There’s awkwardness and uncertainty that comes with growing up. You feel clumsy, uncoordinated, anxiety ridden and sometimes ugly (depending on your style preferences). And in a strange dichotomy of existence, this happens while we are children, and it reappears once we grow into adulthood. I guess there’s really no beginning or end to the tumultuous path of growth. It’s just buried at times while we’re preoccupied with other aspects of life.

And while it would be easy to blame other factors on this struggle to grow, we’re at the helm of the ship navigating through these stormy times. Even as a child, we’re on the journey. It just isn’t as cerebral as it is now. Take Son #2 for example. Here’s a kid that can be purely angelic depending on how the wind blows through his hair. And on other days, being in the same room as him while he melts down like Chernobyl can be one of the most disturbing moments of your life with no terminal ending in sight.

And while painful to be a part of, especially when other witnesses in the room think your child must have some sort of flaming rod up his ass, imagine for a moment that you’re short of three years old. You can’t effectively communicate these new volatile feelings because you know a limited set of vocabulary and are now becoming aware of your existence and the inadequacy of your speech.

Of course you would be pissed the hell off too. But that doesn’t make it any more palatable as a parent.

Son #2 and I don’t spend even close to the same amount of time together as Son #1 and I did at this age. Could be the context of life, could be the fact that I’m jaded by the horror stories I’ve heard about his behavior and attitude from wife. She’s had the unique and enjoyable ‘opportunity’ to be at ground zero with Son #2 in some of his most colorful of dispositions. So the horrors of Son #2 melt downs have become somewhat legendary. And with legend comes self fulfilling prophecy. I hear the stories, feel the pain and embarrassment, and know I won’t be tolerant of it so I choose to not put myself in those positions.

So, I’m afraid to take him places and this feeds the cycle of spending limited time together. In August, I took both boys to the Museum of Flight. I almost didn’t take Son #2 because it was near lunch time. And because he’s on a hunger strike against lunch and having low blood sugar turns him into an angry honey badger, I kind of felt that this was the recipe for a catastrophic failure on the order of a star imploding in outer space. The funny thing is that the reputation far exceeds the reality. Results in public with Son #2 are generally quite pleasing as long as he gets to sit in the shopping cart, get a pretzel and a slurpee, carry toys that won’t be purchased and not wear a jacket in the rain. The heightened awareness is the awkwardness we get to experience as a parent just waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop with our high maintenance kids.


You’d think I’d get it; and I do. I’m pretty high maintenance. I get a little worked up over things. Now, I’m not so stubborn that I need to ride in a shopping cart and have pretzel fed to me. I suppose I just hate the fact that I get it. We’re pretty similar. I’m learning to be more tolerant with the outbursts and finding out that it’s only a phase and the payoff in getting is super rewarding.

Playing together is becoming more imaginative and I actually get to be involved. Before, I would sit and watch, not participate, and wait for guidance which would never come. Some of that was due to me being apprehensive and not knowing how to manage his ordered style of play. And some of it was him telling me not to touch his toys. But now, there’s the guidance like, “Dad, you use Tow Mater and I use Ightning.” (That’s Lightning for people who can’t speak Son #2’s incomprehensible dialect) But more importantly, there’s the joy of cooperative play and imagination where we both enjoy creating our story.


Conversations are becoming more fun too. While some things are indiscernible, other stories and diatribes are quite colorfully driven with irrelevance and poor grammar. Some of his latest blurbs of incoherence include the following. And truly comprehend the lunacy of the talk, I have added context around how things were said:

While wearing toy-protective goggles so innocently called ‘swim goggles,’ Son #2 ran laps around the living room of our home making splashing noises. After one not-so-unique lap, he places a cup to his ear and utters, “I hear the ocean!” then continues to run/swim.

On a short drive to his grandparents’ house, we quickly passed by a rather small murky pond. Son #2 announces his observation in an authoritative matter, “Alligators in the pond!” Eager to learn more and understand how this conclusion was reach we ask how he knows. And without pause or moment of introspection he retorts, “I heard them splash.” But it doesn’t end there. He continues to explain, “Dolphins too. I heard them splash.” I think we may need to discuss hunting and escaping with our youngest.

Son #2 also likes to weigh with his opinion on food products. On another trip to his grandparents’ house, a small field which once had several large turkeys is now noticeably empty. Spoken like a true Pilgrim, he tells us, “The turkeys are gone. They’re now in turkey sandwiches!” He must have an penchant for fowl. Unlike his older brother, he’s firmly cognizant of the correlation between chickens which cluck and those that have been deep fried. In what can only be described as a Neanderthal-like commentary, Son #2 advised his mother on his poultry philosophy by saying, “I eat those chickens up like this, chomp chomp chomp.”


