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.

Wait What?

Religious monuments abound

Florida isn't just about beautiful weather and beaches, it's also seen some political controversies. I know, "Who would have thought?" but it's true.

Now any state can have hanging chads and delay executions for political fundraisers, but only in Florida will you find a little known area between Jacksonville and Gainesville that is home to $30 hotel rooms, boiled peanut vendors and the Bradford County Courthouse. Starke, the county seat, is the only place to go to the bathroom on 301 which is important as much of the traffic is UF Football related and in 2013, there have been lots of people using liquid therapy to get through the games.

However, as the area is conservative (Bradford county usually goes Republican in national elections) but not super ideological (plenty of county wide Democratic office holders), one could easily imagine that Starke would keep a nice low profile nationally.

Nope!

Moses was apparently a beast

The Starke Community of Men's Fellowship funded and erected a statue of the 10 commandments in the front of the courthouse. Not surprisingly, there was some concerns about the doctrine of Church and State separation. Now for the record, the separation of Church and State is not actually a constitutional mandate. It was first addressed by the Supreme Court in 1947 but is based on the First Amendment which does state (poorly paraphrased here) that the United States Government will not endorse any particular religion. So it's pretty widely understood but certainly contentious.

But here's where things got a little bizarre. Starke resident Dan Cooney sued the county to get rid of the monument and immediately got backing from the American Atheists. In an interesting development, the Judge decided that they would not in fact tear down the monument but instead allow any other religious group to also put up privately funded monuments. The problem of course is that the American Atheists are well, atheists.

Ours is at least functional

Not to be slowed down by a technicality, the AA funded and built a bench with quotes from Thomas Jefferson and John Adams but also quotes from the Old Testament. Specifically, the biblical punishment for breaking each of the 10 commandments, most of which are death by stoning. The implication being that if we allow Christianity to influence our judicial system we should be aware of how crazy the Bible is.  "Eat that Men's Fellowship!" (not in any way an actual quote).

Seriously Atheists? 

But.... One of the basic tenets of the Christian faith is that Jesus took a major beating so that everyone is free from those brutal sacrifices. So this could be considered an indirect endorsement of Jesus Christ. But you know who doesn't believe that about Jesus, and who also has the 10 commandments in their scriptures? Our Jewish friends.

Anyone else want to join the party?

So as of this morning (when I stopped to go to the bathroom), both monuments are standing peacefully next to each other and the American Atheists have their first monument at a courthouse in the United States. All they had to do to protest the combination of Church and State was put up more religious monuments at the courthouse and inadvertently pick on a religion that was not responsible for their anxiety in the in the first place. But at least the good people of Starke now have a horribly uncomfortable bench to sit on while gazing upon the 10 commandments.

Grown Up Hypocrites

He knows when you are sleeping (because I'll tell him).

Prior to being a parent, I was a coach. I had 30 to 100 kids in my life at all times before I got around to making any myself. Despite that, I felt complete authority in creating a rock solid formula for parenting:

SUK=CP

Screwed up kid= crappy parents

BOOM!

Every now and then I would hear someone say, "So sad that Jason has been arrested, his parents are so good." And armed with my lack of parenting resume I would cry "BS!" and the case was closed.

Along came my first child Sam. He was perfect (as expected) but a little fat. No big deal, he'll thin out and my amazing parenting will soon be evident to the world. Fast forward a decade and I have had all three kids suspended from pre-school for biting (undoubtedly their mother's side of the family) and I suddenly see the need to adjust my formula.

SUK=CP*

* There are exceptions- specifically any bad behavior of the DeMotte kids.

When I first started to contemplate why we all set lofty goals for our kids and immediately start backpedaling, it really bummed me out. Do we all have to settle with our kids? The good news is that I think we do not. I have noticed a common theme about raising the future generation. Most of us would be comfortable if our children grew up to be slightly improved versions of ourselves. However, we really don't want to see them take the same pathway to get there. Somehow we all believe that we are living miracles for having survived our own adolescence and are terrified that the same circumstances would doom our own kids.

