Top Ten Things We Said We’d Never Do (Vows 4 – 2)

Hey folks!  Hope you had a great Thanksgiving!  The leftovers at our house are finally gone, so I can get back to the work of writing.  Once again, this is a continuation of my previous posts.  For numbers 10-5, click here.  I’ll wrap up with #1 later in the week.

Vow #4:  I will never let my kids’ schedule restrict my schedule

Result:  FAIL

Everyone knows parents like this:

They used to be fun to go out with.  Life-of-the-party kinda’ folks.  Paparrazi-worthy.  They never missed a happy hour, birthday bash, or Jimmy Buffet concert.

And then they drop off the face of the Earth like Johnny Carson.  Why?  They have either birthed, adopted, or stolen a child.  Their house becomes like Saddam Hussein’s hidden bunker.  No one is allowed to enter or exit without express written consent of the baby.

“We will never be like that,” we vowed.

And then we learned what life was like with a child.

The first three months are like one long day lived in three-hour chunks.  Feed the baby.  Change the baby.  Clean someone else’s puke off your neck.  You’re so tired you can’t even chew your own food.  Ask any parent about this time and they’ll tell you the same thing.

“What did we ever do with our time before we had kids?  I just don’t remember!”

They lie.

We all remember.  We used to go shopping, have conversations, and go to movies at a real movie theater.  If we got bored, we would make out on the couch just to pass the time.  But we’ve blocked all of that out, like a disaster survivor with PTSD.

It’s a coping mechanism.  Once you get through this Baby Boot Camp, you achieve a sense of balance.  You never want to go back to that out of control time.  Any hint at chaos becomes a trigger.  At our house, chaos comes in the form of very tired, irritable children.  If you have seen the climactic scene from the horror movie, “Carrie,” you have seen what our living room looks like at 5pm on days when we decided to skip nap time.

For this reason, all invitations are weighed against the price we might have to pay for attending.  Afternoon sale at Kohl’s?  Forget about it.  Late lunch with friends?  Not a chance.  Private audience with the Pope?

We’ll get back to you.

Now that our kids are finally outgrowing nap time, our schedules are opening up a bit.  Ever so slightly.  So, if we turned you down for an afternoon tea invite a few years ago, don’t take it personally.  We fully intend to make it up to you by scheduling some alone time with you, and then boring you with tales of our children’s brilliance in hopes that you will join the club.  If you haven’t already.

Vow #3:  I will never put my kid on a leash

Result:  YOU DECIDE

We’ve all seen them, and some of you may have even used them.  These are the harnesses that you strap around your kids that allow you to tether them to your forearm or belt loop.

Muzzle optional.

Anytime I saw a parent using this, I considered calling Child Protective Services.  It seemed so barbaric.  What kind of parent would treat their kid like a dog? I wondered.

Every parent.  That’s who.

If I had a nickel for every time I whistled at my kid to get their attention, bribed them to get them to sit, or commanded that they “heel” next to me while walking through a crowded grocery store, I could buy a Tickle-Me-Elmo factory.  Many of the faces I make at my kids to convey my alpha male status are the same ones Cesar Milan, The Dog Whisperer, uses to keep a Doberman from turning your La-Z-Boy into a chew toy.

So, while we have yet to physically lasso our children in order to keep them from running away, we do have a no tolerance policy for walking through a parking lot without holding hands.  But we do allow them to lead each other around on leashes.  Which is somewhat disturbing and cute all at the same time.

Vow #2:  I will never let my kids eat in the car

Result:  FAIL

If you have ever been the back seat passenger in a car normally used for ferrying toddlers around the city, you’ve seen it.  The upholstery looks like the floor of a movie theater after a Harry Potter premiere.

Did I just sit on a Fruit Roll-Up covered in nacho cheese?  How can that be?

Well, let me tell you.

We never intended for our kids to eat in the car.  Sure, there are the horror stories of parents stopping along the highway trying in vain to dislodge a grape from their child’s throat.  That’s an obvious motivator.  But on top of all that, we just didn’t want our car to smell like a grade school dumpster.

So we made the vow, and quickly broke it.

This one is a matter of convenience and practicality.  Sometimes, if Saturn aligns Neptune,  you actually get to leave the house to attend an event.  Unfortunately, if nap time runs into dinner time and you have to be somewhere, it’s only natural that you have a meal in the car.

And this is a very slippery slope.

Once you’ve allowed food in the car, you can’t get the toothpaste back into the tube, so to speak.  You take a long car trip, so to avoid too many stops, you throw some snacks in the back seat.  And then comes my son’s persistent questioning.  He has a record-breaking qpm (Questions per minute) speed.  Audrey is quickly gaining ground. Just the other day, she asked for a cracker no less than 27 times in sixty seconds.  All of her attempts were rejected, but she kept asking.   She should have a long and lucrative career as a telemarketer.  Some days, you just can’t handle the noise coming out of their pie-holes.

So you feed them pie.  In the back seat.

There.  I said it.  I’m not proud, but that’s the way it is.

Stay tuned for #1, and the wrap up!

Top Ten Things We Said We’d Never Do (Vows 8 – 5)

If you missed the previous blog post, this one is a continuation of the “Top Ten Things We Said We’d Never Do.”.  If you wanna’ check out #9 and #10, you can find it here.  Otherwise, just know that we had grand ideas to be fantastic parents, and now we’ve become quite ordinary at best.

Vow #8:  I will never let my kid wear ridiculous outfits

Result:  FAIL

OK… so I confess this one is more mine than Gabby’s.

As parents, it is inevitable that we view our children as a reflection of us.  If they are well-behaved, then we must be good disciplinarians.  If they are well-groomed, then we must be relatively hygienic.  Conversely, if they destroy a neighbor’s flower garden, then we must be serial killers.

Based on my kids’ recent fashion choices, Gabby and I must be rodeo clowns

I always used to believe that one thing parents can control is their children’s choice of clothing.  Granted, they may be covered in dirt or oatmeal, but the underlying outfit choice should be something semi-respectable.  In my mind, Halloween costumes are kinda’ like a wedding dress, and should be worn only once.

