What's It Like There?

Shawna overheard Lex and Gentry talking the other day about babies. Lex had corralled him into playing Daddy to her twins; he's amiable enough about it, as she's just as willing to jump in and be his ringside manager or his opponent--depending on his mood--when he pulls on the boxing gloves that I bought him, and turns into the defending Lightweight Champion of the World!

Lex is a little like her dad; she knows it all, and what she doesn't know, she makes up. Gentry gets a little tired of it sometimes and he'll pipe up and silence her momentarily when she pops off in that smug, superior "I'm a first-grader; you don't even GO to school" way.

But it was still a surprise when, during their baby discussion, Lex asked Gentry if he remembered being in Mommy's tummy.

"Yep," he said.

"You do?"

"Yes," he reiterated, a little exasperated, "I do."

"Well, what's it like," she questioned him.

"Well," he started, "it's WEALLY dawk in thewe. And thewe's LOTS and LOTS of bones."

Lex looked at him for a moment, a little skeptical.

"Is that true?" she asked.

"Yes, Lex. It is. That's what it's like."

"Well, what did you eat?"

Without a pause, he said, "I just ate some of evewything Mommy ate!"

Fences

Yesterday evening, after work, I dug around in the depths of our hall closet (where I keep the clothes that I rarely wear), pulled out my overalls and my favorite flannel shirt, threw them on, along with my favorite, sweat-stained straw hat, and went out to build a fence.

Yeah, the fence on the south end of the property was in a terrible state of disrepair, and Shawna was worried that the livestock would begin to disappear, so...

Ok-stop that! You're laughing at me!

Ok, ok! The truth is, I don't have a pair of overalls (or a flannel shirt, for that matter-cringe), nor a sweat-stained ANYTHING, let alone a straw hat! And the south end of the property is a 10'x25' section of backyard-on our 7,000 square foot city lot. Oh, and the livestock? Our two dogs: Rowy (a 2 year old chocolate Lab), and Chloe (an insanely hyper 1 year old Dachshund, who has a strange affinity for laser pointers and watch reflections).

But-I DID go out and work! I know, I know-those of you who actually know me have a VERY hard time believing it. To be honest, Shawna didn't believe it either. In fact, when she pulled up to the house, she sat in the car for some time; I kept right on working. A few moments later, my cellphone rang. It was Shawna.

"PJ: where are you," she asked, "because there's a tall guy working out behind our house, building a fence. He's built kind of like you, pretty good looking, but I don't know who he is. I don't want to get out of my car! Should I call the police?"

"It IS me, Shawna!" I said.

"PJ-I'm serious! This guy's working; why is he in our yard? Did you hire him?"

I convinced her, and she ran in to grab the camera so that she could show all our friends and family that her husband does, in fact, occasionally do physical labor. She forgot that she sold the stinking camera at the yard sale this weekend, so you're gonna have to trust us on this one (by the way: whomever bought our kitchen table, if you're reading this, I'll pay you $20 more than the amount you bought it for if you'll bring it back; I'm getting so tired of eating on the floor. Thanks a lot shegazelle!).

But, as I worked there in the yard, building the fence, I started thinking about fences, and why we build them, and I have to say, sometimes a fence is just a lazy man's substitute for discipline.

Hear me out: part of the reason we're building the fence is so that our kids have a place to play. Fair enough, except that the act of building the fence doesn't actually create space for the kids to play. It creates a space that we feel comfortable allowing them to occupy, without having to worry about their running out in the street. An admirable purpose, as a parent, to be sure; but consider this:

Imagine with me, if you will, for just a moment, that we build this fence, and allow Lex and Gentry to go out back every day and play to their hearts content. Imagine this goes on for a year...two years...five years...ten. At some point, they're tall enough and curious enough to reach the gate latch, and begin to try to get the gate open. They, naturally, want to explore-to see what's on the other side.

But Shawna catches them in the act, and calls me at work, and asks me to run to Home Depot on the way home, and pick up a padlock. I do, and we lock the gate, keep the keys in our pockets. A few more years go by, and always, in the back in Lex and Gentry's mind, is this thought that good or bad-the other side of that fence must be something to behold. I can't wait 'til I'm tall and strong enough to climb over.