We therefore strive to have our kids get the message without the screwups. We set standards for our children that we were as children (and still are) never close to. Santa Claus and his tattle-tale Elf-on-the-Shelf are tools that I use to improve behavior around this time of year. I have even found myself marching a lying kid in front of the elf to get a confession which works better than waterboarding (although honestly, I don't really know what I am doing there). But the elf is only effective because he will hear (lie) them and care enough (lie) to fly back to the North Pole (lie) and tell (lie) Santa (huge lie) that they are bad (unfair) so they therefore won't get any presents (lie).

That's how I am teaching my kids to be honest.

I myself partake in language, beverages, food and entertainment that would immediately send the elf screaming to Santa should my children ever do the same. Of course families differ in standards for behavior and that's what gives us diversity. Yet whatever our standards are, the nuance of, "It's okay that I do this but not you" is not an easy one to convincingly defend. Perhaps the emphasis should be on realistic and important standards for the whole family. It's only common sense that our actions as parents are educating more than our words. Afterall, "Watch your damn mouth!" will teach our children a whole lot more about hypocrisy than it does good manners.

Homework Battles

I hate homework. I hated homework when I was doing my own homework and I hate it more now that I am doing it with (sometimes for) my kids. Each of my three children are vastly different in their approach to assignments, but it all adds to my utter misery.

"Hey, don't lose heart, we all go through it. Even the best parents blah, blah, blah." Team DeMotte battles are the very worst in the history of homework. We could run a "scared straight" program for parents who are thinking about educating their kids.

But first, some stats:

1. My wife and my son can not do homework together. Rather than helping her during their last attempt, I made this video. It's therefore my job only.
2. My son who is 10, is a struggling B student.
3. My daughter who is 6, has a perfect academic record and loves homework.
4. My daughter who is 4, can color like a beast which is fortunate since that's the entirety of her  academic career. 

We all arrive home at 6:30pm with three wet kids from swim practice. They all hit the showers while I arrange all three homework stations. Sam has math, social studies and English, Abby math, and Macey has to color some crap.

"Completed" is a bit of a stretch.

When I call them to the table, they arrive still wet and naked (sadly this is normal). I give them marching orders which includes finding clothes but that isn't really the highest priority. 

Sam produces the math that he "did" earlier and I begin to die inside. This means it's time for the nightly conversation where I tell him that I love him and want only the best but it appears that he misread the directions. He thought is said, "Wad this packet into a ball and chew on it for a while."

He tells me what a stellar job I am doing as a parent. 

Cue Abby. She loves homework. But she loves her brother's misery even more. She has two directions that she can go with her evening. Some nights she offers to help Sam with his homework knowing full well that this will make his eyes bleed with rage. But tonight, the "Hey Dad, can you help me too? Wow MY homework is soooo hard. Can you check the 45 math problems I just did and see just what a badass I am?" route is chosen. Predictably Sam goes after her like a (hairless and naked) honey badger and I have to dive across the table to save her life.

Enter Macey. Macey has to color. That's all she has to ever do. The only difference between homework and play-time is that she won't shut her mouth about how important the assigned coloring is. I freakin' get it Macey. If your snowflake isn't scribbled on by tomorrow, you'll only have three more weeks to do it before the non-existent deadline, for an assignment that's not mandatory, for a school that doesn't even have grades.

Kitchen table where the snowflake magic happened.

Over the next hour, we have a high-decibel chaos that resembles a reverse strip poker game as little pieces of jammies eventually appear in the right places. Although I don't remember drinking, I am hungover. The girls cradle their completed assignments like they have the Baby Jesus that they carefully lay to an organized rest. Meanwhile Sam sneers with hostility at the down-scale model of a landfill that he has created. 

And this is a success story. Many nights I long for this over-achievement. But when I am old (er) and gray (er), I will be so proud when all three share the Nobel prize. My only hope is that when they are accepting the award and profusely thanking their father for all his inspiration, that they will at least be dressed.

What makes a real man?

