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Are your kids bored? Do they veg-out on the couch all day watching Sponge Bob and Suite Life? Are you bored? Well, get outside already. Soak up the fresh air and vitamin D. And if you need an incentive to get your kids off the sofa try Geocaching (www. geocaching.com) it’s a worldwide scavenger hunt that you and your family are missing out on.
My family’s first Geocache experience was in Orange Hill, Jamaica. We had our driver ferry us around the lush hillsides of the interior island, giving us a glimpse of the real Jamaica, the one outside of the resort. When we finally matched the latitude and longitude of the Geocache’s coordinates with our Tom Tom GPS, we found a butter tub holding a log book and various tchotchke from across the globe.
We signed the log book, took a trinket, left a trinket, (a Chinese coin for a Texas quarter if memory serves) and ate the best curried conch in the Caribbean, standing behind a rum shack with our driver and a handful of locals. Beckham felt like a super spy for finding the treasure and I felt like a Travel Channel star for engineering such a successful excursion. The experience was by far the highlight of our trip.
However, the beautiful thing about geocaching is that you don’t need to travel to an island to join the hunt. Chances are great that you have a multitude of caches hiding in your neighborhood, waiting to be found.
So, if you have a couple of free hours and you’re tired of seeing your kids glued to the tube, go to www.geocaching.com, type in your address and be amazed at the amount of treasure that awaits right outside your door.
Provided you have some sort of GPS device, the service is free. If you don’t have a GPS, pick one up. You can get a basic handheld for around $95.00. Better still, if you have a smart phone, you can download the official Geocaching app for $10.00, and magically turn your phone into a GPS compass.
I think you’ll be surprised by your kid’s willingness to get involved, and it will lead you to remote spots you would have otherwise over looked. Happy Hunting!
Don’t tell your poster child that he’s the smartest boy in the world. Once again, I thought it wise to help build his self confidence. Once again, I was surprised by the unintended consequences.
My intentions were noble, my execution was effective. I wanted my son to think of himself, first and foremost, as a scholar. I knew that when he was a little older I could teach him the meaning of honor, integrity and good sportsmanship. I could teach him to be a good friend, a good son and a good athlete, all by example of course. But I thought if I told him and taught him from day one that he was the smartest boy in the world, well that would be invaluable, right? Right?
No, not right! I’ll tell you what was invaluable, priceless may be the better term, the day the smartest boy in the world came to the inevitable conclusion that he is smarter than his parents.
It has become an infamous day in our house, the day of dissension. Whether sleep deprived or otherwise, we all woke up in a foul mood and Beck chose this day to defy his mother. She had made him his customary nutritious morning meal, while I prepared his school lunch. When she sat it in front of his cherubic face he folded his arms across his chest, snarled his nose and scornfully stated, “I’m not eating that.” The normal “yes you are” and “no I’m nots” were tossed about until my wife lost her patience. Slamming her palm on the kitchen table she laid down the ultimatum, “eat it or eat nothing.”
“I’ll eat nothing then,” the brave lad replied. And before I could stop him, he continued, “You know mom, I’m six years old, I can make my own breakfast now, you’re just too scared to let me use the stove.”
“No Beckham, you’re wrong.” Her exhaustion and anger were palpable. “You are simply not old enough to know how to use it.”
Sadly, he couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. “But you know how to use it, and I’m much smarter than you.” And that was when my wife lost her mind.
Operating as interceptor, I yanked my son up and marched him back into his bedroom. “I’m very disappointed with your behavior, it’s unacceptable,” I told the rhino as he sat crossed leg on his bed. “She is your mother, she knows what is best for you and she knows more than you.”
“No she doesn’t,” He replied. “Yes she does,” I corrected. And then with sweet sadness he looked at me with reality dawning behind his big brown eyes he said, “But dad, I’m the smartest boy in the world.”
Once again, I had failed my son.
Don’t let your son win: The unintended consequences could be devastating. I thought I was building his self confidence by allowing him the occasional victory. In reality, I was feeding a budding superiority complex. On the soccer field, in his mind, we were equals.
Now the boy has a firm grasp on the game. So naturally, I’ve stepped up his home training regimen, not every pass is a good pass these days and wins are far harder to come by. As I’m sure you can imagine that really pissed him off.
To be honest, I wasn’t surprised by his anger. What caught me off guard was the direction. I always knew the day would come, and I always thought he would blame me, disappointed that I had tricked him. Strangely, it never occurred to him to blame me. He thought something was wrong with him. Like somehow overnight he lost the skills that made him a backyard super star.
