’s just an added bonus. But one of best things a parent can give their child is the gift of effective communication. And if they will take a refined approach to the English language on their journey through life, they will have an advantage. And you never know where that journey may lead you. Could even be to the Houston Astrodome. Wait — for grocery day?

Family

This bud’s for you

My hope is that I have found the solution to one of the great problems plaguing mankind: My disappearing earbuds.

I know what you’re thinking: You’re thinking, “Mike, of all the troubles facing humanity, I HAVE been very concerned about your earbuds disappearing.”

I appreciate your concern.

I used to not have this problem. I also used to not have kids.

The problem became a serious one about 10 years ago, when my daughter discovered that, through the miracle of headphones, she could have her own private concert and bellow Hannah Montana songs at the top of her lungs, all the while dancing around the house without a care in the world. (For those of you with kids that age, I apologize for getting “The Best of Both Worlds” theme song stuck in your head. I know you thought it was gone for good.)

My wife and I got my daughter her own headphones so that she could enjoy her music. I don’t recall the exact model we got, but I feel confident they had some theme associated with them that bumped the price up 20 percent.

Those headphones lasted about 11 seconds. So we decided it was time to teach her a lesson about responsibility and … ah, who am I kidding. We bought another pair. And another. And another. Yes, we’re those parents.

Soon, our son began to get into the music listening age, which meant we had two kids consistently breaking headphones because kids are destructive little menaces.

As earbuds became more commonplace, we graduated to those, and we found that earbuds are not only as easy to break as headphones, but far easier to lose.

Eventually, there came a point where my wife and I had no choice but to make an edict: You get one set of earbuds, and they are yours and yours only. You lose them, break them, sell them on Craig’s List — your problem. No replacements.

I attacked this problem by getting four different colored earbuds. Everyone in the family had their pair. Mine were black. No one was to touch the Dad Black earbuds. Those are Dad’s. Those are when he wants to listen to some tunes while doing yard work, maybe a podcast in the evening while emptying the dishwasher. Those are Dad’s. No one else’s. Only dad … HEY! What are you doing with my earbuds?

“Mine broke,” said the sad little girl. I’m a sucker.

And so it became the norm, again. We would replace earbuds, and invariably I would be the one drawing the short straw, trying to find a pair when none were left.

It came to a head the other morning when my daughter was heading to school. She’s 15 now, and if she does not have her earbuds, she might as well not have clothes on. It would be that detrimental to her standing in society. (Side note: She invariably has one earbud in, and spins the other one on her finger like a lifeguard whistle. I have suggested that maybe that is why they break so often. She feels that is utter nonsense.)

She couldn’t find her earbuds, and her ride for school was about to leave. “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!?!?!?” she told me. She was correct.

Later that day, I was at the store, and waaaaay down on a bottom shelf, I saw a package of earbuds. The price sign above them read $1. A dollar? Really?

I took the earbuds to the counter and asked them for the price. Indeed, a mere dollar. I bought five pairs.

Now, I know you may be wondering about the quality of $1 earbuds. To which I say, who cares? I’ve seen them ruin really nice earbuds or headphones in the matter of minutes. The price is right for me.

So for now, when a set of earbuds is missing, I just go to my hidden stash of earbuds and voila! Problem solved.

Now I know that you’re thinking this is the time that I should be teaching my children about responsibility and the economics of life and all that good stuff. And to that I say, that is why we have pets. There are some real life lessons to be learned when a living creature is involved.

I also know that there some forces of nature you just can’t fight, and one of those is a kid’s ability to render earbuds inoperable or nonexistent.

Hopefully, my collection of El Cheapo earbuds will last for a while. But if they don’t, I’ll just refill the pool. If nothing else, I know it will guarantee I have some when it’s time to do the dishes.

Family

What’s in a name? A lot.

For as long as I can remember, people have asked me, “Do you prefer Mike or Michael?”

And, of course, the answer is that I prefer Leonard.

Ok, so truth of the matter is, I don’t really care. And I tell people that when they ask. Whatever you want to call me is fine, as I answer to both Mike and Michael. (My wife calls me Michael, but it has very different meanings based on how she says it.)

But as much as I consider the two interchangeable, I have found that one is, in fact, superior to the other, and that is Michael. I learned this because the DMV said it is so, and if there is one thing I have learned this past week, it’s that the DMV does not change its mind.

