Floridians in Winter: Unsung Heroes

Tragedy 

Note: All photos are real and were taken to document the horror in Jacksonville on January 4, 2014.

Heroes are made not born. Well, I suppose they are born too, and then made, but that doesn't make them any less awesome. A hero's awesomeness rests mostly in the fact that they have overcome great odds and probably dealt with skeptics right out of the gate. Heroic Justin Bieber can't sing or dance or pull up his pants, yet he became an inspirational superstar to friendless middle-schoolers everywhere. Sadly his star burned so brightly that haters tripped over themselves to knock him down. Now that he has (in no way at all fake) retired, now that his squeaky voice has been taken away from the world, I think we can all see the shame in focusing on his spitting at fans, proclivity for prostitutes or his spraying graffiti on the hotels that he graces.

Others are simply heroic for overcoming incredible odds. Rescued fighting dogs, Corey Feldman and Jerry Springer (pulled himself up from the humble beginings of being the Mayor of Chicago all the way to hosting his own carnival) serve to remind us that we too can be great given the right circumstances (not powerball winners though, they just piss us off). None of them get the recognition that they deserve but are all around us and all inspirational. 

The grimace of death

Finally, there are those heroes are inspire us just by making it through. Cancer survivors, conjoined twins and Floridians in the winter. These are the folks that survive when no one else could, these are our real-life Katnisses and Petas. But sadly, they get little love and even less respect. 

And That Stops Here!

As a survivor myself (but not of cancer or of being born attached to my sister), I face the ridicule of skeptics and am incredibly even the butt of jokes. The cruel irony is that where compassion and admiration would be normal, our state-wide struggle can often bring out the very worst in society. We don't want your charity but keep your comments muffled under your scarves (scarfs?) You know, those things that look like a strip of blanket.

All the coats in the whole state

I am guessing that many of you Northies have already skipped to the comment section and let me cut you short there. "But our winter is way colder" is voodoo math and I see right through it. Arbitrary measurements like "temperature" can all be manipulated to argue any point.

Water freezes at 32 degrees. No wait, 0 degrees- I don't need to say anymore.

We all deal in our own way

Our suffering stems from the fact that even though we get warning of these freeze-outs, we can't possibly be expected to handle the pure brutality of the assault. No matter how many t-shirts you layer, it's still no match to the Canadian air. Picture the pure panic of trying to find the heat button in your car, or even socks. This morning I discovered that my office has never had heat. I had no choice but to button up my polo and bunker down. The truth is that although some (all) other parts of the country may experience "harsher" winters, you all signed up for it! We accept hurricanes and cockroaches but the deal is: No Arctic blasts. 

In 2013, Floridians suffered 13 shark attacks and nobody took notice. But you can be sure that the next time a guy from Binghamton gets attacked, the whole country will lose its collective mind. That's because living in upstate NY has that one perk and we all accept that. 

So soldier on my unloved, unsung and unwarm state-mates. Your heroism is an inspiration to a Nation and a true testament to the American spirit. 

New Year Fatty

I am a Fatty. I don't want to be a fatty, but I am. My 4 year old daughter chants, "His name is Daddy, and he's a Fatty!" whenever she's in the mood for convulsive laughter. Clearly my secret isn't so secret. My few friends who are heavier than me are not even close to being Fattys because being "fat" isn't the only qualification to being a Fatty. Nope it's truly a whole mindset.

My permanent status as a member of the Fatty Club has been developed through some simple steps for you all to follow at home:

1- Self Image: Here are the type of people that I have exposure to on a weekly basis in order by quantity:

Seriously?

• Scrawny middle school and younger children. Kids by nature are twiggy but if they swim every day, they have a negative body fat and are see-through.
• National level high school athletes. Take a scrawny kid and now add muscle. I recently had a pull-up contest against a high school kid with the stipulation being that he had to weigh the same as me. Watching him try to do pull-ups with a 45 lb weight strapped to his waist was freakin' great for the self-image.
• Masters swimmers. These are people mostly in their 40s and 50s who are swimming to try and get their Ironman times faster. Enough said.
• My wife- She had a meltdown when she hit 127 pregnant. Side note- for those of you looking for marriage advice, posting info on the web about your wife's weight...not great.

