Emptying my Fourth Grade son Ben’s backpack, I stumbled upon his draft speech for the Student Council election.  Ben’s platform consisted of two popular items, bringing back the Spring Carnival and offering a greater variety of food at lunch.

Impressed, I mentioned Ben’s strategy to my wife.  Overhearing our conversation, Ben’s older brother, Sixth Grader Sam, piped up. “I helped Ben with his speech.” You need to understand that Sam is a veteran of two Student Council elections, each time failing to win the girl vote and falling just one vote short.  His second place finish however gained him plenty of experience as an alternate.  Now, Sam appeared ready to be a kingmaker for his little brother, Ben.

Sam began sharing the advice he gave Ben.  “The key to winning is telling people what they want to hear.” Yep, sounds right.  Then demonstrating understanding well beyond his years, Sam continued.  “You know what, though?  All of that stuff (return of the carnival and more food options) costs a lot of money, that’s why they don’t happen.”

Wow, hollow campaign promises as a key to power, the kids sure do start early these days.

Saturday night was going to be busy for the Paulsen kids with two boys headed to separate parties.  There’s your context.

At 3:30, I stood in the kitchen contemplating my evening’s shuttle bus duties.  Growing tired at the thought, I grabbed a beer.  My touch upon the can of beer triggered a worried look from my wife.  She expressed concern about beer on my breath, when dropping off the kids.

I understood.  I understood, but was sad. More beer would need to wait.

Two Hours Post-Beer Prohibition (5:30 PM CST) – First kid dropped off, with zero people within breath smelling distance.

Three Hours Post-Beer Prohibition (6:30 PM CST) – Second kid dropped off, minimal interaction.  Doubtful that anyone cared about my breath.

Now, the long wait.  The wait for the calls to be picked up.

Tick, tock.  Tick, tock.  I waited for the beer.  The beer waited for me.

Six Hours Post-Beer Prohibition (9:30 PM CST) – First call to pick up a kid.  I pulled up.  The kid jumped into the car.  No muss, no fuss.  No breath smelling took place.

Six and a Half Hours Post-Beer Prohibition (10:00 PM CST) – Approaching the door to collect the final kid, I suspected that a parent would finally be within breath smelling distance.  All of my beer waiting patience would pay off.  Then their dog took objection to my presence and the mom had to hold Cujo back.  Close call, but the night ended with zero folks within breath smelling range, although the dog probably judged me.

I know.  I know, you are thinking, “Oh David, you poor soul.  We feel so bad for you.  How do you survive?”

Okay, your sarcasm is justified, but I tell you, the pain was real.  The waiting was hard and oh the eventual pleasure in reuniting with that 10:01 PM CST beer was real.

Sometimes you just have to be honest about who you really are.

“Old Blue Dress Shirt”

Into the back of the closet, I dug.

Needed a dress shirt, my body to hug.

I grabbed a shirt, the color blue.

It was faded and wrinkled, through and through.

I shrugged at its age, on I draped it.

My face did frown, even though it fit.

It was missing a button, fatal flaw I think.

From my hand, the dress shirt did sink.

Hard to move on, it is some days.

Now I’ll give a polo, the suddenly available praise.

Ah, the change of seasons in the Paulsen House.  Footballs appear from the garage.  Long sleeves replace the short ones.  Hands begin to chap.

Oh those chapping hands, followed closely by hand lotion.  Hand lotion followed by doorknobs.  Doorknobs touched by lotion covered hands.  Doorknobs that have been rendered impassible.  A barrier, which shall not be breached.

Welcome to Fall.  Please, use the hand lotion sparingly.

Today at work, my friend Robb from the Budget Department approached my desk.  He had disturbing news for me.

Addressing me, as well as my cube neighbor Lisa, Robb said with a smile, “You and Lisa were in my dream last night.” At that point, I abandoned my computer and ran for the lock down room.  No seriously, I gave him a confused stare, as he continued.

“I was eating lunch and you two came up and started bullying me.” The details were thankfully sketchy, but one thing that Robb remembered for sure was that he was shocked that we were being so mean.