I learned this when my daughter went to get her driver’s license. Under state law, she can take her driver’s test from a certified instructor, and then take the paperwork to the DMV to keep the actual license. (Hey, states that aren’t South Carolina — if you’re not doing it this way, do it this way. Makes it way easier than having to take the test at the DMV.)

So she passed her test on a Sunday, but had to wait until Monday to get the actual license. We waited a short while until her number was called. We had all of the paperwork that the driving instructor had filled out, as well as a few extra pages the DMV had us fill out for fun.

We handed the paperwork to the clerk. After a few moments, she looked up and said, “Who’s Mike?”

“That’s me,” I said.

“Well then who is Michael?”

“Uh, still me. I go by both…”

“Your legal name is?”

“My legal name?”

“What name is on your driver’s license?”

“Um, Michael.”

“Then who is Mike?” she said, holding up the sheet from the driving instructor.

“Pardon?” I said.

“Mike is not your legal name. Michael is. You wrote Mike here,” she said pointing at a spot on the paperwork. “Mike is a nickname,” she said, in a quite disappointed tone.

I explained to her that I use the two interchangeably, but that I see her point about how using “Mike” vs. “Michael” could very well collapse the very infrastructure that keeps our state afloat. I asked her for the paperwork, and told her that, thanks to my exceptionally poor handwriting, I could turn that “Mike” into a “Michael” in seconds.

“No, sir,” she said. “We need a new form.”

“Fine,” I said. “Give me a form and I’ll fill it out again.

“You need to get that from your driving instructor,” she said. Keep in mind this was 4 p.m. The office closes at 5. And there is a 15-year-old who was this close to having her actual driver’s license, and it was being ripped from her until tomorrow at the earliest, which is like forever away. I looked at my daughter. She paused from angrily Snapchatting her predicament to give me the “Daddy, do something!” look.

“Look,” I said. “My daughter just got her license. She has been working so hard for this, and I don’t want her not to get it because I wrote ‘Mike’ instead of ‘Michael.’”

The clerk stared at me, and then my daughter. Work a tear, Allie. Now is the time. She told me that she wishes she had a better solution, but she really needed the form filled out correctly. She gave me this option: get the form, fill it out, and come back to the DMV, but don’t wait in line. Slip in, catch her eye, and she’d take care of it.

Fortunately, I was able to reach her instructor on the phone, and he was as awesome of a guy as he was an instructor. In about 15 minutes, he was at the DMV, new form in hand. I filled it out carefully. M-I-C-H-A-E-L — “Allie, check this against my license…”

We slipped back in, and the clerk saw us. She eased over to us and took the paperwork. No one in the waiting room noticed we had circumvented the line that wound out the door, mainly because everyone was staring at their phones.

She had her license just before the closing bell. I get that the DMV clerk was just doing her job. She did what she could to help remedy the problem. While I guess there isn’t much difference to me between Mike and Michael, I can see her point. At least we were able to work through it. Probably wouldn’t have been so easy had I used Leonard.

Childhood Family

Kids, you’re on your own now

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date February 13, 2016
No Comments on Kids, you’re on your own now

My family went to dinner the other night. As we all got of the car, we stood at the back of the vehicle and waited for several cars to pass by until we crossed the parking lot to the restaurant.

As we walked, it occurred to me: Neither my wife nor I had not protected either of our children from wandering in front of the oncoming traffic. We hadn’t held a hand. We hadn’t extended the Uncrossable Parental Hand right in the midsection. We hadn’t even made that attention getting parenting noise you make when halting children. You know, that “Bempbempbemp! Stop!”

And why had we not done any of those things? Because at this point, at 12 and 15, I’m pretty much done parenting. World, they’re all yours.

Ha! Little parenting fun. Of course, I’ll always be parenting. It’s just that now, it gets to be way more hands off, figuratively and literally.

I know lots of people love the time when their kids are babies, but I’ll be honest with you — my kids are way more fun now than when they were little. And you may say, “Mike, your kids are not there for fun.” To which I reply, “Yeah, well, my wife doesn’t really like superhero movies, and I don’t like going to the theater by myself. Check. Mate.”

Babies are fine. Toddlers are fine. Young kids are fine. (OK, correction: Toddlers are terrifying little menaces bent on world destruction and maximum pain infliction, on themselves and others, sometimes by accident but most often by an insane inability to predict effects from their misguided causation. But we can go with them being fine.)

I like that my kids are now making their own decisions and they actually understand the consequences, before and after. I like that they’ll sit down and watch political debates and actually ask questions about what’s going on. I like that when they tell me they’re hungry, “Well you know where the kitchen is” is a perfectly acceptable answer.

