Today, I was a Christmas champion.  Christmas magic?  Perhaps.  Amazing skills of spatial analysis?  More likely.  Allow me to explain.

Our office does a great job with the whole work holiday season celebration thing.  Lots of food, lots of games, lots of gifts, and all optional.  Well, the other day I found myself aimlessly wandering around the workroom, as I waited for my copies to finish printing.  There on the counter was an intriguing game, “Guess how many holiday treats are in the jar?”  One entry per person.  As the copy machine chugged away, I counted the M&Ms along one side of the jar, then I estimated the depth, and subtracted a certain percentage for the larger Rolo and Reese’s treats housed in the candy jar.  400.  Presto.  Seemed like a reasonable guess.  Then came the odd part, I made a grand story to accompany my guess.  Yes, as the heat from the copier began to impair my judgment, I spun a tale to my co-workers waiting to make copies.  Yes, I had gained after-hours access to the building through a coordinated breach in security, counted the contents of the jar, and determined the correct amount.  A fine tale worthy of office folklore.  400.  Bank on it.

Imagine this jar full (i.e. prior to a significant amount of snacking).

Today, I wandered into my cubicle and what did I find?  The jar of candy!  I was the big winner!  That however is not the most amazing part.  It was my accuracy that astounded.  407.  I had missed the correct answer by 7.  Less than 2% off.  The office analyst had proven his worth.  In addition, I also now had people suspecting that I had pulled some grand after-hours feat, evaded the security cameras, counted the contents, returned the candies to their original positions, and intentionally missed the correct number by a reasonable seven candies, in an attempt to avoid suspicion.  This is how time is spent by the copier.  This is how legends are made.  This is how 407 count jars of candy are won.

I am Dave Paulsen.  I am a Christmas champion.

CHRISTMAS COLLAGE COOKIES

“Inspired by today’s victory, I made a new holiday creation, the ‘Christmas Collage Cookie.’  Taking a base M&M cookie recipe, which contains a large dose of healthy wheat flour as a nod to my healthy colleagues, I substituted the normal 2 cups of M&Ms and Chocolate Chips with the contents of my newly won candy jar, which after my snacking came out to about 2 cups.  There were some successful features and some wanting aspects to my experiment (see ‘Lessons Learned’ at the end of the recipe), but it is all good, because it was baked in the spirit of the holidays.  May your days leading up to Christmas be epic and bright.”

½ cup Butter

¾ cup Brown Sugar

½ cup Sugar

1 teaspoon Vanilla Extract

2 Eggs

1 cup Flour

1 cup Whole Wheat Flour

½ teaspoon Baking Soda

¼ teaspoon Salt

2 cups of Christmas Sweets (mostly M&Ms with some chopped up Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and chopped up Rolo candies tossed in)

Plenty of extra M&Ms for topping

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Cream the butter, brown sugar, and sugar.

Mix in the vanilla extract and eggs.

Mix in the flour, whole wheat flour, baking soda, and salt.

Stir in the Christmas sweets.

Drop by rounded tablespoons of dough onto parchment paper lined baking sheets.  Make sure to use the parchment paper, because when a random Rolo melts on the side of a cookie it will help a lot with cleanup.

Pack as many extra M&Ms onto the top of the cookies as possible.

Bake for 12 minutes.

That’s it!  Cram as many M&Ms as possible into the top of the dough.

Makes about 44 cookies.

Revised Source:  my wonderful, awesome, beautiful, and talented wife, Charlene.

Lessons Learned…  If I had the cookies to do over again, I would have kept the Rolo candies whole and added one to the top of each cookie with a minute left in baking.  As they turned out, mixing in chopped up Rolo candies tended to make the finished products have blotches of melted Rolo caramel (not a good thing).  The Reese’s however added a nice subtle peanut butter flavor to the finished product.

Ah, see the wild variation from cookie to cookie.  The cookie on the right suffered from a Rolo leak on the top and bottom.  The cookie on the left turned out perfect, due to no side dwelling Rolos.  The luck of the draw or in this instance, dough.

