kids . . . can't bake with'em. . .

It's cookie time again. 'Tis the season you know. Every type, color, and combination of flour and sugary goodness, wrapped up in sugary goodness. Oh! My goodness. . . I said sugary goodness twice.

As luck would have it, my wife is working and I get the pleasure of making chocolate chip cookies with the kids. One batch you ask? No. Well two, yeah, everyone makes a double batch. Three times a charm? FOUR. (Did I make the green?) yes my esteemed friends and colleagues, the numeral preceding 5. Well there's Davids teacher, and assistant, and classmates and Kaitlyn's teacher and classmates, the crossing guards, friends, neighbors, Somalia. . . Four batches is not a lot.

That is unless you are mixing up all of the ingredients with a 6, 4 and soon to be 2 year old. I found a bowl we used once for punch (the H.M.S. Punchbowl; just slightly smaller than the Titanic) and proceeded to add "stuff" to it. Now had I been by myself, I could have simply dumped this into the bowl with out a glitch. But with the kids, I had to measure each item out into a smaller bowl first. Then I had to be sure they each had the same amount to add to this "vat o'dough" so that I didn't have to hear about how unfair life is.

David: "Hey, that's not fair, she has two granules of sugar more than I do".
Me: "Well sometimes life is not fair."
Kaitlyn: "Why is life not fair daddy?"
Me: "It's just not, get used to it."
David: "mommy never said that to me."
Kaitlyn: "Me either. . . are you sure?"
Me: "Just pour your stuff in a shut-up".
Kaitlyn: "shut-up is a bad word daddy".
David: "When mommy comes home your going to have to eat soap"
Me: (mumbling) "This just isn't fair."
David: "That's what I just said!"

We are also going to bring back last years tradition of the game "find the eggshell". If you get one, you win! This way you know their made with Love.
I finally got the skid-steer parked and we were ready to mix. "where is the mixer?" they asked. We are going to use our hands so go wash. Now I go with them to wash hands. When we get back the baby has a big. . . let's just say grin. With chocolate all over her face. "Did you eat some chips, baby?" "No". We start to mix and it's funny for about ten seconds. Then it's "I don't like the way the eggs feel daddy" "This is gross, right, daddy?" "Is this what guts feel like?" And naturally we have to go there; "This is like poop right daddy? (giggle)!". Why would I know that?

What were our parents thinking having us help?, and I do use the term loosely. It's so much more work.

It's fun too. Cookie dough and milk as we wait for the first batch. Trying to guess the total number of cookies we will get. Seeing them smile and laugh and lick their fingers. . . 375 degrees kills germs, right?

Now we have this mountain of cookies resembling Devil's tower (Close encounters?) that have to be put on plates and in bags and delivered tomorrow. But for now, daddy gets some quiet and some milk and cookies all to himself.

Hey look. . . I'm a winner!

For now. . .

I wish I knew him

I just read Olli Norths column on Townhall.com http://www.townhall.com/columnists/ollienorth/on20041217.shtml

Sgt. Peralta must have been an incredible person. He knew that he was very badly injured and dying and went the extra step to protect others. Selflessness.

What a wonderful story about contrasts.

For now. . .

I'm offended. . . Big deal!

Want to know what I hate. Lima beans.

Noooooooo...

Those same people each year who just have to ruin life for everyone by being offended. I really can't stand it. Last night it happened again. HSA meeting. Everything is going relatively well until we get to the Fifth Grade Winter Concert.

I'll give you separation of church and state. Since when does Santa have anything to do with religion? "Holiday colors and/or Santa hats are optional". How is one offended by that? Santa has about as much to do with Christ as a swastika on a dreidel. Santa and red and green have nothing to do with religion. It says holiday colors. That could be red, green, blue, gold. . . pick a crayon.

And don't give me that Happy Holiday crap. Holiday is short for Holy day. That is religious. But it's not specific nor is it mandated by the government. Get over it. And then get over it some more. Then shut up.

If you come up to me and offer a greeting from whatever. . . Happy buddha found his navel day. . . I'll accept it as a kind gesture and just say "thanks. . . same to you!"

