Oh, So Close

One of the pleasures of being put out to pasture—I mean being retired—is the time and freedom to read all the pop psychology and relationship articles that come floating across the social media on my computer and phone.  There is a ton of it out there on every subject imaginable.  A recent one that caught my attention was about the six hobbies that point to a man being a “great dad”.  Looked like a challenge to me.  Like any self-proclaimed “parent of the year”, I was curious to see how I stacked up to the author’s premise. 

The writer of the article claims that how a man uses his free time while parenting reflects much about his character and approach to life.  The author stated that if a man had any of the six hobbies that his children were raised by “a truly exceptional man who prioritized quality time, growth, and emotional well-being.”  The guy laid down a gauntlet and dusting off my “World’s Best Dad” trophy and shirt, I rose to the challenge.

 

The first hobby . . . cooking.  I cooked while my children grew up . . . especially when their mother was gone. It was a matter of survival.  They are all still alive.  I could doctor up a box of mac-and-cheese, throw in a frozen pizza, grill cheese sandwiches, scramble some eggs, and even serve some cereal.  I’m not helpless in the kitchen, I am just not the sort of chef the guy was referring to in his article . . . I cooked to survive.  And my children survived.  I was no fancy chef, and I would say that cooking is my favorite thing.  Strike one!

 

Gardening was the second hobby.  Beyond taking care of the lawn and mowing the grass. Gardening is not my bailiwick.  When it comes to gardening . . . planting flowers, vegetables, and what-not . . . that is my wife’s domain.  She plants; I clean up the mess.  It has been that way since the day we married.  Years ago, when the children were starting middle school, it was decided that the family should have a garden.  A family decision.  So, I plowed a plot.  We planted corn, watermelon, pumpkins, zucchini, yellow squash, and tomatoes.  There was great enthusiasm as we planted . . . then—POOF—it disappeared.  The children got busy . . . they got bored . . . discovered that it was work.  No one wanted to water the garden, weed the garden, hoe the garden . . . do any gardening!  In the end the results were dismal . . . a couple of skinny squash, pickle-size zucchini, no tomatoes, one itty bitty watermelon, and a couple of forlorn pumpkins.  What was meant to be a family activity and less in growth, patience, and perseverance became a lesson in swearing.  Thankfully the wife dedicated her focus to flowers after that and my swearing subsided.  Strike two!

 

Hobby three . . . writing poetry.  As a kid I wrote a lot of poetry.  Really bad poetry . . . really bad.  I stumbled across a whole bunch of it recently while cleaning my den.  Thank goodness I was alone.  It was embarrassing.  It has gone off to a better place thanks to the garbage collector.  It’s gone and no one will ever experience that trauma.  But I am not taking a strike on this one.  Even though I wrote terrible poetry, I wrote a lot of other stuff.  Being a minister, one has a tendency to write . . . write lots, especially sermons.  In a 40-year span of ministry I have written a minimum of 2,080 sermons, 480 newsletter columns, countless eulogies, and many wedding devotions.  Since my college days I have enjoyed writing.  The kids know it.  Though it was not poetry, my children saw my love of writing.  This is no strike . . . it’s ball one!

 

For some reason this author thinks that DIY (do it yourself) projects constitute a hobby . . . that DIY teaches skills, problem-solving, creativity, and the importance of perseverance.  This is hobby four.  Again, this is not in my wheelhouse despite my willingness to give anything a shot.  Where others have patience to tear apart, repair, and rebuild . . . I have duct tape, super glue, wire, and garbage.  Do it yourself is torture and the family learned early on that it was best to leave the house when “Dad” had to put something together. Creativity came in the new ways swearing could be done.  The greatest lesson learned is that there are people out there in the world who do these things for a living to keep people like me from losing sanity.  Well worth the money spent.  Strike three!

 

Hobby five was knitting.  I can barely tie my shoes.  Plus, I shouldn’t be around sharp objects.  Knitting looks complicated.  It involves math . . . counting in particular . . . and it goes beyond what I can count with my fingers and toes.  It is too difficult.  I will leave the knitting to those who have the skills, desire, and ability to count beyond 20.  For me it is never going to happen.  If being an exceptional father means having knitting skills . . . well, strike four!