Welcome to Day Two of my “Twelve Days of Christmas Cookies.”  Christmas cookies can turn around even the gloomiest of days and I am sad to report a dark cloud hanging over today’s baked goods.  No, I’m not referring to our foggy day, but rather the departure of a friend, our first snowman of the year.

It was discovered that Little Snowman had melted from natural causes during the night, leaving just his two arm sticks on the front steps and a damp spot of sadness.  Little Snowman joined our family shortly after Winter’s arrival and lived a long and healthy snowman life to the ripe old snowman age of 32 days.  He was an entertainer, who delighted friends, family, and our mail carrier, in advance of the arrival of his 12 snow brothers and sisters (and one snowdog).  Little Snowman was a happy soul, even after his baby carrot nose fell off and we suspect was devoured by a neighborhood rabbit.  Kicking his bad habit of smoking a corncob pipe, although he still experienced the second hand corncob pipe influence of his big brother, Little Snowman lived on to witness the legendary attack of the snowman vandals and is credited for being the voice that cried for help and scared away the group of unruly winter marauders.  Little Snowman is survived by the 12 members of his snowfamily and was preceded in melting by his snowdog.  In lieu of flowers, individuals are asked to order a Blizzard ice cream treat in his memory.

Goodbye to our dear Little Snowman

Well, all that being said, time to turn that frown upside down with some Candy Cane Cookies!

Here is our Santa cookie jar cradling one of the freshly baked Candy Cane Cookies.  Never mind the unsightly electric outlet in the background, although it does lend some scale.

CANDY CANE COOKIES

“These delightful Christmas cookie favorites always graced my Grandma Franck’s Christmas cookie tray.  This year to mix things up, I tried a new recipe, which varies slightly from my grandmother’s, but still brings home all the nostalgia that you need from this cookie delight.  Enjoy.”

1 cup Butter

1 cup Powdered Sugar (my grandmother’s recipe called for regular sugar)

1 Egg

½ teaspoon Peppermint Extract (it could probably use a full teaspoon to add a little more flavor)

2½ cups Flour

Dash of Salt

10 drops Red Food Coloring (I prefer the liquid kind used to dye Easter eggs, rather than the gel)

¼ cup Peppermint Candies, crushed

Cream the butter and powdered sugar.

Mix in egg and peppermint extract.

Mix in flour and salt.

Divide the dough in half.

Color half the dough red by incorporating the food coloring.  I made a bit of a mistake on this step earlier today, when I made a hole in the dough with my finger and inserted the food coloring.  I then went to knead the dough some and incorporate the food coloring.  Unfortunately, I did not first close the hole containing the food coloring and SPEW!  The food coloring shot into the air and mostly landed on the back of my right hand.  Needless to say, I am typing this post with newly formed pink splotches across the back of my right hand.  Oh well, sacrifice for the greater good.

Incorporate the ¼ cup of crushed peppermint into the two balls of dough (about 1/8 cup into each ball of dough).

Chill the two sets of dough for 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Make one inch balls of dough (one from each color of dough) and roll them out to 6-7 inch long ropes.  You could go shorter, but I prefer the big candy cane cookies.  Go big or go home, as they say in the world of competitive cookie baking.  They don’t actually say this, but it sounds good here.  In fact, I was once marked down by a judge for having too big of a cookie within an entry.  They said, “These cookies are too big for a cookie jar.”  Humph, not that I am bitter or have yet to get over it or anything.  Oh well, I say in this instance, go big or go home.

Put the two ropes of dough side-by-side and twist them around each other.  Then curve them slightly to make the “J” appearance of a candy cane.

Bake for 11 minutes or until the bottom edges of the cookies appear to have slightly browned.

Makes about 17 cookies.

Revised Source:  “Candy Cane Twists” from Better Homes and Gardens “The Ultimate Cookie Book.”