Stock photo right? Ah nope,
that's really them.

But the good news is, I took a little break for Christmas and got to spend time with my anorexic in-laws and 2 models. So that was fun too.

2- Gain weight despite the odds: My wife is responsible for 90% of my diet and the fact that I can still gain weight is a true testament to my determination. For starters, white flour, nitrates, nitrites, pesticides, fat, high fructose corn syrup, refined sugars and artificial ingredients are not allowed through the door. Secondly, everything that we eat is locally grown and well treated. If we do get a piece of meat, it's been lovingly caressed by a hippy farmer its whole life and died of old age. Yesterday I guilted her into adding ground organic never-scolded beef to her egg-plant chili. In fact the closest we came to divorce this year was when she discovered that one of my friends had bought me a grilled cheese, pulled pork, macaroni and cheese, sandwich. 

3- Maintain a exercise routine designed by a lunatic: I pretty much operate on a 10% professional athlete 90% coma schedule. I'm an exercise bulimia sufferer where I binge for a couple of days and then purge my body of all that silliness for a couple of weeks. I find this one step forward and three steps back approach really keeps me solidly not solid. 

Evil

Enter the Fitbit. For those of you who aren't aware, this is a pedometer that you wear on your wrist that counts your steps, your flights of stairs, your sleep patterns, your water intake and other stuff that I haven't bothered to check. It's like having a little mother-in-law with you at all times (mine is in absurdly good shape of course). Further more, your stats are public knowledge for all the non-Fattys in your life to make fun of. So I now live in terror of letting my Fitbit down. I go to bed most nights exhausted and ready to vomit from the 64 ounces of water that I had to drink right before going to bed. And in fully predictable Fatty style, I have shot out of the gate like my ass is on fire trying to escape my Fattyness all in six days. I'm currently leading my Fitbit friends in steps taken but that has, oh, zero percent chance of holding. 

So 2014 has started with me sweaty and with only one real hope; that my Fitbit will miraculously break before I do.

The pathway to Hell

Middle school playground

 "The pathway to Hell is paved with good intentions" is the standby quote for people who have really dropped the ball.

Well my great intention tonight was to help with the middle school boy's retreat at our church. For starters, this isn't entirely new, I have been sort of helping with the youth but both my schedule and my skills are way under-par to be good at it. But the church needs volunteers, especially ones not afraid of middle school kids, so I packed up my son Sam and we ventured to the church to score me some heavenly points.

It went so well that I was inspired to write this post that I will call:

How to go to Hell in 4 easy steps.

1- Expose the kids to vulgarity.
Yep, that's how I kicked things off tonight. Sam and I arrived at the church for boy's night and met up with Nick. Nick is the guy who planned the evening and is pretty much the Elvis Presley of middle school activities. The boys immediately all formed a tight circle around him, clamoring for his attention while I was reminded of my PE days when even the teacher didn't care whether I was picked. Side note: being "manager" for dodge ball sucks.
At any rate, Nick and the his merry band of tweeners all started walking to our dinner location. When we crossed a street, a man in a car asked "What side is the street is?"
What follows is my internal dialogue which horrifies me to actually read on paper.

"GO AWAY DAD!"

"Hmmm, that's a bizarre question. That guy must be really lost and need my help. I do have 6 middle school boys with me so... what could possibly go wrong if I engage in a conversation with him?"
"Say that again?" and he did.
"WHAT SIZE IS YOUR PENIS?" followed by howling laughter is what the boys were treated to, courtesy of me.

2- Lose some kids.
This is a no-brainer. When you are in charge of kids, you should return the same number you were given. We had 6 kids when we went to dinner and 5 when we returned. I have no idea what happened but Nick was in charge so it's his problem. I briefly mentioned my concerns to him but he was unruffled. "Dude (he really is cool), I go by the 80% rule. 5 out of 6 is probably more than that so we're good." We had only 5 kids the rest of the night. For real.