Anyway. . . For a much more eloquent discussion see: http://www.townhall.com/columnists/
charleskrauthammer/ck20041217.shtml

For now. . .

I know. . .we'll just take more!

If you notice, I live in New Jersey. Why? Too long to go into now but I want out.
Well, the great "gay american", now "x" governor has pulled a fast one to try to balance the budget. I goes like this. . . pay attention there could be a quiz. ouch, bad flashback.

You live. You pay taxes. The states takes what it needs and then sends back an allocation for your school district. I am not going into how this is figured. Not even for my wife's "good Lovin'". Anyway the money comes in and then there are rules as to how it is spent. Well in the past you were able to put a small percent aside for "rainy day " type stuff. Maybe a capital expenditure, some costly unexpected budget increase (more on this later). Well if you managed your money well and kept a trim waistline, you could get a nice chunk set aside. Well the state saw this and decided to pass legislation and take 50% back. Just steal it to cover their hiner buns. So much for trying to be fiscally responsible. You are essentially punished for acting wisely with your money. Well that's not all, mon chere.

They are now telling each district that they can only grow their budget by 2.5%. It's fixed. Does not matter that you may have a baby-boom in your town/district. Does not matter that some goodhearted family may decide to become a foster family to special needs kids. ** Just to be clear. That is a noble thing to do. Here, each district is bound by law to provide special education and I believe pre-school. Of course this costs more and you can never plan for it. What can a community do then?

Cut. That's right. Cut costs. Cut sports. Cut Band. Cut clubs. Cut teachers. Increase Class size. This stinkin' government that won't cut spending will force you to cut your programs to stay in budget.

What to do, you may ask? Vote the scum out. Write them and tell them you're sick of their antics. Find a candidate that will promise to get you vouchers so you can take your money where you want to have your own kids educated and donate and vote.

For now. . .

legacy

"I'll never be like them". Ever say that about your parents? I'll never spank, I'll never make them eat such and such, I'll never. . . Something amazing happens when we "arrive" at parenthood. We see ourselves in our kids. We hear echos of our parents in ourselves. Oh, don't get me wrong. I don't do some things my parents did. But there is "them" in me.

When my two sisters and I were younger, we would all sleep on the floor in my one sisters room because she had an air-conditioner. Of course my other sister and I would cause trouble. My mother would come to the bottom of the stairs and yell up "are you being hav?" (instead of behaving) Now this would make us laugh and carry on even more. "I know for sure that I am being very hav; but I can't speak to the havness of the girls" I would yell back. Then we would lay there and snicker and laugh into our pillows. I often joke about it now.

Last night it came out of me for real. Like a ventriloquist dummy sitting on my mothers lap! I caught myself just as the labiodental fricative "V" crossed my..... labio. It's our families equivalent to the "don't make me come back there!" the "I'll turn this thing around and we'll go home".

Mom passed away a few years ago. But man, is she here with us. I hear her when I speak to my kids. I think back to all the problems I presented her. I know she saw me face some of those same things as I became a father. She was kind though. The "I told you so's" were few. I can't help but think she got some real satisfaction hearing me echo these stories.

I'm thinking about you, mom. Laugh or cry. . . it's good to have you here.

Timm

For now. . .

rock-a-bye baby

My little one. . . 1 1/2, got into some chocolate covered pretzels. Aside from the mess this caused, it was also an incredible pain because she was up until around 11pm. She was high on the caffeine I suppose. She could not sit still. She ran the hallway back and forth until I was tired. Then she began to spin. Now I am a loving father, but seeing her spin and get dizzy and try to run was too funny for me to stop. She would fall on the carpet and her eyes would be "spinning" in her head but she was laughing. Then she would go and shut her brothers door. She would squeal as he chased her away only to do it again.

