Obama's Speech to Your Kids

President Obama has planned a special speech, directed specifically toward students, to be broadcast via the Internet to schools around the country.

As a prestigious blogger, I've been allowed an early preview of the speech, and I have to say, Obama is doing a wonderful job of reaching out to America's students. I saw the California version, which begins:

"Buenos dias, estudientes. Para Ingles, marque numero uno; para Espanol, marque dos."

(the sound of the "1" button).

"Good morning students. Yesterday, as you know, was Labor Day, a special holiday that we Americans celebrate in honor of the various labor unions that have made the American workplace a safe and happy place for some of your parents. The labor unions, as you know, are foundational to America's prosperity for without them, ALL of your parents would be forced to work consistently without any hope of long-term unemployment benefits. Instead, Americans all over this great land have the ability to stay home a good part of the year and live comfortably, thanks to the wonderful benefits that the labor unions have been able to extract from over-wealthy business owners.

"But I wanted to take a few moments to talk to you today about the importance of the public school system. As you know, we in the Democratic Party have made public education a priority. We have invested enormous amounts of money in your education, and we are committed to giving you the best education available in this country. And we listen to you: as you know, I ran for President last year on a platform of Change, and we are working to make the public education system even better.

"First, there are over 40 million children between the ages of 1 and 4 here in America who are not in a school. I firmly believe in education for everyone. That's why I have instructed congress to pass the "Private Helps Public" act of 2009, in which every dollar that a wealthy parent pays for tuition so that their child can attend a high-priced private school, they must donate a dollar to the "Private Helps Public" fund.

"And what will those funds be used for? You noticed that, as part of my "Change You Can Believe In" campaign, I made some promises to better the public education system. True to my word, this year, when you came back to school, things had changed. Now, EVERY student gets a free breakfast at school; EVERY student has access to either reduced price--or even free--lunches. The money we receive from the "Private Helps Public" program will go to support a student free dinner fund, so that every child in America receives three meals a day. That's the kind of change you can believe in: we here in Washington are committed to ensuring we provide you with everything you need.

"This, American students, is my great dream: a nation in which your government ensures you have three meals a day at no cost to you; that you have all the health care you need at no cost to you; that you have an apartment in which to live that costs no more than 1/4 your monthly net income; that you have a fuel efficient, new car.

"This is my dream for you. There are those who don't want you to have that dream, though. Look around you: the parents of some of your fellow students, sitting right there in that room, would like to strip away all of the positive changes we've made, and keep us from doing this great work. But it need not be that way. You have a voice; you have an untapped source of power greater than any America has ever seen (you have, after all, given the guy with the flyless, elastic waisted camoflauge pants a swirly three times already this year).

"Use that power! Be a force for change! Go to my website and give us your email address; we'll forward links to free flyers you can pass out in your neighborhood. And talk to your parents; educate them. And if they refuse to listen, get them hopelessly drunk this November the night before voting.

"Remember children: you are the America of tomorrow. Our hope lies in you--and so you MUST stay in public school and continue to believe in the change that we continue to bring. And soon, we will have the country we have envisioned.

"Thank you, and may America be blessed."

OK. So, I'm not a prestigious blogger, and I certainly haven't been given access to Obama's speech in advance, but I have a somewhat active imagination, and based on all the uproar, this is what I imagine it'll be like.

Maybe not...who knows.

Thing is, a few years ago, I wouldn't have cared, but as I age (and become, I think, a better parent), I realize how raw my children are. They're literally begging for someone to shape their beliefs and values. And, regardless how noble--or ignoble--our President's intentions, if we're not careful, this speech and others like it will do much to shape those raw, searching children, many of whom have no real force in their life to provide the value structure.

And those children, a few short years from now, will project those values by way of a vote in the voting booth.

Hitler had it right when he formed the Hitler Youth: shape them while they're young, and they'll never depart.

The question you have to ask yourself: is this the message that I want to influence my child's value system?

Toothbrush Marketing

Tonight we went to Target (pronounced, someone told me, "tar-jhay", as opposed to the "tar-git" pronunciation that we uncivilized country folk are accustomed to). We were shopping around for various household items--toiletries (that's what they call toilet paper, right?), laundry detergent, hairspray, etc...