3- Let the kids trample sacred ground.

Jesus, you are so it. Start counting.

I have no idea what's sacred in a church but I pretty much think, you know, everything? Now probably not the toilets, maybe not the storage closets, but really everything else. Surely there is a Bible verse that says something like, "This is my house so don't treat it like a freakin' bowling alley." Well Nick decided that it was time to play manhunt (once again, "Yeah Nick! Benji please go away") which is a game of running full speed through the entire church. Nick's only rule was, "Don't hurt the pipes in the pipe organ." I'm no lawyer but since all middle school boys are, I'm pretty sure the door was left open for vandalism, theft, arson etc. So my job quickly became wandering around the church trying to keep the boys from sinning-by-destruction. The lowest point was when I witnessed a kid throw himself at a painting of Jesus believing that the Son of Man was actually a 5th grade peer whom he just found. Jesus (like all paintings do) kept his eyes only on me and he mouthed the words "I'm going to remember this."

4- Let the kids devour the Body of Christ.
Churches have lots of rules that I neither know nor would understand. Apparently one is, "If you serve the sacrament of communion in church, don't clean it up." Which in our case meant that 5 (after we had jettisoned 1) hooligans found free food. Never have I felt the hot breath of Satan on my neck like I did watching them dig into the leftover bread and grape juice. Nick of course quickly restored order (after having some himself because that's what cool guys do) and I was left trembling in the back.

This one sealed my fate.

So to sum things up, I'm doomed and I hate Nick. Yet my son Sam had one of the best evenings of his short life. The other 9 in his top 10, all involve XBox and so for tonight I'm grateful. I'm going to keep dragging him to all church events even if it means my eternal damnation.

You're gonna have the Christmas spirit (even if I have to beat it into you).

"Dad, I'm glowing with the Christmas spirit!"

Today was the first day of Christmas break so I had all three kids home. Since working was essentially shot, I decided to make the most of the day and here is more or less what I had in mind:
     Me- "Kids, the true meaning of Christmas is     giving. You all are about to discover how great it is to buy a gift for someone you love, and relish in their joy at opening it on Christmas morning."
    Them- "Dad, thanks for teaching us the real deal about Christmas. We will no longer be greedy brats but instead get more pleasure in giving than receiving. Also, no more fighting and we'll get our grades up."

So I announced that we were getting in the car to go shopping for Christmas presents. The two girls were mildly intrigued but wanted to make sure that THEY were going to be getting presents. My son Sam however lives by an unwritten, unspoken, and un-true code that goes like this:

• During school, no X-Box. 
• On school days at home, it's kind of a gray area. 
• On weekends and holidays, X-Box is the priority and he would wear a diaper to avoid getting out of the chair if I'd let him. 

So his reaction was predictable rage. "NOOOOOOOOO!" was the only thing Sam said for the rest of the day.

As a treat to my suspicious Christmas shoppers, I announced that we would eat lunch at Panera's. The girls were on board but Sam? "NOOOOOOOOO!" of course.

After lunch we hit Target and I was struck with an immediate dilemma. As each kid was only shopping for their siblings, I desperately needed to keep the gifts separate. My horrible decision was to give each kid their own shopping cart. Shopping became an immediate full-contact drag race (I've never been to a real drag race but I assume that they involve screaming and temper tantrums) as everyone wanted to be first. Once in the lead, Sam pulled a celebratory wheelie, and pulled the cart all the way over on to its back and the Target crowd seemed especially pleased with that stunt.
We eventually made it to the toys and I announced a $5 limit which was met with the obligatory editorials about what a loser I am. As we began, my ridicule was fanned by the Target girl who said, "$5? Are you buying toys for a shelter or something?" This of course put me in the position to discuss, in front of my children, that A- I'm not a good enough person to have thought of that, and B- I'm a horrible cheapskate. Indifferent to my agony, she twisted the knife with, "Well, you won't find anything like that here, go to the back wall and look under 'stocking stuffers'." So I Christmas-ly fantasized about punching her in the throat and directed the crew to the "Target Wall of Shame."