Then suddenly she came over with a blankie and I started to rock her while she lay on my shoulder. I eventually craddled her and very softly told her about the day she was born. She looked up with sleepy eyes. . . each time she blinked it took a nano second longer for them to open again. I told her how she was turned facing up and how that made things a little more difficult for mommy. I told her how I couldn't wait as she was cleaned up and weighed. I told her how I wanted to hold her so badly, but the nurses wanted to warm her up under the heatlamp. When I finally got to hold her. . . words fail miserably here. I knew that she would be the last baby I would hold as a dad. She looked like a little boxer because her nose and forhead were being pushed against mommy's pelvic bone. I almost chapped her little cheeks with all the kisses.

Then she was out. I sat in the stillness and just felt her breathing. rocking. loving.

There are dishes in the sink that I didn't do tonight. rocking. loving.

Timm

For now. . .

not that that's wrong!

If you have been reading with the keen insight I know you all have out there in bloggerville, you may have come to the conclusion that I might be one of those "christian" types you have heard so much about. Born again, Bible thumper, Jesus freak, fanatic, religious taliban. . . jump right in if you know the tune.
Yep. Am one. A deciple if you may, or even if you mayn't. And that frames my world view. Remember when we were young, meaning the last time we had the chance, and we focussed the sun's light with a magnifying glass to burn ants? or bugs? or those plastic army men? or the fuse to an M-80 because we were not allowed to play with matches or lighters? Being a deciple of Christ works like that. I, by choice, am focusing on things through God's revelation.

You're a wacko! you may say. Maybe to you. What if your wrong? you may ask and say there is no God. Would it be so bad to live a life where I "do unto others as I would have them do to me"? Is it so unbelievable to Love God with everything I have and my neighbor as myself? If I'm wrong and there is no God, I will have lived a moral life, will not have hurt anyone by holding my beliefs, and will die and turn to dust and be part of the next big bang. But, if I'm right. . . how do you end up? Judgemental bastard! you may say (well, my teenage parents were not married and I was given up for adoption). But no, just something to think about as you go to bed and ponder your existance as it pertains to eternity

For now. . .

All aboard!

We didn't get the tree today as planned. More rain on and off. Didn't want to chance it.
We did go on a train ride today. Me and Lynmarie and the three kids and Uncle Frank and his girlfriend. It was the Santa Express. The kids loved it. We all put on our santa hats and part way through, Santa came through and gave out candy canes. We took a few pictures. Wide eyed kids. It was just long enough to be fun, but not too long so as to try to sell off one or two of them.
My son has a big crush on Uncle Franks girl. He was sooo excited to hear she was coming. She's a babe, dad. Who does he hear this stuff from? I need to talk to his mom. Better yet, I'll keep away from her right hook for awhile.
Bedtime tonight was bad. I'm going to duct-tape you to the bed, bad. You're grounded for life, bad. I'm going to mangleate you, bad. Is it just me or could you go for a yogurt?
Actually, we have a system of punishment. The kids start off life with the promise of a new car. Yeah. . . I promise them a new car when they get their license. Each time they are bad I take away a car part. My son has a coffee can of nuts and bolts left and the girls are up on blocks and stripped pretty good. It's a great system.

I can't help but wonder how much longer until Santa is no longer magical. I can't even remember when I "found out", or how for that matter. Right now though, it's kind of cool to see them so excited. We heard a song today on a christian radio station that went on about "happy birthday Jesus". My 6 and 4 year old were singing along with it, having heard it numerous times with their mother; she listens to music in the car, while I am a talk radio junkie. Hearing them sing so and be so into it got me all teary eyed. I'm becoming such a wimp. My sons school just had their "Holiday Gift Sale", where small items and crafty things are sold. I let the two oldest go through and buy gifts for mom, and each other and other family members. They did this by themselves and had good reasons for the items they picked out for each individual. I came home and just lost it.

Timm

For now. . .

What's going on out there?

I have spent about 4 hours just checking out the blogs here. I have found a common theme in many of the blogs. I am amazed at how many 13 - 16 year olds have blogs that talk about how bad their lives are. Words like Pathetic, Boring, Retarted, dull. . . I look back to my teen years and I see good things. Not perfect mind you but good. Perfect is chasing after wind anyway; my perfect is not yours, n'est pas? What could make things so bad? What's going on out there?