So life is awkward for both of us. But the comedy along the way makes up for the anxiety that is prematurely cast on life. He’s learning to be a passionate little boy and express himself. I’m learning to be his uncomfortably awkward and involved father.

Anyone that knows me knows that I take my automotive obsessions quite seriously. Meticulous cleaning, detailing, and customization. I also have two young children who suffer from the inability to successfully navigate processed food products in to their mouths while partaking in vehicular transport. With the context laid, it’s no surprise that I wrestle with the awareness of one of our cars, which is the predominant mode of transportation for the kids, resembling a mobile processed food delivery device.

To be fair, the kids need to eat and more often than not you’re in motion to and from some nondescript retail or grocery store or soccer practice. Therefore, it’s easy to stop at the nearest cholesterol castle surrounded by a moat of saturated fat for a quick heartache happymeal. In a recent turn of events, Son #2 has been vehemently resisting crispy chicken in lieu of French fries. He’ll sort through the chicken and toss the undesirable fried poultry bits to the floor in a quest to uncover the golden potato treasures like a desperate archaeologist.

But Son #2 isn’t alone in his automotive inconsideration. Son #1, while he loves chicken with the crust and tots, he has a severe disregard for accuracy in consumption and even less for food stowage. And this entry is about him.


As with many things in life, you learn to fight the winnable battles unless you have a sadistic desire to constantly beat your skull against a brick wall. I’m learning that no matter how much I ‘suggest’ the need for cleanliness of the vehicle and the lack of the fried mystery meat product aroma and caffeinated brew stains, my meager voice goes unheard. As a matter of fact, my requests are creatively twisted into song or elaborate story by Son #1.

The other night after soccer practice, we needed to provide sustenance to the youth of the family and stopped at a ubiquitous comfort food capital for deep fried goodness. And as predictable as rain in Seattle, Son #2 removed the poultry products from his tray, tossed them to the floor, and went about ingesting his French fries. Likewise, Son #1, because he must dance while he eats, performed his best imitation of what a small tornado would look like inside of Carl’s Jr. if both were trapped in my wife’s backseat.

Knowing my aversion to food ‘tossage’ on floor mats, you can imagine my dismay in what was next. Eloquently and calmly, I explain to Son #1 that French fries do not belong on the floor of the car. In an equally eloquent and oh-so sincere response, I’m told that there are ‘only’ 30,000 French fries on the floor. And in fact, food objects such as French fries will make cars jump better. Son #1 continues to explain that the 30,000 fries will make my wife’s car jump 30,000 feet. A pretty bold claim, if you ask me. For the mathematically inclined, it seems there’s a linear relationship between the quantity of French fries residing on one’s floormats and the distance which that vehicle can be propelled through the air.

Son #1’s concept is fatally flawed in several areas. Let’s do some simple math here to dispel this claim:

One order of medium French fries at a leading fast food establishment is approximately 40 fries.

Therefore, 30,000 fries would equal 750 orders of fries (30,000/40 = 750).

Statistically, the average French fry is 4-inches in length. If we assume that each fry is on average 1/4-inches x 1/4-inches square, we find that the average volume of a single French fry is 1/4 cubic-inch 1/4*1/4*4 = 1/4).

So, the total volume of 750 orders of French fries with 40 fries per order is 7,500 cubic-inches (750*1/4*40 = 7,500).

This is 4.34 cubic-feet of French fries.

The average mid-sized sedan has approximately 100 cubic-feet of interior volume which is roughly a 60/40 split between front and rear areas. That means 40 cubic-feet of interior space is in the backseat.

Densely packed, the total quantity of fries would take up over 10% of the backseat volume. It’s safe to say that none of us would pack efficiently when it came to French fries. Therefore, we can safely say that this would be a loosely packed volume of 20%. No room for much else.

Despite being moderately intriguing to fill a mid sized car with fries, I find that this increased volume usage has nothing to do with the ability of a vehicle to propel itself into the air.

Let’s talk additional weight instead.

One medium order of fries weighs approximately 5.5 ounces. Taking our earlier calculation of 750 orders, we find that the total quantity of fried goodness weighs 4,125-oz which is about 258-lbs (750*5.5 = 4,125).

Automotive performance can be measure by many metrics. But when it comes to jumping a vehicle into the air, I can’t imagine one more important than the power-to-weight ratio.

The typical mid-sized sedan doesn’t possess a jaw-dropping power-to-weight ratio. I don’t think I can jump over Long Beach harbor in a Honda Accord. Already being at a power-to-weight disadvantage, adding an additional 258 pounds will only erode any slight performance the automobile had to begin with.