My son Sam turned 10 yesterday and has decided it's time for him to shave. For the record, I did the same thing at 13. I was a daily shaver for about three days and then quit until I actually had stubble at 18. I told Sam that same story and all he heard was "13." He has therefore set that as the benchmark and is determined to kick my ass in this. When I refused to let him butcher his face before school, he roared (in his mind but chirped in reality), "I'm practically a man!" His squeaky rant quickly faded and he asked how I would know when he was "man enough" to shave.
"Um, how about when you have hair on your face?" Such a suggestion earned me an eyeball roll of disgust. "Dad, how about we make a deal?" Now, normally negotiating things with your children is a bad idea. But in my case it's amazing entertainment...and still a terrible idea. None the less, together we decided that he could earn the right to uselessly drag a razor over his marshmallow of a face. The deal is that I would give him a list of 10 things that shave-worthy men can do.

Being the manliest of men myself (meaning that I shave), it was pretty easy to create my list. So easy in fact that the real challenge was in capping it at 10. For starters, all the big life lessons about honesty, treatment of others and manners? Out. These he has to accomplish even if he never touches a razor. So I have started with 8 tasks and am reserving the last two spots for suggestions. If you believe that you got something worthy, please send it along. Per our agreement, I have 48 hours to complete my list.

Objectives:

Weird how few women are here

• Make it hard enough that he won't be shaving any time soon.
• Give him skills that will impress the ladies (or at least amuse me).

Task #1- Be proficient in the "Look at me pull off my thumb illusion."

First up is a Man Skill that is at least a hundred years old but probably more. It's moderately cool when you are younger but a critical skill when you become a grandfather. 

Task #2- Be mildly successful at walking on your hands.

Every man has to have a few athletic abilities that demonstrate that X-Box wasn't their entire childhood. Running and throwing a baseball are pretty standard so it has to be something that is both rare, and not too hard to actually accomplish.  This doesn't have to be pretty, legs can be bent, but a minimum of 10 steps needs to be accomplished.

Task #3- Make a big splash 

This is a crucial but fading skill that every man needs to have. With the increase in liability issues, there is a dramatic decrease in public diving boards. However, that will only make a boy who can do the Watermellon or a Can-opener all that more manly. The beauty of this is that all body types can accomplish these aquatic displays of manhood but the beefier boys finally have a reason to get into a bathing suit.

Task #4- 15 seconds of 3 ball juggling

Three balls is the critical mass in juggling. Anything less is really not even worth considering and anything more means that you never come out of your basement. 15 seconds is enough to prove that you have some sort of eye-hand coordination but not so much that you can't accomplish this in under half an hour of practice.

Task #5- Riding a wheelie for 20 yards

Any boy can ride a bike, any tweener can lift the front wheel momentarily, but it takes a man two rock that bad boy back and risk a skull fracture just to woo the ladies. 

Task #6- Shuffling cards well

A man will undoubtedly play poker at some point. Winning is manly but so is losing. However, pulling out that weak lay-the-cards-flat-and-sort-of-push-them-together shuffle is pathetic. This particular craft has limitless variations that are all pretty manly so Sam will have to pick one and own it.

Like a Boss!

Task #7- A loud whistle

A very important skill for a man to have. Once again, there are so many possibilities with any combination of the 10 fingers. As a note- the blade of grass between the thumbs noise is an acceptable supplement but is completely unacceptable as the primary whistle.

Task #8- Spin a basketball on any finger and successfully use the other hand to speed it up

As discussed before, athletic accomplishment is a shortcut to manhood but not always possible. If you are a little dude, basketball will undoubtedly suck. However, spinning a basketball is not only cool, but will give off the illusion that you can scrape with the big boys. 

And here my list ends. I have only two spots left and a million candidates but the choice must be made carefully. After all, the fate of Sam's non-existent facial hair rests in the balance!

Resident Jew

Team DeMotte is a Christian family with ties to about every possible denomination. Laura (mom) grew up Catholic, the paternal grandparents are a Presbyterian minister and a Methodist organist. Despite these bonafides, we have a very cute resident Jew.

I could just squeeze that little punam!

It began when we moved our youngest daughter Macey to the Jewish Community Alliance for pre-school. The facilities are awesome, the hours are long and better still, they never close during traditional school breaks. Best of all, Macey loves the JCA and in fact refers to it as the "Macey-A."