We were standing in the dental care aisle, looking for mouthwash. Do you know that they have mouthwash for kids that dies their left-over mouth gunk some bright color so that they know how terrible a job they're doing brushing? I DIDN'T know that.

Until the other day.

I used some of Lex and Gentrys "Plaque Detecting" mouthwash after brushing, and then headed off to work. I ran (a few moments late) into a fairly important meeting, and rushed to the head of the conference table, distributing my packets of handouts on the way. As I walked past, colleagues broke off conversations mid-sentence, looking up, heads bent, puzzled looks on their faces. I assumed that they were just admiring the positive affect of the OXY Acne Wash that I've been using the past weeks.

Self-confidence soaring, I stepped to the head of the conference table, pulled my handy-dandy laser-light from my pocket protector, and launched into my presentation. Almost immediately a colleague cleared his throat and raised his hand.

"Yes?" I pointed at him.

"Are those braces?" he asked querulously.

"What?"

"On your teeth; you have hot pink between each of your teeth. What is that?"

I don't use the mouthwash anymore.

But I digress. I was standing there in the dental care aisle, staring aimlessly at the broad selection of Scooby Doo toothbrushes when Lex walked up next to me. She stood quietly beside me for a moment, hands behind her back, and gazed in awe at the cartoon-themed toothbrush selection. Then she cleared her throat.

"Daddy?"

"Huh? Oh! Hey Lex, what's up?"

"Well," she began, "do you know Hannah Montana?"

I don't actually know her. I know who she IS of course: a tweener female pop-star, whose real name is Miley Cyrus (daughter of that hunky, and oh-so-famous country star--the one who sang the timeless classic, Achy-Breaky Heart; what does that mean anyways?). Her TV show, produced by Disney catapulted her to almost cultish stardom before she was old enough to drive.

"Yes, Lex; I know who she is," I answered.

"Have you ever seen her teeth?" she asked.

"Um...well, I don't know, now that you mention it. Why?"

"They are SO white," she responded, just as I imagine Hannah might have--with that teen aged "OH-MY-GOSH" lilting, valley-girl half screech in her voice. "And you know what?" she continued. "This is the TOOTHBRUSH she uses!"

She held up a toothbrush festooned with Hannah dancing about the handle, and across the plastic packaging. Then she pressed a button on the handle, and Hannah opened (metaphorically) those stark white incisors (and bicuspids, and molars--you get the point), and began belting out, in a tinny, screechy voice, a song telling me (I think) to "place a bet on both horses"...or something.

She didn't get the toothbrush, but only because her mother came around the corner just before I'd fallen completely under the spell. Lex HATES brushing her teeth, but somehow, through the genius of marketing, the folks at the Hannah Montana toothbrush factory convinced her that, if she is to have pearly whites like Hannah, she's going to have to buy the $9.99 Hannah festooned toothbrush, and listen to Hannah sing out her gambling recommendations until the battery dies on the dumb thing.

I didn't have the heart to tell Lex that those are $40,000 veneers.

A Lot Like Parenting

I was looking for something to snack on this afternoon when Lex came up behind me in the pantry. She was holding a frozen burrito.

"Can I have this?" she asked.

"Sure," I replied (as I opened a Hershey's 100 Calorie, guilt free, chocolate-covered pretzel bar; they're only 100 calories because the bars are microscopic).

I walked back toward my computer to get back to work.

"Um...," she said, unsure, "are you going to make it for me?"

"You can't make it?"

She got that look in her eyes-the one that the sixteen year-old boy gets when Dad hands him the keys for the very first time.

"Yes! I can!" she said. "Can I?"

"Yep. Have at it," I told her.

"K. What does this say?" she asked, pointing at a section of the microwave instructions.

And I realized that in order to be a truly effective parent, you've got to be an effective leader. Because parenting is really about leading your child into their full potential; it's about developing them.

We have a tendency at times to retard our children's developmental potential by carrying them much further than they need to be carried. A child will never learn to walk until they're put down, and given the opportunity to fall. We recognize that, and so we put them down as early as we can, and squat and clap and make goo-goo noises and shake the rattle, trying to entice the poor kid to take that half-step out of Dad's arms, and to cross that massive divide into Mom's outstretched hands. We force ourselves to put them at some risk of harm, because we recognize that protecting them to that degree has a long-term damaging effect.