And then I learned something by watching my wife.  Apparently,  choosing an outfit for an important engagement involves mental gymnastics reserved only for Mensa candidates and astrophysicists.  Though the monologue is all internal, there are long, silent moments spent staring into the closet, formal planning sessions which involve laying out clothing onto the bed, the physical act of trying things on in various combinations, and finally, the “Which do you like better?” question that can (and I’m sure will) ultimately trigger divorce proceedings.  Me?  I try things on at the last minute.  Like the sweater my wife bought for me for our family photo shoot, which we found fit very awkwardly.  If you get our Christmas card, notice how I always have a child strategically placed in front of me.

Children are unable to do this “fashion math” in their heads, so these mental gymnastics take place in the open, in the form of screaming, crying, flailing tantrums filled with the fuzzy logic of schizophrenic hostage negotiations.  It’s just not pretty.  Sometimes giving two outfit choices will be sufficient.  But usually, it turns into shoving a kid into her clothes, which I imagine is a bit like trying to shove a cat into a bucket of vegetable oil.

Not that I’ve ever tried it.

To avoid this, one must make concessions to remain sane.  Case in point, I took Audrey to her three-year old well check last week wearing tights, a poofy ballerina dress, a pink princess baseball cap, frog galoshes, and a purple coat.  And Jake attended the church’s Thanksgiving celebration for ESL students wearing his Buzz Lightyear costume complete with laser cannons.

I figure that if we don’t show a little flexibility now, Audrey will  be rebelling like crazy and wearing studded dog collars and a garbage bag to senior prom.

So we bend a little.

Vow #7:  I will never play “kid music” in my car

Result:  FAIL

A leak inside the U.S. military has confirmed that two of the top ten songs interrogators used to induce torture and sleep deprivation in Iraq and Gitmo are children’s songs.  That said, I would bet my retirement savings that any parent could name one of the two without stopping to take a breath.

1.        The “I Love You” song made popular by Barney.

2.        The Sesame Street Theme Song

And a third on the list could qualify as kids’ music, the Meow Mix cat food jungle.

Allow me to apologize for dumping these tunes in your subconscious.  I fully expect some of you to throw a brick through my window this evening, adorned with a disturbing message and eerie drawing of how you would like to torture me.

For this reason, Gabby and I vowed we would never introduce our kids to children’s’ music.  Instead, we would offer them only a steady diet of our own favorites to condition them to like the music we like.  James Taylor.  Norah Jones.  David Wilcox.  Corrine Bailey Rea.  Jack Johnson.

This was relatively easy when Jake was just two months old.  We thought we were really successful.  He could be lulled to sleep on any car ride, even if we were thumping some Sir-Mix-A-Lot (Gabby’s CD collection, not mine).  Unfortunately, the sleep was induced not by the music, but rather, the motion of the vehicle.

Then, we got sucked into a program called Music Together, which is supposed to teach your ten-month-old how to play the bassoon or something.  Jake was a boy genius and could name a song if you hummed just a few bars of it.  This would have been fantastic if “Name That Tune” was still a lucrative game show on TV.  But all we ended up with was a kid with a great ear for music, and a keen eye to notice that we had stuck our favorite CDs in his children’s music CD case.  We’re weren’t fooling anybody.

It turns out that the only thing more cringe-inducing than listening to a big, purple dinosaur sing about how much he loves you is to listen to your own toddler scream and cry and tell you they hate your 80’s playlist.

Ironically enough, in my research for this post, I also learned that Manuel Noriega, the Panamanian dictator, was flushed out of hiding by blaring Rick Astley and Neil Diamond.

So sad.  They are some of the tops on my iPod workout mix.

Vow #6:  I will never yell at my children

Result:  FAIL

I fancy myself a pacifist.  No need for violent outbursts to get your point across.  I always thought this was in my genes.  My grandmother raised twelve children (yes, you read that right) without ever raising her voice.

This is a pretty easy motto to follow until your two-year-old gives you a Cool Hand Luke stare down and tells you for the fifth time, in no uncertain terms, that they will not be cleaning up their mess.  Worse yet, when you ask a tiny person to “please stop writing on the table with your crayon,” and they look you dead in the face with eyes full of venom and do it three more times, it’s hard not to lose it.

I’m not proud of it, but from time-to-time, I can do a pretty darn good Mike Ditka impersonation.  Why?  I don’t know.  Because what I hope will be a big attention grabber to shock my kids into submission backfires 98% of the time, as they become more defiant, scream louder, or cry and kick the floor.

But sometimes, like hitting that perfect tee shot on the golf course keeps you coming back to the game, a well-timed bellow can wake the kids up and help them realize that they are being ridiculous.

Just like me.

Vow #5:  I will never have noisy toys in the house

Result:  FAIL

There are two kinds of toy stores.

There are the toy stores for smart kids.  They have names like The Imaginarium and Growing Tree Toys.  Shelves are stocked with specialty wooden playthings and learning games that engage a child’s mind.  These are the places that you browse when you have no kids, marveling at the real-life microbiology kit and the build-your-own  sustainable eco-farm.  Won’t it be fun to sit quietly with our kids one day and play and learn the wonders of the Universe?

Then there are toy stores for the mouth breathers.

They have names like Toys-R-Us and Rocko’s House of Loud.  The toys in these places are specially designed to irritate anyone over the age of eighteen.  There are toys for maiming children, toys for bursting eardrums, and specialty toys for causing epileptic seizures.

Here’s the problem.  Parents love the toys from toy store number one.  Granted, it’s a good thing that they teach your kids a thing or two, because you will liquidate your family’s 529 college savings account to purchase them.

But kids don’t give two hoots about ‘em.  Dumb kids or smart kids.  Doesn’t matter.

The only time your kids like those toys is when you are there to play with them.  Then, they are far less interested in the toy as they are in you.  Either that, or they find out how fun the ecological ant farm can be when they fill it to the brim with Pop Rocks and Diet Coke and watch it burst forth like a Yellowstone geyser.

So, as much as we would love to fill the playroom full of carved wooden toys and learning games, people buy our kids the toys that they truly love.  The loudest ones imaginable.  In colors not found in nature.

And they love ‘em.

To be continued.

Top Ten Things We Said We’d Never Do (Vows 9 and 10)

Parenting is an interesting sport.