And so it goes. Don't get me wrong: It's natural to want to explore the other side, to see what marvels (or dangers) might exist there. But I have to ask myself: have I, in fact, done my children a disservice? Because at some point, we'll let our guard down, and they'll get over, around or under the fence. And make their way, in fascination, out to the street, to stare at the large objects on wheels that go speeding by.

You see, I don't think you can build a fence tall enough, or wide enough, or deep enough, to keep my children out of the road indefinitely. There is a desire, built into each of us, to explore, to understand (not necessarily to be stupid-and don't get me wrong, running out into the street is flat stupid-but to really comprehend).

Proverbs 2:11 says this: "Discretions shall preserve thee, understanding shall keep thee."

You see, in my mind, the fence is a temporary measure that is effective for only a short period of time (at least when it comes to protecting Lex and Gentry). In the long-term, the only thing that's going to keep them-protect them, is true understanding.

And so you ask, why are kids/young people today so prone to veer off as they hit young-adulthood? This, in my mind, is a key contributing factor: because we, as parents, have, for too long, allowed fences to do the parenting for us.

We Must be Doing Something Right

We went shopping today for some household items, at the same store that we visited on Sunday. Lex was in school, so it was just Gentry, Shawna and me.

As we walked up and down the aisles, at some point Gentry caught sight of the toy area, and realized that he needed at least one more toy gun to add to his arsenal (in case, I think, Janet Reno, the FBI and the ATF invade our home; he's got fortification plans drawn up as well). At any rate, I calmly told him no, that he wasn't getting a gun, or any other toy today. I think that he was initially inclined to argue, but a warning bell must have gone off in some corner of the head, and he realized that the last time we were at that store, he'd tried that tactic, and it hadn't exactly worked out well.

He let it go. I was proud.

As we stood in line at the checkout, waiting for the checker to finish with the customer in front of us, we heard some commotion behind us. We listened and watched out of the corner of our collective eyes, as a young boy, about eight years old, told his mother he wanted a candy. She must be on the Dave Ramsey plan too, because she declined to purchase a candy-or anything else, for that matter-for him. He raised his voice, and expressed in no uncertain terms, just how important it was for him to have a candy, that very minute! Mom raised her voice right back, and told her son that he WAS NOT having a candy!

At this point, all activity in the front of the store had ceased; all eyes were on mother and son, as they vehemently argued their respective points. Son stood at the candy stand, waving about his candy of choice, and screaming that he WAS having that candy; mom stood behind us in line, screaming just as loudly that her son had BETTER PUT THAT CANDY DOWN AND GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW! I'm thinking she must've read Tony Woodlief's essay in the Wall Street Journal today, but I think that she hasn't yet got it quite right.

As mom screamed, son suddenly stopped, looked at mom with fury in his eyes, and calmly tore open the candy and stuck it in his mouth. Mom stopped short for a moment, then began screaming with renewed fervor, that son was going to be sorry when they got outside, that he was "going to get it."

At that point, checkers began frantically trying to shepherd folks through the lines, hoping desperately to avoid, I think, an embarrassing episode of child abuse in the checkout line.

Gentry took that as his cue to ask for a candy. I cringed, hoping that he wasn't suddenly inspired, but I told him no. Again, he looked at me, cocked his head, got a disappointed look in his eye...and said nothing.

And as we walked out of the store I realized, for all the mistakes we've made, Shawna and I must have done something right.

There Just Aren't Enough Fingers

I've had a particularly rough evening, and I'm the type who, when I'm down, really need some affirmation from those around me-I need to know that they really love me.

So, a few moments ago, Gentry decided it was time for him to go to bed (Lex went to sleep awhile ago, while I was on the telephone). He asked for me to come tuck him in.

I went in the room, tucked him in, hugged him and prayed for him-told God how thankful I was for him and his sister.

He hugged me back-mightily. And said, "Dad, I love you."

"I love you too Bubs; more than you can imagine," I said.

He said, "I love you more than this many," and held up all ten fingers. "I love you as many as if I had a finger here, and here, and here, and here, and everywhere!" as he ticked off the spaces in between his fingers. "I love you more than if I had fingers from the floor to the roof!"

And I remembered that I really do have all I need.

And you know what? I sit here, looking at my open hands, and know that I love them all (Shawna, Lex and Gentry) "more than this many." In fact, if I had fingers enough to fill the room, floor to ceiling, it still wouldn't be enough.