Love in the Time of Neon Friendship Bracelets: A Short Story

Coby walked up the long driveway and saw the group of mixed age adolescents playing a noncompetitive variation of basketball and was instantly annoyed.  Another home group church his parents dragged him to, where he would be forced to interact with socially awkward homeschooled kids and classmates he didn't like. Being a pastor's kid is great during a potluck, being the first to plunge into the unknown casserole dishes, but having to mingle with physically affectionate elders and visit needy parishioners in their boring homes...ugh..."Can't I stay home tonight, Mom?"

"No, people expect our whole family to be there."

Whatever.

But then he saw her.  Did that girl just dribble the ball between her legs, fake a move to her left, while crossing over to her right, and pull up for a three pointer and nail it in the face of a pimpled teenage boy?

That crossover got the Hawks shorts riding up...oh wait
that was just early 90s Hawks short shorts.  

Yes. Yes she did.

"She's good isn't she?" said a voice from behind him.

"Oh, hey Josh, I didn't know you would be here." Josh was in Coby's 5th grade classroom the previous year. He wasn't a friend, per say, but he was alright. Coby never relied on him showing up at church, youth group, or events, because his parents were barely members. "Yeah, she is. How old is she, and how come I've never seen her before?"

"Her name is Misty Lowe. She's twelve and her family just got back from somewhere in Africa. They're missionaries or something."

"She's our age, and can dribble like Tim Hardaway? No way," Coby said disbelievingly, as he scanned her over. She was probably four inches taller than he was. That wasn't uncommon. He was a short 6th grader. A short 6th grader who practiced all day long to impress middle school coaches who cared more about builds rather than skills. Nobody on his teams could dribble between their legs without looking like they were trying way too hard.

"Dude, she is twelve. I've known her all my life. We've been in the same Sunday school classes. Well, when they aren't off playing Columbus. Come on, I'll get us in the game."

I guess this is still cool...for the six miles per gallon it got. 

Coby walked up the long driveway. It was, really, a beautiful house. A huge house, with a brand new 1991 Ford F-350 parked near a detached garage.  There was some huge shop with tractors and machinery. This wasn't just a typical couple in the church. They were power players. Coby instantly felt sorry for his parents. Dad would have to keep this family happy, to keep them tithing regularly.

Coby was going to take it out on their little, precious, overly-talented, tom-boy daughter. He would need his brother's help.

He looked back at their aged Aerostar van. Ben was still inside. Still defiantly playing his Gameboy device, despite Mom and Dad's demands to "join the group tonight."

If Coby felt displaced there, he imaged how his older brother must've felt. At least the kids were playing basketball outside, Coby thought, which might coax Ben out (Ben was pushing for a spot on the varsity team as a Freshman). The two brothers had practiced so many hours outside together that they complemented each other's games, or, maybe, Ben just enhanced Cody's skills.

Hey Ben, they're gunna let us join the game," Coby said excitedly as he pointed up to the group of kids shooting hoops.

Ben reluctantly set down the gaming device and walked up the driveway with his little brother.  He too, saw the oddity on the ball court. The young girl phenom made another difficult shot, but it was her confidence that was really out of place. She was younger than half the kids playing, but she knew she was the best one out there. It was going to be a three person game. Ben looked at his little brother who held an odd grin, and instantly knew why he was asked to play. Ben copied his brother's smile.  His little brother had his first crush. Coby wants to humiliate her on the court...haha...what a middle school way to show her you care, buddy--Ben thought.  

"Coby, remember, these are church kids...no technical fouls, okay kiddo?"

"What? I never..."

"I've seen you when you really want to win...something comes over you...just remember she's a girl?"

"What are you talking about...oh, her?  I didn't even notice..." Coby lied.

"Sure you didn't. Haha."

The group quit the game it was playing when they walked up (apparently Misty's team was blowing out the other team). Most wanted to quit playing altogether, but they were curious how good the pastor's kids were.  The church was quite large, and many like Josh, weren't forced to attend church with their families. They all basically knew each other, but not their athletic abilities.

They shot free-throws for teams. Ben swished the first ball. The group groaned. They now knew there was another talent better than themselves.

Coby bricked his first attempt on purpose, but it hit the back iron and defied physics and bounced into the hoop anyway. Damn. He would have to play opposite his brother.

Less hair (more bullcuts), and more neon colors on our team

To make matters worse, Misty and Josh made it onto his brothers team. He looked at his own team which resembled the Bad News Bears. He hoped the humiliation wouldn't last long.

The game went almost exactly like he predicted. Ben made shots, or assists to Josh and the other wing players. And Misty was just as advertised.

Coby tried all he could to keep it close, but they were taller, faster and more accurate. Routinely, his teammates dribbled off their shoes or let passes slide out of their hands, or threw up air balls. Coby was going to have to individually play like Dominique Wilkins to get his team back into it.

Their defense had relaxed with their large lead, but Misty was still ball hawking. Coby took a pass, and looked into her eyes as she jumped in front of him.  Her hands were all over the place. She was pretty. Not gorgeous, but pretty. She wore no makeup, and her hair was almost identical to Smurfette's feathered swoop...just avoiding falling in her eyes.

She noticed the way Coby was looking at her, and it took her by surprise. She momentarily lowered her guard. It was right then that Coby dribbled past her on the left, darted to the right and attempted a reverse layup (a move he had far from mastered). Out of nowhere, Ben flew through the air and swatted his layup out of bounds.

Ben instantly realized his betrayal. Coby was staring at him with the look of "was that necessary?" to which Ben tried to shrug his shoulders in apology. The both loved competing, and Ben never played down to his brother. Still...

The game was over quickly afterwards. They quit with a final score of 40 - 12,  and it wasn't even that close.  6 of the points on the loser side were scored by Coby, but it was hardly heroic like he imagined.  Misty scored at least as much, if not more.  She also nailed a deep 3 pointer with Coby right in her face.

Disappointed, Coby walked with Josh over to Gatorade cooler filled with actual Gatorades.  Man, Coby thought, these people are rich...who supplies bottled drinks?

"Those teams were hardly fair," Coby said, as all losers do, to Josh.

"I know. It was awesome. It was like 5 on 1. You're teammates stunk. Haha."

"Hey...are you Coby?"  came a voice just as Coby uncapped his orange Gatorade.

It was her.  She was grabbing a grape Gatorade and looking right at him.

"Yeah...I am.  Hi."

"Was that your brother? He's pretty good."

"Oh, uh...yeah. Ben. He's in high school, so it's not really fair for him to play against us, but yeah, he's good," Coby jealously said. Coby felt, like all little brothers do, that he lived under the shadow of his older brother's achievements.