I know what you’re thinking.  “Parenting isn’t a sport!”

Yes it is.  If bowling, curling and golf can be called sports, then parenting is a sport.  Let’s run down the similarities.

1.       All require practice.

2.       All require specialized equipment.

3.       All require a certain degree of physical skill.

4.       And all are best played while simultaneously consuming beer.

I have often watched these so-called sports on TV, especially bowling, thinking “If I really wanted to do that, I could totally be a top professional.  Olympic caliber!  How hard could it be?”

And then I remembered I used to say the same thing about being a parent before my kids were born.

I would see some frazzled guy chasing after his kids like an idiot.  They would be taunting him.  Screaming at him.  Crushing his manhood in a vice grip.  The poor guy would have absolutely no control.  He would give his strongest, sternest look in the hopes of putting the fear of God in his kids.  Promising torture using a voice that James Earl Jones would be proud of.

And they would just giggle and make fart noises with their faces.

How hard could it be?

Before we had kids, Gabby and I had some long discussions about the things we would never do as parents.  Our mission is life would be to raise loving, giving, God-centered children who make the world a much better place that we ever could have.  No mistakes.  No regrets.

Now that Jake is four and Audrey is three, I would like to publish the results of our parental vows top ten.

* My two kids.  They sucker-punched each other shortly after this was taken.

Vow #10:  I will never argue with a toddler

Result:  FAIL

After seeing countless parents enter into a battle of wits with two-year-olds that lack higher reasoning skills, both Gabby and I vowed that we would never get sucked in to such insanity.  But for some reason, it is virtually impossible to stay calm and collected when a tiny person is arguing the losing side of a point that makes no sense.  Morning at the Dannemiller house resembles the courtroom scene from “A Few Good Men” with Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson.

Case in point:  Just this morning, Jake and I spent three minutes debating  whether or not today was Wednesday.  In his mind, if he could convince me that it is Tuesday (a non-school day), then he would not have to attend.  I actually said, “Jake, the only way you can have two Tuesdays in a row is if you fly non-stop to Asia and pick up 14 hours.  And even then, it’s only sorta’ possible.”

He’s four.  Now I’m confused.

Case in point #2:  Again, just this morning, Audrey insisted that her preschool outfit contain at least one “fuzzy” item.  We went round-and-round  for five minutes whether or not knit pants were indeed “fuzzy.”  As she writhed on the floor screaming, I heard myself say as I rubbed tiny pants on my clean-shaven face, “Look Audrey.  The ruffles on the cuffs help make them fuzzy!  Don’t you see?!  They’re fuuuuuzzzzzzzzyyyyyyyyyy!”

Apparently, she can’t handle the truth.

 

Vow #9:  I will never bribe my children

Result:  FAIL

When I used to see parents give rewards for things that their kids should be doing anyway, it made me cringe.  A kid should do his chores because that’s what family members do!  A kid should eat all of his food because that’s what people do!  That’s like giving me a $100 bill for breathing.  Pure craziness.

And then I tried to potty train my son.

I don’t know about you, but I have never met a single adult that voluntarily poops his pants.  Involuntary?  Sure.  Some jokes are just that funny.  But voluntarily soiling yourself?  Not fun.

So it stands to reason that it’s unnecessary to rush the process with your kids.  Sooner or later, such behavior will become social suicide.  And it’s rare that it progresses to that point.

Still, when I was potty training Jake, I would hover over him like a hawk.

“Do you need to go potty Jake?”

“No.”

(45 seconds pass)

“Do you need to poop, Jake?”

“No.”

(14 seconds pass)

“What’s that smell, Jake?”

“I pooped.”

“In your pants?!”

“Yes.”

Such lunacy will cause you to do anything to avoid having to ever come in near contact with human feces again.  With our kids, you get one M&M for #1, and three M&M’s for #2.  Potty brilliance without being prompted will get you a lollipop or a handful of mashmellows.  Successfully wiping your own hiney the first time you sit on the toilet gets you a Ferrari on your 16^th birthday.

Even though the kids are self-reliant now, the bribes have created long term behaviors.  Every time Audrey sees a bag of marshmallows, she says “we don’t eat those anymore at our house, ‘cuz I’m good at pooping in the toilet now.”  And, both of them pee as frequently as a stray dog marking his territory.  But at least our house no longer smells like a kennel.

P.S.  Just in case you have a sweet tooth, know that the rewards don’t apply to adult guests who come to visit.

Stay tuned for the results of Parental Vows 8-5… and there is a point to all of this, that will be revealed after #1.

For the Broken

*Audrey mugging for the camera, and then spontaneously hugging and kissing “Garage Door Piggy”

My daughter Audrey celebrated her third birthday this weekend.  What started as an idea to have a small little party at the house turned into “Piggypalooza,” an overly-indulgent, pink-tacular porcine blowout attended by forty-five people.

To give you an idea of the space issues we had, you can vacuum every room in our house without having to move the plug to a different outlet.  No lie.  If those forty-five people didn’t know each other before they arrived, they have now shimmied up against each other in ways normally reserved for tandem skydivers.  We all literally rubbed elbows during the piggy storytime, piggy dance-party, no-hands piggy slop eating contest (disgusting, but a big hit), and pig-balloon decorating.

Due to the overcrowded mayhem, we opted to have Audrey unwrap her gifts after everyone had left.  When the dust finally settled, she began combing through her presents.  There were princess outfits, puzzles, games, stuffed animals and sparkly things.  Then she finally opened a rather odd one that we had purchased for her.

A broken, red ukulele.

So why did we buy her a broken ukulele, you ask?

Two months ago, Gabby bravely took both of the kids to a music store owned by a family member.  Turning our kids loose in a place filled with fragile musical instruments is like teaching blindfolded orangutans to play racquetball in a Venetian glass blowing factory.

Not for the faint of heart.

Audrey was showing some interest in music, so we were considering getting her a little something to rival Jake’s tiny guitar.  Before entering the shop, Gabby coached the kids on appropriate behavior.  No screaming.  No running.  No touching things without permission.  Check?

Check.