Just one more then I'm off to my
80's throwback bash.

The shopping itself was rather tame as picking out 6 pieces of crap was pretty easy and we started heading back to the front. I made Abby go first while Macey followed at 20 feet and Sam another 20 feet behind (all pushing shopping carts that had a grand total of two stocking stuffers in them). The trip to the front was horrendous. First problem is that my kids can't freakin drive shopping carts (Macey gets a pass here as she can't see over the handle). Secondly, they spent the entire time trying to look in each other's carts to see what treasures they held. The end result was a Team DeMotte assault on every other shopper as cart-to-cart and cart-to-shin collisions were far too frequent.
Once in the car, each kid has zero interest in keeping secrets. So the conversation was pretty much them dropping hints while I screamed over the top in a desperate attempt to instill the beauty of Christmas.
Sam- "I'm not going to tell you but it's got braids and a dress and a snowman...."
Abby- "Is it a Frozen doll?"
Sam- "How'd you know?"

The spots are so worth the total destruction of the house

Final challenge was wrapping. I sat the kids down in front of the TV and called them into the kitchen one-by-one. Wrapping was behind closed doors but that was meaningless as the others were lying on the floor trying to look under the door and begging for hints.

We seriously did this by ourselves!

Enter the cat. Normal cats are a pain in the ass. Cats that are half-leopard are insane. Want to know all the fun things about having a half cat/half predator? They have cool spots. That's it, the rest is torture. So of course "Charley" has to make the ridiculous process of kids wrapping even more impossible. My job was to cut the paper, cut the tape, wrap the presents, shoo the cat and make the tags. The kid's job was apparently to subtly unwrap the other presents to see what was bought for them.

The end result is that we have 6 perfectly wrapped, mostly unwrapped, and then re-wrapped presents for the kids. Although I have no idea if I made any progress in the Christmas education of Team DeMotte, I am really banking on effort points in my final Dad report card.

Raising brilliant kids

Does it surprise you that I made this all by myself?

I work at a very expensive prep school and am thus surrounded by gifted kids. Some of them seem remarkably normal but I can always tell. All I have to do is ask their parents. It would almost seem that we have bad charts as every kid at some point tests "off the charts". And it's not just a local thing (some studies would show that Florida children are in fact, not the best educated in the country....) I see brilliant children all across the country courtesy of Facebook and even have them for nieces and nephews. And as luck would have it, I myself am raising three towers of intellect! It seems to me that somewhere along the way, our nation of genius children somehow turns into a country of remarkably normal adults.

Weird how so many are off the chart

It all begins with a fundamental parenting formula:

Smart Kids = Amazing Parents 

(Which by the way is hotly contested by parents of the dumb kids).

It's such an easy, polite way to brag about yourself that we all pounce on the opportunity.
"Little Fred can recite French poetry while he practices the bagpipes" is really code for "Eat it Loser! Your parenting is an effing joke."

The stats race all begins as soon as you find out you're pregnant with the first kid. Mom's-to-be love to compare the numbers and the competition becomes absurd. I remember my brilliant (seriously, off-the-charts as a kid) wife losing it because our friend felt a kick first. Side note- that fetus is now 10 and my son Sam kicks his mother way more than Skyler kicks her mom now. Skyler and Sam actually shared a due date but you can probably guess, Skyler arrived TWO DAYS ahead of us. It was a nightmare, little Skyler's belly button carcass was long flushed while my son proudly hung on to the family shame. We lost the "who rolled or sat up first" race and it was traumatic as it became clear that as parents, we were the Jacksonville Jaguars.

Intimidated yet?

