In 1988 I traveled with my buddy, Mike, to Europe for three months after graduating from college. We hitched around the West coast of Ireland and spent the night in a tent on the beach close to a little village. The next morning we got up early and hiked for several miles, and if memory serves, finally ended up waving down a bus and getting a lift to Dublin. In any case, this picture was taken that morning as we were hiking away from the village. My artist father, Cal Capener, recently painted my photograph and here it is. An excellent rendering of that little cottage.

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I sat at my desk at work looking at the pictures of this horrific tragedy on my computer, and openly wept. The poor little angels... 20 little kids, shot by a gunman up close. The principal and five other adults - killed. As a parent and as an educator this is positively the worst crime. To attack little innocents... To take away their futures. To cause so much pain to so many loved ones. As a parent I worry constantly about the safety of my children; about kidnappers and crazies with guns. We leave the house in the morning to work assuming that our children are safe at school and that we'll see them after work. Life is so tenuous and precious. It reminds me to appreciate every day and hug my kids. My kids are my life and my purpose. Without them, there would be no point. My heart goes out to those poor parents who will have to live with this horrible pain for the remainder of their lives. To look at those empty rooms and the un-opened presents under the tree. How many young lives will have to be lost before we can have sensible gun laws. Why a lobby has more power than the will of the people. Why a few gun enthusiasts win the debate about the need to have semi-automatics in this country. I support the 2nd amendment but nowhere does it say that average citizens can have semi-automatic weapons. No hunter needs one. No one needs one. Crazies might always get guns, but without semi-automatic weapons, the death tolls will never be so high. As a society, we must decide what we value. Do we value the safety of our children or the right for someone to have a rifle that fires numerous bullets within a minute. I heard yesterday that we lose 15,000 lives to gun violence each year. Can we not at least limit semi-automatics in the name of communal safety? I'm disgusted and so saddened. We must do something and we need leaders who will take this on.

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Tonight, Nate played his last game of the season. The boys have been losing all of their recent games by multiple points. Tonight, they all played really well together and Nate scored the winning goal! It was a corner kick and Nate kneed it in. I'm so proud of him. He's become a fine soccer player - always contributing, always making a difference. Goals are rare, and tonight, he made a very important one. The score was 1-0.

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Marcus' babysitter asked him the other day, "And what does your dad do again?" Without skipping a beat he replied, "He fires people."

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We first noticed that our dog liked to sing when we were having a birthday party and she joined along in the song. Since then, whenever someone sings in the house, she does too.

Today we were driving to get our Christmas tree at a farm and we started singing Christmas carols in the car, and so did the dog. She loves to sing and I truly think she believes she is a child. She sure acts like one.

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I hate my cat... and I think she's mental.

Every morning this skinny creature invades my sleep. This morning (Saturday) she woke me up at five with her incessent high pitched 'meeew, meew,' right in my ear.

We have this pattern you see. I get up at six and she yells at me and bugs me until I go feed her. Then, I get to her bowl and she always has food. She just wants me to pet her as she eats. When I leave in disgust, she jumps down and starts the process all over again. This is why I'm a kept man.

Readers are probably wondering why I don't leave her in a field (my wife's suggestion) somewhere. I would except I couldn't handle the guilt of abandoning this helpless little crazy being, and enduring the tears of my little girl, who loves her.

So, I go on each morning, following this insane routine.

I have to confess something though. This morning I chased her around the room violently whispering obsenities in the dark and trying to kick her. Will let you know how this turns out.

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Marcus is off the charts. We're dealing with a child who has an adult sense of humor, uses large words correctly in conversations, can play chess, and is beginning to read. In addition to all of that, he's a couple grades ahead in math. What's amazing about all of this is that he's only 5, and he's been this way in many respects, since he was 2. The kid counts by tens. He can add and subtract. He counts higher than any kid in his class and knows about money denominations etc. Jen and I are just amazed and wondering where he came from.

Tonight while I was getting him down to sleep he said, "You know what, Dad?"

"No. What?"

"Knowing yourself is more important than money."

"Really. Where did you hear that?"