With Christmas only twelve days away, I figured I would celebrate by bringing you a “Christmas Cookie of the Day” each day until December 25.  Simple enough plan, right?  Wrong!  Today, without warning I entered Spritz Hell, a land with no easy exit and no yummy treats.  A land where only desperate measures will result in any type of Christmas cookie.  A land of despair and sadness.  A land that I was lucky to escape with my wits intact.  This is a good thing, since I don’t have any wits to spare.

Considering that I wanted to present a cookie each day leading up to Christmas, I had no choice, but to hang in there and finish my Day One entry.  I did it and so can you.  If you dare, below is the recipe and harrowing tale of one baker’s journey into Spritz Hell.

SPRITZ FROM HELL

1 cup Shortening

¾ cup Sugar

1 Egg

1 teaspoon Peppermint Extract (this does provide a yummy flavor…  one of the only tried and true aspects of this cookie)

10 drops Green Food Coloring

2¼ cups Flour (as you will read, this might be too much flour and may have resulted in some of my troubles, but my Grandma Franck used this recipe and her cookies were great.  I have also used this recipe before without any troubles, so I’m still not sure what the issue was, but this is as good a place to lay blame as any)

½ teaspoon Baking Powder

¼ teaspoon Salt

Cinnamon Red Hot candies and colored sprinkles (these may help you cover up your pseudo disaster of a finished product)

Powdered Sugar and Milk to make some icing (another desperate attempt to cover up the finished product)

Preheat oven to 400 degrees (although as you will read later, I actually turned the temp down to 350 degrees in another desperate attempt to save this cookie).

Cream the shortening and sugar.

Mix in the egg, peppermint extract, and green food coloring.

Mix in the flour, baking powder, and salt.

Grab a cookie press and fill it with dough.

The initial recommendation was to press out Christmas tree shaped cookies, then I discovered that the plastic Christmas tree insert was broken.

Never fear, I would make wreathes.  I stuck in the insert and the cookie press began struggling horribly to produce any type of dough pattern.  It was a disaster.  I tried and tried and only got 23 wreath patterns to come out.

Figuring I would fix it by placing a decorative red hot on each wreath, I popped them in the oven for 8 minutes and returned to the dough to figure out what had went wrong.

I suspected that the dough was simply too thick for a press and was breaking the patterns.  I contemplated how to toss out the spritz concept and save the dough.  I had officially entered Spritz Hell survival mode.

Pulling the spritz cookie wreathes out of the oven, I discovered that red hot candies do not bake well.  They sort of melt in a hollowed out mountaintop fashion.  Not attractive, but my efforts did produce some acceptable wreath shaped cookies.  Not winning, but hanging in there.

My quickly prepared backup plan was to roll out the dough and make some cutout cookies in the shape of Christmas trees.  The problem I soon found out was that the dough, which was too thick for a press, was too thin to be rolled out.  Ugh, I could either (A) refrigerate the dough in hopes that would help make it “firmer” for rolling, but that would mean spending more time in Spritz Hell, (B) add more flour, but that seemed to be a solution that would result in a less tasteful cookie and even more time in Spritz Hell, or (C) gut it out and figure out how to roll out just a few more cookies and call it a day.  I decided to go with C, mainly because I felt it would be the quickest exit from Spritz Hell.  I prayed that I was right.

Sure enough the dough was difficult to handle and in general ornery, but I struggled through and cutout 18 Christmas tree shaped cookies.  Decorating them with colored sugar, I was somewhat pleased with the interim product.  This might work out.  I again prayed.

I turned the oven down to 350 degrees, since it seemed like a safer temp that would be less likely to burn the edges and leave a unfinished interior.  I popped the cookies into the oven.  I waited.

11 minutes later and somewhat to my surprise, the finished cookies looked pretty good.  Nowhere close to a Christmas tree spritz, but a fairly decent cutout cookie solution.

I pressed a red hot on the top of one of the trees and it did not stick.  Again thwarted by the red hot candies, I vowed not to bother with them for the rest of the night, after I ate a few more from the bag, as their punishment.