Fast forward a decade and with three kids, we have had a lot more bruises to our parenting ego and things are a little different. Now our kids are regularly stacked against their peers at school, swimming, scouting and even at the pediatricians. Despite the fact that intellectually we know that some things are not in our control, it's still always a competition. We have a total of 19 years of data and there are some things that are becoming very clear. I've compiled the stats for Team DeMotte and will report them to you so that you can see how your parenting, dare I say complete worth as a person, stacks up.

Bottom 0-20%
Height- Sam and Macey? Little shrimps. Abby is at the 95% for height but she's an outlier.
Room Cleaning- If there was such a thing as negative percentage, we'd find a home there. Sam is more like the bottom 40% but the girls room should trigger a FEMA response. Imagine a lawn sprinkler that spews out clothes and toys 24 hours a day and you should have a pretty good idea.
Bottom 21-40%
Haircuts- While this would seem to be an easy fix, we struggle with them. Sam is in a horrible hair gel phase where every day is a new failure, while Abby can't ever get chlorine (she's a swimmer) out so her hair is permanently crunchy.
Diet- My wife is amazing at shopping for organic healthy food only. However, her strategy has one glaring downside which is that my kids treat junk food like a meth addict treats, well you know, meth. They crave it, commit crimes for it, hoard it and go to war for it.
Middle 41-60%
Behavior- This category should be split into, "with us" or "without us" as our score differs dramatically depending on the situation. If they are in public and not entirely comfortable, they are the best. No temper-tantrums, no fighting, just perfect quiet shy behavior. Once they get more comfortable, little bits of badness erupt. When they are at home- it's game on. Gang style beatings, theft, vandalism and lying are all fair game.
Cuteness- Here's a particularly tough admission for me. My kids are of average cuteness. I deal with a lot of kids and for the most part, they are all pretty damn cute. Every now and then you get a snot faucet but pretty much there is a whole lot of cuteness out there to compete so it's not easy to score above average.
Upper 61-80%
Academics- This is an aggregate measure for sure. Sam was all B's last report card while Abby was perfect (but still in first grade so that's probably the norm). Macey is 4 and her rigorous academic schedule includes coloring and sitting. She can do both of those things like a champ.
Religion- Really dangerous ground here grading how churchy any kid is. However, all three seem to take to it and of course my youngest is pretty much both an evangelistic Christian and a pious Jew so that has to score bonus points.
Top 81-100%
Independence- Due to our bizarre lifestyle, my kids have a 50 acre campus to play on. They fully believe that the whole school is their bedroom and would wander it constantly if we didn't sort of keep a leash on them. They spend all their time with the teenagers that I coach and are much more comfortable with that age group than their own peers. I am not under the impression however, that any of this is good.
Driving- At ages 10, 6 and 4, they all have mastered driving golf carts. I am desperately hoping that some of the mistakes they all have made along the way are out of their system for good.
OFF THE CHARTS
Growing teeth- My kids can grow them some teeth! Due largely to my parenting, all three kids grew teeth almost immediately after taking their first breath. I was so proud of them (and my wife's determination to breast feed) and continue to be to this day. Now with every gift comes great responsibility and we've struggled with that a little as all of them have been either suspended or expelled from preschool for biting. But their true dental genius doesn't end with early growing. Nope, they lose those bad-boys and grow huge fangs way ahead of the curve as well.

So there you have it, our parenting successes (top 81% and above) and society failures (middle 80% and down).  I hope that in some small way this metric can help all those parents who are feeling a little out of the loop on exactly how above-average their children are.

Cat wrangling: 80th percentile

Middle Warrior

The Ultimate Warrior

There have been plenty of studies that compare personality traits to birth order and from my 4 minutes on Google, I've learned that scientific research has yielded inconclusive results. It's a pity that so much grant money is down the pooper when all they had to do was ask me. I have a sample size of 3 kids, plus Team DeMotte is pretty average so our experience will be dead on accurate for all families.

So here goes:
First Born- Always a boy, hates school, loves XBox and is usually the first one in the family to learn stuff.
Last Born- Always a girl, seems a little cuter than everybody else, and is way advanced compared to her siblings.