"You both were good. You're the pastor's kids, right?"  She asked.

"Uh, yeah...but don't let that..." He was searching for words of definition beyond his dad's profession. PKs (pastor's kids) were either awkward losers who wore suits in 4th grade or rebellious hellions who tried to advertise their parent's hypocrisy through idiotic antics. He took a swig of the Gatorade..."ugh..." he almost spat. "This tastes like salt water?"

"Ha ha...first time having Gatorade?" She laughed. She smiled at him too long and turned away in embarrassment.

"Yeah, I guess. We're more of a pop family." He sheepishly replied. "Sorry, I should be grateful your family supplied them...thanks."

"This isn't my Gatorade or my house, ha ha. My parents probably would probably be mad if they knew I was drinking it. Water is good enough for the Lowe family, ha ha."

"Oh. Sorry, I guess I thought this was your home." He relaxed his guard. She wasn't a rich girl after all.

Josh noticed what was going on, and like a true kinda-friend, helped his buddy out.  "Wow, you guys are totally weird. Coby why don't you just ask her out, and get this awkward stage over with?"

"What? Shut up Josh." Coby said as he shoved Josh with both hands. He was mortified. So was she.  She excused herself and went back to hang out with her sisters.

Coby knew of other kids his age who were "going out," and never understood it. What a waste of time. Girls are boring. They'd want to pick flowers or talk about clothes.  Although, Misty was different. In the hour he'd known her she was athletic, cocky, funny, cool, and oh, yeah, cute. Just her presence made him evolve from a boy to an adolescent in the course of one lopsided basketball game.

Two hours later, after dinner, a round of capture the flag, and numerous other games, Coby found himself sitting on a patio swing with her. He sat first, and when she casually sat next to him, he took it as a sign from God.

He forced himself to say the words he never thought he'd say. "So, like, um. I was wondering if you'd, I don't know, like, want to go out with me?" His voice almost cracked (like it would all the next year), it was harder than apologizing to his brother when he was the victim.

"What does that mean...going out?" she replied.

Are you kidding me? EVERYONE knows what that means. HOMESCHOOLED KIDS!  Now he had to explain it? This is why he did not want a girlfriend! Except that, this time, he really did.

"Well, uh geez...It means that we are a thing...like a couple."

"Like boyfriend/girlfriend?"

"Yeah, I guess."  This was too much. Courage was leaving his body as fast as sweat.  He needed another Gatorade.

"I'm not allowed to have a boyfriend until I'm 16."

"Oh...never mind, forget it then..."  He felt the instant pangs of rejection.

"But we can just call it going out? Right? Not boyfriend/girlfriend? Cause I'd love to, as long as my dad doesn't know about it."

"Really? I mean, I don't want to get you in trouble or anything..." He tried to downplay his proposal.

"Coby, I said YES."

"Oh cool."  And with that...he had nothing more to say.

They sat there for another 30 minutes watching the sunset and knowing that their parent's meeting was nearing the end. Neither wanted it to end, and yet...they had nothing to talk about.

He wanted to do something. Like hold her hand. That's what kids did, right? It would take more than an electrolyte filled drink to make that move though. So they sat there, inches apart, metamorphosing into different beings that suddenly cared about the other gender, watching the sun set on their childhood.

He wanted to cry when he got in the backseat of the Aerostar that night.  He wasn't sure why.

Mom noticed it immediately.  "What's wrong honey?" She asked.

"Coby's got a girlfriend. Her name is Misty Lowe and she can beat him on the basketball court," Ben said with older sibling glee.

Coby tried to punch Ben, but Ben dodged the wild swing.

"Knock it off, guys" Dad said.

Mom and Dad looked at each other. Great. Now this--they collectively thought. "We've met the Lowe family and they're good people; but we need to talk about this." Mom said.

They never did talk about it, to which Coby was grateful.

---------------------------------

6th grade relationships are hard to maintain, Coby realized, especially when the girl doesn't go to your school. They only saw each other on Sunday mornings and during occasional church gatherings.  It was always awesome, short-lived and ever so bittersweet.  

After a month or so, he did reach for her hand. It was cold and soft and different than anything else he'd ever touched. It was the most amazing feeling in the world for 45 seconds or so, until his hand broke out into spontaneous fountains of perspiration.  He pretended to hear an adult and dropped her hand. He promised to work on his hand holding game like he did his dribbling skills.  

Can we trade back now?

They exchanged neon friendship bracelets and school photos (somehow she got the same smokey gray background even though she wasn't enrolled in a public school).  They played basketball more than they talked. They were fairly even. She won sometimes, and he did about as often. They talked about moves, angles, defenses, professional players, and ways to get better.

This shared love of the game was enough for them. Youth doesn't need complexity or variety. All you can eat pizza is better than a six course meal.  

He thought this was a mutual understanding.  He gave her a rookie basketball card of Clyde Drexler for  Christmas that year, and she gave him a Stüssy brand hooded sweatshirt. Clothes? Were his Quiksilver shirts no longer relevant? She gave it to him at church. She nervously waited outside the boys bathroom with her sisters as he tried it on.  

Comfortable? Hardly. She bought him a boys medium. He was NOT a medium. It was tight everywhere, but especially in the waist. He wasn't fat, but this sweatshirt sure made him feel it. He took it off and went back outside.

Misty and her sisters were obviously disappointed he wasn't wearing it? "What's wrong, did it not fit?" the eldest sister asked.  

"It fits fine. I'm just too hot to wear it." He lied. 

"Oh." Misty said despondently. His white lie being the first fissure to their innocence.  

---------------------------------

It was his classmates that cracked their honor. As with any "relationship" outside the school building, the doubters were plentiful. At first, Coby didn't care. She played on the girl's basketball team even though she didn't attend the school. A few other girls confirmed this (and were jealous of her skills). Still, she was a mythical creature, and even Josh, in a newfound role of schoolyard bully, wouldn't verify her existence.  

My actual 6th grade school photo w/
my girl-friendship bracelets.  

As months turned to seasons, and basketball was abandoned for baseball, Coby was adamant to prove her existing beyond his one school photo.  (The photo had garnered everything from genuine "she's cute" comments, to "woof, she's a dog" from jerks, to "anyone can get one of those photos...doesn't mean she's real.")  

Fed up with their lack of faith, Coby yelled to some especially annoying teammates on his baseball team, "Dude, she's playing third base on that softball field over there!" 

  

"Okay, let's go check her out after practice," said another boy.  