And we let them, at six-years old, open the burrito, and climb up on the counter and operate the microwave, and even blow up the burrito all over the inside of the microwave; because at some point they're going to have to. And I can do it for them until they're 22, or I can guide them into it now (with an ever-watchful eye, ensuring they don't stick the fork in the microwave, and explaining why metal should NEVER, EVER go in there), and they can do it for themselves from here on out.

That's what parenting is about, isn't it?

How old is old enough to cook your own burrito? I don't have any idea; I don't think that there's a right or wrong answer. But I do know this: that the good parent, the EFFECTIVE parent, is always looking for signs that their child is ready to embark. And they're willing to let them fly, even if it seems a little "early", and even though there's a chance of falling out of the sky.

Because we--parents--are there to catch them if that happens. As a parent, it's a choice we have to make: do I commit to carrying my child until they're either so weak they'll never walk on their own, or they're so frustrated at not being able to walk that they shun me? Or do I allow them to jump out a little earlier than I feel comfortable with, always there to catch them if they fall?

The love that you see in their eyes the instant after you catch them on those occasional falls brings understanding, and growth. And trust. Which carrying will never bring.

Nor will carrying bring growth.

And that's the job of the leader, isn't it? To lead others into a dimension, a reality, that was previously beyond them? Not to carry them. To lead. To allow them to walk, even if the terrain is unfamiliar, and seemingly dangerous. To allow them to walk, and to do your best to catch them if they fall, or at the very least to help them up and brush them off.

I, as a parent, am trying to teach Alexis and Gentry to fly. My job is not finished until I no longer have to fly them about, but they're able to take flight on their own and soar. And I have only truly excelled at my job if they're able to soar higher and farther than I've ever even imagined.

I can only do that by allowing them to test their wings.

Such is the job of the leader.

Already Clean

Shawna woke Gentry this morning, started the shower, and told him to undress and hop in-that he had to hurry to make it to church on time. Then she came into the kitchen and talked for a few minutes to Kevin and me as Kevin ate his third bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

After ten minutes or so, she went back to check on Gentry.

"Bubs!" I heard her exclaim, "What are you doing? Why aren't you in the shower?"

He was sitting naked on the bathroom floor, leaning back resting against the cabinet face.

"I don't have to take a showah," he said.

"Why not?" Shawna asked.

"Because," he replied, clearly exasperated, "I checked my feet and theow cwean."

We're All in This Together

Shegazelle's post of a few days ago reminded me that I'm supposed to be working on a guest post for Normal is Broke. I Wanna be WEIRD. It's not that I don't WANT to guest post-I'm perfectly content--in fact excited--to write a post about our journey to financial freedom.

It's just that our story isn't all that exciting. But I'll write it. Soon (I promise). If I have to, I'll make something up.

The kids, though, have overheard us talking about money, and our quest to be more frugal, and they periodically pitch in, without our asking.

I figured this was the case when I realized that Gentry has taken to wearing no underwear on occassion.

For example, the other morning, I woke him up, and started to dress him for the day. He pulled down his pajama pants, and there was nothing underneath.

"Gentry!" I said. "Where are your underwear?"

He just looked at me sheepishly.

I figured that he thought that, between his wearing the underwear out less frequently, and the energy savings associated with fewer laundry loads, he was contributing to the family's bottom line.

"Bubs," I told him, "as much as Mommy and Daddy appreciate your help with our finances, there are some things that you shouldn't sacrifice. This is probably one of them."

He looked at me puzzled.

"Well, we appreciate you wanting to help the family get ahead financially, but maybe we can identify a better way of doing it, huh?"

He smiled and leaned close.

"Dad," he whispered. "I'm NOT twying to help you save money! It's just that it's YOUW week to wash clothes!"

Raisins

Late last night, on the way home from town, I mentioned to Shawna that my stomach was upset.

I've battled, for the past year or so, with a stomach condition that's forced me to drastically modify my eating habits. The condition is more of a nuisance than anything else-definitely not serious, but on occasion, when I eat something I shouldn't, it grumbles and complains a bit. And sometimes, when it's really angry, it "irregulates" my bowels (I can't believe I'm telling you this).