When they got in the store, Gabby assured Larry and the other employees that she’d keep a close eye on the kids.  Jake politely asked if he could play a tiny red ukulele, and Gabby obliged.  He quickly lost interest and moved to put the ukulele back on the wall hanger.  As he did this, Audrey darted off in another direction toward something loud and enticing, like a bird dog spotting wild game.  When Gabby turned, Jake let go of the instrument, not realizing it wasn’t seated properly on the hook.  It fell to the floor, inheriting a pretty nasty crack in the process.  He knew what he had done and apologized like crazy.

Gabby insisted we pay full price for the item.  She felt terrible, especially after she had promised that the kids would be well-behaved.  But Larry, ever the kind family member, cut us a break and gave us a deal.  Unplanned birthday gift purchase?  Complete!

On the way home, Gabby was re-hashing the experience in her mind.  Jake sat in the back seat, quieter than usual.  He was feeling pretty remorseful for a four-year-old.  Then, Audrey’s  tiny, two-year-old voice cut through the silence.

“Mommy?”

“Yes Audrey.” Gabby answered.

“Can we break a pink one next time?”

I love her little question for two reasons.  First, it shows how her brainlette is starting to put together some pretty complex thoughts.  I know I’m biased, but she may be the smartest kid in the universe.  If they were to measure that sort of thing.

Second, I love the idea that my daughter believes that something holds its value even when it’s broken.

That’s powerful stuff.

It gets me thinking about the service that Gabby and I have done.  How often have we sought to give to others in order to fix what is broken?  When we originally went to Guatemala to serve as missionaries, I had grand ideas that we were going to bring God’s love to a broken place so we could heal wounds, alleviate poverty, and build something sustainable.

We were going to fix Guatemala.

But it wasn’t about that at all.  Though, I must say that there is nothing inherently wrong about wanting to help in places where help is desperately needed.  Those places exist as much in our own neighborhoods as they do in faraway lands.  And there are plenty of them.

The problem arises when the desire to help comes from a place of imbalance and division.  I’ve heard it in my own words at times.  “We went to Guatemala to help ‘those people.’”  Or serving at the soup kitchen.  “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could provide more opportunity for ‘those people’ so they could get a job and feel a sense of fulfillment.”

Like me.

Do you hear it?  It’s subtle, but my guess is there are times when those I’m serving can hear it loud and clear.  The look of pity on my face.  The sad eyes that say “poor them.”  These unspoken words create so much noise and distraction that it drowns out what they are trying to say to me.  That they have something to offer.  Something to give.  Not based on their potential, but just as they are.  Right here.  Right now.

I’m reminded of an interview I heard some time ago with a man who was injured in an accident.  He was a quadriplegic, who had made the most of circumstance, and was traveling around the country to raise awareness and money for spinal cord injuries.  He was also a deeply spiritual man, so the interviewer asked.

“I imagine your faith has sustained you, with the idea of Heaven being a place where you will be made whole again.  Do you often dream of what Heaven will be like?”

For a moment, there was silence.  As I listened, I imagined the man to be conjuring images of himself running through golden fields, doing the moonwalk, or playing sports.

Then his voice cut through.

“I have a problem with that image if Heaven, and even take offense to it,” he said.  “Many people I talk to speak of Heaven as a place where broken people are fixed.  Even those who are disabled due to injury like I am.”

I, like the interviewer, was stunned.  The man continued.

“In my Heaven, no one needs fixing.  Instead, I see Heaven as a place where it just doesn’t matter  anymore.  I am not treated as some broken person to be pitied, but rather, I am seen as having value just as I am.

That’s what Heaven is to me.”

And such a Heaven is possible here on Earth.  Lord knows there’s plenty of raw material to work with.  Because we’re all here.  Broken.  Different.  Imperfect.

But seeing all that as a gift to be unwrapped and treasured?

That takes fresh eyes and a fresh perspective.  Perhaps the eyes of a child.

What Would Jesus Tweet? (WWJT)

Gabby and I were driving around town this past Saturday having a normal conversation.  My mom had taken the kids to see a play.  “Snow White and the Seven Doras” as Audrey calls it, since all the dwarfs apparently look like Dora the Explorer, her  favorite, tiny, animated, Hispanic TV hero that saves the world accompanied by her monkey that wears red moon boots.

The talk turned to our blog, and we kicked around some ideas for a topic.  One of us suggested “What Would Jesus Tweet?”

What a clever idea!

Well, apparently, a quick Google search shows that 281,000 other people thought it was clever before we did.  The same goes for the following:

“What Would Jesus Eat?”

Answer:  a low calorie balanced diet… have you seen The Lord’s abs?

Or “What Would Jesus Drive?”

Answer:  A Christler

But I remain undeterred.  Much like I remain undeterred that a month after I bought the domain name accidentalmissionary.com, a guy came out with a book by the same name.  Dang.  Shoulda’ Googled it!  (By the way, new blog/book name suggestions are welcomed!  I could use the help.)

So, make that 281,001.  I’ll take a crack at the Jesus tweet.

Lots of the websites I visited had some very uplifting faux Jesus tweets.  Most were scriptures.  Others were thoughtful messages.  Still more were in the “God Loves You” vein.  While these were very inspirational, I don’t think that’s the kind of stuff Jesus would be texting into his account every day.

Now, I realize that this may sound sacrilegious, but stick with me here.  I am not denying that Jesus is Emmanuel.  “God with us.”  I believe that he came down from a nice cozy spot in Heaven to hang with us mere mortals.  A perfect presence on Earth to assure that we could see God in human form.

But one of the things I think is so fantastic about Jesus, is that he’s not some towering, 500-foot tall god that shoots lightning bolts from his fingertips and fire from his nostrils.  No, Jesus was a man, too.  Like us.  A regular guy.  Wore sandals like we do.  Ate bread like we do.  Had a job like 90.4% of us.

Or 85.7% in Detroit.

For that reason, I think he would have tweeted like a regular guy.  It would be his way of connecting with us.  Here’s how I think Jesus’ Twitter account would look.

With all of Jesus’ miracles and teachings, we tend to forget that he didn’t actually start his ministry until he was 30 year old.  Up until that time, he spent his days cutting wood and fashioning it into something useful.  The guy built tables and chairs and sold them to earn a living.  But Jesus’ time card never made it into the Bible.  Not even the appendix.  Stories about crafting shelving units aren’t quite as engaging as curing leprosy or walking on water.  Go figure.