"Yeah, let's do that!" Coby said

He realized his mistake when they got close. She was wearing some old burnt orange sweat pants that clashed with her aqua team jersey. She had, like he should've known, also dove to make routine plays in practice, and so was covered in varying layers of dirt and grass stains. It would've been respected if she was a boy...but he wanted her to look cute...attractive...not like a tomboy.  

"Is that her, Coby? She looks more like a Dusty than a Misty."  

"Yeah, she looks like Pigpen."  

Coby sunk into himself. She was still cute...they were just...jealous. They were just...

"More like Misty Musty Underwear!" said one of the ruder boys to uproarious laughter.  

"Yeah, Misty Musty Underwear!" they repeated as if some creative Shakespearian poet had penned it.  

"Shut up! Shut up you @$$holes!" Coby yelled back at them, as a parent on a neighboring field grimaced at him.  He shoved one of the boys against the fence, and the rest got the hint.  

They backed away victoriously singing Misty Musty Underwear, Ha Ha...

Alone now, Coby flopped down on the lone bleacher and looked out at her.  She came flying in on a bunt play and flipped the ball to first with all the acrobatics of a MLB ballplayer.  Her momentum leading her to a summersault in the dirt. Her teammates cheered her on. She looked up and saw Coby. He smiled and waved. 

Good job. Good job, Misty Musty Underwear.  

She smiled ear to ear. She never looked better, he thought.  

---------------------------------

His hopes were dashed when a 7th grader asked if he liked Musty Underwear on Monday minutes after he got off the bus.  

All day, different jokes were aimed at him. His girlfriend's appearance and the pathetic nickname had gone viral before anyone had any concept of dial-up internet.  

All week he held his head low. He could call her at home and end it, but he'd have to deal with her dad answering the phone....

So Sunday came, and he dreaded what he had to do. He tried to get her alone to say what he had to say.  

Finally, in the garden behind the foyer, they were alone. She had all the anticipation of a girl expecting her first kiss. She hadn't changed one bit. Innocent, sweet, competitive, and cool with whatever happened, she grabbed his hand. It still felt just as electric as the first time.  

"Misty, I don't think you want to hold my hand."  

"Why do you have a cold or something?" 

"No...I umm.  I umm.  I-THINK-WE-SHOULD-BREAK-UP."  He said in one syllable.  

Probably would've been more sincere than how I did it. 

"What? Really? Why...What did I do?"  

"You did nothing, Misty. You did nothing. I'm sorry. I just don't want a girlfriend anymore..."  

Coby ran to the Aerostar that his parents never locked, and did not look back. He shut the sliding door and lay in the back seat sobbing uncontrollably. He loved her, he thought. But he did what he had to do. He couldn't go out with Misty Musty Underwear. After a few minutes of self pity, he did wonder how she was taking it. But he'd never know. She did not come back to church for months. And when she did, she never looked him in the eye. Neither would her sisters or her father.  

What he and Misty had, never existed, they lied.  

He lost more than a first love that day. He had betrayed his feelings because of his reputation. He wasn't true to what he believed, and ultimately defamed his name. He lacked something his father talked about often at home and from the pulpit: integrity.  

Mom figured it out after church, of course. She always knew when something was wrong. Even Ben seemed sympathetic. Dad took them to the corner store and told Coby to get whatever he wanted...even if it was over a dollar. Nobody asked any details.

Coby returned with an orange Gatorade.  It left the familiar bitter taste in his mouth, but he hoped it would replenish something he had lost along the way.   

The Building Blocks of Disillusionment

If you've read my blog before my current long hiatus, you'll know I'm kind of a Lego nerd.  

The photo is too far away to see the suck

Well a few months back, I was visiting family in Bellingham, WA. and walked into a hipster-freindly antique mall.  Even my wife was enjoying herself, which is amazing because she absolutely hates the smell of musty old stuff.  I, on the other hand, love playing pop-culture anthropologist with all the neat stuff from the turn of the 20th century and beyond.  

In the midst of all the refurbished farm equipment and oil and gas signs was a corner filled with toys from my dad's era. I saw a familiar shaped cylinder that I would've swore was Tinker Toys...but no, it was a little known toy called American Plastic Bricks.  

Not Lego, or even K'nex or Kre-O or Mega Bloks, but AMERICAN Plastic Bricks.  

I removed the Mason jar-like lid and inspected the contents. They appeared all there. I gladly paid the eight dollars for this American treasure.  Even my daughters were excited, because they under packed toys for the mini-vacation. Who doesn't like building blocks? 

But it was fool's gold. There was nothing patriotic about these bricks. Unless you consider cheapness, bad engineering and frustration of 1980s Ford and GM vehicles--American ideals, then yes, this was American.

Being the most popular car in Venezuela is like winning "Best Smile" in
a Methadone clinic.  

"These are horrible, Dad," my daughter Lily explained within 30 seconds of me dumping the contents on the table.  

Horrible doesn't begin to describe it. It's as if all the Baby Boomer kids who were pushed into the burgeoning career of plastics but were D-students in plastics college all converged to the American Plastic Brick company.  

Some of the bricks might have been shale; or insect exoskeletons. They disintegrated upon attaching the pieces together. Most wouldn't even snap together...and if they did, they refused to get along or stay together for more than a few seconds. I wonder how many engineering and/or architects learned how to build with this crap? It does, however, possibly, explain my father's remodeling improvisations.

Some businesses, like the American Plastic Brick Co. deserve to go belly-up. Some plastics people are in the wrong field. There are better products, better jobs, out there, so...

"I will make this work, even if I have to Krazy Glue it!"

I'm done teaching. The bricks were stacked against me, and I couldn't force the pieces together even with Krazy Glue. Bad timing, bad engineering, bad schooling, I don't know...I just...I just can't do it anymore. I seemed to be in the wrong place at the right time, but now, for the first time...

I wasn't wanted.

I can understand budget cuts and being low man on the totem pole, and missing application deadlines, and having HR place "pet projects" in my place. But I was always promised something...always told I had a place. Everyone said it was the next retirement, the next opening...etc.   I was like that specialty Lego piece that is really interesting to play with, but only fits one exclusive set.

They did this to me for eight years.  Five years as a temporary part-time teacher, two as a long term substitute, and multiple filling-in-the-gaps during all those stints. I taught everything they asked. Of course my Lego coloring never seemed to fit the set.  Gov't, 7th grade block, Middle school computers class, Freshman English, 6th grade Title Reading...

But last year I was in my corresponding set. Teaching high school English and being the technology coordinator for the building. Everyone said I was doing a fantastic job. For once, I felt like my time had finally come. They had finally looked at the instructions and put me in my proper place.

But like a toddler sibling coming into the room and destroying your Lego models, my teaching world was destroyed overnight. I interviewed. Again. (District policy is that temporary positions are always reopened at the beginning of the next year). They knew my history.  And...and...they gave it to someone else.