Lex, of course, being the observant, insightful, six-going-on-sixteen year old that she is, perked up. Ever eager to be of assistance she said, "Dad, you know what you need?"

"What?"

"You need some of those poop raisins."

"Poop raisins?" I asked. "Do you mean PRUNES?"

"Yeah! They'd help your stomach, wouldn't they?"

It's hard, I've found, to be an effective parent to someone who prescribes you poop raisins from the back seat.

Me: "Lex, did you clean your room like your mother asked you to?"

Alexis (with a thinly veiled smirk): "Dad: never mind that. Have YOU had your poop raisins today?"

It keeps me humble.

A Retraction--Or Not

I hereby rescind my comments on my prior post. Or maybe I don't.

Alexis has, in fact, been ditching class. But I've subsequently been duly informed that I'm not taking it seriously enough. Apparently, common consensus is that I should punish her and leave it at that. The fact that I am concerned with the REASON why she has been ditching, and that I'm hesitant to simply punish her for it is indicative of my obvious inability to effectively parent.

The truth of the matter is, folks, Alexis has never had problems like this before. She went to Kindergarten and Preschool at a private school, and she did well; she was never in trouble, didn't ditch, had a good attitude, and really enjoyed school.

Now, she's gone to a public school for first grade; and school bores her. So she ditches.

I don't argue with the fact that she SHOULD NOT DITCH CLASS. But I DO question the idea that, instead of attempting to understand, I should merely punish her.

Alexis is headstrong, impetuous, and can be downright bratty. But she's also intelligent, and curious, and enjoys learning and being with people. So I'm hesitant to simply accept that this is and indication of her inevitable degeneration into juvenile delinquency.

And so I ask you this: is it possible that she really IS bored? Is it possible that the new school isn't challenging enough? And so she's not quite as connected, and her mind wanders?

It's a question, and if, in asking it, I'm crucified because I'm not authoritarian enough (that is, if in asking, I have the "wrong attitude" as I've been told I do), then so be it. But I, for one, am more interested in understanding the why of the situation (and attempting to rectify it, assuming it's something more than Alexis simply being cut out of some substandard moral cloth), than I am in driving her into submission through punishment.

So, I guess I don't rescind my comments. I simply ask you to accept that, sometimes individuals can degenerate into behaviors that are inappropriate out of pure innocence. And, as a parent, you can take one of two tacts: punish them into submission, or try to understand why the individual is behaving in that manner; and, if possible, correct the circumstance.

The Reason for the Season

We took the kids to a cornfield maze the other evening. The thing was far more difficult than I'd imagined; it took us nearly an hour to get through. At one point, we were so lost that we hunkered down, and decided to rough it out until dawn. I fashioned a makeshift tent out of my sweatshirt, and was trying to cook a few ears of corn with the heat from my cell phone battery. Luckily, a lady in a yellow jacket came by, and showed us the way out.

A good thing, too; corn leaves would have made for very abrasive toilet paper.

We finally found our way out, packed into the car, and drove away. On our way out, the kids spotted a small house (about the size of a playhouse), that sits up on a pole, so that it can be seen from the freeway. The house is adorned with Christmas lights; it serves as an advertisement for the Christmas trees that they sell at the farm there during the Christmas season.

At any rate, as we were driving out, I heard Gentry's breath catch.

"Lexis," he said, whispering in awe. "Lookit! That's Santa Claus's house!" he said.

"Oh, yeah! It is!" Lex said.

"Daddy," Gentry said, "do you know what we just saw? We saw Santa's house!"

"You did?" I asked. "You mean that little house with the Christmas Lights?"

"Yes," Gentry said. "That's Santa's house!"

"Where does he keep all the toys in there, do you think," I asked them.

They thought for a moment. "It's magic," Lex said.

"Nuh-uh!" Bubs said, a little loudly. "He keeps those in his big bag that he cawwies."

"And then he comes at Christmas and brings us our presents," Lex proclaimed excitedly. "He comes down our fireplace!" she said.

"Our fireplace," I asked? "You mean chimney. How does he fit down there, do you think?"