He wasn’t willing to admit that he wasn’t winning on his own merit. It truly was a devastating shock to his psyche. And that, my fellow parental figures, really pissed me off.
So in light of my recent adoption of reality based parenting, I have a new mission and suggestion: Beat them while you can. Beat them bad and beat them often, while you still can.
Like most boys, my dad was my hero, until 1986. I was 10 years old when Ferris Bueller ripped the title from my dad’s steely grip. My son, however, has replaced me in half that time. Adam Richman, star of the wildly popular (in my house at least) television show Man v. Food, has literally eaten his way into the top spot of my son’s heart.
I am sure that Adam is a great guy, but in my humble opinion, unworthy to be my son’s hero. In fairness, and due to real life, I wouldn’t want Ferris to be my son’s hero either. Drastic measures had to be taken, for the boy’s sake. Of course, I could easily slander Adam; explain to Beck the unattractive consequences of Adam’s gluttonous conquests. But that would be petty, and I’m not a petty man. No, I have to fight fire with fire. I have to burn my way back.
So, under the guise of a weekend getaway, I drove my family to Amarillo, Texas to go camping in Palo Duro Canyon. First stop, Coyote Bluff Café, where last season Mr. Richman devoured “The Burger From Hell”, with its grilled jalapenos and habanero special sauce. I’ll tell you, Hell’s not as sinister as it once was. That, or Shiner Bock has healing properties they don’t advertise to the public. Either way, without much trouble, I stepped back onto my son’s shaky pedestal, side by side with Mr. Man v. Food.
Sadly, I’m not sure if my quick victory is enough to dethrone the king of consumption. Luckily, I’m a small guy and Beckham is not yet aware that most successful competitive eaters are scrawny. I still have him convinced that Adam is much bigger than me and that is why he is able to stuff copious amounts of pizza into his pie hole. Fortunately, Beck sees that as an unfair advantage so he does not base his score upon total consumption.
Indeed, I cannot eat as much, nor can I afford to continually follow Mr. Richman, as his travelling culinary revue crisscrosses our great nation. Again, drastic measures need be taken. We are left with the fire, and I believe a duel is in order, a battle of the burn, just me and the Man, the foodie phenom, the well chronicled carnivore.
Mr. Adam Richman,
I challenge you to a chili burn-off. You pick the place, you pick the peppers. Habaneros, Ghost Chilies, or even the new weird one that English bloke has growing in his local pub, I dare you. I double dare you and I dedicate my imminent victory to all the heroic dads cut down in their prime. Please accept or decline no later than high noon tomorrow, thank you.
Best Regards,
Poster Dad
Did you make a list, mental or physical, of the qualities that you wanted to instill in your kid? Did you study that list and research the best ways to go about the instillation. I didn’t, I wish that I had, but I didn’t. What I did do, arrogantly, was tell myself that I wanted to raise a rhino. I wanted my son to charge through life believing he can run over any obstacle set before him. So, without exploring the traits of a rhino, without even running the word “rhino” through Wikipedia, I named it and claimed it.
Yes, I have indeed raised a rhino. He’s an unstoppable force, leading the charge through his own life, often leaving me and his mom in his wake. He is highly confident in his power, takes pride in his strength, and has a dynamic sense of self. All are qualities of any self-respecting rhino.
In hindsight, however, I should have at least watched a Discovery channel special prior to instillation. There are important rhino questions that I should have considered. Like, what sets a rhino off, what makes him charge? How often do rhinos charge, yearly, weekly, daily? What do they do in the moments after a charge? And, most importantly, what is the best way to prevent a charge? I’m sure National Geographic has these answers. I just didn’t have the forethought to ask.
Now, five years in, I can tell you that, besides being smelly animals, rhinos are determined, persistent and headstrong. Rhinos are completely unable to listen to reason once the charge is on. Rhinos don’t distinguish between play time and battle. Rhinos go all out, all the time. All are qualities of any self-respecting Beckham, and all become extremely annoying to an underprepared poster dad.
My point, if one is needed, is whatever qualities top your list, be prepared for the repercussions. If you want your kid to be a confident, fearless, self starter, be prepared for the inevitable superiority complex and self righteous aggravation that is part and parcel.
My five year old loves to hang out at our local skate park. I have to admit, I think it’s cool too. Beckham is by far the youngest kid out and I’m proud that he is brave enough to mix it up with a crowd that is much older and much more skilled.