And sure there are pitfalls ahead. There’s driving. Dating. Breakups. But I can deal with those. I think. For one thing, I’ve always found myself to be a pretty reasonable ear to bend in times of crises. Granted, it helps when the person is receptive to fatherly advice, which they definitely weren’t when they were little, because small kids and reason are not allowed in the same room together. Thus, any attempt at explaining a bad situation through logic or analogies would be hopelessly lost. Now, they can at least see the big picture.

When we got into the restaurant, we were talking about how things are different when the kids were little vs. now. Sure, it’s not all better. Hey, parents with little kids! Here’s one fun fact you can look forward to — when they stop ordering from the kids’ menu, your bill goes up fast! Hooray!

But it’s mostly a lot easier. Another example — this was a sushi restaurant. Three of us wanted sushi. One didn’t. There was a time when the lone holdout could make dinner out one of those “Why do we even try?” moments. But now? We can pretty much power through one dissenter. “If you don’t want sushi, find something else on the menu. If you don’t see anything you like, well, I don’t know. Just starve. Or something. But we’re eating sushi. So hush.”

And lest I sound like too much of a crank, it was fun when the kids were little. I had a blast playing with them, teaching them, tending to them, and just trying to be dad. But it’s just better now. For one thing, I can go get sushi and watch a superhero movie. And I’m pretty sure they won’t get hit by cars on the way.

Family

How not to be a horrible driver (spoiler alert: stop texting)

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date February 3, 2016
No Comments on How not to be a horrible driver (spoiler alert: stop texting)

The other day I spent some time on the interstate. The kids were in the car with me, so I decided to play a fun game called “How Many People Have Wanton Disregard For Everyone Else on the Road?”

Spoiler alert: It’s a lot.

It started when a car approached on my left. A quick glance showed that the guy sitting where the driver normally sits really should not be called the driver, because he was not driving. He was just sitting there as the car sped along. Rather, what he was doing was texting.

And I mean all in texting. Phone on the steering wheel, cradled by both hands, his thumbs just a flying.

“Dad, he’s not even looking at the road,” my daughter noted.

This was an important thing for her to notice, since she will apply to earn her restricted license in just days. It is easy for me to make sure that her phone is not in use when I am in the car. But when she heads off on her own? I need to know that she will stick to that key rule.

So I asked my son, who was sitting in the back, to count how many people we passed were texting. Not making calls or glancing at GPS, etc. I mean full-on texting. Eyes down, fingers in a flurry.

Twenty. Over about 40 miles of interstate, 20 people were texting. Keep in mind this is fairly heavy traffic, all barreling along in the 70 mph range.

I pointed out to my daughter than any of those 20 people would have been in big trouble had anything out of the ordinary happened in front of them. And there would likely be a lot of people who weren’t texting who would be affected in potentially life-altering ways.

And I am going to go out on a limb and say that most — no all — of those texts could have waited.

Here is another interesting observation: Of the 20 texters, only two had passengers in the car. I wonder how many of those 18 solo texters would have pulled their phone out if someone was in the car. They know they shouldn’t be doing it.

The notion of turning the keys over to my 15-year-old daughter is enough for concern. The thought that she might decide to put driving on the back burner so she could text an emoji response to a friend is terrifying. Fortunately, I have told my daughter that I have installed cameras in the car, and I also now have an app called “Is My Daughter Texting While Driving?” that I keep on all the time.

I have no idea if such as app exists. But even if there was an app named that but didn’t even do anything, I’d consider dropping 99 cents for that. It’s like getting a security system sign for your yard, but not actually having a security system.

In all seriousness, I have faith that my daughter will follow the rules of the road — including the no-texting one — has she has always been good at following the rules, as long as the rule is not “Clean your room.”

Hopefully, our super fun interstate game only drove home the point even more. And if you are one of those who goes full-on texter when you’re driving just, please, stop. Seriously. You wouldn’t just close your eyes for three, four, five seconds and feel fine about it. But that’s what you’re doing. You’re taking your eyes off the road. You can’t pay attention to the road when you’re paying attention to your phone. In fact, you can’t pay attention to much of anything else. Major League Baseball is considering putting up nets in front of the fans because so many are getting plunked by foul balls because they are busy staring at their phones. And if you get hit by a foul ball, you don’t cause a chain reaction traffic pile-up.

So just put the phone away. Drive. Enjoy the road. If you’re on your phone in a moving car, you should be a passenger. And you can keep checking your “Is My Daughter Texting While Driving?” app.