They were silent for a few moments. We've never really pushed the idea of a Santa with our kids, but we've not been adamant about insisting that he doesn't exist either. The conversation was shaping up into the "does-Santa-really-exist" conversation that so many parents dread. I was curious to see how traumatic the realization would be.

"If he comes down our chimney, how does he get back up it," Lex asked?

"No," Bubs said. "He doesn't come down ouw chimminee. He lives in ouw fiyapwace," he said.

"He doesn't live in our fireplace, Bubs," Lexis argued. "Check when we get home. He's not there. Maybe he lives on our roof!"

"Our roof, huh?" I asked. "We must be pretty special, don't you think, for him to choose to live on our roof."

"No-" Lex started.

"Yes he-" Gentry piped up at the same time. "Lexis! Let me talk! I wanna tell you guys somethin!"

"Well hurry then," she told him, exasperated.

"Santa Claus lives on the woof of that house at the cownfield maze! He bwings ouw pwesents down ouw fiweplace at Chwistmas. And....and....and..."

"Bubba! Are you going to finish, or are you just going to keep saying 'and' forever?" Lex interrupted.

"LEXIS!! I'm telling you a stowy! Be quiet!"

"Well, HURRY UP," she answered.

He paused for a moment. "K. I'm done"

"Good," Lex said. "Santa doesn't live at that house at the maze or on our roof. Remember, Christmas is about Jesus' birthday!"

I was so pleased! She'd come to the realization all on her own. My chest swelled; I smiled, and grabbed Shawna's hand, so thankful that our wholesome parenting was paying off.

"So what does that mean, Alexis," I asked.

"Well, it means that Santa Claus must live on JESUS' roof!"

I give up.

Keeping Peace

The Nobel Foundation announced on Friday the winner-or, rather, winners-of the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize. This year's laureates, Albert Arnold (Al) Gore Jr. and the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), shared the prize as well as the $1.5 Million purse, for their respective "efforts to build up and disseminate greater knowledge about man-made climate change."

The peace-keeping business is waning, I'd guess, based on this slim justification for this seemingly prestigious award.

I searched around a bit on the internet, and found an archive listing all of the winners of the award, year-by-year, as well as what they won for. 1901, Jean Henri Dunant, the founder of the International Committee of the Red Cross, initiator of the Geneva Convention, shared the prize. 1906, Theodore Roosevelt won the prize for a peace treaty he drafted between Russia and Japan. 1912, Elihu Root won for a number of significant arbitration agreements he brokered. 1919, Woodrow Wilson, US President, won for the founding of the League of Nations. Various other similar winners.

Most notably, perhaps, is the absence of a winner many years. 1914-1916, 1918, 1923-1924, 1928, 1932, 1939-1943, 1948, 1955-1956, 1966-1967, and finally, 1972. Apparently, in the abesnce of a suitable nominee, the award is not a mandate, for in each of these years, the award was not awarded, and the funds were redeposited into the special award fund.

And for these reasons I find this year's award curious. Actually, I find the recent shift in the apparent award criteria interesting. This year, Gore and the IPCC won for disseminating greater knowledge abour man-made climate change. I've heard it said that a butterfly flapping it's wings in Jakarta has some minor affect on the airflow here in California. It's apparent to all, I think, that we as human beings have some sort of affect on the environment, and, given my butterfly example, probably have some sort of impact on climate change. The question is, really, how substantial an impact? But that's not the point of this post.

Early prize winners won for actually doing something-for peace brokered as a results of their efforts. They won because they achieved results. Conversely, the winners this year won for their "efforts to build up and disseminate greater knowledge about man-made climate change." First, what does man-made climate change have to do with peace? Further, since when do we give major awards for "efforts to build-up and disseminate knowledge"?

This trend, though, is further evidenced by other recent awards. In 2006 Muhammad Yunus and Grameen Bank won for their "efforts to create economic and social development from below." In 2001 the United Nations and Kofi Annan won-for no noted reason. Various other recent awards for either the winners' "efforts" or for no real reason at all.

At first blush, I assume that they're struggling to find real "peace-brokers" to award the prize to. But, on second thought, I think, in reality, the Nobel Foundation leadership has been subtly corrupted. And, instead of actually lauding those who make headway in the pursuit of peace, they're using the prestige of their award to make a political point. In this case: to add their significant, yet unspoken, support to the global-warming cause.