"Nowhere. I just thought it."

"Interesting. Tell me what that means. Why is it more important to know yourself?"

"Well, you can die, and money is just for buying things."

"Yes, so your life is more important because you can love and have fun and do things, but money doesn't buy you happiness?"

"Hmm mmm."

"Very cool, Marcus. Have a good sleep, buddy."

On the other side of things, Jen and I are a little concerned about OCD in him. He exhibits some ritual behavior. He's going through a lot right now, and is pretty advanced for his age. It's hard for him to fit in with his peers too. Jen saw him at school playing on the swings by himself recently. She asked him why he wasn't playing with his friends. "They were playing tag. I don't get that game." He also has a lot of fears right now. He's going through a huge growth spurt and Jen and I are just trying to be there to support him. Having a gifted kid is going to bring its challenges, to be sure.

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Nate got his first zit today....Named it alfred.

Marcus created a new word: Shastabollista. It's apparently a projectile, like an arrow being shot out of a cannon or something.

Liese lost two teeth this week. The first one fell down the drain and was lost. She wrote a note to the tooth fairy explaining the situation. She still got two dollars.

The kids captured a hornet today. Named him Harold. They plan to kill him tomorrow. The offending bee is guilty of ... well, being a scary...bee. The sentence is death.

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"Daddy?"

"What's up, sweetie?"

"I'm worried about Mr. Fluffball."

"What's wrong?" (I'm suddenly concerned that our new purchase of one day is sick, or worse...dead? Imagine saving for a bunny for 6 months, getting your dream animal and then having it die on you after one day?)

"He's pooping a lot and I'm worried about him."

"Oh honey," I say with a smile, "let me tell you about bunnies..."

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Mr. Fluffball is a rabbitt, and a new addition to our family.

I fought the whole thing for a long time. But Liese saved her money to buy a cage. Then, she had enough money for the rabbitt.

The last thing I wanted was a rabbitt running around the house. We already have a wild dog and two cats - one of which thinks he owns the place. Now, a bunny???

But when Mr. Fluffball came home, and I saw the joy in my daughter's eyes, I realized that I was mistaken. This little friend is just what my daughter needs. So, welcome to the family, Mr. Fluffball!

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We have this thing. Okay, I have this thing, that whenever I go grocery shopping I always treat myself to something sweet - a schneken. So, which ever one of my children are with me also benefit.

Yesterday, Marcus was the lucky child. As I was picking out fruit and veggies, he was thinking about all the different kinds of donuts or cookies he could get. After I narrowed it down for him, "We're going to get a cookie." (Because those are free to kids), Marcus decided it would be an M&M cookie.

I said, "Well, we'll see. It depends on what kind they have."

Sure enough, when I went over to the cookie platter, they had two with M&M's. I chose the one on the top and gave it to him. "Look," I said. "Just what you wanted!"

Marcus looked at it - his little face, evidently not pleased. "It doesn't have a lot of M&M's."

"Well, no, but that's the one you got, so you should be happy."

He came around enjoyed his first bite. After two more little bites it crumbled and fell onto the floor. I picked it up and blew on it (5 sec rule), but then I looked at the floor. Pretty disgusting.

"Hey, let's go back and ask for another one."

I explained to the lady that the cookie fell and she said, by all means, grab another.

I looked and saw that one cookie with M&M's remained. It was loaded with M&M's! So, Marcus got his wish. Sometimes, things just work out the way you want them. (Anyone who's read The Secret and knows about the Law of Attraction, might suggest this was more than luck.)

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Since we've moved, going to our church is a 45 minute drive away. Not something I'm always up for. So, for the past two weeks we tried out two local churches. The last one was so bad we (my two little one's and I) left 20 minutes into the service.

It was one of those times. You know, the times you realize you make a mistake as soon as you arrive, but you can't do anything about it?

As soon as we sat down, a woman came over to us, put her hand on my shoulder, and said with such glee, "Welcome! Where are you from? It's so good to have you here today." The desperation in her voice was my first red flag. Then, the service started and both pastors were 85 years-old if they were a day! One stood there holding the Bible, his hands shaking as badly as his voice. The first lesson took ten minutes!