Who, ironically, turned them down days later.  I got a district form e-mail telling me I didn't get the job. Like I was some unknown applicant fresh from college.

And the indignation and anger and frustration and pain...after eight years...caused me to break character and voice my opinion on Facebook. I was done. I was done teaching. And I vented some very calculated, but not personal, words on my OWN Facebook page.

But the job was going to reopen, because the hired applicant turned the job down.

But somehow my Facebook post had made it to the eyes of some higher ups (whom I'm not friends with). And this Facebook post proved that I was now "unreliable and untrustworthy," in their words. Two qualities I've spent my entire life trying to prove I am.

I was not granted an interview.  But I was called, that very same day, by HR offering me a long-term sub job at the district alternative school. Like I'm some booty-call teaching idiot. Like they could tell me with one hand that I'm not good enough, but then say, but you are good enough for this...

Teaching is a business, and I am a specialty Lego piece, and they are American Plastic Bricks, and we don't mesh well together. I get that.                      Now.

So now I sit here typing as my wife is in the classroom teaching, and my children are at school, and it's not easy being home, alone.  Education was what I WAS.  I should be in a classroom. And the 5 stages of grief are all there at the same time.  Anger, Denial/Isolation, Depression, Acceptance, and Bargaining.

Hopefully the keys to the house of David
will replace the stress in my shoulders.  

Maybe I'm a cheap plastic brick? Or Maybe I'm a specialty Lego piece? I just haven't found my place yet.

But I will someday.  God closes doors that no man can open.

Now, if only He could help getting one of these book publishing doors open. 

Kids Are Great, They'll Make You Punch Holes in Walls

I get to see this beautiful girl (my niece Eleanor)
almost everyday when I pick up my children from
school.  (My sister and bro-in-law are teachers
 at the small private school).  

Baby eyes.  Those deep, whimsical, adventurous, inquisitive, questioning, trusting, loving, cuddly, light bulbs which illuminate any room they're in. Those intoxicating eyes. They say, "squeeze my leg fat, let me wrap my tiny paw around your finger, and just try and not pick me up: I'm adorable!"

I'm surrounded by the BabyBoom 2.0 in my sphere. All my friends have little Kates, Eleanors, Evelyns, Harrisons, and Oscars in every stage from infant to toddler.  My own children, in comparison, are the wizened ages of eight and six.  Needless to say, these baby parents harass all of us whose uteruses and urethras are still somewhat usable with suggestions like: "Have you guys ever thought about having another ba----?"

Get thee back, Satan!  I said your child had lovely eyes. Not that I want to join the Dharma Initiative, again! I've done my time. I've scaled that mountain. I've slain that dragon. Why?  Why would any parent knowingly coax another into "increasing the fold?"

Because they want you to join in their misery.

Oh yes, those eyes are alluring. They're femme-fatale eyes (the kind that lure you in, and then steal your entire 401K). I love babies. I love them for about five hours. And then the memories come back.

Some people don't have very good memories. They don't remember those years with tiny tots when you realized that 76 consecutive minutes of sleep is enough for REM sleep and four hours total was an "amazing" night. They don't remember how you gave up on looking presentable, and settled for "not-slovenly."  How an uninterrupted shower for fifteen minutes was like being serenaded by an angelic Hawaiian waterfall.  How you just get used to the smell of spit up, old diapers, and butt paste. How sounds at 92 dBs seem normal, and when you walk into a silent room, you actually start getting paranoid...When will the crying begin? How every baby scream makes you think of your baby. How even as a man, you feel like you will lactate out of sympathy for your screaming baby.  And poop. More poop than would fertilize a Latvian farm.

"Oh, Chris, aren't you being a little melodramatic and callous?  Don't you love your children?" 

Emphatically YES. My children are my world. Sometimes I even sing Michael Jackson's We Are the World to my children, just to show them how much I love them. I wouldn't change a THING that has happened to me in regards to my kids.

An "unkempt" morning with dad.  

But that doesn't mean it was easy. They still aren't easy.  Although being 8 and 6 years old vs. 3 and 1 is like doing long division vs. whatever math it was that introduced that horrible concept of the imaginary number i (√-1).  I'm fairly confident in my skills at long division, however that other math class is a blur.

A blur like most parent's memories of their children's infancy.

Let me share my lowest moment of being a dad.

My wife is the theatre teacher/director at the high school we both teach at.  She's incredibly talented; so much so, that I think they keep me around just to keep her happy.

Anyway, during her rehearsal/production months, we as a family go into Defcon 2 (think Cuban Missile Crisis).  She works between 10-14 hour days, and I become almost a single-dad during the school week.  It's usually only for two months out of the year, so we survive (I do however, exhibit elements of PTSD). I'm fairly good at the role by now, (unless you include house cleaning...).

Yet when Lily was not even three, and Nadia was a toddler, it was a different story. Two kids in diapers is litmus test of parenting (especially a single parent), and for two months I waffled between acidic and alkaline...never quite finding normalcy, yet never quite becoming toxic.  Until one night.

Ambitiously I had two items on the stove. Mac N' Cheese for the toddler and me, and some Malt o' Meal for the baby.  Suddenly I heard Lily screaming in the hall.  I ran down the hall to see that she was trying to pull a Little Mermaid toy away from Nadia who was busy slobbering all over it.

It was Lily's favorite toy.  But removing any object from a teething child's mouth is asking for the wail of a dying baboon.  I walked in just as Lily removed the object.  Thus began the crying. Girls have epic wills, and these two sisters knew right then that they would have to prove dominance over the other so that they would always get the hair brush/curler/shower/first car/ before the other.

I don't know how long the crying lasted. I tried to get Lily to see the logic of sharing her Mermaid with her teething sister.  "Logic! I'm THREE! I HAVE NEEDS!" she seemingly said to me. To exert my authority, I removed the toy from Lily, and put it in timeout.  If crying is x, and you add an additional crier y, and they see each other crying the equation looks like this:  x + y + m (mimicry) + d (dad's crying) = Loud decibels (dBs). I picked up Nadia, and tried to console her, but realized she needed a diaper change. I considered giving the Mermaid back to Lily when I heard the fire alarm go off.

Why is it when the fire alarm goes off, it is always during chaos, and it will never shut off with the button. Why is the button so hard to find on fire alarms?  The fire alarm scared my girls who started crying even louder.  (We'll call this part of the equation, chaos (K)).

Bon Appétit!  