A sad thing, too, when a prestigious, time-honored institution gives way to political pressure, and uses their name and reputation to lend support to a political perspective.

If you ask me, the prize should have went to Shawna. Conflict in the Middle East is child's play in comparison to keeping peace between Lex and Gentry.

Not Fit to Mother

I read yesterday that, on Monday, a judge in Southern California, in a surprise move, awarded custody of Britney Spears' and Kevin Federline's children to Federline. Originally, the couple had shared custody, but in a surprise move, in response to a motion by Federline's attorney, the judge called a closed hearing on Monday, and revoked Spears' custody rights. Spears filed a motion, which was heard in court today, seeking a reversal of the order; the motion was denied, although the judge did allow Spears supervised visitation rights, and will reevaluate the custody situation at the end of October.

According to Reuters:

"Since her split from Federline last November, Spears has drawn a steady stream of headlines for erratic behavior that has included club-hopping without panties, shaving her head bald, raging at a car with an umbrella and checking into and out of rehab."

And:

"Adding to her legal woes, she was charged days later with leaving the scene of an accident and driving without a valid license after police said she smashed into another car in a parking lot."

I really have absolutely no interest whatsoever in most celebrities and their various (often self-imposed) woes. But this one interested me, in that my perception was that Kevin Federline was hardly a paternal role model. How terrible a mother must Spears be for the court to revoke her custody? Obviously, given the quotes above, she's not much of a role model herself. In fact, it seems she's on a fast downward spiral.

The surprising fact, though, is that it appears that Federline might actually be a semi-decent father (that is, he's a far better parental role model than is his ex-wife). In fact, after reading a bit about Spears as a parent, I'm surprised that she even cares to have any custody whatsoever. We all, I think, recall her driving with her first child sitting on her lap (no car seat; not even a seatbelt). And the time she "dropped" her son. But those aren't the things I'm talking about.

The most telling thing I read was a note from last month, after Spears and Federline were divorced. Both of their children's birthdays were in early September. Their birthday party (Jayden's first birthday, Sean's second), on September 9, was a Cars themed family affair, with the traditional cake, ice cream and balloons. Spears though? She was attending the Video Music Awards in Las Vegas (pointless, I think, in that her chances of winning anything were, at best, slim). It says much about her, as a parent, that she chose to attend a music industry fete instead of her children's birthday party.

And what of Federline? Is he father material? I'll admit that he's probably not at the top of my list of role models. But, despite the various piercings, the tattoos, the shaved head and-Oh!-that terribly grating album, he doesn't seem to be a bad guy! He doesn't appear to-surprise-have a criminal record (more than can be said for his ex-wife); he seems to be comparatively stable (that is, he's never been in rehab-in sharp contrast to his ex-wife's two-or three-stints); he's surprisingly grounded (those who he's worked with-when he is given opportunity to work-say he's professional, enjoyable, and reasonably talented. Conversely, his ex-wife appears to think the world revolves around her); he wears underwear (or, if he doesn't, he doesn't insist on repeatedly showing the rest of us-enough said); and he actually appears to care for his children (whereas his ex-wife doesn't appear to even care to be with them-as long as Federline doesn't have them).

I may be reading much more into this than I should, but I'm of the firm opinion that, to whom much is given, much is required. Spears started her career as a no-name, naive-but principled-kid with a little talent. She skyrocketed to fame (and fortune), and has since done everything within her power to prove that money and celebrity lead to total and complete ruin. She is nice girl-turned-naughty; polite-turned-spoiled; clean living-turned-destructively addicted; demure-turned-promiscuous; bright-eyed-turned-haunted. Oh, and talented-turned-washed up.

I say all that to say this: Britney-you'll never find happiness where you're looking. The very things you're forsaking in your search are the things that will bring you what you're looking for. And, for that, I have to say, I think the judge got it right. Because, while he might not have the money, talent, career, homes or cars that Britney does, his rough-and-tumble upbringing taught him what is important. And that's all you need to be a good parent.

Figure it out, Britney, before it's too late.

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.