My kids were collapsing with boredom onto my lap and complaining - and after only five minutes! This was not good. I too was bored and by now, my eyes were frantically searching for the exits.

The church had 20 in attendance, all white heads, and it smelled like a sarcophagas that hadn't been opened in two thousand years. Finally, I whispered to Marcus, "Say you have to go to the bathroom." (I figured I'd take them to the bathroom and slip out the door and no one would be the wiser.) "What?" he asked.

"Say that you have to go to the bathroom."

"But I don't have to go to the bathroom!" he yelled. Two white heads turned around. Great, cheers, Marcus, I thought. I waited five more minutes and then said, "Oh sure, honey, let's go to the bathroom," and we left, never to return.

Well, this week we were driving our 45 minutes to church and on the way we pass a decrepid old church that looks like something from the Old South. It's still active but it gives me the willies every time I drive by. I always take the opportunity to thank the Lord I don't attend there, every time I drive by. Well, today, Marcus says, "Dadda?" I turn down the music, "Yes, buddy?"

"I never want to go to that old rusty church."

"Ya, me neither. Looks kind of old huh?"

"Yes. Except, no one goes there anymore."

"Well, I think people still do go there."

"No Dadda. Nobody goes there." I think he wanted to drive home the fact that no one attends that church so I wouldn't get it into my head that we should try it out. After all, I subjected him to that other church only a week prior.

"No, son, I suppose no one does."

"Dad, you can turn up the music now."

"Okay, buddy." And we continued our drive. By the way, we had a great inspirational service at our church. Visiting churches sometimes makes you appreciate what you have, doesn't it?

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It's been awhile since I've signed in. A lot going on in my life. I wrote this over my summer vacation in California. The length should make up for a couple entries.

The day started off with such promise. The sky was blue (not something Portlanders take for granted.), we had been camping amid the quiet splendor of the Redwood Forest, and it was a Monday and I was not sitting in some God awful meeting, like normal, doodling and contemplating the varius ways I could excuse myself without being noticed. "Numb Butt Mondays," we call them....

We packed the car after breakfast and headed out for Mendocino, California, to experience the beach and inhale the smells of the salty ocean air mixed with the pungent aroma of Eucyalyptus. It was to be a mere two hour drive. A stroll, really, compared to our big drive from Portland only two days prior.

I turned off Hwy 101 at Garberville for the coast. The sign read, “Fort Bragg,” and my GPS, Stella, was commanding me (because that is her nature) to “Turn right, here. Turn right here!” Maybe it's my imagination, but it seems like Stella loses her patience with me if I neglect to follow her instructions implicitly and without question. She is too assertive, hence her name. I imagine the day when she barks out, “NO, stupid. Turn right, I said. Now you've mucked it all up. Can't you follow a simple command?” Ah, but I digress...

The road less traveled is not always the wisest, dear poet. It was as twisted and unforgiving as an anaconda's. Being of a sound mind and a weak stomach, I turned around after 15 miles, frustrated and cursing my error. How stupid of me, I thought. I never took this road 'back in the day.' I always went to Willits and headed over from there. “I'm not doing this,” I said with alarming authority. But it was too late. The damage had been done. We were almost, and I mean almost off this cursed road when Marcus exclaimed, “I'm having a heart attack!”

Marcus is four. Very articulate, and very expressive. Okay, we'll use the word, dramatic.

“Mommy, I'm having a heart attack. I want the movie off.”

My wife is thinking that he's being dramatic to have his way and change the movie. But, being the good mother that she is, she checks in with him.

“What hurts dear? What's the problem?”

“My stomach.”

Now I get motion sickness as I alluded to earlier. I can't fly in small planes, ride the Tea Cups at Disneyland, or go on the ocean. In fact, I always drive on long trips because I won't be driven and get sick. No sir. So, I follow this four-year-old description of something that has never happened to him “I'm having a heart attack,” and pull over the car.

