Take one Dad, add two sons, arm everyone with Nerf guns and have a blast playing Boys vs Dad (I packed a pistol in each hand) for about 45 minutes.  Non-stop fun!

I think the Sons of LarryD took great pride in dispensing Nerf-justice against their dad – especially when they registered a “head shot”.  Burned off some energy, no one got hurt, and nothing broke.

I foresee round 2 commencing Saturday….

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It comes as no surprise to parents, regardless of their children’s ages, that there are times when we’re called upon to play the role of doctor. Heck, some parents are doctors, but that’s not the point. You know the routine – bandaging a skinned knee here, checking a temperature there, dispensing medication from time to time. The simple treatments.

Well.

I feel compelled to tell all of you that I’m a non-licensed proctologist now. It’s an honorary degree (hmmm, where’d we hear about that lately?) that is officially conferred upon parents when their children reach teenage years.

Just today, I had to perform a cranial anal extraction on my son, explaining to him yet again that doing homework on time is necessary, good grades are expected, and that his priorities are the wrong priorities if they don’t match mine and Mrs LarryD’s priorities.

Surgery was a success, and it looks like the patient will enjoy a full recovery.

This time.

(crossposted at Acts of the Apostasy)

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The Sons of LarryD are stricken with a disease – it’s not life-threatening, mind you. It’s pandemic, but not contagious. It’s neither debilitating nor incapacitating.

It’s just really really frustrating.

I’m talking about Liturgical Laryngitis. You can set your clock to when it strikes, and you can guess rather accurately as to when the symptoms disappear. Sure, there are occasions when it fades away during Mass, for a sentence or two – such as “Dad, tell him to stop kicking me!”; or “Is Mass almost over?”; or “Do you have to sing every verse of the recessional?” Other than that, though, their vocal chords remain as silent as Zechariah while waiting for John to be born.

Our Father? I think I see the lips move, but it could just be labored breathing. The Creed? Head bobs and half-closed eyes. The Gloria? Forget it, double if it’s being sung. Even the Kiss of Peace comes out as a barely audible “Pb-wi-u”.

All this despite the occasional subtle elbow nudge, usually met with a surprised glance and an expression that says “What’d I do??”

“I can’t hear you,” I mention quickly during a pause in the Lamb of God.

“I’m sayin’ it!” is the defensive response. Yeah, the laryngitis lifted just enough for four syllables.

I’ve explained to them that it’s important to respond audibly because we are worshipping as a community, and as such, we ought to participate. I’ve said many times that speaking the words reinforces their meaning, and helps us to better believe and better understand. “Yeah, but God hears us,” they have said. True enough, but he’s put me in charge. And I have the car keys. Talk or walk.

Thinly veiled threats aside, it is head-bangingly frustrating to get them to project their voices during the responses and prayers. I’m not pushing the envelope in having them sing the hymns. Yet. What makes it so frustrating is that these are the same kids who will shout a conversation with one another, while one is in the basement on the PS2 and the other is two floors higher in his bedroom. These are the same kids who have had shrieking contests. These are the same boys who mimic Steve Perry and actually reach the glass-shattering, canine-eardrum-shattering high notes.

But get them to Mass, and they’re transformed into Marcel Marceau’s.

This past Sunday at Mass, though, I witnessed…or rather heard…something that is giving me hope, however slight, that the older Son of LarryD (he’s 13) might be growing out of this.

He was actually singing the responsorial psalm. I said nothing. I avoided eye contact like the plague. I gave no hint that I recognized his voice, joining mine in singing. I know how embarrassing it is for a teen son to know that his dad heard him sing in church – better to pretend it never happened.

Besides, God heard him.

(this post is cross-posted at Acts Of The Apostasy)

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I have a close friend who is need of prayers – he and his wife are working out some issues right now, and they just discovered this past weekend that they’re unexpectedly pregnant, adding another layer of stress and uncertainty to an already stress-filled situation. There’s no question as to their commitment to life, but they could use prayers for grace, deeper faith and trust in God, and for increased unity to each other.

Thank you!

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As a dad, much of the day to day is leading by example, teaching by words and deeds, and reinforcing virtuous behavior while gently correcting bad behavior (sometimes not so gently, but that has it’s place, too!)

From time to time, I wonder if the teaching and leading and reinforcing ever takes hold in their heads and hearts, especially since I seem to repeat myself: “Say thank you”; “Be kind to your brother”; “Forgive your brother”; “STOP PUNCHING YOUR BROTHER!!”

Every once in awhile, and quite often unexpectedly, I come across evidence that yes indeed, the lessons are being learned, that the roots are beginning to take hold with fragility. Like a consolation from God, I’m reassured that the hard work is worth it.

Which is what happened tonight. I was throwing a load of the boys’ laundry in the washer, and checking their pockets for items that can wreak havoc on a washer – anyone who has found Sharpie’s a rinse and spin cycle too late, raise your hand!! In my younger son’s pockets, I pulled out a collection of folded papers, which I knew were notes passed among him and his friends. Now, I don’t advocate note-passing, and normally I would mention this to him. But not this time.

Here’s what the largest of the notes read (verbatim, word for word): “Conner, I am very sorry I joined the club it was the wrong thing to do I quit the club today and the second day the name was changed to fish eggs. I hope you acept my apollage Your Friend Jeff D.” On the opposite side was written in pencil: “To Conner From Jeff” And in pen, just below that, was simply printed: “I exsept”

I’m not sure what the club was originally named, and I won’t ask. It’s enough to know that my younger son had learned that hurting a friend’s feelings was wrong, that he had to make reparations and then ask for forgiveness. I am encouraged.

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