Babies are so dang cute! I didn't realize what I had until all of mine turned into teenagers. I'm sure glad my wife kept a baby memory book so I can remember the 'celestial' version of my kids.
December 19, 2006 (Press Release) --
While potty training our kids, my wife would sit next to the child for hours and read them story books until she got them to tinkle. To celebrate, she would clap, cheer, and give them chocolate.
The whole process took place on a cute little plastic potty-chair that had endured the onslaught of our six well-fed little porkers. So, I called the family to gather in the back yard. We formed a sacred circle around the potty chair. In solemn assembly, I uttered a few reverent words about how that little chair had served us so well. I then passed out the golf clubs and we proceeded to beat the potty chair into about six thousand pieces.
Most people go to church, I suppose, to hear the Word: "Blah, blah, blah...and here are five thousand more reasons why you're going to Hell!" When I go to church, I like to hold someone's baby. I've always felt that if you want to see the glory of the sun, you don't look at the sun. You look at what the sun illuminates: a beautiful red sky at sunset, or a verdant mountain. Likewise, if you want to see God, look at that which he illuminates. When I look at a baby, I feel like I'm looking at something celestial. Babies laugh when I wiggle my ears, and they don't see my weaknesses. They're not compiling a list of five hundred reasons to send me to Hell on judgment day.
Isn't it amazing how kids mold their parents? When I was a kid there was this stuff called Dippity-Doo. It was basically petroleum jelly mixed with super glue. My mom would line me and my three brothers up in a row and slather Dippity-Doo all over our heads. After she combed our hair, it would set up as solid as Hoover Dam.
She would take us to church and line us up on the pew and tell us that she would kill us if we talked during church--which we always did. So every week after church, it was the same thing: mom would give me a knife and tell me to go cut a big switch off of the willow tree so she could tan our heathen little backsides. We brothers would run up stairs and put on two pairs of pants, but that strategy only led to mom thumping us over the head with her wooden house slippers that weighed about as much as the Spanish Armada. If it wasn't for the Dippity-Doo hard hat, I'm sure we'd all have brain damage.
The irony of this 1,000,000% true story is that my kids think I'm making it up! When I take the kids to see grandma, they gather round her feet and hang on every syllable that emanates from her angelic lips like a bunch of pilgrims at the Sermon on the Mount! I try to tell them that their sweet little grandma is not the woman who raised me: "The woman who raised me, whipped me and called me a damn little shit!"
"Ah Dad," they reply, "You're just making that up. Grandma is a lot nicer than you are." Like I said, I love babies, but I haven't said a word about teenagers. I sure am glad we kept a baby memory book for each of our kids, so we can remember their 'celestial' days.
The whole process took place on a cute little plastic potty-chair that had endured the onslaught of our six well-fed little porkers. So, I called the family to gather in the back yard. We formed a sacred circle around the potty chair. In solemn assembly, I uttered a few reverent words about how that little chair had served us so well. I then passed out the golf clubs and we proceeded to beat the potty chair into about six thousand pieces.
Most people go to church, I suppose, to hear the Word: "Blah, blah, blah...and here are five thousand more reasons why you're going to Hell!" When I go to church, I like to hold someone's baby. I've always felt that if you want to see the glory of the sun, you don't look at the sun. You look at what the sun illuminates: a beautiful red sky at sunset, or a verdant mountain. Likewise, if you want to see God, look at that which he illuminates. When I look at a baby, I feel like I'm looking at something celestial. Babies laugh when I wiggle my ears, and they don't see my weaknesses. They're not compiling a list of five hundred reasons to send me to Hell on judgment day.
Isn't it amazing how kids mold their parents? When I was a kid there was this stuff called Dippity-Doo. It was basically petroleum jelly mixed with super glue. My mom would line me and my three brothers up in a row and slather Dippity-Doo all over our heads. After she combed our hair, it would set up as solid as Hoover Dam.
She would take us to church and line us up on the pew and tell us that she would kill us if we talked during church--which we always did. So every week after church, it was the same thing: mom would give me a knife and tell me to go cut a big switch off of the willow tree so she could tan our heathen little backsides. We brothers would run up stairs and put on two pairs of pants, but that strategy only led to mom thumping us over the head with her wooden house slippers that weighed about as much as the Spanish Armada. If it wasn't for the Dippity-Doo hard hat, I'm sure we'd all have brain damage.
The irony of this 1,000,000% true story is that my kids think I'm making it up! When I take the kids to see grandma, they gather round her feet and hang on every syllable that emanates from her angelic lips like a bunch of pilgrims at the Sermon on the Mount! I try to tell them that their sweet little grandma is not the woman who raised me: "The woman who raised me, whipped me and called me a damn little shit!"
"Ah Dad," they reply, "You're just making that up. Grandma is a lot nicer than you are." Like I said, I love babies, but I haven't said a word about teenagers. I sure am glad we kept a baby memory book for each of our kids, so we can remember their 'celestial' days.
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