But for a non-Jewish family, it leaves us scratching our heads pretty much every time she opens her mouth. For starters, there is the vocabulary. For those of you who don't own one, four year-olds are not good at annunciation. Pretty much every sentence has a mystery word. So mix into that puzzle some Hebrew words and the fun is just beginning. Every Shabbat, (Friday I think) Macey demands that we give her "ted-ak-ka". Having absolutely no idea what she means, I spent a little time with Google and discovered that a "Tzedakah" is a charitable gift. Seemed as good a guess as any so I threw a little cash her way and that seemed to satisfy her. My personal favorite is the Sukkot tent. Each year a tent appears in the courtyard and Macey starts excitedly shouting "SUCK IT".  This can't possibly the correct pronunciation so I predictably cringe. However screaming this pseudo vulgarity at an ear-splitting volume seems to be acceptable "Feast of Booths" behavior. What is not acceptable though, is to teach your child to refer to Challah (hall-ah) bread as "hollaback bread" (my bad).

We have also learned lots of new songs; many about plagues and other such fun. We have learned a slightly bizarre Jewish trash-talking rhyme,
"I'm going to Shabbat, you're not!" which we are treated to every Friday morning.

Merry Chanukah!

But tonight was an especially interesting night as it was time to light the huge honkin' Menorah at school. Sadly, this occurred precisely when Macey's mother was trying to hurry home. Once lit, was it time to head home? Nope- time to eat latkes. Robbing Macey of her latke dinner was a full blown crisis and was only resolved with a firm promise that we would make them at home.

Jewish saturated fat.

God bless my wife for whipping these bad boys up. As we sat down for our dinner, Macey asked if she could say the blessings which is now a bigger deal given that the kids are fully into Advent (you know, the season that began Sunday when Macey lit the first Advent candle in church). She got the praying job and we held hands and bowed our heads.

"Heavenly Father, dreidel, dreidel, dreidel, I made you out of clay, and when you're dry and ready, I'll play with you all day. Amen."

Threats and Punishments

I am the lucky father of three devious kids. Taken in sum, their behavior is probably normal but it's their distribution that drives me nuts. If you assume that the average kid is great 80% of the time and a demon the other 20% (you can already tell how scientific this post is about to become), then it would stand to follow that as a parent, you can enjoy roughly that mix. 

Are these crusts on my mid-afternoon snack?

False.

From what I can tell, teachers, coaches, boy scout and youth group leaders are hogging most of that 80% time leaving me to deal with the prison gang behavior.

So in my rookie years, I was determined to fight the dragon with well, a bigger dragon. Dealing with one toddler, you can get an exaggerated sense of accomplishment. 

What I believed the message was: 

"Wet the bed did you? Well I am going to ROCK your world little man. You've got no idea what you've just stepped in."

What he was comprehending; "Dad is loud. I can't talk yet."

But as my kids have aged and multiplied, the landscape has changed. A while back, my four year old daughter was getting dressed at  glacier-like speed, (seriously at the same speed a glacier would get dressed) so I put the hammer down. 

"Macey, you've got 30 seconds to get those tights on or YOU WILL NOT GET BREAKFAST!"

Not even a flicker of panic crossed her face.
"Dad, I kind of like that tough voice you're trying."

Needless to say my discipline is evolving. But through the endless strikeouts, I have stumbled across a home run that began with a Miami Herald article. Retired Air Force Col. Ed Hubbard says of his time being held prisoner in Cuba, "The anticipation of beatings became worse than the beatings themselves." 

Aha! I'm not great at the beatings part so let's try this. Armed with my new strategy, I waited for one of my brood to really screw up. It didn't take long and I had the following exchange:

Me-"I see that you managed to spill your bookbag all over the front hallway."

Her-"Yep."

Me-"Any plans on cleaning it up?"

Her-"Nope."
Me-"I just want you to know that your decision will have a consequence."

Her-"What will it be?"

Me-"Let's just concentrate on whether you understand that leaving it there will have a consequence."