The "Good Ole Days"

Middle Born- Here's where things get complicated. Our middle kid is a 6 year old fighter named Abby. She is never quite the first one to accomplish anything, but is also never quite the baby as she has a trailing little sister everywhere. Life for her started differently though. For a solid two years, she was the cute baby and only girl and life seemed perfect. She was picked on from time to time but then her parents were always there to immediately protect the princess. She intently watched her older brother so she learned how to do things much younger than he did.
But after her second birthday, her little sister Macey arrived on the scene and her world took a dramatic turn. First and foremost, her mother and I became outnumbered. We were suddenly placed in a permanent penalty killing formation. Suddenly, every child's need had to go through a triage before we would address it. Sam had an advantage as he was loudest and most articulate while Macey was a baby so pretty much every need she had was life-threatening. Abby, no dice. Getting the shaft once or twice was all that it took for her to grow a permanent chip on her shoulder. The birth of her baby sister was a scary switch in Abby like when Bruce Lee gets cut for the first time in every movie; it's ass-whuppin time.

Plotting

As Sam and Macey are 6 years apart, they don't have much use for each other and thus enjoy a peaceful truce. No such luck for Abby. She is constantly fighting a war on two fronts and she's become steel forged in the fires of battle. If I ever get a job recruiting for the Green Berets, I will only pick middle children, period.

Sadly, battling her siblings and getting forgotten by her father isn't the end of it. She also deals with constantly being framed. Her mother's antique desk has "Abby" carved into the top, in Sam's handwriting. Her dinner chair often has broccoli sitting under it which is suspiciously a direct shot from her sister's high chair.

But her cage fighting attitude has one very useful purpose for me. She's my lie detector. Every investigation follows a traditional and formal progression.

Step 1- The Opening Query
Me- "Who put Axe hair gel on the cat and gave her a mohawk?" It's happened twice and I'm sick of all the bikini models who keep throwing themselves at the cat.
Step 2- The Blanket Denials
Sam- "Not me."
Abby- "Not me."
Macey- "Not me."
Step 3- The Useless Logic
Me- "The cat has freakin hair gel on her head and she didn't put it there herself!"
Step 4- The Bait
I always start with Sam and within earshot of Abby. Now pay attention here because I have mastered the art of manipulating the middle-child inner dragon.
Me- "Sam, really and truly, who put the gel on the cat?"
Sam- "Abby." Note- I have zero interest in his answer. It will always be Abby.
Step 5- The Dragon
At this point, Abby is a slave to her birth order and her reaction is out of her control. All I have to do is protect my groin and Sam if needed.
Option 1- Abby is guilty
No noise from her as she is adopting the Malcom X "fist in the air" defiance stance. I usually ask her one more time and the answer is always something like, "Sure and what do you think you are going to do about it? You've been trying to punish me for 6 years and haven't made a dent. Bring it on fat boy."
Option 2- Abby is innocent

Hurricane Abby

Heres where the shiznet gets real. It begins with a large intake of air and I recognize the rattle of the snake. Sam isn't smart enough to know what he's done so it's up to me to keep us both alive. The noise is immediate and deafening and the only prayer of defusing it is to scream "Abby, I believe YOU!" while I dive on her in the "last ditch to save your fellow soldiers from a live grenade" move.

Neither outcome is particularly fun but at least I have the truth every time.

So while first children probably do fine as presidents or lawyers, youngest- surgeons or astronauts, if I ever need 300 warriors to defend Sparta, give me middle kids every time.

Scouting Sorrows

This means you dads

Growing up, I was never exposed to scouting. Therefore, when Sam came home three years ago with a Cub Scout brochure, I quickly threw it away and the matter was closed. Well, more like wide freakin not closed. He kept pestering me about it and I had to finally admit that I had some uninformed biases about Boy Scouts of America. Somewhere my hippie mother must have instilled in me that it was similar to the Hitler Youth and I sort of still had that bouncing around.

