My Son, The Bigfoot Sighting

Please realize that the title of this post is not “My Son and The Bigfoot Sighting”. My son himself is a Bigfoot sighting. Note that he is six years old. This is an important contextual clue.

Herewith I shall describe the theorem thus presented. (I know the previous sentence may be grammatically or semantically incorrect. I don’t care. It sounds good to me.)

When my son is outside, he is nothing but a blur as he runs off to complete odd missions only his unknowable mind can understand.

My son is often hard to find, but traces of him are always prevalent. If I can’t find him I start by sniffing out horrible stenches. If he is not the immediate source of a particular stench, I follow odd footprints. My son often walks or runs in odd fashions with odd things on his feet. If the footprints peter out and give way to gravel or cement, I listen for the sound of something being smacked by tree branches. I can tell the difference between a tree branch smacking a tree, a swing, my shed, my lawnmower, one of my daughters, my house or my truck. All thanks to my Bigfoot sighting son. If the tree-branch-smacking-noise stops before I find him, I follow the sound of the unidentifiable screeching. It may be a distressed squirrel. It could be a kid my son smacked with a tree branch. Most likely it is just my son being himself.

My son is a Bigfoot sighting. He is unexplainable and often hard to find. When he is found, he is sweet and inexplicable. He isn’t Bigfoot, but he is the essence of Bigfoot. Not everyone knows he exists, but those who do are delighted to be among the chosen few who know him despite his stench, noises and the messes he makes.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…find Bigfoot in your everyday life. He is a philosophy more than a creature. As such, there is much he can teach us.

A don’t…squash the quirks of your children. Life is made sweet in through such oddities.

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Books and Blessings

The ultimate goal of any writer is to be read and appreciated. Accolades are paramount. Money is secondary. If you write for that sake of writing, anyway. I would certainly enjoy a mountain of money. I fantasize about buying houses and donating them to families on the verge of homelessness. I want to spend the Christmas season with my wife and children spending thousands of dollars on Angel Tree kids. No kid deserves a present-less Christmas. I want to open a gourmet breakfast restaurant that cooks and serves the most delectable early morning treats and offers them to the surrounding community free of charge. I want to be a beacon for the homeless and destitute, offering hope on the wings of my writing.

I want to help.

I want my writing to be a catalyst for change.

Please visit the following link  https://www.thebookwalker.com/single-post/2018/09/20/Book-Talk-How-Sir-Donkey-Legs-Became-a-Knight-by-William-Ennis.

Read the article. Buy my book. Support the publication of my 2nd and 3rd books while also helping the community around me. I realize the my community may not be your community, but if this becomes big enough, I will be helping every community I can.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…make your decisions based on the perceived quality of my work.

A don’t…forget how blessed you are if you have a home and a refrigerator with food in it.

Searching for M.o.E. and Two Girls Named Roger…Even I am Scratching My Head

I search for M.o.E. More accurately, I anticipate M.o.E.  I suppose a bit of clarification is appropriate before you throw up your hands and unfollow me, wondering what I mean by M.o.E.

M.o.E. stands for Moment of Eruption. Moment of Eruption is when a warming Lava Lamp releases its first bits of lava. I have thus far witnessed only the afterbirth of this event, but I imagine the event itself to be somewhat transcendent. I glance over at the lamp in between whatever academic sentences I happen to be writing and only ever see the lava swelling evocatively or in a state of having already erupted. I’ve thought a lot about why this is such a big deal to me and I’ve settled on the idea that I dream big, hypnotic dreams that distract me from my actual life and the eruption of a lava lamp is quite similar to this. For instance, the M.o.E. I missed while writing this post resulted in what appears to be intestines rising from the surface of the lower lava clump to the underside of the colored fluid.

Dreams swell. They erupt. Imagining success, you stare at them but they often remain frozen in place for a time that seems interminable. Then, before you know it, massive blobs of success are floating to the top of your life Lava Lamp. They undulate as they ascend, representing the mild hiccups that every dream endures, but, try as you might, you simply cannot remember the M.o.E., or time before fruition.