The fire alarm went off because BOTH my Malt o'Meal and my Mac N' Cheese were burning. The mush had boiled over the pan and was on fire (451°F)...or burning, or whatever. I removed both pans from the stove and doused the flames/chars of mush residue.  The noodles were done.  I had left them on the stove on simmer (as I often do, to help melt the butter), but without the milk or butter (the step I hadn't made it to yet) the dry noodles decided to chemically bond with the pan, creating carbon (C).

With the alarm temporarily off (it would return like it always does), I went back to change Nadia's diaper.  Lily, realizing that her Mac N' Cheese was now indigestible carbon (C), began crying even louder.  She then informed me that she too, needed a diaper change.

Nadia's diaper was bad. What had I fed them for lunch?  I was complaining about all the poop when I ran out of diaper wipes.  CRAP!

I asked Lily to get me some toilet paper from the bathroom and she returned with two roles.  I grabbed one, and tried to finish the bum cleaning process.  Toddlers love being changed with dry towels (that's sarcasm).  Nadia cried her disapproval of the hygienic process.  I was just about to wet some toilet paper when I looked over at Lily who was trying to wipe her own bare bottom with no sign of her diaper.

"What are you doing!" I frantically yelled.

"I'm helping, Daddy!"

I was not grateful for this attempt at ambitious potty training. "Where is your diaper, Lily?"

"In da hawl (in the hall)."

I smelled the evidence before I saw any sign of it. It was a number 2 (Bilirubin C₃₃H₃₆N₄O₆ and many other waste elements). I heard our dog, Indiana, awaken from his slumber and began a vigorous round of sniffing.  "LILY, DON'T MOVE!"  I quickly finished installing the Huggies on Nadia, and placed her in the playpen (which started another round of crying).

I grabbed the dog before he could digest any waste products and placed him in the garage just as the smoke alarm went off for the second time. BEEP!  BEEP!  BEEP!

"NOT NOW. Please just shut up!"  I pleaded with the inanimate object. It did not heed my request.

Lily hadn't moved.  I scanned the dark rug for any land mines. I didn't see anything. Thank God it's all contained in the diaper, I thought. I went to grab Lily and put her on the changing table, but as I reached down, my left foot slowly submerged into a warm gelatinous substance, pushing it through my toes.  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

"You have to be kidding me!"

I wish it was just bread crumbs.  

I limp hopped through the hall to wash my foot off in the bathroom, but saw that Lily had left her own version of Hansel and Gretel crumbs from her diaper to her present location.  "I'm sick of all this {expletive version of excrement}." And with that, I found the one spot on the hallway wall not covered in baby pictures, and punched the sheet-rock (Gypsum - CaSO4·2H2O) with 1000 lbs. of force (1000ft·lbf), knocking a near perfect six inch hole in the wall.  BEEP!  BEEP! BEEP!

I pulled my white powdered fist out of the wall and instantly felt guilty.  I had lost my temper in the most embarrassing way in front of my children.

"Uh oh...daddy broke da wall. Mommy won't be happy."  Lily said, and started giggling, which made Nadia start laughing as well. The crisis was over (well, except for the cleansing of the poo, and the carpet shampooing).

I left the hole in the wall for three years (although covered up with another kid picture) as a reminder of how close to insanity I veered that night.  For me, the chemical equation of craziness is:

X+Y+M+D(K)(451F)(C)(C₃₃H₃₆N₄O₆) ≠ i (√-1)(401K)(<dBs)(Gypsum - CaSO4·2H2O)(1000ft·lbf)

Thankfully, I've completely forgotten how to balance a chemical equation, so when I see those adorable little baby eyes, I think, "Yeah, this (parenting) could be fun again." (Or maybe not).

My girls now.  (Fairly easy to manage...although attitude
and manipulation are beginning).  

My cute girls back in the day playing a game.  I opted 

not to show the video of them crying uncontrollably.  

With Risk Comes Reward, and Potentially, a Damaged Spinal Cord

No big deal, just an escaping inmate. At least it's not
Nurse Ratched.  She really scared me.  

In 1984, my parents rented a home in downtown Salem which was just a block away from the Oregon State Hospital in which Ken Kesey's novel One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was based (and filmed in).  Because of this proximity, and a fear that a real life Chief, Randall McMurphey, or Nurse Ratched might be lurking nearby, my parents rarely allowed us to loiter in the front yard.  It was one of the few regulations of my freedoms imposed on me by my parents.

Do not interpret that to mean I wasn't disciplined. I've taken many a lickings--deserved most of them-- and yes, I'm still ticking just fine. But as far as risk management goes, my parents let us be kids. We discovered a lot of scientific phenomena, like gravity, Mohs scale of hardness, inertia, chaos theory, and   Kinetic energy just from crashing our bikes.

We were always crashing on our bikes. It was an awesome time. We, like the previous thousands of years of human existence before us, YOLO'd through our childhood without helmets or leashes. We burned, scraped, scuffed, bruised, cried, and dared our way through challenges until our brains hopefully fully developed. Looking back, a helmet might have been a good idea...but I, for one, am glad we didn't use them.



I know there is plenty of evidence to show that bike helmets save lives, I agree. Dead argument. What I'm arguing about is the value of learning derived from taking risks without hundreds of safety precautions in place. Allowing ourselves the possibility to push our boundaries to extremes--and when or if we fail--to feel the risk.

Pain is a great educator. It teaches us our limitations. Sometimes the reward seems greater than the risk: Jump a natural dirt mound, get a few feet of air, then land it successfully? Endorphins flood the brain. If your buddy happened to see it as well?  Even better. Pure, unadulterated happiness.

On the other side of this equation is failure. Mistime the jump, miscalculate the landing, come in too fast or slow? Disaster. Crash and burn--and maybe limp home crying. But most will live to fight another day, maybe with a really cool scar.

Via pain, I learned that being a BMX star was not a logical or realistic goal for myself. I wasn't strong enough, or brave enough to do the complex tricks that we read about in underground magazines (this was before the X-games or youtube videos). My buddy Brain was more athletic on a bike. He could manipulate the frame to look like an extension of his arms or legs in an artful expressions of his imagination. While I was decent rider, I was afraid of air. Or rather, I was afraid of the landing.

Landing brought the cruel reality of science smack into my face. It only took a few face-plants before I learned to value my brain instead of my brawn. I'd rather paint, draw, write, or intellectually discuss the possibilities of jumps and twists and metallic bipedal contraptions disrespecting scientific laws than actually attempt the acts myself.

Of course, there are those who say things like, "No pain, no gain," or "Pain is just weakness leaving the body," and I say, "Your ignorance of biological survival instincts is just intelligence lacking in your body."