I whipped up some icing and further decorated the trees and looked at my finished product.  Not bad, I had survived my trip to Spritz Hell…  barely.  Only eleven days to go.  Pray for me.

Makes about 41 acceptable cookies, before you move onto less painful activities, such as burying your head in a snowbank.

Revised Source:  my normally trusty cookie cookbook, “Today is a Great Day for a Cookie,” which is available for free (good thing, because today this recipe was worthless) at www.CookiesbyDave.com.

That’s right, I’m the guy that just turned this…

into that…

That is all and to all a goodnight.

5-year-old Ben and I had a simple mission:  purchase three more packages of white pine roping.  Earlier in the week, Charlene and I had attempted decorating our backyard fence and we were several feet short.  The good news is that Charlene told us right where to find the roping and exterior Velcro, so the trip looked like a quick in and out foray to Home Depot.

Entering through the Garden Department, we found the white pine roping just as we were told to the right of the entrance.  Proceeding inside to the Christmas decorations, which also houses the industrial strength outdoor Velcro, Ben and I passed a stand of holiday fragrance sprays.  As is the tradition with Ben and me, we needed to stop and spray a few of the canisters into the air and vote on which one smells the best.  Cinnamon Apple, okay.  Evergreen, alright.  Frosted cookie party?  This new scent was intriguing.  Sort of like having the flavor of sugar cookies infused into the air.  As Ben and I reflected on the subtle beauty of the fragrance, a sales clerk walked past and noted, “That cookie spray is the best.  I bought one for home.  It’s not like the overpowering cinnamon spray, instead it kind of sneaks up on you.”  Believing that I may have found another who speaks fluent “Cookie,” I began chatting with him about the spray selection, as Ben continued sampling what Glade had to offer.

Suddenly, I saw the sales clerk’s eyes dart toward my son and then with a bit of alarm the Home Depot employee said, “He (my son Ben) just sprayed himself in the face.”  Kneeling down to help my child, Ben looked more stunned than poisoned, along with a newly formed dampness under his lower lip.  Then began the questions, “Did you get it in your eyes?”  “Yes.”  “Does it sting?”  “No.”  “Does it hurt?”  “No.”  Perplexed by the lack of feedback, I scanned the canister.  No poison control information, just a small list of ingredients containing words like “fragrance” and “propellant.”  Nothing alluding to imminent death.

Now if this had happened when I was a new parent, I would have sort of freaked out.  Eye wash stations.  Should I induce vomiting?  Should I force him to drink milk?  How do I save my child?  Where is the closest hospital?  But instead this happened earlier this week.  This was my third child.  I know my boys are resilient.  They have survived worse.  Certainly they are tougher than a can of holiday spray.  Plus, my son now smells like a frosted cookie party, when he exhales.  Who could ask for more?  Merry Christmas!

As I keep a close eye on the front yard, occasionally peering out looking for snowman vandals, I have a few quiet moments to reflect upon my obsessive tendencies and their impact on my children.

Kirby the Watch Dog is seen taking a well-deserved break from patrolling the front porch for potential attacks on our snowmen.

Take for instance our youngest son, Ben.  Today, he turned 6-years-old and this also marked a one year anniversary marking my end of one of my obsessive tendencies.  You see, prior to Ben’s birth, a friend of mine Patrick Ary told me a story about a photographer.  The photographer decided he would celebrate their new born child by taking a photo of them every day until they turned eighteen.  I thought this was a pretty cool idea and since we were about to have a new baby, I figured I would stick to that plan.  Well, it was a good thought (although quite a bit obsessive) and I stuck to the plan.  Every day, I would faithfully take a picture of little Ben.  Difficulties however soon developed…

1. I was annoying. Although I tried to be nice about it, whenever I was away for work or out-of-town, I would annoy my wife or whoever was looking after Ben by repeatedly asking “Did you take a picture of Ben today?” Yep, it was an annoying quest.
2. I am not a professional photographer and it showed. Plenty of the pictures were lousy or boring, but I did stick with it.
3. At times creative fatigue would set in. This showed by some photos being of the back of his head or him asleep, just because I could not muster the enthusiasm to ask for a smile. It had grown to be a burden.
4. The kid was growing sick of it. It got to the point, where he would even torment me by trying to run away when I grabbed the camera. Result: plenty of photos of Ben’s back, as he ran away.

