Not “the sticks” but some sticks. Did I mention I hate sticks too?
I hate chores! There I said it. Go ahead, preach to me about the importance of learning responsibility and the importance of hard work. Preach on. Just know, no preachment will make me stop hating chores.
While I am sure that there isn’t a person in the world that loved chores as a child, I assure you I have legitimate reasons for my antipathy for scutwork. Sure, I remember doing the typical “cut the lawn” or “feed the dog”. I also remember being asked to go into the woods and pick up sticks. GO INTO THE WOODS AND PICK UP STICKS!!! What is that all about? If I can think of any place sticks SHOULD be, it is in the woods. So, I spent most of my childhood believing that sticks did not indeed belong in the woods, but instead were more appropriately placed in a brush pile in the rear of our lot, two hundred yards away from the location from which they were plucked. I HATE CHORES… Get the picture? Continue reading
If you are a parent, then you are likely working very hard to raise “good kids”. From the earliest day you can remember, you have probably tried to mold your child into one with strong morals and a sense of what is right and what is wrong. After all, isn’t that our job as parents?
I know I have tried every method in the book, or books, to try to get my children to understand the importance of making good choices and not being “bad”. All I ever want is for my children to grow up as good, moral, honest and upright citizens, ready to make a good and honest living and raise good and honest kids of their own. But what I have discovered is that I am going about it all wrong.
As a Christian father, it is not my job to raise my children to be good, moral, honest and upright citizens. I am not saying that I don’t want my children to to be good, moral and honest. Truly I want that very much. The truth is however that anyone, from any faith, religion, creed, race or gender can raise children to live by a certain moral code. As a follower of Christ, I am not supposed to raise good children. The truth is that nothing I can do will ever make them good. Continue reading
Actual “Toothpaste Shirt” from one of my own kids… Not saying who!
Every Wednesday my son gets assigned a book to read. Every Wednesday he sits on my lap and reads the book to me. Since he is only six, the books are very short and not particularly difficult to read. So, we are not talking about Tolstoy or Voltaire (nothing that enlightening), but more like your run of the mill “see Dick run”. Now, I know that the books will not be particularly riveting or life changing, but I do expect them to be at least slightly accurate. This week’s book is a fantastic read called “Abigail’s Day”Let me recap a bit of it for you:
Good morning Abigail. It is 7:00 and time to get out of bed. I know you are hungry Abigail. It is 7:30 and time for breakfast. It is time for school Abigail. The bell rings at 8:00.
Let me stop there. The book goes on to recap the rest of her day, which is fairly realistic. Abigails morning routine however is balderdash. Seriously though, in what kind of alternate reality does a six year old child wake up, eat breakfast and arrive at school all within an hour’s time? I am upset! I am not sure whether to take the book outside and burn it or rewrite it, and send the “revised edition” back to school with my son. I know, I will choose the latter. It is time to set the record straight. Perhaps this rewrite will sure up any inaccuracies in this grossly and inappropriate faulty text. Continue reading
I want to be just like my daddy.
Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God. Ephesians 5:1-2
I’m often told by those who knew me as a child that my son is an exact replica of me at that age. I see the resemblance as well, and oddly enough so does my son. Just recently, with my son sitting in my lap, I was looking through some old photos from my childhood. My son saw a photo of me sitting on Santa’s lap and insisted that it was him. Had I not known any better, I would have been inclined to agree with him, but it wasn’t him. It was me. Continue reading