We pulled over every few minutes for awhile. He didn't throw up, but he was nautious and coughing up spit. Finally, I stood outside with him for a good fifteen minutes while his stomach settled down. We finally made it to Willits for lunch. We took a nice long lunch and allowed his stomach to return to normal. It was a wonderful lunch. A 57 dollar lunch, but a wonderful lunch, nonetheless.

Soon we packed into the car once again and took off for the coast – this time on Hwy 20 from Willits to Fort Bragg. Awesome... or so I thought....

Turns out that Hwy 20, while better than the other road, is still very curvy. Curvy like a woman, curvy, not twisty like a snake.

This road was a serious road with serious drivers. People drive fast on this road. It's actually a driving course for middle-aged wannabe Mario Andredes. It calls out Macho. Only competent men with manly driving ability are allowed. All others are cursed and forced over to the turn outs in shame. Not wanting to risk hurting my manly pride, I drove with skill. I drove over the speed limit. If the sign read 20 mph around the curves, I took them at 30, just to prove to them that I belonged. Still, however, I had 3 cars close behind me. The pressure was mounting. I couldn't pull over

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My four-year-old was standing by the window upstairs looking over at the neighbor's yard. He yelled out, "Hello," and received a "hello" back.

My wife called out to him, "Who are you talking to?"

"Oh, just Joe neighbor."

Now we jokingly always say, "Hi Joe Neighbor!" to one another. The neighbor's got a real kick out of that one.

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The fish bowl was dirty, so I told my son that it needed to be cleaned out soon. The next mornng, his mother helped him clean it, and later that afternoon, my son fed the fish and came downstairs to talk to his mother. She said, "What have you been up to?"

"I just fed my fish, but he's taking a nap."

"A nap?"

"Ya, he's sleeping."

(pause) "How do you know he's sleeping?"

"He's lying on his side."

"Um....dear.... I think your fish might be dead."

"No, I just saw him swimming earlier today."

"Did you see him eat?"

"Well, no..."

The fish was given a buriel at sea ten minutes later. My three children, with drawn faces, watched in quiet as the fish was dumped into the toilet and flushed. Death is never an easy concept, even when it involves a fish.

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"The person who cuts your hair gives you squiggly hair," declares Marcus.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. and he gives me handsome hair."

PAUSE

"And he gives Nate thick hair."

"Yes, I believe you're right," say I.

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"Sometimes I do things on accidentpurpose," said Marcus.

"Accidentpurpose? Do you mean by accident, or on purpose?" I asked.

"I mean by accidentpurpose. It's not by accident and it's not on purpose. It's both."

"Oh, I see..."

"But you can't get arrested...right, Dad?"

"No, I wouldn't think so..."

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I wouldn't normally write on the topic of...well, "breaking wind." Not the typical blog entry or conversation starter. But in this case, I'm compelled to dedicate a brief couple lines to the topic.

I happen to love the age of four. It's one of my favorites. Each of my three children, after they have turned four, have been a constant source of laughter and entertainment. Parenting is hard work, as anyone with a child can relate, but the words and phrases that come from their mouths at this age are priceless and make the whole parenting gig worthwhile.

Seeing the world through a young child's eyes is refreshing and life-affirming, and my youngest always delivers. His current phrase is, "scusemenoproblem"(Excuse me no problem). Every time the child's bottom speaks, he reply's in a low monotone voice, "scusemenoproblem." If in fact, his bottom happens to speak in succession, M will reply, "scusemenoproblem, scusemenoproblem, scusemenoproblem." Of course, I must tell you, that now the whole family has adopted, scusemenoproblem.

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Do you have any idea how difficult it is to feed your children healthy, nutritious food? Having just read, In Defense of Food, and watched, Food Inc., I can tell you it's downright hard, if not nearly impossible. I highly recommend both the book and the movie to all who want to become educated about the food that goes into their bodies. It's very disturbing.

As a result of reading Michael Pollen's, In Defense of Food, Jen and I have changed the way we eat and shop at the store. If, for example, bread isn't made with four ingredients, we don't buy it. We basically shop on the peripherial of the store and avoid the middle aisles, if at all possible. No, we haven't become militant about it. I still like my Doritos or an Oreo every so often. But we are much more careful about what we offer our children and what we put into our own bodies. 1 in 3 children born after 2000 will develop type 2 diabetes. The amount of sugar and high fructose corn syrup going into our kids bodies is off the charts. It pays to be educated and not a victim to the four corporations that control all of the food in this country.