Yep, it was certainly an obsession that had run its course.  So the day after his 5^th birthday, I figured it was as good a time as any to quit.  Cold turkey.  I had done well (I only missed a handful of days over the five years) and it was time to move on.

My obsessive tendencies have however remained (hey, a leopard cannot change its spots).  Take for instance, Ben’s birthday.  Well, he requested an “Inquisitor Lightsaber.”  Trust me, this thing is an epic new upgrade to the Star Wars weaponry collection.  Double bladed.  Spinning.  Detachable.  ‘Nuff said.  And at $30 it is the right price.  Only one problem:  I could not find it on the shelves.  Anywhere.  It was there last week, but apparently lots of other families are stocking their armory for Christmas.  Ugh.  What to do?  What to do?  Like a true nitwit, it was just two days prior to his birthday and I had no real backup plan.  After searching every store within a reasonable driving distance, I turned to the Internet.  A true enabler for obsessive quests and with a credit card in hand, truly dangerous.  Well, fortunately, online Walmart claimed that they could have the product in their store the next morning (only about 12 hours from then) with no shipping charges or additional fees.  Winning.  All I would need to do is pick it up and sell my soul (no, that last part is just a joke, although I do fear that there is a new teleportation device that has been developed in Arkansas).

Heading toward the back of the store, hoping and praying that there was not some new computer prank afoot, you know one of those “Ha, ha, he thought he could get out of this one easy, but he was wrong” moments, I walked down the toy aisle.  What did I pass by that was not there the day before?  Two Inquisitor Lightsabers.  Yep, somewhere deep inside Arkansas there is a teleportation device, now I am convinced.  Picking up my lightsaber from the back of the store, I could tell the clerk, who kept passing in front of a talking “My Little Pony Pinkie Pie” doll (I still have no clue what that thing was supposed to be, perhaps a mix-up with the teleporter), was thinking, “Why didn’t this dude just buy one of the lightsabers off the shelf?”

Bringing the new weapon home, I considered the questions, “Was it worth it?,”  “What is wrong with me?,” and “What will this new lightsaber break in my house?”  Well, I’m still not entirely sure what is wrong with me and I don’t know what it will break, but digging out my camera again to take pictures of Ben opening his presents, I could tell by the smile on his face that yes, sometimes my obsessive quests are worth it.  Yes, indeed.

Ben’s first glimpse of his new lightsaber, under the watchful gaze of his waffle eating older brother.

Our beagle Kirby fancies himself a watch dog.  Most beagles are purely hunters and excel at taking naps.  Our beagle apparently wants to moonlight.  This skill of Kirby’s mainly involves him running around the backyard, while he barks at imaginary adversaries, or beginning to bark and run around like crazy, when he spots the mail carrier halfway up the block.

Our self-appointed watch dog, Kirby taking a rare break.

Last night, as we slumbered peacefully, Kirby was curled up in our son Jacob’s bed.  Then out-of-the-blue at 12:30-something AM Kirby starts barking and freaking out at the top of the stairs, which overlook the sidewalk.  Stumbling out in my minimalist pajamas (I promise not to frighten you with details), I scolded our pup, told him to stop barking, and began carrying him back to Jacob’s room.  Then way down below on the sidewalk, I saw the cause of his concern.  Two very average adults were walking by in the winter air.  A man in front and a woman close behind, who seemed to be trailing, because she was looking at her phone.  Thinking they were simply two folks walking on their way home from a night shift at work or something, I returned to bed.