I held my breath a waited. To my amazement, an expression of doubt and then a flurry of cleaning! 

I have refined my technique somewhat but it's effective on all three kids. And the biggest scam of it all is that I have absolutely no punishment in mind. 

Perhaps this will all come crashing down eventually but the, "Are you happy with this decision" line is still the best dragon slayer of all.

Proper Kiss Etiquette

I grew up in the Northeast and moved to the South in my 30s. There were the predictable culture shock moments and a few fish-out-of-water situations. Somewhere along the way, the Catholic Church went from being the conservative voice to a hotbed of liberalism but by and large, Starbucks and Walmart are everywhere and all the same.

"No idea who you are."

However, there is still one glaring situation that brings out the Yankee in me. As I grow older, more women apparently want to kiss me. My 18 year-old self would have been thrilled to know this but would have gagged at the kisses I am getting.

It's the "Hey super nice to meet you, this first 3 and a half seconds has been great so let's do the cheek-kiss thing." And as they are coming in, I am in full blown panic.


The issue is that there are only two choices as to how this kiss is going to end up.
1- Cheek to cheek with all four lips kissing the air.
2- Lips to cheek for one person and lips to the air for the other.

Scenario 1 is golden. Equal and not really a kiss, just a creepy way-too-friendly gesture that still respects the fact that you don't know each other. Imagine if you also let your hand hover around each other's butts but didn't really pat them, same bizarre kind of deal.

Scenario 2 is what ALWAYS happens. If one of the people actually puts their lips on the other's cheek, they have also removed their own cheek from the kissable range.

See for me, if I kiss the air and she plants it on the cheek, I am in effect saying,
"Thanks for pegging me as a suitable person to smooch, but I find you gross and therefore no kiss for you." Despite the fact that this the best outcome that I could hope for, it still panics me. Enough so, that occasionally under fire I go in for the cheek only to remember too late that there is NO such thing as an equal cheek kiss. And that's when the wheels come off the cart. It suddenly dawns on me that I am going to be the creepy guy who plants a huge kiss on the cheek of someone I don't know so, I pull back- but never in time. The end result is a light, sensual brushing kiss, an audible groan (undoubtedly mistaken for a moan), followed by stammering apologies and convulsions on my part.

I still have no game plan for the next time this happens. I still have no idea what our fine Southern ladies are expecting; cheek or air. So for now, I wear three days of unwashed stubble to make my face as unkissable as possible.

Oh Jacksonville

Although I am not a native Floridian (which technically only refers to the Timuquan), I have been a Jacksonville resident for years and have fallen in love with our imperfect home.

Jacksonville is blessed with the perfect climate, shockingly beautiful beaches and an underdeveloped  intracoastal waterway that boasts thousands of miles of tidal creeks. We are the biggest city in Florida and the biggest land-mass city in the whole country (other than about 4 in Alaska but if you only have one person per 10 square miles, just sit down).

So why can 88% (according to me) of Americans find Miami on a map while 92% (according to them) can't figure out a reason to look for Jacksonville?  Why is the only Jax thought that most of our fellow Americans ever have:
"Hell yes, we're finally in Florida! Wait, Ft. Lauderdale is still 6 more freakin' hours away?"

Well for starters, bad luck. We were apparently the first choice as a location for Hollywood but decided instead to build paper factories which are truly horrible.
"That's the smell of money!" is code for
"I mistakenly bought property here on the day the wind was blowing North and now I don't have a  prayer of ever selling this insanely smelly house."

We also have a little penchant for murdering each other. We have been the murder capital of Florida for a decade save for a little accounting dispute in 2010 that may or may not have taken our title temporarily. Furthermore, we apparently boast an apartment complex with the single highest murder rate in the state.

However, the biggest landfill (Florida doesn't have mountains) that we have to climb on our journey for respect is our love for shooting ourselves in the foot. For a city with an image problem, a huge LED lit billboard in front of millions of visiting motorists is a gold mine! So Jacksonville, remember you've got one chance to make a first impression. Here's the bat, swing for the fences.....
http://instagram.com/p/hZggwIFZF2/