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Saturday, September 24, 2011

Falling Space Trash And My Good Nights Sleep

The secret to being a good dad
My children are having a sleepover on the front lawn in case the falling space station mentioned on the news happens to fall on our house, on the street in front of the house or in the vicinity of our house.

I will be sleeping in my bed under a roof — once removed from falling sky trash.

To make sure that they don’t get hit by cascading asteroid garbage, the children will be sleeping in a tent — at my suggestion. The compromise is that they will have the flaps open so that should any space junk land nearby, they will be able to make quick claim.

They will be doing this all week long, and I can’t say that I have done a darn thing to discourage it. After all, some of the most precious memories I have of my childhood was sleeping on the trampoline with my siblings in a glob of sleeping bags watching for aliens to land in our corn, leaving giant symbols to guide their space buddies to the state capital, Boise.

Aliens love Boise. I think it's all the trees.

Some of the neighbor kids are in on the grand adventure too it seems — except for Mrs. Mayberry’s kids. She came over to make fun of me because I had to stay up all night out on the lawn with the kids.

I don’t know where she got the idea that I was supervising the children personally, and I let her know I would be mattress camping in my bedroom with my air conditioner on for white noise to drown out the sound of giggling kids.

She was as mortified as the time I told her that I sometimes mixed uncomplimentary colors of Kool-Aid. Slowly, she herded her children to her perfectly manicured lawn, her eyes as large as flying space saucers. She backed away gracefully, never losing her smile, and never breaking eye contact.

I thought I heard her children whine, “But we want to sleep on the weird guys lawn!” but she just kept backing up like a pageant girl video on rewind.

The message was loud and clear — that a "good dad" would sleep out on the lawn and manage his children.

I am a good dad. I just feel that if they are old enough to get squished by Sputnik refuse, they are old enough to ward off feral cats and curfew-defying teens in the middle of the night without my help.

If I was really concerned about their welfare, I suppose I would have us all spend the week in the root cellar/atomic bomb bunker in the backyard that was left to us by whoever owned our house in the seventies. When we inherited it, the place was stocked with two pool chairs, a month’s worth of National Geographics, and what my wife thought was spilled root beer extract that ended up being old potatoes.

With a solid concrete roof over our heads, I could demonstrate what a good dad I was by gathering together and supervising for days of asking the kids who they were texting, and correcting their grammar, and turning their music down until the whole space-garbage thing passed us by.

"Sorry, bishop, but I can’t teach primary because I am in the cellar with the liquid potatoes watching the kids text."

No, I will sleep the sleep of a mediocre dad next to my wife who has decided to wear a motorcycle helmet and knee pads to bed just in case. I am not dissuaded by what Miss Flying Saucer Eyes next door thinks of my skills as a parent.

If my kids want to sleep on the lawn, on the roof or in the underground bomb shelter on pool chairs, I will be as pleased as pinkish-green punch to let them.

I will be in my room with the A.C. on, reading a few National Geographics.

Monday, September 19, 2011

You May Be The Third One Here!

I am glad to have you here, you reader-of-incredibly-outstanding-blogs, you - here at my new Dad-O-Rama.

"Dad" is the one word I use to describe myself.  It means that I am a guy who has to split his time up between raising kids, partnering with another – in my case a girl named Marie, making a living, paying bills, being nurturing, coaching kids, chauffeuring, referring, and the list winds on.

Rearing to go.  I mean Rarin'.
My experience base is broad - I am educated in the liberal arts (liberal being the operative word,) but I am from Idaho and was raised with parents not unfamiliar with dairy cows - very conservative dairy cows. 

Speaking of, I have nine sisters. Five brothers as well.
I am a former actor and singer, I went to college on a musical theater scholarship – so I was prepared to sing for my supper, and be poor for the rest of my life. 

I mission-ed in Honduras, Tegucigalpa (Mormon men go on missions.) I'm not a very good Spanish speaker but I had heart for it, and, for a short time, malaria as well.  That is where I really learned the power of prayer and Alka-Seltzer

I have done some fun things and some stupid things, remarkably cool things and mortifying things. Then I was diagnosed as bi-poler and could fix the iffy stuff. Now, with a few meds and a diet coke, I function almost normally.

I didn’t end up getting married until I was in my 30's.  So, my sense of humor is heightened and slightly off-kilter.  I am trying to maintain a balance: Many don't think I can be a good Mormon and be funny at the same time. I am going to be both. 

For example, Did you know that athlete's foot spray works to remove gum from hair?  You wont read that on LDS.org.

I will be writing my thoughts and experiences, maintaining a can-do attitude while creating something of real value – daunting, yet do-able.

That is the balance I am going for. I want to be recognized for what I am and where I want to be.  I will find some commonalities between us.

I am Davison Cheney – MEGA DAD!