I've learned a lot about pain, which is why I tend to try to avoid it now.  I learned from bad relationships what I wanted to avoid in the future.  I learned from getting spanked as a kid that I shouldn't do the acts which got me in trouble in the first place.  I learned from getting punched in the face that fighting was not the life for me. I learned not to antagonize women (the key to happy life, is a happy wife). There are risks that are just unnecessary in life, and there are risks worth taking.

I'm made many mistakes in my youth. I crash and burned, and my momma was always there to patch up my owies.  But she never said, "you're playing too hard," or "I don't like this rough activity," or "Why don't you play something safe, like video games instead?"  No, my mom, my parents, wanted us outside learning from the hard knocks of life.

I have to remember this, because I, like many of my generation tend to overprotect my kids. I hover at the playground, worried that my daughter might break her arm on the monkey-bars again (I was only ten feet away when she did it at age four); or I steer them far away from the campfire, worried they might touch the glowing hot grill. But is this any way to parent? Do we really need to accident proof our children's lives, fearing that they might find harm? Worried that they might actually learn something from pain that is all around the world?

                                    My daughter Lily after breaking her arm: "Mom, you have four eyes!" 

I can't hold my children's hands forever.  They, like I did before, have to get bumps and bruises and find their own way through the gauntlet of life.  We can't be there to catch them every time they fall...but we can be there afterwards to kiss their owies and make them all better.

If we don't let them be kids now, when they are young, they'll grow up and YOLO it up in defiance.  I'd rather they take their licks now, when they are three feet off the ground, than when they're all grown up and the fall is much greater.

The Worst Class in the History of Education

"FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!!!"  The circle of blood thirsty 8th-graders gleefully chanted. 

Two inches from my face, I starred at the menacing chin of my nemesis and class bully, Jeff Dahm; His fists tightly clenched, ready to murder me like the infamous monster he nearly shared a name with.  

I was going to die, and Mr. Wood was nowhere to be found.  

This is the face of evil.
I feel dirty for googling it.  

Only a minute ago, I made a mortal mistake. I stood up for Eric, the smallest kid in the class, when Jeff knocked him off his stool. "Quit it Dahmer!" I believe I said; unsure if the additional syllable would be noticed. It was.  

The gladiatorial circle of classmates had seemingly just appeared, as if they were all T-1000 Terminators, able to shape-shift through the many worktop tables and stools that overpopulated the art-room. Or sharks, smelling blood.  I was trapped, and Mr. Wood was AWOL, again.  

As if he could help me. He couldn't even help himself. His dog and dad had died the summer before, and he should've taken a leave of absence. Instead he put roughly 60% of himself into instructing a middle school elective that the school purposely loaded with"behavior issue" kids. 

I'm not sure If I was behaviorally identified, or actually artistic...I just knew that every day in that class was a test of my survival skills. Like a penal colony, I aligned myself with a group of Megadeth kids (who later probably dealt drugs at the high school) as an act of perseverance. We six weren't the nicest kids, but there were at least ten others who were strategically called to the office before us when something went down on campus.  

Instead of shanks, some kids carried geometry compasses which they used to puncture the bottom of the twenty or so pints of oil based paint that were stored high on a shelf above the back sinks. A rainbow of color urinated from the bottles where it wasted together in an oil spill on the concrete floor.  It took Mr. Woods half the class to realize that hundreds of dollars of classroom supplies had spontaneously combusted. He looked at the bottles and the ground, and had no idea how the "accident" had happened.  Maybe it was the ghost of his father, trying to impart some Hamlet-like advice?   

But it was only our class that haunted Mr. Wood. Almost daily some kid would harmlessly ask "How's your Dad doing, Mr. Wood?" which would send him off to his back room to cry. If he ever caught on to our malignancy, he never showed it. Nobody was ever sent to the principle in Mr. Wood's class. In the 18 week class, he probably broke down and cried 20 different times. Other kids would paint pictures of dogs (they knew he had a black lab) and watch Mr. Wood spiral into himself.  

The class didn't just haunt, they were demonic.  

We did three major ceramic projects, which all ended up shattered in the kiln. Mr. Wood's other class, probably 7th-graders, for some unknown reason started breaking our projects, and in retaliation, we broke all of theirs. How Mr. Wood ever graded these handle-less mugs and 7-piece ash trays, who knows? He kept calling in the district repair guy to get the "temperature" fixed, as it must be over-heating our projects. Really he was the clay, and we were the potter, manipulating him on a daily basis. 

And at some point, he just stopped caring. He would give instructions and disappear for almost a half hour. Can't say I blame the guy. I had joined the fun, early on, but the beginnings of empathy hit me that year, because of that class. I didn't want to go to hell like the rest of my class, and I didn't want to make anyone else feel like hell (more than I already had). 

So when Jeff Dahm knocked Eric to the floor, I had had enough. Enough of Jeff's daily bullying, enough of the hate, enough of the immaturity and impishness. I was taking a stand. And for that, Jeff was going to knock me on my ass.    

I was a small kid. Probably 4' 11" in 8th grade, and my slightly husky 120 pounds contained almost no muscle. Jeff was three inches taller, with linebacker shoulders, and a face that looked chiseled by fists. In comparison, my only previous fight ended in humiliation with kids chanting, "Look, Chris is humping that kid!"  {In my defense, another student, coincidentally named Chris as well, jumped on my back and started punching me in the back of the head (I still don't know why). I managed to throw  him off, pinned his arms beneath my knees, and tried to punch him repeatedly in the face...only I guess it looked like humping. Although in 6th grade I had no idea what humping was. I just knew it was BAD. I refused to go back to class, and cried in the hallway until my teacher, Ms. Wark came out and consoled me (I was partially in love with her)}.  

I don't know how many "FIGHTS!" the kids had chanted--it seemed like forever--when Jeff made the first move. He put his arms up near my face, then pulled them real quick back to his chest, bouncing them off and making a THWUMP sound. How apish? Almost simultaneously he yelled, "What did you say, Plumb?!"  

I didn't say anything. It was surreal. Like I was watching my own funeral.  

He got closer to my face. The circle of hate got tighter. "I asked you what you said to me?!"  

"I...I said QUIT IT DAHM!" I lied.  

"I heard something else, PLUMB!"  

I knew I was going to die. But I couldn't handle his hot nasty breath in my face any longer. I hadn't even been that close to a girl's face yet. I hadn't kissed a girl, and Jeff Dahm was going to kill me, and most likely eat my liver with fava beans. But his breath stank and I panicked and went the only place I knew to go: humor.  

"Well, Jeff...We can do this. You can punch my face into hamburger all you want, but will you please just get your nasty breath out of my face! Your breath reeks! You need a breath mint!" 