One final note: As someone who loves food, taking some time to prepare fresh, flavorable food, and making time to sit down as a family and share that meal together is what it's all about. Long live delicious, healthy food, quality chocolate, and a fine wine!

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The risk of having an intraverted girl in-between two attention seeking, high energy boys, is that it's far too easy to not pay attention to her. It's not intentional, mind you. It's just that you have this intense male energy always in your face! Don't get me wrong, I love the energy. But I worry about my six-year-old daughter. She's so perceptive and sensitive, and I worry that all of my current actions will end up being discussed at length on some ugly mustard colored couch with a well intentioned therapist -- we'll call him Seymour.

Anyway, to ensure Seymour doesn't get his mental Freudian grips on my daughter's mind, I decided to take action. I sat L down and said, "Would you like to do something just with me?"
She nodded her head yes. "Do you like golf?" To my amazement, she shook her head yes again, but it was too cold outside for that idea. I thought of another idea. "Do you like bowling?" Again, she nodded her head in agreement. "That does it!" I said. "Let's go."

So off we went to the bowling ally. She picked out her pink ball and wobbled over to the line. Her little torso jerked to one side and then jerked back, sending the ball crashing down the lane. It slowly rolled, going from one bumper to the other until it reached the pins, knocking down all but two! "Great shot!" I yelled.

As soon as I picked up my ball, I realized something awful. I had injured my forearm several days before and it hurt to simply hold the ball. But, I couldn't not bowl! Not now! Resolute, I eyed the pins and awkwardly went gliding to the line. As soon as my arm descended with the ball I could feel the shooting pain. I dropped the ball sending it directly into the gutter. My face blanched like Charlie Brown's after an embarrassing moment. When the ball returned, I again sent it in the gutter. I looked at my little girl's face as I walked, deflated and humiliated, and saw the great big grin spread from one cheek to the other. She was just so giddy that she could bowl better than her daddy. Yes, I bowled the worst game of my life. My six-year-old beat me by 20 points! But you know... it's as it should be. How often can a little kid beat their father at anything - for real.

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We sat on the couch, the five of us, silently enjoying the holiday classic, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. A family favorite that for us, always ushers in the Christmas season. Our children, ages ten, six, and three, enjoy it almost as much as their parents! Well, almost.

In the beginning, if you recall, there is a snowman narrator, played by Burl Ives. He tells the story and sings irritating little songs, like "Silver and Gold." Well, Marcus (the three-year-old) watched him intently in the beginning. Didn't say a word. Later, when he popped up again with his umbrella - you know, after one of the scenes with the Bumble (My personal favorite), Marcus said in a very solumn voice, "I hate that fat guy." It broke us all up.

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My wife gets the Victoria's Secret catalogue, and as the holiday season approaches, one seems to come weekly. I usually wait for the kids to go to bed before I take a glance. You know, getting gift ideas for Jen. They have great sweaters and pants. Anyway, one afternoon Jen came and got me. "Come look at your son," she said. I went around the corner and watched my three-year-old boy, intently focused on the almost naked models, carefully turning the pages and saying, "This one wants to kiss me. And this one wants to kiss me."

The next day I was sitting on the couch looking through the magazine. This time, I actually was looking at the sweaters for Christmas presents. Not joking. Anyway, Marcus came up and sat next to me. I turned the page and there were two models in swimsuits, and one model in a bikini with her arms crossed over her breasts. Marcus looked and said, "I like the one without the bra, Daddy." I almost forgot myself and said something like, "Ya, me too," and then my senses came to me. I'm sitting with my three-year-old, checking out beautiful women and commenting on them...

I quickly closed the magazine and said, "Um...okay son, why don't you go play upstairs with your sister." All I could think at that moment was, I'm going to have to have 'The Talk' with this boy before he goes into 1st grade!