Let’s assume the average mid-sized car weighs 3,200-lbs. and has 250HP. That means the average mid-sized car has a power-to-weight ration of 0.08HP/lbs. (250/3,200 = 0.08). Not great.

Add 258-lbs. to that which is approximately 8% weight growth and you get a P/W ratio of 0.07HP/lbs. (250/(3200+258) = 0.07).

The lower the P/W ratio, the worse the performance. No mid-sized car is jumping farther with 8% weigh growth.

What about that distance of 30,000-feet?

30,000-feet is approximately 5.68-miles and I’m fairly certain that the record for jumping a car with even one fry is significantly shorter than this distance. In fact, Travis Pastrana set a world a year ago for jumping his Subaru 274-feet. Do I really need to do the math here?

I will. 30,000-feet is a 10,850% increase over a documented world record automobile jump.

While my theorems and attack at Son #1’s stunt credibility may not be thorough enough to win Nobel Prize for scientific discovery, I’m fairly certain based on applied mathematics here that 30,000 fried potato products would severely limit the airborne capabilities of a mid-sized passenger vehicle and it couldn’t jump 30,000-feet.

Deep-fried performance improvements: none. Stories: large. Fries: many. Got to love Son #1 for trying!

When you’re a dad of two infinitely energetic and overly dramatic boys, married to your best friend, work for the man in a pressure chamber, and overcome by your own immature obsessions of bikes and skateboards, your days tend to be overrun with unavoidable obligations, a latitude of challenges, and an unfortunate lack of personal introspection.

So when the tumblers of life’s complicated lock line up and reveal the happiness behind the door of obligation, it’s important to carve out the time to pen down the appropriateness of the enlightened moment so you can remember just how beautiful life is.


The theme of the last few months can easily be summarized in one word; compromise. There’s been a lot with the move, the job, the obligations, the changes, and the drama.

On paper, today looked like it was going to be absent of obligations. It was the first day in some time where we didn’t have to go somewhere and do something for someone. So waking up this morning (Saturday), I greeted the day with a cautious optimism. Was it too good to be true? Nope. It lived up to its billing and then some.


It was a day where I really lived up to my 'age' (sort of, but not really).

I started out the day with an early ride at the freeride park to get a fix on my insatiable need for big air and mud. I guess I’m kind of elemental that way. It was great day of rocking a big ass step down and styling over a hip. I headed home after the ride to be greeted by the boys. I grabbed a cold refreshing beer and Son #1 and I plopped our narrow bottoms down on the couch and played some Lego Batman on Wii. After we led the Dark Knight through multiple levels of righting Gotham City, we had a little lunch. Peanut butter jelly sandwiches and BBQ chips for everyone. Gourmet-style which means we served them on plates with napkins.


Son #2 dropped off the radar during nap time, Son #1 got some TV time, and my wife and I were able to grab a moment of ‘clarity’ between the hot laps of the boys around coffee table. Son #1 was disturbed by the peace in the house so we chose to break that up with some entertainment. By way of the evil conglomerate Comcast, we were able to sit at watch the finely produced and surely award winning movie, Alvin and the Chipmunks. In requirements defined by the great authority of parenting, my wife and I each enjoyed a cold adult beverage during the flick. Believe me, it was needed. But Son #1 loved the movie.

And then Son #2 got up from his nap and it was time to run some more. Our plan was to BBQ for dinner but the laziness of the day and the effects of energetic children and alcohol have a slowing effect on a person. So instead, dinner was the vitamin and mineral enriched solution of chili cheese fries and buffalo chicken.

After some more laps around the living room, the boys were promptly shoved into their pajamas and tucked into their beds. The day was coming to an end, so my wife and I grabbed another beer and enjoyed the last few hours together in front of the television. Apparently, it was 'my choice' in entertainment but I didn’t have the remote control. Despite that, we ended up being sucked into our typical Saturday routine of catching up on the supernatural and bloodsucking population of Bon Temps, Louisiana.

Now if I could have only snuck in some skateboarding, this might have been one of the best days ever on record. Well, maybe not to that degree. My wedding and the boys’ births were pretty big too. But this was a much needed day in the overall scheme of things. The day wasn’t totally without drama though.


For example, after we were done watching the academy award winning Alvin and the Chipmunk, we decided to eat 'healthy' and have more beer and kettle chips. Son #1, minus the beer, had some chips. As my wife passed him a chip, by some turn of events, he got some salt, pepper, or a finger in his eye. Now Son #1 has a flare for the dramatic. I'd estimate that all of the Seafair-goers in a ten mile radious could hear the screams of terror from this eye-jammie over the roar of the hydroplanes. And then there’s Son #2 who can neither be out done by his older brother nor let his older brother have a toy that he wants. After several screaming sessions and the resulting time outs, he figured out that he can’t have the Grave Digger monster truck and he should settle for Outlaw.