Flash forward several hours…  opening the front door to get the morning papers, I saw the true cause for Kirby’s post-midnight concern.  There scattered across out lawn were the various torsos and heads of many of our beloved snowmen.  We had been attacked and I had ignored Kirby’s warnings.  He had been successful in his perceived guard dog duties and I had scolded him.  Bad, David, bad.

Snowman carnage, not for the faint of heart.

Sadly, the pumpkin headed snowdog could not be saved.

Over the next hour, I reassembled snowmen to the best of my abilities.  I could not let the vandals win.  Picking up body parts and repairing our damaged light up reindeer (now held together with duct tape and a prayer), I contemplated how I should respond.  What should be the message of my snowmen?  “Vandals are Naughty, Not Nice.”  “These Snowmen Don’t Run.”  “Beat It, Punks!”

No, no, no.  As my fingers grew cold, I looked to my dog, who was staring out the front porch window.  Again, watching.  Again, waiting.  Kirby had the right idea.  Instead of seeking some sort of vengeance, I should also be on watch.  I should be focusing on the coming celebration.  The birth of our savior is coming.  Take it from the beagle, being on watch is oh so appropriate at Christmas time.

Focus on the joys of the season, only 17 days remain until Christmas…  note all of the expertly repaired snowmen in our front yard.

If all else fails, our midnight visitors will be in for quite the surprise, when they go to attack this snowman.

I guessed the Nativity, but I was wrong.  Don’t worry, there is still time.

Instead, 11-year-old Jacob’s socks made an appearance in the Christmas village.  Yes, in the mini village, our child’s socks become a terrifying addition behind the village’s one room school house.  I sense a very cantankerous mini Christmas village Zoning Hearing Board meeting on the horizon.

Dear Bullseye Corp,

I would like to start out by saying that I am a loyal shopper.  A man who has spent many a dollar and hour wandering your aisles, purchasing everything from laundry detergent to an epic retro Batman t-shirt to toys to electronics.  I really enjoy your store and have always had a satisfying experience, even when I suffer the endless asking of the question, “Would you like to save 5% on your purchase today?”  Ugh, of course, who would not?  Anyway, I even overlooked the whole identity theft thing.  After all, you have like a billion customers, so every now and then someone is going to go after you and your shoppers.  It was not all your fault.  Today, however was awful.  I mean it was one of those rock bottom experiences, where you question your loyalty and every purchase you have ever made.  Well, not the retro Batman t-shirt, that remains awesome, even after the events of today.

We were trimming our Christmas tree and I wanted some Christmas music to accompany our happy family moment.  Well, unfortunately, our 11-year-old had recently broken our trusty Radio-CD player and I wanted to listen to some of our abundant Christmas CDs.  Who did I turn to?  Who did I trust?  You, that’s who.  I went to a trusted friend for help and there, sure enough, was what I was looking for…  the last Radio-CD player still manufactured on the face of God’s green Earth.  I purchased the Radio-CD player and I joyfully brought it back home.

While scrambling to assemble the Radio-CD player, I was dismayed.  Where was the wall charger that should be in the box?  I looked and looked for the charger and it was nowhere to be found.  I plugged in some backup batteries, hoping that they would play our Michael Buble Christmas CD (hey, don’t judge me, I bet lots of folks own that CD and by the way, I purchased it as a gift for my wife at your store).  Just about to give up hope, anticipating a Bubleless Christmas, and plotting to run over the Radio-CD player with my car, my 7-year-old approached his nearly crying father and said, “Dad, what’s this?”  Much to my relief, the charger had fallen into the dog’s toy basket, when I opened the box.  It was a Christmas miracle.

I popped in the CD and there was Michael Buble singing to me.  Actually, crooning in just the right Christmassy sort of way.  Assuming all was well, I had dinner with the family.  A lovey pasta dinner that featured some tasty wine (hey, I asked you not to judge me and by the way, that had no impact on the outcome of this story).  After dinner, I went to enjoy some more music on the Radio-CD and the CD player would not play anything for longer than 15 seconds.  The thing had turned from regular purchase to junk over the short course of a family dinner.  Desperate, I began to suspect that Michael Buble had sabotaged the unit.  “If they are going to play something other than me, they will listen to nothing at all!”  I tried all sorts of Christmas CDs and all of them produced nothing.  My wife began to grow concerned.  I was becoming desperate.  Unstable.  No longer Christmassy at all.