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Jen was in a hurry. She and Marcus were dashing to the store to pick up last minute items for Thanksgiving on the evening before, when the inside of the van lighted up, and the piercing siren encompassed their ears. Although the officer was nice and said hello to Marcus, he was frightened by the experience. He is, afterall, only three.

Needless to say, it made quite an impression. The following morning, he followed his mommy around the house, writing her numerous tickets and telling her to slow down. Classic.

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Have you ever had one of those mornings? You know, the kind where you wake up and everything is wrong? The kind where you feel ill but you can't describe it? When I complain of having this kind of malaise, my wife usually says, "Oh, you have your non-specific illness thing again?" That pretty well describes it. My three-year-old son, Marcus, however, has a different way to describes these feelings: Ankle Foot.

About once or twice a week, he'll wake up in a crabby mood. He'll complain about this thing and that thing, and when asked what's wrong, he'll say in a very raspy complainy-kind-of-voice, "I have Ankle Foot...." To which his mother and I exchange humorous glances and respond with something like, "Oh, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?"

So, my Non-specific Illness is his Ankle Foot. From now on, however, I'm changing my term to his. "What's wrong dear?" Jen will ask.

"I don't feel well. I think I'll stay home today."

"Really, what's going on with you?"

"I have Ankle Foot."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?"

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Is there a point in a young man's life when he boldly proclaims to the world, "I'm ready and prepared to be a father. I know what to expect, so bring it on!"? Does anyone receive mentoring or training in this area? Did I miss a lecture in college that covered this stuff, while I was soothing a hangover?

Because it wasn't that way for me...

I was ready and willing yes, but prepared? Oh my God! I had read a couple books, but nothing could have prepared me for the sleepless nights and having to work the next day. Or, how the intimate relationship I had crafted with my wife would be forever changed. Or, how the needs of my new child superseded my own to the point of feeling neglected by my wife. No one taught me that being a father requires a Buddhist monk's training. (Selflessness, living life in the present moment, no sex for extended periods of time, etc.)

No one gave me the tools on how to support my wife through this change and that I needed to be there for her emotionally as well as physically - something I was not prepared for growing up.

No, I had to learn, as I guess most men do, how to be a father one day at a time. I had to learn from making a lot of mistakes and by having numerous arguments.

I remember yelling at my first young child who refused to put his pants on (I think he was three at the time). I was in charge and I needed to be somewhere in five minutes. I explained, very tersely, that he needed to get dressed because Daddy had to be somewhere right now, to which he simply said, in his most defiant voice, "No!" I remember him crying as my anger welled up and frightened him. And I remember the guilt and shame I felt as I held him in my arms and told him I was sorry over and over again.

What model of fatherhood did I have? Mr. Brady, Mr. Cleaver, Mr. Ingalls. They were all great TV dads, but I never saw them deal with what I had to confront. Would Charles Ingalls have yelled at Half Pint the way I yelled at my little Nate? No way. But then, Charles Ingalls didn't have a son who refused to pee and held it for over 24 hours. I'm on the phone with the doctor and he's telling me I have to get him in the bath and force him to pee or bring him into the hospital right away. My son is screaming bloody murder and I'm crying real tears. Luckily he peed, and I remember just being completely emotionally spent. I'm not accustomed to crying.

I now have three children. I love each one more than life itself and I would do anything for them. They are my spring of eternal youth, and my purpose of living. My capacity for love, empathy, and joy has manifested a hundredfold. No longer am I the cold, distant and emotionally unavailable macho drunk of my youth. It continues to be hard, but it's also rewarding in so many ways. At least now, they're all out of diapers and can dress themselves. And now, when my youngest (who's three-years-old) refuses to get his pants on, I just say, fine. I grab some pants and take him naked, crying to the car. By the time we arrive to our destination, he's ready to get his pants on, and my blood pressure hasn't changed.

When my son peed on the floor of the grocery store and got his pants all soaked...I had an extra pair in my jacket. Didn't say a word, just changed his pants and rolled on. "Excuse me?" I say, "Yes, there's a spill on aisle 14. You m

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