That was our great day. Sure, I was responsible some of the time. But we got to act like kids and still be parents. I'm grateful that I’ve never really grown up after all of these years. Hell, neither has my wife and that's why we work so well together. I’m completely comfortable with the fact that I’ve never really grown up. I still like skateboards, bikes, dumb kids movies, and beer. No one should take themselves so seriously that they lose track of that inner adolescent inside. I love being a 12 year old.

When you spend the majority of your conscious day working for the man, you look forward to the solace of your own abode and the compassion of your family unit. It’s easy to lose sight of the comings and goings and daily happenings around the house when you are chained to a desk. It’s no different in my house. Coming home from the office always presents and interesting set of daily circumstances. Will I lose my patience with a driver who seems to have lost his or her ever-loving mind? Will I speed down a suburban street ‘above’ the speed limit only to have a local yahoo on a motorcycle chase me to my house, pound on my front door, and scold my wife in to lecturing me about posted speed limits? Or, will I enter the house only to hear the siren-like screaming of children being firmly, but parentally, accosted by their mother for the latest in disorderly conduct?

Typically, it is the latter of the list above.

I like dinner. My kids like dinner. My wife, I think, likes dinner. The problems lie on both sides of the dinner equation. For the parents, it’s the patience required to prepare the dinner. On the kids’ side, it’s the patience required to wait for the dinner to be prepared and the ability to outlast the parents when the dinner is not to their expectations. The stage has been set, dinner is on the table, now for the drama.

Son #2 used to eat everything we put in front of him. If you recall from previous posts, he skipped the bottle and baby food phases of development. He likes adult sustenance. Well, he did until recently. Son #2 believes, or at least I’m interpreting the screams as this, that it’s his God given right to eat cupcakes and crackers for dinner. He used to like meat and veggies. Now, it’s fish crackers and confectionary goodness followed by a glass of soy milk. Unfortunately for him, and my ears, this isn’t an acceptable meal. Let the screaming and arm waving begin.



Son #1 is a different breed. He has developed a liking for certain food products. And by that, I mean two specific items. The first being French fries, nondescript fried potato goodness. They can be crinkle cut, shoe strings, or tater tots. The second food of preference is chicken of the crispy outer covering variety. According to Son #1, this is how chicken naturally occurs in the universe. Apparently, we have visited KFC a few too many times. No matter how many times I try to explain that chicken exists in many other forms, some much more healthfully than others, he denies my culinary claims.



We don’t eat cupcakes and crispy chicken every night so you can tell there are 'disagreements' at the dinner table.

Because of such differences in opinion and the heated conversations which occur while seated at our table, I’ve devised a way to make this experience much more enjoyable. A drinking game.

Each time that Son #2 throws a veggie on the floor, points toward the cookie dish, and exclaims, “Cup,” we drink. Each time Son #1 asks the food related question, “Have I had this type of chicken before?” we truthfully answer, “Yes,” and he then retorts with an enthusiastic, “No I haven’t!” we drink. It functions on the same premise of the Sarah Palin drinking game. Each time she utters the word “maverick” a player takes a swig. Simple rules, just like Palin, for a simple game.

An unsuccessful dinner will ALWAYS lead to a successful drunk. Feel free to modify these rules to fit your household.

In all seriousness, we have defiance and crying at the dinner table. And typically, it comes from all four members of my family. Have we have created a little bit of this defiance and reactionary behavior by the way we portray ourselves? There’s a little nature here where the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But I think nurture might be heavily outweighing it in this instance. I’ve been thinking lately about how much children attempt to emulate their parents.

Think about it. How many times have you watch little Johnny pick up the phone, place it to his ear, and pretend to talk? We all think that it’s cute. Son #2 does it and we pretend he is calling his grandmother. But the reality is that he learned this from observing us. Why would dinner behavior be any different? I’m concerned that when we discipline our children, we raise our voices, especially if at first shot they don’t listen. They’re learning that it’s acceptable to raise their voices. I can’t help but wonder, are we raising our voices too often at our children? At times during dinner, it feels like it’s a no win game.

Most times, dinner is full of humor. It’s the occasional circumstance like the other night which paints a negative picture. Arguing about eating, timeouts, and early bed times are sometimes necessary but still sting afterward just the same. I love my two boys and need to remember to reflect back on my resolutions as well as how I like to be treated as a person and project that on to them.

Until then, the drinking game is a great idea. Here's to college and everything I learned there. Bottoms up!