 

Finally, hobby number six is reading!  I love to read!  As our children grew up, we encouraged them to read.  We even let them stay up an extra 30 minutes past bedtime if they were reading.  Our house was filled with books—all sorts of books.  They were piled everywhere.  And in turn they have encouraged their children—our grandchildren—to be readers.  One can never have enough books to read.  Finally, one I can hit out of the ballpark . . . HOME RUN!

 

The final tally takes a little of the shine off my mythic “dad of the year” image I had of myself.  I figured I scored 25 percent on this great scale of extraordinary as a parent.  I guess I was not as special as I thought—cooking, poetry, DIY projects, knitting, and gardening are not my hobbies, not even close.  Thankfully I was saved from being skunked by the fact that I love to read and write. According to this challenge I could probably use some parenting classes.

 

Nowhere in that author’s article were the things I was good at: humor (especially sarcasm), teasing, embarrassing my children in front of their friends, coaching, playing catch, telling “dad jokes”, watching endless sporting and school events, getting thrown out of sporting events, attending concerts and school plays.  There was nothing about encouragement.  Nothing about loving them even when they were unlovable.  Staying by their side when sick.  Not killing them when they did something really (and I mean, really) stupid.  Being present in their celebrations and their heartbreaks.  Being there for them.  Laughing.  Crying.  Loving.  Especially loving.  Always loving.  I think these things go a long way in being an extraordinary parent . . . extraordinary dad.

 

Overall, I think I did okay as a dad.  Could have been better.  Could have been worse.  I am sure that the jury is still out.  I am sure how I am viewed as a father by my children changes as they grow older . . . as they parent their own children.  In the end, all of us who have been parents did and continue to do the best that we can.  We have given our “best and worse” to the ones we love . . . especially our children.  I know I have.  My children still invite me to family gatherings . . . allow me access to my grandchildren.  I do not need some writer telling me what makes an “extraordinary good dad”.  The reward and confirmation has always been in the eyes of my children.  I’ve still got it . . . yup, the older I get the better I was . . . “dad of the year”!    

    

 

The Abuse of DJT

When is enough . . . enough?

He ridicules.

He insults.

He demeans.

He shames.

He isolates.

Name calls.

Intimidates.

Bullies.

Excludes.

Lies.

Threatens . . . physically, emotionally, financially, and spiritually.

He baits.

He gaslights.

He taunts.

He stalks.

He is mean.

He destroys.

 

How much longer should we endure this crap?  How much longer should we, the citizens of the United States of America, put up with this behavior from the highest elected official representing and leading us?  The moral and ethical representative of the nation.  How much longer should we endure this abuse . . . this abuse from our president, Donald J. Trump?

 

That is what it is . . . abuse.  Donald J. Trump is an abuser.  Every day we are slapped in the face and confronted with his abuse.  No one is safe.  No one.  In time he abuses everyone.

 

Trump likes power and control.  Abuse is his tool and weapon to achieve it.  Ever since he entered the political arena we have been witnesses to his unyielding use of the tool of abuse.

 

How often must we be ridiculed and told that we are too stupid to know what is best for us and our nation?  How often must we be demeaned and shamed because we are not dancing to his tune?  Why are we cringing as he isolates us from the rest of the world and ourselves?  Why do we allow him to intimidate, threaten, and taunt us with bullying tactics?  We let him bait us with lies posed as promises only to have the rug pulled from under us—why?  He gaslights us by constantly changing the truth and stories . . . changing history . . . telling us we are wrong and can’t handle the truth.  He stalks us by stealing personal information by changing the voter laws in order to supposedly protect us from the threat of “someone” stealing the elections.  He destroys that which we value and admire—says we have no “taste” only to replace it with gaudiness.  He threatens . . . physically, emotionally, financially, and spiritually daily.  He is mean.

 

He is mean because he loves us . . . loves the United States of America . . . loves its citizens . . . and wants to make it “bigger and better” for everyone.  That is what he tells us.  Looks us right in the yes and tells us that everything he does is because he loves us so much.  As far as he is concerned his abuse is an act of love.

 

Bullshit!

 

It is a play for power and control.