The crowd roared with laughter and Jeff staggered, like I had landed a stunning blow.  "Whatever, dude." "You're lucky..." "You're lucky...'cause someday..." And that was it. He pushed his way out of the circle of death, and gave up without a fight. Their laughter--my mockery--had embarrassed him into submission.  

I never was bothered by Jeff Dahm again. I can't say he gave up bullying. He was a jerk the rest of the year. But not to me. And that group of Megadeth kids, imps, future felons of America, and genuinely artistic kids, appreciated what I did that day.  I put Jeff Dahm in his place.  

But I remember it as the day I stood up for Eric and put my foot down on being bullied any longer.  I also remember it as the day I learned that being funny is the greatest protection a guy can have. Who needs weapons when you've got wits.  

-------------------------------------------------------------------

First person to guess the year this took place gets my respect.  

Who Celebrates Middle Age Birthdays?

I'd settle for an explosion half that size.

I'm turning 34 this week and one thing I've realized leading up to this unimportant milestone, is that my life isn't about me anymore.  I keep thinking about what I want for this birthday, and nothing comes to mind. Oh sure, there are things I want: all new furniture, 1000 more square feet in my house, a quad or motorcycle, to legally detonate something large (like my house), liposuction, to get my high school band back together, etc., etc.  But those aren't actual birthday things.  I guess I'm just in a materialistic rut.

Much of that could be the result of my Disneyland trip which made me realize that stuff is expensive, and usually stupid. After the Star Tours ride which exits into a huge Star Wars merchandising store, my wife asked, "Do you want those R2-D2 Mickey ears?" and at first I was like, yeah, those are sweet...but on closer inspection, they were neither cool, nor affordable.  Where would I ever wear them outside Disneyland? Not even Star Wars convention nerds still under heavy orthodontic reconstruction would associate with me if I wore that silly headgear.

Most of my shopping trips start with me looking for something for me, and then end with me buying my daughters some clothing in pink. Seriously. I buy the majority of my girls' wardrobe. The only thing I ever buy for myself anymore is bags of chips.

My wife made me return this?

Why? What's wrong with me?

There was a time when I could spend days in Best Buy finding the best television/stereo combination. I could look through their DVDs/CDs/games for hours. Now I walk by the media bargain bins and say, "Eh...I have this on VHS somewhere in the garage, no need to upgrade because four bucks seems a bit expensive for a Blu-ray."

I know I'm cheap, but currently I'm not finding enjoyment even in the clearance section! My 1/32nd Jewish blood is having an exodus from my body.

I guess I just want an organic experience. No, not a ganga experience (not that we don't have those opportunities in Oregon, with the Oregon Country Fair and Hempfest both just occurring), I want an authentic, non-polyunsaturated, BPA and MSG free, experience.

Here's a partial list of events I'd be okay with:

If this is wrong, I don't want to be right.  

* Being invited to dance on stage with Bruce Springsteen. I'm not a big fan of the Boss, but he still sings and performs well. Courteney Cox made a career out of her opportunity, so why not me?

* Going to the woods, finding a deep and crystal clear  river/ lake/ pond/ reservoir/ stream/ hot spring and then finding an eight foot high rock and belly flopping into the water. I'm not into sadomasochism, but my body needs this.

* Going into the woods with an old Harley Davidson, a Tommy Gun, and 250 empty beer bottles. I'm not sure what I'd do with the Hog and the gun, but I'd fill those bottles with different amounts of water and play a steel drum-like version of Ariel's Under the Sea song.  (Dang Disneyland Ariel ride tune is stuck in my head)

* Wrestle a bear.  I'd prefer the animal to be like 80 bear years old, and hopefully it would be declawed and its teeth rotting out...or better yet; a baby cub.  Put momma bear in a steel cage just next to me as I DDT its cub.  Her roaring rage would give me the endorphins I need to make it through the year.

You're going down, bear! 

* Start a bar fight after my karaoke version of Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline.  I'm not saying I want to be involved in the ruckus, I just want my rendition to be either so emotionally touching or so offensive that it causes violence in the audience.

* Say fifty really inflammatory words to six people I know, then take a time machine back to the time right before I said them.  We passive aggressive people need this opportunity to let our emotions out while still maintaining a grip on reality.  Plus I want to see their face (just briefly) when they hear the truth.

* I want to start a charity like Habitat For Humanity that goes around the United States building mental institutions for internet trolls and conspiracy theorists.

* I want a bona fide spiritual experience. Seriously, no jokes. It's been a long time. I'm tired of being a doubting Thomas about other's "experiences."

* I want to have ten literary agents and six publishers send me an example of their writing so I can hack it up with red pen marks, and hurt their creative feelings.  Then I want to hug them and tell them no hard feelings, it's just business.

* I want to go to Costa Rica, destroy all my personal technology, grow organic coffee beans, and start a news outlet that actually does investigative journalism and reports the news impartially.

* I want to lose 50 lbs., then record ten people saying, "he actually looked better before, I think he looks unhealthy now," then play it back to my rude doctor.

Option #4 is our squash surprise. It
is slowly roasted in the acidic abdomen
 of a free range ape then regurgitated
into a grassy knoll where it is collected
by our team of unemployable hippies.  

* I want to have my taste buds removed so that I can enjoy vegan crap like everyone else in Eugene.

* I want my daughters to marry boys who are so in love with them, that they agree to take my daughter's last name.  That way the Plumb name can live on and I don't have to have any more children.

* I want to join those paintball reenactment groups that redo famous battles. I've a hankering to act out the Battle of Ball's Bluff.  

* I want the energy to do the third round of manuscript proposals, rejections, queries, inquiries, summaries, etc. Or just pay a small sum and have someone else self publish it for me.  (PS vanity presses, a small sum is not in the thousands).

* I want to get tackled in center field of a Mariners game at Safeco Field by overzealous security guards.  

This list could go on forever with my silly fantasies.  Reality is, I just want an experience and not an item for my birthday. I'm tired of items, and I need to live a little.

Disneyland: The Happiest, Capitalist, Place in the World.

Walt Disney's cryrogenically frozen head would thaw in its sleep chamber if he knew what his company was up to.  Charging over $130 dollars a day to attend his theme parks?  The man who once said "the backbone of his business {was to} cater to families," well, sorry, Mr. Disney, I think your vision has been utterly corrupted by Scrooge McDucks.

Don't get me wrong. The Disney company is still one of the most innovative, imaginative, and all-around fun companies in the world. Their recent cartoon movies have exemplified Mr. Disney's ideals of creativity, excellence and quality. I'm never disappointed after leaving the theatre. Likewise, his parks are clean, well presented, well-crafted, and transformative to whatever theme its creators intended.  The newest Cars ride, despite it's multi-hour wait, represents the genius of the Disney company.  When one buys a ticket to Disney, one is not buying a pass to a thrill park, one is paying for a theatrical experience with local fair quality rides.

