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Cruising the cul-de-sac (Taken with picplz.)

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On the dugout on Flickr.

Tonight at the dinner table, Samuel decided it was time to do a little singing.

I would be richer than Gates or Buffett.

This spring, Davis started playing baseball. At the six and under level (6U), it's coach-pitch. He did pretty well, and we saw improvements in his fielding from that first practice to the last game this past Saturday (May 22d). Hitting wise, he did awesome, going seven for eight in the first half of the season. He hit a slump, but rebounded for the last two games.

To see more photos, including a couple from the game, check out the rest of the set.

From back in March. While I was getting myself ready, the boys watched Sesame Street in Mom and Dad's room.

Tony Woodlief:

I remind him to watch the cars, to look the drivers in the eye and make sure they see him. His brothers and I sit in the minivan while he goes to the curb and waits for a chance to walk out to the girl. Finally a car stops to let him pass. The girl’s face is turned down; she sees nothing but the ground. I watch my son’s narrow shoulders as he crosses the drive, and I am praying that no harm will come to him, not now or ever, that someone who is this loving will be spared the pain of the world, which is when I remember that it is Christmas, the time when we celebrate precisely the opposite, the coming of pure love to suffer for all we who sit with faces turned down, not even knowing what to ask for, knowing only in our crusted-over hearts that anything will help.

Davis and Samuel having fun on the backyard play set.

Wow. Seven years as of yesterday. Seven years ago, I had a great job. A career in IT. Seven years ago, we hadn't been in our new house even a full year. Seven years ago, we were churchless. Seven years ago, we were childless. Now, I do not have a career in IT, but I do have a job: being a stay-at-home dad. And it's awesome. Now, we've been in the house nearly eight years. Now, not only do we have a church, but that church has given me my best friend, and yet another purpose: leading some of our collegians in Bible study. Now, we have two wonderful boys, six and thirteen months. They are absolute joys. I'm blogging less. Twittering more. Chasing a little guy all around the house. Having fun. It's not all a bed of roses, but there are more ups than downs, and I thank God for all of these blessings.

So back on the first of September, a mere week after the boy started full-blown walking, I find Samuel attempting to climb atop the ottoman. So I grabbed my camera and started shooting. So far as we know, this was his first summit attempt and success.

Last evening, after arriving home from dinner, our family decided to take a walk. Our neighborhood has a small green belt with a walking/biking trail through it, the air was cool, but not too cool, and it just seemed like the right thing to do. Our six-year-old, Davis, wanted to ride his Razor scooter. Donning his bike helmet, he did so, coasting ahead or behind us, as his pushing and balancing allowed. At one point, while he was ahead of us, I noted his problem keeping the scooter fully upright while pushing. I thought it might have something to do with the fact that our normally right-handed son was using his left leg and foot to push the scooter along. I verbally made note of this observation, and suggested he try switching his feet, placing the left on the scooter and pushing with his right. He tried this for a few moments, felt it was worse than before, and switched back. My wife, thinking along the same lines as I, remarked that he hadn't really given the right-foot push enough of a try. His reply? "I'm just left-footed."

Tony Woodlief (yes, again):

Isaiah loves books. He loves to read them, loves it when people read them to him, loves to hit his brother Isaac upside the head with them. The boy hearts books. I hope he never stops loving them, even as the world around him transitions into a post-modern funk of hyper-links and text messages and overstimulating audio-visual mind sludge. Then one day he can visit me wherever he and his brothers have finally put me out to pasture, and maybe read to me there. Davis is getting to this point, too. At times he will decide that he's had enough playing with his Star Wars Galactic Heroes™ figures, or pretending to duel a dragon, or building with Lincoln Logs™ or LEGO™ pieces, and he'll plop down in the play room and "read". My parents instilled a deep love of reading in my sister and I when we were growing up. Weekly visits to the local library (which was about as big as the downstairs area of our current home, minus the garage) were the norm. While we're not going weekly, Kelly and I have both taken Davis to our local library (which is larger than the downstairs area of our house, including the garage), and he loves it. Davis will often ask for a second or even third book to be read before going to bed, although I suspect this is as much about staying up as late as possible as it is about loving books. I'd hoped to pass on this love of reading to both our boys, and so far, it's looking pretty good.

"Mind the gap."

Davis has lost his first tooth! It came from the middle bottom, and was kind of a surprise, especially for Mom! Thankfully, the tooth wasn't lost, though for a little while, we thought it might be. It had fallen out during dinner, and was still in the dinette, sitting on Davis's chair. We cleaned it up, and Mom helped him ready it for the Tooth Fairy that evening.

Davis threw an impromptu puppet show from Samuel, and as you can see from the latter's reaction, the show got rave reviews.

"Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged of man." --Rabindranath Tagore [Via A Child Chosen.]

Our son, Samuel, tries out his crib and mobile for the first time.

Rebecca Walker is the daughter of founding feminist, and The Color Purple author, Alice Walker. Rebecca recently reflected on her life, and her disownment by her mom because she decided to become a mother herself. After reading this article, I'm left wondering what kind of person Alice Walker must be, to have been so selfish, and most recently, so hateful, toward her own daughter and grandson. She has never seen him. Then I recall that selfish pride is the oldest sin in the Book. Here are some choice bits:

The truth is that I very nearly missed out on becoming a mother - thanks to being brought up by a rabid feminist who thought motherhood was about the worst thing that could happen to a woman.