 

It is abuse.  Plain and simple.

 

We need to break this cycle of abuse . . . the sooner, the better.

 

Why? Because this abuse is not normal, acceptable, or healthy . . . it is unhealthy no matter what the president says it is.  We wouldn’t put up with this in our families, why should we put up with it from our president and government?

 

Why? Because we are loveable and loved . . . we are valued . . . we matter.  This abuse destroys our self-esteem because the abuser does not love or value us.  Doesn’t care.  That’s the goal . . . that we deserve the abuse because we are nothing without the abuser.  We are not “losers”.  We are loved and valued deserving better than this abuse.

 

Why? Because he plays us for suckers.  He dangles the “carrot” . . . makes promises . . . flashes signs of hope . . . makes empty attempts at making things up to us.  Pleads with us to give him a “second chance”.  Lies and more lies are what they are.

 

Why? Because he scares us.  Uses fear against us.  Intimidates.  All to keep us in our places.  Tells us we can’t make it without him.  That everyone hates us.  No one would take us.  That is not true.  We have one another, and there are many who are fighting this abuse.  We are not alone.

 

Why? Because this is not a “for better or worse” situation.  Not a “until death we do part” relationship.  Relationships are not built on loyalty tests.  Relationships are built on respect, caring, nurturing, support, understanding . . . on love.  None of which this president provides or represents.

 

It’s not our fault that we must pay the consequence.  That’s what he would want us to believe, but it is not true.  That is gaslighting and he takes no responsibility for anything that he does in creating the hell hole we are mired in.

 

We need to end this abuse now because it is wrong.  It is wrong and if we don’t it will kill us.  Kill us all. Kill us as individuals.  Kill us as a nation.  That is the ultimate end to power and control.  So, when is enough . . . enough?

 

We have suffered enough trauma.  That is what it is—trauma.  This chaotic frenzy has worn us down.  Weakened us.  The fatigue we feel daily is the weight of this abuse . . . this trauma . . . being inflicted upon us by someone or something we thought loved us, cared about us, and wanted the best for us.  He has said it repeatedly.  Instead, we get the short end of the stick.  His actions . . . his abuse . . . speaks louder than his words.  His abuse is killing our nation and us.  The cycle of abuse must be broken.

 

I believe that we feel the fatigue.  Daily.  I believe that we are recognizing the trauma being inflicted, naming it, and claiming its effects upon us.  I believe that we know that we are being abused even if we could not name it.  And we deserve better.  I think that we have reached the point of “enough is enough” with the events of the past week, especially the murder of Renee Good in Minneapolis.  We are tired of the lies . . . intimidation . . . gaslighting . . . bullying . . . the abuse.  Tired of it all.

Then let us speak up . . . speak up for ourselves . . . speak up for others . . . speak up for our nation.  Let’s be the voice that speaks for truth.  Speaks for justice.  Speaks for peace. Speaks for decency.  Speaks for those who have been silenced, incarcerated, and made to disappear.  Let us raise our voices . . . let us protest.  It is our right as citizens.  Promised and protected by our Constitution.  Proclaim that “enough is enough” and that the abuse must end—NOW!

 

Abuse is abuse.  Trump is the manifestation and epitome of abuse.

 

United we stand, divided we fall.  Margaret Mead wrote: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.”  Let’s end this cycle of abuse.

 

Beware the Crocs

 

For years I resisted.  There was no way I was ever going to own and wear a pair of Crocs.  No way!

 

Crocs infiltrated our family as grandchildren began to appear.  These goofy—often referred to as “ugly”—shoes were a novelty . . . a fad . . . a fashion flash in the pan.  They were perfect for non-fashioned sense children.  They were colorful and easy to wear.  Perfect for children.  No sensible, respectable, self-conscious adult would be caught in a pair of Crocs.  Especially me.

 

It wasn’t long before Crocs became a staple in the family with the adults soon sporting them.  They’d laugh when explaining that Crocs were comfortable and convenient.  The perfect shoe to bum around in.  Yet it seemed that most of society looked down upon them and deemed them to be “ugly”.

 

I resisted . . . resisted for years.