My princesses, gotta love 'em.  I just wish our time at the park was this happy.  

But that's what one does most at Disneyland. Pays. And waits.

Disneyland sure can create some
ambiance and setting.  

I'm not trying to sound like a grumpy old man. I had some fun. The three minutes of each ride are locked into my visual cortex. Unlike Six Flags or Knott's Berry Farm, the idea of Disneyland is not to make your heart race and your stomach lurch into your esophagus, but to stimulate your eyes and capture your heart.

It works. The antiquated animatronics, and the newer (more believable) robotics have children and parents alike saying, "how'd they do that?"

Well, for starters, they have billions of dollars from those over-priced tickets. There are almost no discounts available for Disneyland. For years, my family on both sides has talked about making the trek to L.A. and enjoying its sunny disposition (with Disneyland being the ultimate goal). Somehow, I, the guy who "winged" his honeymoon, was challenged with the task of coordinating this vacation.  Probably because I'm the guy who always gets a good deal.

In a crummy economy, the only way for lower middle class families to make it is by getting deals. I haven't had a true vacation in five years.  My parents and my wife's parents are both retired and living on Social Security.  My dad gets a tiny sum from being permanently disabled.  We all lumped in our money and had enough for one of those "Costco Disneyland Packages."  Well, enough for one person. We had ten people going.  With no money for airfare or luxury themed hotels, I worked my magic.

The view looking up from the pool.

After 15 hours of internet searching (my wife, actually) found a guy who gave us a vacation home not quite ready for inhabitants. He was hesitant to rent the place because it was still a few months from being "resort" ready. He and his wife were still staging the house with cheap metal Ross decorations and cleaning up minor construction mess when we showed up at the front door.

We forgave the fact that the place smelled like new carpet; that the linoleum floors were both dirty and from the 1970s; that the hot water was scalding (then later shut off); that the old kitchen exhaust fan burned out and made the place smell like melted plastic; that ants infested the house on the third day and cockroaches ran around the pool and patio.  All this was forgivable because we are Oregonians, the pool was wonderful, and well, we were given ample discounts for accepting a home not quite ready for vacationing.

To people used to camping, this was luxury enough.

Disneyland, however, was a whole different experience.  With ten people, and three different families, I figured we could buy multi-day passes and go when we pleased.  It was much more economical to buy the multi-day passes, as a five-day pass is 300 dollars, (or $60 a day) as opposed to $137 for one day.

None of us was ready to go five days. My dad is disabled, my father-in-law has stage four cancer, my mother-in-law has had four knee surgeries, my children are 7 and 5, and I get peevish easily.  Only my wife and sister-in-law would even think they could do five days in the park, as they are self-proclaimed Disney-philes.

I bought six five-day passes, thinking we could share them when we wanted.  I knew they were non-transferable...but we had no intention of selling them.  Little did I know that Disneyland had merged with the NSA.  When the first group of six showed up, we were forced to give our names (which were written down on each pass).  Okay, no big deal, so we pretend to be somebody else on certain days. It's not like they can ask for identification. They did. And then they took photos of us and attached it to each pass, like identification badges. The security was tighter than at an Obama appearance in Omaha, Nebraska.

I spent the first hour inside the park looking at our options on my iPhone. If somebody else tried to use my ticket, and their appearance didn't match my image, they would confiscate the ticket and we would be out hundreds of dollars. Seriously, Disneyland?  I can't share my ticket?  I understand not allowing somebody else to use it the same day (hence the ultraviolet arm stamps), but they couldn't even use one of my other days?  Didn't I pay for five days?  What if I am exhausted after four days?  I can't give my last day to some underprivileged kid at the 7/11?

Nope. Not at Disneyland, where every step outside the park and into California Adventures is monitored by overzealous mall cops.

Grandpa Randy directing Lily towards the next
bumper car accident.  (Note Lily's road rage).  

To Disneyland's credit, they reluctantly exchanged my six five-day passes for ten two-day passes (after I told them my sob story). We lost ten days of park time, and I sucked it up and payed another $400 for these downgraded tickets.  $2100 for ten people to go to Disneyland twice.  I payed less for my first two cars.  I payed less for my wedding (seriously...and it was beautiful).  My father only went on six kiddy rides one day.  My father-in-law left by 5 pm exhausted both days.  Did they get their money's worth?  Absolutely not.  Not to mention that water and soda were both over three dollars, a crappy corn-dog cost seven, and nobody was ever close to being hydrated, full, or able to avoid the sun's oppression.

We did exhaust our little girls.  Gotta get your $100+
dollars worth.  

I did have fun. Well, some. Between blisters and sun burns, and dragging my lethargic little ones around to the next attraction or ride, I constantly wondered how my extended family was doing. The weight of inviting them on an expensive vacation that ended up costing more (for less) weighed heavy on my mind.

So newsflash Disney:  I saw less American families, and more foreigners speaking different languages than I've ever seen at your park.  While there were plenty of Californians there enjoying their discounted passes, there were hardly any other vacationers there from other states.  You've priced your park out of the range of the average family.  Your rides take too long to get on; your rides aren't that thrilling; your food is overpriced and under-portioned; your gift shop prices are extortionist; and there isn't enough places for families to just cool off and relax to get their second wind.

Overcrowding the Bug's Life Teacup ride.  

I knew it would be tiring, hot, and expensive. I knew my children were young, and would slow us down and force us to ride unexciting (and outdated) rides like Alice's Teacups. I didn't know you (Disney) had hired TSA agents to make me feel like a terrorist at each gate.  All because I tried to make a once in a lifetime memory by inviting both my children's grandparents to Disneyland before they are unable to do so; and do so without running up student loan type debt. Guess I was wrong.

In defense of Disneyland; their staff is incredibly
nice and cheery. One even offered us this photo op.  

Disneyland doesn't care about families. They care about gobs and gobs of profit. Instead of driving down the cost of living (like Walmart claims to do), you are concerned with lining the pockets of your executives and huge shareholders who probably never step foot into your crowded, hot parks.

So please unfreeze Walt Disney. We don't have a cure for lung cancer, yet, but we could probably keep you alive long enough to remake your parks "family friendly."  Because I don't think wishing upon stars is a good way to prepare financially for another Disney experience.

I had more fun swimming in the ocean at Huntington Beach and
watching the sunset with the family.  It only cost the price of gas
getting there.  (Although I'm wholly unqualified in the looks
department to remove my shirt there).