But I think this untold story is just as powerful, if not more powerful, than the stuff that is written in the Bible.

Why?

Because we have a tough time relating to a perfect, God-like being.  It’s inspiring, but I can’t see myself catering a feast for 5000 people by just the waving of my hand.  Martha Stewart?  Maybe.  Me?  Don’t think so.

But the regular Jesus?  He’s my kinda’ guy.  Though we don’t have a catalog of Jesus’ line of furniture, I have a hard time believing that he would make a shoddy table.  Jesus stands for quality.  He probably didn’t have a lot of returns.  And if he did, you gotta’ imagine that his customer service was impeccable.  Full refund.  No questions asked.

Bottom line, he did his job well.

So often we sit and fret about how to be more like Jesus, and then feel guilty that we fall short.  We have a laundry list of all of Jesus’ teachings and how he asked us to live, and measure ourselves against an impossible yardstick.  In thinking this, we forget that the Savior of the World spent the bulk of his time on Earth honoring God by making really nice furniture and treating people right.

So the message for us?

Start with your job.  Let your work be your ministry.  Do it well.  With honesty, respect and integrity.  That in itself is a testament to Jesus.

But the bigger lesson is this.

We underestimate ourselves.  We get a picture in our heads of what a true God-follower looks like.  People who are deeply spiritual.  Those who do beautiful things for God.  Pastors.  Missionaries.  Monks.  Nuns.  Priests.  Holy people.  They are qualified to be servants of God.  They’ve known since the day they were born.

In doing that, we neglect the real Jesus.  The regular guy.  The simple carpenter who created a faith that has lasted for over 2,000 years.

In truth, we are all carpenters.  We’re also painters, plumbers, accountants, teachers and engineers.  We are managers and telemarketers and bus drivers.

And we are all called.

Right now, as you sit in your chair, munching on Cheez-Its and reading this post, there is an idea buried deep within your soul.  That thing you have always wanted to do.  That tingling in your gut.  That thing you’re putting off because you don’t feel you’re qualified.  Or ready.  You fear failure.  It’s outside your comfort zone.

Maybe it’s forgiving the unforgivable.  Or reaching out to the lost.  Connecting with a stranger.  Giving more than others think is reasonable.  Serving beyond what you think is possible.

Guess what?

That’s Jesus talking.  The regular Jesus.  The nobody from nowheresville who healed the sick, walked on water, fed thousands and revolutionized the world.  He’s got a message for you.

Do You have Cheez-Its in Your Car?

Gabby’s long-time friend and former roommate, Jeanie, came for a visit this past weekend.  She’s one of the most delightful human beings on the planet.  Lights up a room.  No.  Scratch that.  She sets rooms on fire.  In fact, she’s so wonderful to be around that Gab and I invited her to come live with us.

And we weren’t joking.  Jeanie, if you’re reading this, come live with us.

Among the many things we love about Jeanie is her ability to tell stories.  One night after the kids went to bed, she told a great one that I have to share.

* Pictured here:  the oh-so-heavenly Cheez It

Our friend Robin was out one day with a few other people.  One of her companions brought along her four-year-old daughter.  While the adults were making idle chit-chat, the girl approached Robin and asked,

“Do you have Cheez-Its in your car?”

Robin thought it was an odd question, but that’s what you get with four-year-olds.  She responded, “Sometimes, but not today.”

The girl gave Robin a bewildered, hurt look, started to cry, and then ran to her mommy who was standing several yards away.

Sheesh, that kid must really like Cheez-Its.

When Robin finally met up with the girl’s mom later, she apologized.

“Listen.  I’m sorry I made your daughter so upset.  She was asking if I had any Cheez-Its in my car, and I don’t have any snacks.  But maybe I can find something close by around here.”

Laughing, the mother replied.

“Oh no, Robin.  I need to apologize.  She’s been on this kick lately.   She didn’t ask ‘Do you have Cheez-Its in your car?’  she asked

‘Do you have Jesus in your heart?’”

Sometimes, but not today.

Hilarious.

But it’s true, isn’t it?  There are some days when Jesus has a shiny four bedroom penthouse in my left ventricle.  Complete with granite countertops and a giant two person Jacuzzi tub.  Perfect for spontaneous baptisms and working out sore muscles from long donkey rides.

I hear Jesus likes the bubbles.

Other days, I kick him to the curb like some bad subprime lender.   I gave him my word that he’d have a place to live for life, but now I’m foreclosing on the Savior of the World because times are tough, and I think someone else could do a better job taking care of the property.  Someone like me.

But what does it mean, anyway?  To have Jesus in your heart.

My guess is that it means different things to different people.  To some, it means that their every waking moment will be spent introducing everybody to their buddy, Jesus.  To others, it means that every decision they make will be guided by Jesus.  Still more would likely say that having Jesus in your heart means that you have a sense of peace knowing that you’re Heaven-bound.

For me, it’s a little bit of those, but something more.

If you’re like me, you spend a good part of your life earning your value.  What do I mean by that?

If you have a job and a boss, this means that you try really hard to do your best.  To get the project done on time.  To do a good job.  To meet expectations.  Better yet, to exceed them.  Knowing you’ve done good work is satisfying, right?  It’s an added bonus when we get noticed by the right people so that we get the recognition we deserve.  The promotion.  The corner office.  Heck, even a ‘thank you’ is really nice.

If you’re a parent, you try with all your might to be the best mom or dad you can be.  To raise your kids to be productive citizens.  To be present for them.  To provide a good home filled with love.  To make the mundane moments special.  To create magical memories.

If you’re married, you want to be the best spouse you can be.  Attentive.  Caring.  Considerate.  You want to listen like you should.  To be the rock that your spouse needs.  To be the supporter when they’re down.  The shoulder to cry on.

So here’s the sucky part.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t do all that.  I hate to break it to you.  You’re going to fail.  It’s going to stress you out.  You’re going to prepare like mad for that big presentation, and then rip your pants five minutes before showtime.  You’re going to bite off more than you can chew, and it’s going to come back and bite you in the back side.  You’re going to work your tail off on-the-job, and no one will notice.  Worse yet, they’ll notice the wrong guy.  Joe Schmo will take credit for your work and get the big promotion, and the corner office.