Obviously, I’m just an observer. I sit with a rotating crowd on metal bleachers in the shade and listen to the boy’s teasing, name calling, conquest embellishing banter as they come and go. The older kids are foul mouthed, what your dad would probably call punks, but dirty words are still silly words to teenagers, it’s all big bravado.
Most days, like today, I sit and watch and write. Every so often I’m treated to an impressive show. On board, bike, or roller blade, one of the boys will get lucky and land the trick du jour. A chorus of “dude that was awesome” erupts and just as quickly dies out as they all go back to their individual training.
I truly dig that they have accepted my son into the fold. I’m thankful that they teach him tricks that I’m too old to demonstrate. I’m grateful that these kids don’t hold back when I’m around. They don’t whisper, they don’t hide, and they don’t apologize for their vocabulary. They don’t call me sir. They don’t call me anything. I’m simply Beckham’s ride to the park.
They treat and protect Beckham as if he were their little brother. They rib him a bit for being the little one, but I notice that they take pride in his progress. They’re careful not to run him over and they are quick to help him up when he wipes out. They don’t teach Beckham bad things, but they do encourage him to try new things.
If your kids like to roll or ride, I encourage you to take them down to your local park. I think you’ll be surprised by the young punks that hang out there. Beckham is most certainly a more enlightened little dude because of his skater friends.
| Good News: Pessimism is not genetic.
Bad News: Pessimism, it seems, is a doctrine either learned by observation or developed over years of repressed anger. So, my lucky little ball of son-shine goodness did not inherit my dreary outlook on life. He believes, with his whole naïve 5 year old heart, that the community is generally good and helpful and intelligent. I love him for it, I don’t agree or fully understand the concept, but I’m happy that it works for him. Unfortunately, I’m a big influence in his life. For reason unknown, he looks to me for guidance and direction. I wouldn’t recommend it for your kid, but mine is stuck with me. Regardless, I could seriously doom my son to a life of cynicism if I do not keep my inner demons in check, an impossible task in my opinion. Today, it was apparent that my influence is not productive. As my wife and I drove our son to Kindergarten (we both do this every day because we have nothing else better to do at 7:00 in the am) we were stopped by the two armed policemen who act as crosswalk guards and traffic controllers for the school. “God, I hate the cops. They always make us late,” My angelic son lamented from his mobile throne. “Honey,” My wife crooned in her soothing motherly voice as she gave me the evil eye and smoke began to waft out of her ears. “The policemen are there to help your friends walk safely to school,” She continued. “Besides, we are late because we don’t always leave on time. It’s not the policemen’s fault.” As a sign of solidarity, I wholeheartedly agreed with my wife. I even threw a disapproving look to the back seat, for my son’s benefit. Eventually the kids crossed the busy street and the cop waved us on. We pulled up in front of the school and our little man gleefully hoped out of the car. I thought all was well, lesson learned. I was wrong. As soon as the door swung shut on the car, my wife screamed such things that a mother should not scream. Now, I try my best to protect my wife’s virtue, so I will not share her exact words. But, I’ll tell you, I did indeed learn a few lessons this morning. Like, the capacity of my wife’s lungs, as well as, the extent of my ability to tune her out under extreme conditions. |
It seems I’m always striving for something. I strive to be a good dad, I strive to be a good husband, and I strive to be a good human, all with little to no avail. I strive to teach my son to be kind and polite. I hear that he is, when I’m not around. He’s a smart ass to me most of the time. He’s five years old. He gets away with it because he’s cute, it makes me laugh, he reminds me of his mom, and there is no return policy. It’s my fault of course, I’ve let it go on for too long and I don’t know how to flip the switch. My friends say he acts just like me. I say I need new friends, the ones I have don’t know me at all.
One of my son’s little joys of life is getting and receiving mail. He checks it ever day and is sorely disappointed when nothing comes for him. Yesterday, He was disgusted by his findings after flipping through the stack of bills. “I don’t know why you and mom get all the mail,” He told me with the sincerity of a kindergartener. “I’m much more important than you.”
You can’t blame him for his vanity. His mother and I have told him his whole life that he is the most important thing in the world. I’m not sure if we have failed to add, or if he has failed to hear, the “to us” ending of our declaration of devotion.
I don’t know how to break the news to him. So, my question to you is at what age should a parent give their kid a dose of reality. Not too long ago, his mother flipped her lid when I told the boy that everything in life is a competition. I explained that he would compete for scholarships, jobs, and girls among other things. He was two at the time. So what would she think, and what would you think is the appropriate age to tell him that the world at large doesn’t give a shit and doesn’t find him nearly as important as we do?
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