 

As you know, curiosity killed the car.  At a family gathering my oldest son offered me a brand-new pair of basic black Crocs.  They were too small for his feet, and they were mine if I wanted them. Of course, I hemmed and hawed around accepting the gift.  Finally, I accepted them at the urging of my grandchildren and adult children. It was a tough decision because it moved me from the realm of ridiculing those who wore them into being one of “them”.  Too embarrassed to jump right into them, I shoved them in my suitcase until a more opportune time would arise for me to don the “ugly” shoes.

 

It was probably a month before I started to wear them in the privacy of my own home.  Wow!  What an experience!  They were comfortable.  They were convenient.  Easy to slip on and off.  They became my “go to” shoes in the evening, on the weekends, around the house and in the yard.  And . . . they were cool.  The first time I wore them around my grandkids my status as an old adult was elevated to the “cool” level in their eyes.  Grandparents take whatever accolades they can get.  Grandchildren are a tough audience.

 

It has been several years since I joined the Croc cult.  That pair of plain black Crocs served me well, but they were past their prime.  Worn out. I started considering getting a new pair, but I am cheap.  But it is one thing to jump into a cult or fad by invitation, and another to forcefully buy oneself in.  So cheap worked for me and I decided to wear them until they disintegrated.  Others may challenge people to pry their fingers off the trigger when they die . . . I was willing to go to the grave with my Crocs.  You’d have to pry them off my cold, dead feet to get me to get rid of them.  Yet I longed for a new pair.  I considered getting knockoffs, but once you have had the best nothing else counts.  Basically, I just longed for a new pair.

 

Christmas morning my wife gifted me and the original culprit—my oldest son—with a pair of bright red (University of Nebraska red) Crocs!  Much flashier than my basic black pair. I am not much of a fashion plate or fan of flashy, but my wife had me . . . bright Nebraska red.  Plus, she threw in a couple of charms to decorate the shores . . . a Nebraska “N” (for knowledge, you know) and several of my favorite Cornhusker sports (volleyball and football) to bling up the shoes. The shoes were way out of my league and comfort zone . . . they were too flashy.

 

I resisted for a day or two before secretly jumping in with two feet.  Biting the bullet, I threw my old black Crocs in the trash and watched the garbage truck haul them away.  A tear streamed down my eyes and cheeks.  I mourned the passing of my black Crocs as I fully plunged into the community and cult of Croc wearers.  It is one thing to wear them to please others when received as a gift, it is another to long for and receiving a second pair.  It is crossing the line and becoming a full-fledged adherent to the cause.  There is no escape.  It is difficult to not notice bright red clog-looking, blingy-looking footwear.  Clown shoes . . . Ronald McDonald style.

 

And that is okay.  As the grandkids say, “I’m cool.”

 

Crocs are pretty cool.  Since their inception in 2002 by three friends who wanted to create a boat shoe, they have become a worldwide billion-dollar business.  They created this Dutch clog inspired shoes to be light weight, gripping soles, that are waterproof, and foot protecting.  Built for land or sea, thus the name “Crocs”.  Since their beginning they have sold over 720 million pairs worldwide.

 

Did you know that on every pair of Crocs there are 13 holes on the top? The purpose is more than aesthetics, but for ventilation.  In 2005 the company bought Jibbitz which creates all those charms that wearers adorn their shoes with to personalize them.

 

In 2026 the company expects to top five billion dollars in sales.  Though they make millions of dollars they donate millions of shoes globally to health care workers through their Crocs Care program.

 

In their first advertising campaign they proclaimed, “Ugly can be beautiful.”  They’ve been running with it ever since.  From the edges of society and fashion sense, Crocs have claimed its place among the human race.  Though I was late to the race, I secured my spot at the Croc table.  Bashfully I admit that I am one of “them”.

 

Though I resisted for years, once I gave those ugly, goofy clown shoes a chance . . . I was hooked.  I have joined the cult.  At my age I may look silly, sporting a bright red blingy pair of Crocs on my feet . . . even cliché . . . but I am content in the comfort they provide my feet.  At my age, if my feet are happy, I am happy.  Besides . . . my grandkids think I am “cool".  Who am I to argue?  Kids know “cool” when they see it even if I think I look like Ronald McDonald. Long live Crocs!