Who could I turn to?  Certainly not that weasel Buble.  Then it hit me, turn to someone from the “CD Era.”  Someone who would understand.  Someone smooth.  Someone who could make it all better.  Someone who is more Buble than Buble could ever be.  Someone who was Buble, before Buble.  Mr. Harry Connick, Jr.  Popping in his first Christmas CD, Harry began to calm my soul.  He was bringing Christmas back.  Then, suddenly, like the Grinch descending from the mountaintop, Christmas was ripped from my being, leaving a hole that can never be filled.  The CD stopped working.  The CD player that I had purchased in good faith from your store.  It let me down.  It let Harry Connick, Jr. down.  It let down Christmas.

Saddened beyond belief, I packaged up the failure of a Radio-CD player and prepared to return it to your store.  A walk that would be accompanied by your shame and betrayal.  Oh well, at least I could rest on the couch and enjoy the fireplace in front of the Christmas tree lights, but wait, while I was struggling with your substandard product, my dog had taken my place on the couch.  I was now lower than our dog, who by the way, loves to climb into the open dishwasher and lick nasty dirty plates.  I was that low and it is all because of you.

I don’t write this letter with any hope that you can ever make this situation better for me, I may be too far gone.  It is my hope that you will stop selling this product and spare others from the pain I suffered.  Spare others from losing the joy of Christmas.  This is my hope.  This is my Christmas wish.

Sincerely,

A Man Suffering a Now Silent Christmas

PS – Thank you for letting me vent, although I still hold your gargantuan corporation responsible and will be bitter until I need to buy something else from your store, probably within the next day or two.

There I was in the Family Locker Room.  Yes, that place in the gym, where the loudest and most squirrely patrons (post-swim class young children) are crowded into individual changing rooms with their parents.  The only objective:  survival.  Well, survival and to get the children dressed, but primarily survival.

As my boys have aged, this process has become easier, not quieter, but easier.  One child (11-year-old Jacob) now wanders off to change wherever (I really should check on that someday), while his younger brothers and I still crowd into our family changing room.  Recently, the two younger boys have now picked up the pace, shower, and get dressed, prior to me getting dressed after my post-workout shower.  As a result, I first release them into the locker room’s main area to dry their hair under the electric hand dryers (usually reserved for hands, their heads fit under them well enough).

Finally exiting my family locker room prison, I was met by a family with much smaller children.  Two or three kids (I could not really count them, they were moving too fast) all under the age of four were scurrying about, as their parents desperately tried to hold it all together.  The mother, looking very tired and in need of a glass of wine, apologized to me for her kids running about.  I told her not to worry and as I looked around with my children nowhere in sight (although 7-year-old Sam’s shoes had been oddly abandoned in the hallway), I told her that at least she knew where her kids were.

Smiling in a playful way, the bedraggled mom looked at me and said that I might want to check the lockers.  Sure enough, some of the lower level locker doors were jiggling and emanating soft giggles.  How soon I had forgotten this game.  Last year, my boys loved hiding in the lockers, as I pretended to search for them.  Time had changed my expectations.  My routines had adjusted.  Their return to an old joke had thrown me off.  I knew that my life had moved on from the chaos that was momentarily swirling around that mother, but as I look to the future, it is useful to remember the tricks of the past…  and to first check the ground floor lockers to see if they contain any of my missing children.

Post Postscript – After the next swim class, I overheard the dad of the younger children trying to keep them from hiding in the lockers.  It appears as if the other family’s little kids had picked up on the strategy utilized by my kids to thwart parental efforts to get home prior to bedtime.  Hey other dad, look on the Brightside, at least you will know one of places your children might be hiding, although that will mean dozens of lockers of searching.