I hate that Joe Schmo.

Wanna’ hear something worse?

You’re going to fail your kids, too.  You’re going to plan what you believe will be the most incredible birthday party in the world.  Then the day of the party, your daughter tells you she wants a mermaid party theme, even though you’ve spent your entire paycheck on piggy stuff.  Or worse yet, no one will show up.  Then that carries over into adolescence when you tell her she can’t wear the low-cut jeans that show the waistband of her underwear and this causes her boyfriend to dump her for the girl who actually wears jeans with a hole in the keester.  You’ll try and make it up to them by throwing them a beautiful outdoor wedding fifteen years later, but it’s gonna’ rain.  Trust me.  Cats and dogs.  Ruin the whole thing.  ‘Cuz you’re the one that suggested it.  And they’ll talk about you.  In therapy.  That they pay for using the money you saved up for their college education.

And what about your spouse?

When they need you most, you’re going to be tired.  Too tired to talk.  Too tired to be supportive.  And then you’ll say the wrong thing.  Ladies, you’ll tell him he’s just not trying hard enough.  Guys, you’ll tell her she’s worrying just like her crazy ol’ mother used to worry.  And you’ll spend the night on the couch.  And you’ll try and make it up to her by buying her a special dress, giving it to her as a surprise right before you take her out for a night on the town.  The same night she had planned on seeing a movie with her best girlfriend she hasn’t seen in months.  But she’ll go anyway, because she loves you, and then the night will be ruined because you didn’t realize that The Marble Room doesn’t take walk-ins, and is booked three months in advance.  Golden Arches it is!

That’s what we do.  We fail.  It makes us feel worthless.  It’s stressful.  It sucks.  It’s sad.  Sad enough to make a little girl cry and run to her mom.  It’s the way our world works.  The first question out of our mouths at a dinner party is “what do you do for a living?”  We’ve created this system where our worth is wrapped up in what we can accomplish.  What we can buy.  How many people we can make happy.

But guess what?

None of that matters.  It’s all smoke and mirrors.  The worry and the stress and the fretting and fussing.  ‘Cuz the instant you were born, God decided to love you.  It’s a given.  No take-backsies.  You will never be worth any more or any less than you are right now.  You are fully and completely loved, and you didn’t have to do a darn thing to deserve it.  Breathing is gravy.  You don’t even have to do that!  But God’s choice wasn’t a hard choice when you think about it.  He created us in His image, so essentially He loves Himself.

Whaddaya’ know?  God’s as narcissistic as the rest of us.

And that’s what it means to me to have Jesus in your heart.  It’s carrying that love of God deep in your soul.  Not love for others.  Not love for yourself.  That comes later.  It’s carrying the knowledge that no matter what you do, how bad you screw up, or who you disappoint today, you’re loved.  It’s realizing that you’ve been spending your time worried and worn out, searching for the acceptance you never lost in the first place.

And this is what frees us to do truly wonderful, glorious things.  It’s amazing how much love can flow through you when you’re truly at peace.  You’re able to truly open yourself up to others.  To love as God loved.

So do I have Jesus in my heart?

Sometimes, but not every day.

It’s tough to remember I’m fully loved when the ads on TV and the junk between my ears tells me different.  When the expectations I put on myself overshadow reality.  I kick Jesus to the curb and there sits my heart.

Empty.

So on those days when I forget, it’s nice to know there is now a tangible reminder.  Thanks to a curious little girl and her misunderstood question.  A lovely, carb-o-licious snack food filled with cheesy goodness.  All I have to do is open the box,  pop a cracker in my pie-hole, and I’m reminded.

So my prayer to you is that you will always remember that you’re loved, no matter the circumstances.  And just in case you forget, and you’re left with that hunger that is hard to satisfy.

Always keep Cheez-Its in your car.

The Greatest Game Ever Played

I was busily working in my office yesterday when a colleague barged in for an emergency meeting.  By his demeanor, I could tell it was urgent.  He was short of breath.  Rapid pace.  High volume.  In my face.

And he was wearing a pirate outfit.  Complete with plastic hand-hook and swashbuckling sword.

* For your visual, here’s Jake in full pirate garb a few months ago

“Daddy, daddy, daddy!  My eye patch keeps falling off when I’m fighting.”

Such are the joys of working from home.  You’re in your office on a conference call and there is a three-foot tall pirate in the office next door screaming “AAAARGH” and swinging his sword at the family dog.  She isn’t fighting back.  Bailey is 98 in dog years.  She can’t hear anything softer than a freight train, and had her fetching merit badge revoked for lack of use.   She’s like a soft bathroom rug that makes guttural noises and eats 45-pounds of kibble per month.

“Jake.  Can you go play in the playroom?  I have to send some emails and I need to concentrate.”

“How long?  I want to go play in the front yard.” He begs.

“Five minutes,” I say.

Miraculously, he walks away with a newly-tightened eye patch.  I know he’ll be back soon.  Kids don’t understand that parents work in order to provide for the family.  Gabby tried to explain the concept to them when I was away on a business trip.  Jake was in the bathroom, using far more bath tissue than one human being needs, even after eating a bad meal.

“Jake, stop using so much toilet paper!”

“Why?”

“Daddy has to work to buy things like toilet paper.  When you waste it, daddy has to work even more.  Do you want that?”

“No.”

Now when I’m out of town, the kids tell everyone that daddy is off working so he can buy toilet paper.  They must think the entire family has Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

Anyhow, back to the story.  I continue working at my computer, quickly typing and clicking.  Reading and organizing.  Printing and filing.  Preparing for this week’s workshop.  Jake comes in a few minutes later.

“Are you done yet, dad?”

“Not yet.” I bark, quite frustrated now.  “Just two more minutes.”

I stare at my computer screen as if I’m looking for it to give me instructions.  This kind of information work is very odd when you think about it.  How many people get paid to simply transfer information from one place to another every day?  Responding to requests.  Asking for clarification.  Scheduling stuff, and re-scheduling.  For someone who actually produces real, tangible items like houses, cars, and landscaping, it must seem like fairy dust.  I’m sure that’s what it seems like to my kids.