Weakly put, perhaps, but I’m sure you get a sniff of the philosophy I wish to convey.

On to girls named Roger…

I was shaving before work the other day when my 8 year old daughter, still needing to eat her breakfast even though school was only 20 minutes away, came to the bathroom holding back tears.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, worried.

My daughter hemmed and hawed for a while before saying, “Brother said ‘The girls are named Roger.’ Wah wah wah waaaaaaaah.”

“Are you named Roger?”, I asked.

…”No”…

“Then don’t worry about it.”

-sniffle- -sniffle- “Ok.”

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…endure despite the setbacks. I’ve been telling my daughter for years that what other people say doesn’t matter. She still thinks that it’s worth being offended that her brother thinks her name is Roger.

A don’t…discount their feelings. But definitely let them know when they’re being absolutely ridiculous.

Oh the Humanity of the Humanities: A Terrible Title for a Touching Post

Oh irony of ironies. As I opened what I thought was a new notebook to take notes on the Humanities class I just started (a class that studies the intricacies of human expression, I must add) I was greeted by a very simple, and yet sublime, human expression.

“Princess Sparklel (*sparkle) Farts”.

I haven’t laughed as hard as I did in quite a while. My wife laughed also. This one won’t go on the refrigerator though.

Her Majesty deserves a place of honor. She shall be framed in the finest dollar store frame and hung prominently upon our living room wall.

Although I don’t know the period during which the piece was produced, I can comment on the context.

Recently, my son ran up to me as I sat in the bleachers watching my daughters cheer a football game. He said, in front of God and everybody, “Let’s have a farting party!” I expressed extreme distaste in regards to my participating in such an event. My son promptly jammed his hand up his shirt and produced several armpit farts. As my son continued to squelch and giggle, I adopted a somber expression and sternly spoke his name. His farting party came to a screeching halt as he prepared to receive a reprimand. “Do you know what happens after a farting party?” He slowly shook his head. “People have been farting all night and, as they begin to leave, they find themselves parting farty.” A strange smile lay upon his lips and he uttered a half-hearted final giggle before running off to find his mother.

I had hoped to raise a family of nerds. Instead, it seems I’m raising a family of bodily function aficionados. They art about farts, for crying out loud.

I guess it’s ok. Their passion inspires in me an emotion that results in one of the more pleasant bodily functions: laughter.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…engage in farting parties. Not literally, though. Use it as a metaphor for whatever strange, and less disgusting, activity your children may wish to engage in.

A don’t…part farty. Just don’t.

Life Hacks: A Zombie Like Solution to a Common Problem

Do you have children? Are you middle-aged and mildly out of shape? Do you have young children who fail to understand your lack of energy and motivation?

I have a solution to offer.

It is common for young children to be born to middle-aged people. It is common for middle-aged people to suffer from lack of energy. This is likely due to our lack of exercise and good nutrition due to America’s obsession with science, technology and reliance on others to complete mundane tasks for us.

My kids love to play tag. This involves running. I haven’t been good at that since I didn’t re-enlist in the Army. I was barely good at it when I was enlisted. I’ve always hated it. I puked and whined and hoped no one would notice. I was anti-addicted to “runner’s high”.

I realized tonight that there is a way to play tag with your children without running.

I am proud of this “life hack” I have discovered.

When your children tire you out with a game of tag, simply change the game…

…to zombie tag.

All you have to do is extend your arms, shuffle your feet and moan disturbingly.

Not only does the moaning and slow movement help you regain your ability to breathe efficiently, your odd noises and movements will inspire laughter in your children, creating the illusion of fun.

Life hack win!

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…find lazy ways to interact with your children. They’ll appreciate your effort.

A don’t…eat their innocent flesh like a zombie would. Such would constitute child abuse.

Little Jesus: Inadvertent Blasphemy or Innocent Worship?