I was saddened.  Really, what were we doing?  How had we changed from mild mannered, fun loving management analyst problem solvers into REM jerks?  Did my bizzaro self somehow turn my friend Lisa bad, as well?  Is it a deeply buried subconscious office understanding that someday our spreadsheets will make us snap and we will become nasty bureaucrats, who will apparently not hesitate to take a co-worker’s lunch?  How powerful is my demon Id that it torments others in their sleep?  What had I become?

On the other hand, perhaps this was a gift.  A gift to myself and society.  Yes, if you see me in the flesh, smile and say “hello.” I am a nice guy.  We could go get a cup of coffee.

When you close your eyes, however, take heed.  Be alert. Get ready to run, because in your sleepy brain, I am a real punk and I got a gang in tow.  So, if you know what is best for you, drop that 3AM Lunchables and run to your next nightmare, because my evil dream time doppelganger is coming and he has a beef with you.

It came in an unexpected rush.  Something that I never saw coming.

One son at a cross country meet.

Another at basketball practice.

My wife and the final son at the gym.

I was alone.  Unexpectedly and unobligated alone.  It was unnatural.  I felt wrong.

Certainly, I could have done any number of chores.  That also felt wrong.  Sort of like pouring a fine wine down the drain.

I changed into comfy clothes.  I looked around.  I was still alone.  A miracle.

Even the dog sensed the moment and curled up for a nap.

In the silence, I grabbed a book and read.  Glorious words, as my eyes moved across the page.  I felt less guilty and more at peace.

It took me a while, but I think I figured out the relaxation thing.  I would give myself a B+, not bad at all.  I filed away the approach.  What worked for me was bound to work again, someday years from now, when I have an unexpected free moment of peace again.

Going around the dinner table, my wife asked a simple question, “Who has homework?”

This inquiry was met with the usual grumbles, groans, and a mention of “twenty minutes of reading.” I patiently waited my turn.

Finally, the murmur at the table died down and I gleefully added, “I’m going to replace a broken toilet seat!”

Yes kids, homework never ends, it just morphs into a less desirable forms.

You know it must be Fall, when we find Jacob’s crumbled-dry-leaves-coated-socks on the kitchen counter resting next to ghost pumpkins.

Boo!

The kids had the day off from school.  We figured we should have them stay active in some fashion.  Charlene and I agreed that I would taken them to the Ninja Gym (think various obstacles scattered throughout a building with minimalist decor).

I also suited up in gym gear to join in the fun.  While 80% of the parents sat to watch, I was determined to fling my middle aged lumbering vessel around the room.  My early results were somewhat successful.  I even climbed a rope, which had long been my elementary school nemesis.  Yes, the blisters on my hands were worth it, because that rope now called me, “Daddy.”

There was however one challenge that intrigued me, the Warped Wall.  A vertical piece of wood with a slight bend.  “Run” up the wall, fling yourself toward the top, and pull yourself up.  Sounds so simple.

I flew up the 11 foot tall wall with minimal difficulty and began staring down the 14 1/2 foot monster.

Try one.  Fail, but I could visualize success.

Tries two, three, four, five.  All fails, but I was within inches of the top.  The parents on the sidelines and of course the cute moms cheered me on.  Teens successfully mounted the wall.  I continued to fail by inches.

Then I noticed pains.  First, the blisters on my hands ripping open from repeated collisions with the wall.  Then a sore feeling in my right leg, as my glute strained at each attempt.  Then worst of all, a sharp pain in my left groin, as my leg continued to hoist me toward the wall.

I stretched.  I tried again.  And again.  And again.  The moms continued to encourage me.  I kept trying.  Then gradually, leap after leap, my progress turned into a slow regression.  No matter how deep I dug, I was losing ground.  I fought through the pain.  I continued to try.  I left it all out there, but when time was called, the wall stood high and I remained at its base.  The cute moms left with their children to head home.

As I type this post nursing a groin that felt each failed attempt, I realize a few truths.  It is okay to try and fail.  If you give it your everything, that’s all you can do, so smile through the pain with a glimmer of pride.  Also, smiles from the cute moms at the Ninja Gym are nice, but they’re nothing compared to the loving ice pack delivered by your beautiful bride upon telling the tale of your outing.

Someday soon, my body will heal.  Someday, I will conquer that wall.  While every day, my wife will shake her head and slightly smile at my antics.

You may not call me Ishmael, but oh I’ve experienced my great whale in the form of a 14 1/2 foot warped wall.