“Dad, are you done yet?”

“Not yet, son.”  I was really on a roll, and these interruptions aren’t helping at all.

“But dad, you said five minutes.  And that was ten or eleven minutes ago.”

He’s right.  I curse myself for teaching the kid to read a clock at age four.

“Actually, you’re right, Jake.  Let’s go outside.”

I look in his hand and see something that makes me shudder.

A football.

I have never been a physical guy.  In my entire life, I have never been in a fist fight.  When the neighborhood kids got together to try out Theron Brown’s new boxing gloves, I put them on, climbed into the makeshift ring, and fell to the ground before the first punch was fully thrown.  It was like watching a bad karate movie where people react to fake jabs and kicks.  One kid thought I had fainted, and suggested I go see a doctor.

In seventh grade, I was one of two guys in a class of roughly one hundred and fifty boys who didn’t either play football or participate in the school marching band.  The other guy was a soccer stud who went through puberty at age six and was being groomed for the high school varsity team.

I had no excuse.  Fortunately, the soccer god could only handle three or four girlfriends at a time, and there were no less than ninety or a hundred lovely starlets surrounding me in the stands.  Unfortunately, junior high girls find football players far more attractive than skinny kids with big heads that go to Gifted and Talented class in the portable classroom outside the school.

To top it all off, I am a little OCD about being dirty without there being a specific purpose for the dirtiness.  I have been known to shower three-to-four times per day to get rid of a few beads of sweat or the faint smell of smoke from our backyard grill.  Granted, I’ll get in the muck for household projects and honey-dos.  But getting thrown on the ground just for fun?

I’ll pass.

“Let’s play football!” Jake exclaims.

“Football?  OK.  We can throw the football.”  I subtly try and guide the play to something that won’t involve me falling down.

“No.  Let’s play it.  Like on TV!  Let’s tackle!  Like the game with the white team against the blue team.”

This past weekend we had watched my beloved University of Tulsa Golden Hurricane beat the Notre Dame Fighting Irish, and Jake knew the game was something I must enjoy.  But watching football on TV is much different than playing.

“But Jake, I don’t have a long sleeved shirt that can get dirty,” I hedged.  “And it’s cold outside!”

Then I realize how absurd this must sound to a kid dressed in a pirate costume.

Undeterred, Jake bellows, “Yes you do!”

He runs to the laundry room, reaches into a basket, and pulls out a gray, long sleeved T-shirt with holes in the armpits.

Once again, he’s right.  I change into the t-shirt and we march ourselves out onto the front lawn.

“Let’s play right here!” he shouts, positioning our field markers.  “You gotta’ run between my bike and Audrey’s pink car to get a score.”

Looking out toward the yard, he sees as a perfect football field.   I see as a patch of dead grass, slightly damp, strewn with leaves, harboring allergens that could overpower even the strongest of prescription medications.  The thought of laying on the grass instantly makes my skin itch.  I feel a sneeze coming on.  I have visions of Theron Brown barreling down on me.

Jake throws the ball at me.

“OK, dad.  Try to get a score!”

I jog around in a circle, dodging him, and run past him to the end zone.  He’s having fun.  And I’m happy that I didn’t have to touch the grass.  Dad is up, 7-0.

“My turn!”

Jake runs around, darting this way and that.  I run toward him, grab him, sling him around my shoulders, and set him down on the ground.

“I missed!” I yell.  He runs to the end zone for a score, giggling the whole time.  Tie game 7-7.  I feel a bead of sweat forming on my upper lip.

I think I need a shower.

He throws the ball back to me.  I do the same dance as before.  But Jake darts in front of me when I least expect it.  Trying not to bowl him over, I zig when I should have zagged.  I trip over my own two feet and tumble to the ground.  It’s as if the whole thing is in slow motion.  I see dust and dead grass puff into the air.  I feel myself breathing in the smell of fall, complete with allergens and chiggers.

In an instant, Jake is on top of me.  Laughing hysterically.  Like I’ve just given him tickets to Disney World.  His smile is painted with joy.  Without a care.  He is bathing in the moment, and savoring it.  There is no place he would rather be.

“I tackled you daddy!”

“You sure did.” I say.

I forget about the dust.  I forget about the dirt.  I forget about seventh grade.  I forget about boxing gloves and the wet spot on the butt of my jeans.

I forget about the worries and the responsibility.  I forget about the reasons why I can’t play because I’m too busy earning money to buy expensive things that have no real value.  I forget about the shiny junk that gets in the way of the stuff that really matters.

I forget about being a father just long enough to be a dad.

Jake recorded seventeen tackles yesterday in an epic battle for football domination on Ramble Wood Circle.  Seventeen.  The stats won’t show up in the box score in the newspaper.  In fact, there was no score to keep.  But the game meant the world to those who played.

As I sit here in 7C, happily nursing a runny nose somewhere high above the Midwest, I’d like to close by sharing a few snippets from a passage our pastor read this weekend.  It sums up the idea of selfless giving very well.  Focusing on what’s truly important.  I do a lot of writing about service to others, often forgetting that we must start by serving at home, not as we would like to serve, but as those in need intend for us to serve.

And that, my friends, is the definition of love.

Excerpts from  If I found a Wistful Unicorn by Ann Ashford

If I found a wistful unicorn
and brought him to you, all forlorn…
would you pet him?

If I picked a little flower up
and put it in a paper cup…
would you smell it?

If I found a secret place to go
with you the only one to know…
would you be there?

If my cricket coughed and got the flu
and needed warmth and comfort too…
would you hold him?

If my rainbow were to turn all gray
and wouldn’t shine at all today…
would you paint it?

If I ran backwards up a tree
and called for you to follow me…
would you do it?

If I said that I could dance for you
as hard as that would be to do…
would you watch me?

If all that I would want to do
would be to sit and talk to you…
would you listen?

If any of these things you’ll do
I’ll never have to say to you…
“Do you love me?”

Split Personalities and My Mysterious Email

When I was a kid, I saw a fascinating program on TV about Bob Smith.

“Who is Bob Smith?” you might ask.

Well, the proper way to phrase the question is actually “Who are Bob Smith?”