Eventually Sam wore me down and we all gathered in the school cafeteria for the first meeting. The re-incarnated General George Patton was there from national headquarters to bark at all the new recruits about how if you joined scouting you would be a famous rockstar-senator-stud but if not, "Hello heroine addiction."

So we gathered in tables according to grades I began to assess the competition for most awesome scouting dad. But before I could get a real read, Patton swung by the table and announced that we had enough new "men" to create another den. New den apparently meant new den leader. "I can tell by looking at you Dads that there are many among you who love your country and hate commies enough to sign up for the most important assignment of your lives!" (possible historical inaccuracies here).  I guess I love communism as I was looking for fast exit. And that's when my angel of scouting appeared. Asher, a heavy loud kid with a dirty face bounded up. "Hey can Sam join my Dad's den? Please please PLEEEEEEASE??" I could have kissed him (very frowned upon in BSA).

So we've been in scouting for three years now and Sam loves his den. His den leader is a hairdresser with a scissors tattoo and not at all what I ever expected. He's not a scout for the Navy Seals and is very welcoming of the little sisters. Scouting however, takes a competent amount of organization and that's where I really shine (as in Sam doesn't have a chance). What's brutal about scouting is how every badge, belt loop or pin is basically a tiny advertisement for how much time your Dad has spent with you on scouting. Sam's shirt pretty much looks like a dingy version of what's in the store.

Tonight's den meeting re-cap.
2 hours until scouts:
I tell Sam that I have his full uniform laid out on his bed for him. He asks how come we have like 9 patches that we still haven't sewn on. I pretend that I don't hear him and wallow in shame.
30 min until scouts:
Sam shows up at the pool where I coach, not in uniform but carrying a bag stuffed with a wad of uniform.

Fratboy/Boy Scout

27 min until scouts:
We all get in the Hummer (minivan) and take off to scouts.
24 min until scouts:
Sam announces that he walked to the pool barefoot and therefore has no shoes. I ask Abby to punch him as we turn around.
17 min until scouts:
We get back to the house, pick up the shoes and take off for the second time to scouts. I tell Sam that he has to get dressed in the back of the car while wearing a seat belt and he tells me that I am the worst father ever.
4 min until scouts:
Sam leaps out of the car looking like he rode under the care. He informs me that there is "NO WAY" that he can go to scouts since he has managed to lose all of the accessories somewhere in the car. He also admits that he left his book at home. I take his picture which he loves.
5 minutes into scouting:
Abby is set up at the "sister table" doing homework when she complains that she is starving "to death". As we don't have any food, she has to finish her homework in her famished state. She informs me that this is completely unacceptable with the subtlety of a pissed off 6 year-old.

Sister table

24 minutes into scouting:
Abby produces her protest homework assignment which is technically done to perfection but still something that I'm sure to get a phone call about (see picture).
45 minutes into scouting:

Sticking it to the Man

Molly, a 4 year-old sibling starts rattling off her spelling words that she does at home voluntarily. "My, M-Y, Dad, D-A-D is Amazing, A-M-A-Z-I-N-G." or something like that. It was hard to pay attention because she was also doing some way-to-advanced gymnastics move while talking.
52 minutes into scouting:
Sam, who was sitting on the back of a chair, falls completely backwards. Some how the Scout Master doesn't see it so Sam attempts to distance himself from the scene. Sadly for Sam, his foot is trapped in the back of the chair bear trap style so his sprint turns into a tethered launch as he crashes back to the floor.

Pictured on the left: Book from Super Dad
Pictured on the right: Sam's book

Conclusion of meeting:
One of the Super Dads gives a short lecture to the rest of us on his technique of using sticky tabs in his son's book to better keep track of badge progress. I mentally kick him in the nuts.

And that's pretty much how it goes every week. Up next? Pinewood derby. Sam's official record over the last two seasons is 0-4 so I'm really looking forward to stacking myself up against the dad's again in this format.

But the end result is that Sam loves scouting. The Super Dads are also super at being friendly so I love hanging out with them. Even Abby loves the sister group so Team DeMotte is in it for the long haul.