Childhood Family

Cleaning with kids

My kids and I have a different philosophy on cleaning the house. My philosophy is that it should be done. Their philosophy is, “Huh? It is clean!”

OK, I know I am making my kids sound like little Veruca Salt monsters. Truth is, they are actually OK on occasion at chipping in and doing their part. It’s just that they see the world differently. I suppose when I was that age, the world I saw as “clean” may very well been a world my parents saw as “teetering on the verge of an anarchistic wasteland.”

My wife and I have tried over the years to implement various chore schedules, and they have usually lasted about four days until they just degrade into the realities of what it’s like trying to keep a house clean with a 12-year-old and a 15-year-old.

If you are one of those houses that is impeccably clean at all times, and your kids are contributing members of said cleaning efforts, good on you. But I have a sneaking suspicion that we are more the norm of most houses.

To give you an idea of some of our differing philosophies, let’s look at a few facets of housekeeping and how we differ on our views:

Dishes:

ME: Once they have run through a cycle in the dishwasher and been put back in the cabinets, the dishes are done.

THEM: I was going to put it in the sink at some point. Maybe.

Clothes:

ME: Folded and put up in dressers.

THEM: We prefer to live life as hobos with clean and dirty clothes mixed in a harmonious pile of chaos that will be a huge help getting ready for school in the morning. Also, matching pairs of socks should never, ever come within four rooms of each other.

Shoes:

ME: Return them every evening to that magical room known as a closet, and you can find them in the morning, right where you left them.

THEM: Let’s leave one shoe in the car and the other in the kitchen cabinet.

Sweeping:

ME: Thoroughly gather all debris of the floor and then sweep into a dustpan. Empty dustpan into the trash.

THEM: What is this sweeping you speak of?

Emptying trash:

ME: Trash is full. Time to take it out.

THEM: Trash is full? Nah, we can put more in it.

Cleaning off the back deck with a leaf blower:

ME: A necessary evil.

THEM: OK, this is fun.

Returning pillows to the couch:

ME: Ah, order has returned.

THEM: But the dogs are napping.

Replacing toilet paper roll:

ME: Well, that would be the decent thing to do.

THEM: Pretty sure we have elves who do that.

Taking personal effects upstairs:

ME: Take it to your room.

THEM: But I was going to use it down here. Besides, don’t our elves take it up for us?

Now, lest you have this idea that our house is some filthy hoarder house, it’s not. It’s a house and a home. A family of four lives here. And thus there is a backpack here, a sock there, an empty Gatorade bottle there. It’s just .. life. And if I really want to get the house to the level of clean that I think is necessary, I guess I just need to accept that they are kinda horrible at it. My wife and I will continue to suck it up and do a little extra on our part, and know that at the end of the day, it’s actually not that much work. Especially when the elves chip in.

Childhood Family

I Spy a dad who needs to step it up

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date January 28, 2016
No Comments on I Spy a dad who needs to step it up

I know that parenting can be hard sometimes. But there are some things that, let’s be honest here, should not be that difficult.

Playing I Spy is definitely one of those.

I witnessed this the other day when I went to pick up lunch for my wife and me. (Quick side diversion: It was cold and rainy, and so a grilled cheese and soup sounded like a good combo. Apparently, that sentiment was felt by roughly everyone else on the planet, which resulted in a long line at the soup place. Two different people in line took turns complaining about how long the line was. Yes, how dare all of these people have the same reaction to cold and rain that you did. Anyways, back to the story.)

As I waited my turn in line, I heard a little girl behind me. “Dad. Let’s play I Spy. Dad. Dad. Daddy. Daaad. Dad. I Spy. Let’s play I Spy.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Dad was not responding. Dad was on his phone. Dude, I’ve been there. Probably in the last 24 hours. I get it. But there are a few things you need to accept in life when you are a parent, and one of those is certainly that you are not only obligated to play I Spy, but to play it correctly.

I considered playing I Spy with her, but then I reminded myself that I am some random dude in a restaurant. Eventually, the dad heard her and he looked up from his phone.

“Yeah, um, fine, I Spy something yellow.”

“Banana,” she said, pointing at the enormous banana picture on the wall, and the only yellow thing in sight.

“I Spy something blue,” he said.

“Ummm.”

“We did it last time we were here,” he said, which we all clearly can see is a violation of internationally agreed upon I Spy protocol.

“Blueberry,” she said, pointing at another painting on the wall.