You see, the show was about an annual reunion of all the Bob Smiths in the country.  Some Bob Smith somewhere started the trend, after being mistaken for another Bob Smith.  The name is so common, he wanted to do something uncommon with it.  So, he thought it might be fun to meet all of the other Bob Smiths in the country so that they could share stories, have a few laughs, and presumably, swap monogrammed clothing.

Summer camp underwear included.

The reunion was huge, and I found this fascinating.  Those of us with uncommon monikers (Dannemiller, Pfreugenberger, Stachkew) have a love/hate relationship with our names.  All at once we love our uniqueness, yet curse the fact that the mention of our name to any restaurant hostess or tech support rep requires an additional five minutes of spelling.

And re-spelling.

I always thought a Scott Dannemiller reunion party would be a lonely affair.  Then one day back in high school, we received a call at our home.  My dad answered the phone.

“Dannemiller residence.”

The voice responded, “Hello.  Yes.  This is Scott Dannemiller.”

“No it’s not.” Dad answered.  “ Scott Dannemiller is taking a nap in my La-Z-Boy.”

That’s a party of two, please.

We learned that another Scott Dannemiller had moved to Oklahoma City.  Apparently, he had come to town for a job opportunity.  When he went to the bank to cash his first check, the teller refused to give him money.  She was a high school friend of mine, and was afraid this guy was trying to empty my checking account of all twenty-six dollars and eighty-two cents.  Luckily, he was able to clear up the matter.  He couldn’t believe the coincidence, and just wanted to call and introduce himself to us, given that we are distant relatives.

Over the years, I have enjoyed this name-sharing connection.  The other Scott Dannemiller is an avid triathlete.  His name constantly appears in newspaper clippings and on websites for ultra fit people who eat equal amounts of protein and carbs, and compare body fat percentages.  I’ll often get approached by folks who say, “Hey Scott, I saw that you ran one of those 70-mile races this past weekend.  I had no idea you were such a runner!  Congratulations!”

“Thanks!” I’d reply.

Why make them feel stupid, right?

Back when Gabby and I got married, we started receiving odd gifts in the mail.  Stuff we hadn’t registered for.  When we called the department store in Austin to clear things up, we found out that the other Scott Dannemiller was getting married as well.

The same day of our wedding.

In my old hometown.

To a girl who went to my high school.

After a few hours, I was fortunate enough to convince Gabby that I wasn’t a closet polygamist, and we got down to the business of returning all their gifts to them, save for the big screen TV from his Uncle Al. It would be impolite to refuse such generosity.

Every so often, I’ll Google my name for the sake of narcissism.  There will be stories of our mission service alongside stories of his athletic achievements.  But last time I surfed for myself I was shocked  to learn that I had died in an electrical fire about fifteen years ago.  It seems there is a third Scott Dannemiller, an electrician, that I will never have the chance to meet face-to-face, may he rest in peace.  And a fourth who is a high school baseball player.  And a couple others.

But perhaps the biggest shock of all came last week when I received a very curious email.  The names have been changed for obvious reasons.

 

To:  [scott@dannemiller.net]

From:  [JaneDoe@fakeaddress.com]

Subj:  could you please respond to me in private… this is Jane Doe… Julie Doe’s sister

Scott—I tried to look you up on facebook but couldn’t find you.  I did a yahoo
search and found this e-mail.  Out of respect for your wife and her being
pregnant—I will not contact her and cause her undue stress.   But—I do have some
questions if you would be so kind.   Can you please just email me back so I know that
you are the Scott I’d like to communicate with.  My sister does not know that I am
trying to contact you.  Just let me know if you would be willing to communicate with
me.  I am concerned about my sister.

Thanks for your time—Jane Doe

My stomach instantly began to churn.  Jane Doe?  Julie Doe?  What could I have done to warrant this clandestine email?  Must have been pretty bad.  I scanned my memory.

Nothing.

The stomach churning stopped when I remembered that I don’t know a Jane Doe.  Or a Julie Doe.  Or any Doe for that matter.  Unsure what to make of this email, I just deleted it.  I thought it was probably some sort of SPAM, where someone wanted to make contact with me so they could sell me something to make certain body parts smaller, or others bigger.  Worse yet, they would sucker me into giving them $10,000 to retrieve the millions that the prince of Bundesia had left for me.

Fool me once, shame on you, I say.

The next day, I received another email.

 

To:  [scott@dannemiller.net]
From:  [JaneDoe@fakeaddress.com]

SORRY SCOTT!!!!  You are the wrong Scott.  No need to respond to my previous
email.  I hope I didn’t cause you stress by not knowing who the heck I was.  —Jane

OK.  So I guess it wasn’t SPAM.  My mind immediately drifted to thinking about this poor woman.  How mortified she must be.  She obviously had some significant drama in her life, and now she had involved a complete stranger.  I imagined her realizing her mistake and running to the keyboard in slow motion, trying to delete the message that had already been sent.  But the toothpaste is already out of the tube.

Wanting to calm her fears, I responded.

No worries, Jane.  I hope everything turns out ok for you.  I’m just glad to know that
my wife isn’t pregnant.  Thanks for clearing that up.    -Scott.

 

All of these episodes of mistaken identity got me to thinking .  Maybe the identities weren’t so mistaken after all.  I am all of these people.   The singer, the writer, the triathlete, the electrician, the baseball player, the one who creates drama and conjures up clandestine emails.

Aren’t we all?

We are multiple personalities wrapped into one.  The boring and the exciting.  There are some days where we are super parents, and others when we should just be glad our screaming antics aren’t on some secret Child Protective Services video tape.  There are times when we are selfless to a fault, and others when our selfishness knows no bounds.  The shining moments when we love unconditionally, and the dark hours when we feel unworthy of love.

We’re all human, and therein lies the beauty of it all.  We are as The Creator made us.  Broken and blessed.

And I believe God’s message is this.  Love yourself.  Every part of you.  The bright spots and the shadows.  The stuff that works and the garbage that doesn’t.  Without the ability to give thanks for the you that was made, we have no ability to fully bestow love on others.  So today, I pray that I can come to love both the good and bad in myself.  And to fully immerse myself in this world where I can use what I’ve been given to make a difference.  In big ways and small ways.  Common or uncommon.

Amen.