This morning my son banged on the bathroom door as I was in the middle of my ablutions. TMI, to be sure. Forgive me. I quickly abdicated the throne to avoid a biological mess. I then activated the Wii and inserted a Mario disc to occupy my son as I put some finishing touches on my English Composition final.

My son is fond of a certain mushroom enhancement Mario can utilize to make himself miniscule. He screams “Look I used a smally! I’m so little!” He utilized this early today and chose a water level. In the course of his game, we realized that miniscule Mario can walk upon the surface of simulated bodies of water. I marveled verbally upon this fact. My son replied by screaming “I’M LITTLE JESUS!!!”

If you are anti-religion, you may not understand my quandary and may wish to stop reading now. This is ok. Believe what you want. I simply ask similar consideration in return.  If you are religious, or simply not anti-religious, I ask you the following question: Should I be concerned about my son’s eternal well-being?

I ask this because Mario basically has to do shrooms to do what he does. Does my son’s reaction indicate that he thinks Jesus did drugs? Or was he simply applying what he has learned to a modern situation? He is six years old. Likely this was an innocent expression of immature excitement in an increasingly electronic environment.

That blasphemy, though.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…present your children with unique situations. Their reactions can really make you think.

A don’t…discount religion. It is as important to adherents as non-adherence is to those who aren’t religious.

My Son The Calvin

In the amended words of Braveheart: “I give homage to Bill Watterson.” Anyone who has read Calvin and Hobbes and watched Braveheart will understand these references.

My son is Calvin. In the actual words of Braveheart’s girlfriend “He declares it to me, I swear it.” My son plays in the backyard. He comes inside with grass stained knees. He manipulates me to maximize his time outdoors. He has a vivid imagination. His hair sticks up at odd angles. He even has a Calvin-esque face.

My son is Calvin.

Just today we were outside digging a hole because we had nothing better to do. It began to thunder and my daughter said, “We should prolly go in ’cause thunder is scary.”

I said, “Yeah. Let’s go in.”

My son said, “Can I do one more dig?”

I said, “OK.”

My daughter and I headed for the house while my son scooped his last shovelful of earth. As is his adorable/frustrating custom, he then scooped and second, third and fourth shovelful. We were close to the back door when the most ridiculously close thunder strike I’ve ever borne witness to struck our general vicinity. My Calvin ran from his dig spot, eyes tightly shut, toward the house.  He was on a collision course for the door frame. I grabbed him and, with fatherly concern for his safety, yanked him backward.

When we got in the house he was screaming and sobbing all at once. “You left me!”  He screamed.

“No.” I asserted. “You had your eyes closed! I didn’t leave you. You kept digging even though I told you not to. I was here. You almost ran into the house with your eyes closed!”

“OK.” he said, sobbing heartbreakingly.

I held him close in what I hope was a reassuringly fatherly hug.

He agreed that I had not left him; rather I had helped him. He hugged me tightly and soaked my shoulder with his needless tears. My heart broke.

He was so scared I could barely contain my shame. At the same time I blamed him for not listening.

I do my utmost to insure his safety. He is the sweetest disobedient boy that anyone could ever dream. His cheeks are consistently darkened with dirt. His knees remain green. He always has a cut, bug bite or friction burn somewhere on his little body.

He is my Calvin.

He scares me to death, but I love him to death. He is the world’s greatest, most cliché little boy.

Calvin and Hobbes may be a reminisce from the past, but my son is a continuation of the classic little boy spirit.

I love him, and my two daughters, with a love that rivals the love of chosen Deity for the creation of faithful subjects.

Calvin and Hobbes is a deep, heartfelt and spiritual classic and my son is a continuation of this beautiful legacy.

He is my Calvin.

He is a consistently filthy, imaginative and tiny creation of the Great Architect.

I thank the Creator for this tiny, vulnerable and OK with who he is miracle  of the Milky Way cliché on a daily basis.

I  bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…enjoy your children for who they are.

A don’t…judge them for their foibles. They are doing the best they can in a broken and confusing world.