She decided it was her turn. “I Spy something yellow!” She said proudly.

“Yeah, banana.”

Fortunately the line progressed and it was my turn to order, and I stopped eavesdropping. And I could stop twitching a little bit at the dad’s horrible grasp of how to properly play I Spy with a kid.

As much as I wanted to, I did not do my civic duty and tell the guy how I Spy is supposed to work with little kids. So, in case you are wondering, the rules are:

When you are the dad, the first color you pick needs to be one of the most common colors that is in your current field of vision. That keeps the kid occupied for a long time. The only way his banana choice was an acceptable option is if there was a painting of multiple bananas, a sun, Spongebob and lemons. That way, you can draw the game out, as it is designed. “Is it a banana?” “No!” “Is it that banana?” “No!” Is it a lemon?” “No!” Is it Spongebob?” “It IS Spongebob.”
When you are a dad, never guess the right answer first. This is not a race. This is distraction action. If your competitive nature leads you to the point where you need to win quickly, you need to recalibrate your life.
Never go back to old answers. Kids have amazing memories. And again, the point of I Spy is to kill time. If you picked the blueberry last time, find a different blue. Trust me. There’s something blue. The sky will work.

OK, in fairness, I don’t know that dad was going through. I am sure the dad was plenty harried and was at his wit’s end, as every parent is pretty much all the time. But I just believe that there is a certain baseline of parenting that needs to be adhered to, and that starts with the basics of I Spy. It just makes sense. Kinda like a grill cheese and soup order on a cold and rainy day.

Adventures Family

20 years and counting

I just realized that I have been writing this column for more than 20 years. My first stab at this was published Dec. 13, 1995. Going back and reading it, I have to say — I cringed a little. I was a 23-year-old reporter with mile-wide idealism and ambition and the deep philosophical insight that only a worldly 23-year-old such as myself can make.

The column was about moving back to my parents’ house, one year after having graduated college. Now, I will say — I had some points, even if I presented them in a way that makes me twitch a smidge now. The column talked about how so many people my age had earned the “Boomerang Generation” title by circling back home after college.

When I left college, I took a job in Orlando as a college textbook editor. Note to those searching for jobs after college: Getting paid to read college textbooks does not make you want to read college textbooks any more than when you were in college.

After a year, I had had enough of that job, and I just wanted to go home. And so I went. I got a job at the newspaper and started on Adult 2.0.

And so here we are, 20 years of Mike’s Life columns later. More than 1,000. There are columns I am very proud of. There are columns that make me want to figure out time travel so I can go and find me writing said column and smash the keyboard over my head.

I have received some very nice comments from folks over the years. I have received some very not nice comments, including one from a gentleman who hated everything about me and my stupid column. That one was delivered in person, and included an invitation to step outside at a bar. I declined. A week later, at the same establishment, a beer I had not ordered arrived at my table. The waitress said, “It’s from that guy over there. He said he’s sorry about last week.” We made eye contact. He gave a quick nod. All good, sir.

I think I’m like most writers in that I absolutely hate reading my own stuff. All it becomes is an exercise in questioning yourself or, even worse, finding a mistake. It’s just not good for the soul. Once I realized I had been doing this for 20 years, I did go back and read some, and I’m pleased that I really haven’t changed that much. Sure, having a family and changing careers and such tweaks who you are. My hair may have some gray, my pants may be an inch (or two) bigger at the waistline, and my ability to eat two Whoppers in a single sitting may be gone forever. But that’s a natural evolution. I’m glad I didn’t go back and read old columns and think, “My goodness, you were an awful person!” Or worse, read and think, “You were such a nice boy! What have you become, you monster!?!?!”

In reviewing two decades of columns, one fact was driven home: I have the most patient and tolerant wife on the planet. I have written about her getting her hair stuck in a curling iron. I have written about her having to crawl through the trunk of her car when she locked her keys inside. I have written about the time she killed a drifter just for sport. (That last one may be slightly off. Memory’s fuzzy.) But she has been a heckuva good sport over the years, often enduring this question from her friends: “Why do you let him write those things about you?”

So it’s been a good 20 year run, and here’s to the next 20. It’s a treat to be able to visit with you each week and share the silly and pointless observations I have. I realize this column is not exactly the Federalist Papers, but I hope they have brought an occasional moment of levity to your world. If you have read my column for a while, thank you. That means a lot. If you haven’t read my column regularly (or at all), that’s fine. There are plenty of other things you can do with your time. Such as putting up your shopping cart.