I'm a dad. It would rip my heart out to read my kids blog and see these things. I pray that number one I am a better father so that I never hear my kids talk of killing themselves and two that something will happen in the lives of these teens I've been reading about to bring them hope and happiness. During this season a child is born and to us a son is given. . . and he will be called Wonderful counselor. . . May we all find hope and happiness in our souls.

Lord, hear our prayer

Timm

For now. . .

Oh christmas tree

We've been talking about getting our tree on saturday. I hate this time of year. Too many interruptions. I know how saturday will go because we've been here before. We always try to get an early start but it never happens. Now we are not just going down to the corner here, and buying a tree "off the rack". No, no, no. We drive an hour to a tree farm. We walk around for another hour looking for that "just right" tree. Then I have to cut the thing down with a rusty dull saw that you get when you enter the tree farm. I will not go into how the tree is picked because good god fearing men will want to scratch out their eyes with pine cones just hearing it. Let's just say that at some point in the day, in another galaxy perhaps, planets will align and she will know.

Picture time. We pause now and take pictures infront of the tree that will soon adorn our house. We will see this tree every day for the next couple of weeks but we need pictures. There are five of us and the tree. We have to come up with every possible combination for pictures. Then we put a few decorations on the tree from the backpack. I mentioned the backpack, right? You know, a gallon of hot chocolate for each person, extra clothes for each child for about two weeks worth of vacation, a second sweatshirt for her, matches and firestarter in case we are stranded. And the santa hats. We each have to put on the santa hats. Then put them on the tree. Pictures. If we printed out all the pictures we took there would be no more christmas trees.

The moment I get on the ground (did I mention that it's raining here), the kids think that is a que to all sit on my back. As if the backpack were not enough (I didn't lay down I crumbled). My wife, upon hearing the first stroke of the saw, starts with commands about which way to "fell" the tree so as not to harm her children; as if the tree feeling the first stroke will lean over and break itself off, wiping out my progeny in the process. Remember, they are sitting on my back during this procedure. I have no intention of making a tree and Timm sandwich, let alone adding any little condiments. Now we have to get the tree back to the car. In the past when the weather fairy has been kind, I can just drag it out. This is a much anticipated event. I get help from mitten clad hands for about 20 feet and then, having fulfilled their contractual kid duties, I am left alone to haul the tree over hill and dale. Having pissed off the fairy of weather, I will have to carry the beast to keep it out of the mud. Is it any wonder I always find the "perfect" tree ten feet from the car and only 4 feet tall? My son will want to help tie the tree on and this is welcome help. I can throw him up on the van roof to weave the 1/4 mile of string through the tree and roof rack in a fashion that would bring a tear to spidermans eye.

If things are on schedule, so to speak, it will now be well after noon. The kids will be hungry and cold, my wife will be hungry and cold, and I will be hungry. Do we snack or eat lunch and then ruin dinner? Should we just do an early dinner?

Well, I'll let you know

For now. . .

turn out the lights. . . and come to bed.

There's something interesting about being the last one to bed at night. Turn off the tv or computer. Check the door and the front light. Check the kid's rooms as you head off down the hall. At each room I turn off the reading lights and lay books and toys to the floor to be picked up tomorrow. I'm shutting down the whole house. Then I lay awake and think. . . about the materials for tomorrow, getting the kids off to school/preschool. When the last light goes out, I guess I've finished. Another day. . .

Timm

For now. . .

Is there anybody out there?

This is my very first blog entry. . . ever. I have read many. I peruse. Let's see, who am I?

I'm Timm. Not Timothy (my given name), or timmy. I am a husband, a father, a brother, a son, adopted, a Reagan/Limbaugh Conservative libertarian who votes rebublican. I'm funny, sarcastic, ugly. . .
I have a son and two daughters. 6, 4, 1 1/2. They look like their mother, act like me. That's good for them, bad for mommy.

I'm looking forward to some good exchange here.

Thanks,

For now. . .