You see, my mum taught me that children enslave women. I grew up believing that children are millstones around your neck, and the idea that motherhood can make you blissfully happy is a complete fairytale.

In fact, having a child has been the most rewarding experience of my life. I'm so grateful I never had to experience, as a child, being told by my mother that I was enslaving her, that she bore me as if a millstone. I was raised to believe that women need men like a fish needs a bicycle. But I strongly feel children need two parents and the thought of raising Tenzin without my partner, Glen, 52, would be terrifying.

As the child of divorced parents, I know only too well the painful consequences of being brought up in those circumstances. Feminism has much to answer for denigrating men and encouraging women to seek independence whatever the cost to their families. Walker goes on with a litany of how her mother's feminist ideals robbed her of a normal childhood: divorce; being at the bottom of her mom's priority list; being left when relatives while Alice vacationed for two weeks in Greece; feeling utterly alone in her femininity, not having an attentive mother to talk to and connect with; having sex--with her mother's knowledge--at the age of 13, and becoming pregnant at age 14. She had an abortion, which "haunted me for decades. It ate away at my self-confidence and, until I had Tenzin, I was terrified that I'd never be able to have a baby because of what I had done to the child I had destroyed. For feminists to say that abortion carries no consequences is simply wrong." When she learned she was pregnant, Rebecca was hesitant to tell her mother, but she did: Although I knew what my mother felt about babies, I still hoped that when I told her I was pregnant, she would be excited for me.

Instead, when I called her one morning in the spring of 2004, while I was at one of her homes housesitting, and told her my news and that I'd never been happier, she went very quiet. All she could say was that she was shocked. Then she asked if I could check on her garden. I put the phone down and sobbed - she had deliberately withheld her approval with the intention of hurting me. What loving mother would do that? I could go on and on, to the point where I'd quote nearly the entire piece, and I encourage you, dear reader, to read all of it yourself. Ultimately, Rebecca has abided by her mother's wish to not have contact with her. She's accepted it for the better, that despite the good things feminism has done for women, for the well-being of her son and herself, "I can no longer have this poisonous relationship destroy my life." It's a shame a child has to say that about her parent.

Me: Let's get your Crocs on so you can go play on your swingset while I scoop the dogs' poop. Him: No, thank you. (This from the child who hasn't met a slide he hasn't liked.) Me: (walking in to the living room where he is) Why, what are you up to? Him: I'm picking up the pieces of the puzzle that spilled out. Me: (aghast) Okaaayyyy.....

This past weekend, we spent a few days visiting my parents in the suburbs of Birmingham. (That would be Alabama, not England. Just in case it wasn't clear.) My dad pulled my old rocking horse, Donut, out of storage, cleaned up the parts, and assembled him in the basement, all for my son to ride while we were visiting.

I got Donut about the same age as the little phisch is now, roughly 1974. The nostalgia from watching my own child ride the same horse I did thirty-three, thirty-four years ago, was overwhelming.

Two weeks later, some more skating fun! The little phisch got better moving around the house without help, but seemed to regress when it came to getting up when he fell.

Click the photo to see the entire set.

Whenever he's been asked what sports he wants to play, our son has been consistent: "Baseball and hockey!" The first skill required in hockey is the ability to ice skate, so with that in mind, we enrolled him in ice skating lessons earlier in the year. Of course, Dad had to take photos of the first lesson!

Click on the photo to see the entire set.

Tony Woodlief:

I never thought I would have to hold a package of frozen peas on my son's penis. They don't tell you this may be a possibility in parenting class. It's all breathing and learning to count to ten and not freaking out when they get a diaper rash. But penis bruises? Nowhere in the manual.

This past Saturday, the missus and I took the little phisch to see The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything. The film was released by Universal, and had the studio's latest audio-visual intro at the beginning, as is the norm for motion pictures. The little phisch leaned over and whispered to me, "Daddy, what music is that?" I told him, and we settled in for a fun time. That little exchange immediately took my mind back a few weeks before, at the end of 2007, when the missus and I took the little phisch to see Alvin and the Chipmunks. That particular film was released by Twentieth-Century Fox, and its extremely recognizable audio-visual intro rolled at the beginning. Then, the little phisch leaned over and excitedly exclaimed, "Daddy, it's the Star Wars music!" I smiled broadly, and assured him, that yes, it was indeed "the Star Wars music." Amazing how those blaring trumpets and the monolithic wording have become synonymous with Star Wars for him, just as it did for me when I was a boy. To this day, whenever I see or hear that intro, I'm half-expecting the "Star Wars Main Theme" to follow shortly thereafter, or to see "A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away..." centered on the screen.

Jim Lindberg, lead singer of Pennywise, in Punk Rock Dad:

This is all part of the game of being a parent. When I signed up to be a dad I had to leave my cool and my self-respect at the maternity room doors. On our white minivan we have no less than three life-size decals of Britney Spears's face stuck to the windows. A friend saw me driving the wife and kids in it and said he was going to the record store to trade in all of his Pennywise records. I told him to get me the new Christina Aguilera while he was there because the kids were begging me for it.

According to the rules laid out in Punk Rock Dad, my punk rock name is:

(Are you ready for this?)

(Are you sure?)

(Really?)

(Okay, you've been warned...)

Larry Leprosy.