Archive for the 'Humor' Category

Kids saying (and doing) the darndest things

It’s time for a semi-annual submission of funny things the kids have said and done. This edition goes back a ways as I’ve mined old journals and notes for “never before seen” footage.

For example, the time we couldn’t locate a three-year-old son after church only to find him – with a big smile on his face – urinating like a cherub in a flowerbed.

We needed frequent opportunities to teach this youngster bathroom etiquette. For a time he was using toilet paper without tearing it off. A single flush would carry half a roll down with it.

I suspect it was this son who suctioned a plunger on the hood of my car before work one day.

A family friend once caught him eating his “nasal produce,” for lack of a better term.

“Does that taste good?” the friend asked him.

“Best food on earth,” the little guy replied. He’ll likely need to watch his sodium intake later in life.

He once offered the following nutritional philosophy: “Healthy foods make your muscles strong. Sweet foods make your muscles big.”

His older brother as a five-year-old told me in no uncertain terms, “Dad, I need to watch Toy Story 2.”

“Do you NEED to watch Toy Story 2 or do you WANT to?” I asked in a leading question that I hoped would inspire mature perspective.

“I need to,” he answered, matter of factly.

Nice try, Dad.

When our oldest son was three, the original Toy Story was his favorite movie. One time his grandparents couldn’t find their copy of the movie while babysitting him. Instead they popped in the wedding video of their oldest daughter, my young wife.

“There’s my mommy and my daddy!” our son exclaimed. “Am I going to be baby Jesus?!?”

Raised in the most recent hey-day of Texas Longhorns football, the sport became a big deal to our oldest sons.

As a four-year-old, our second son followed NFL teams as best he could. In his vernacular, the Green Bay Packers were the “Graham Crackers.” New York Giants quarterback “Eli Mayonnaise” was his favorite player.

His big brother would sometimes make him cry on the front yard field. On one such occasion, I heard the following plea from the six-year-old as the four-year-old entered the house crying.

“I’ll make you a deal!” he yelled. “You can have the ball back on the one yard line, but it’s fourth down.”

After receiving no response, the older brother gritted his teeth.

“Come on! It’s not about winning and losing. It’s about having fun.”

Oh, is that so, Mr. Firstborn?

When Mr. Firstborn was 3, our preacher walked through the auditorium asking kids for their favorite Bible story. Our son raised his hand.

“The football player,” he announced. I hope he was thinking about Goliath.

Other facts have gotten crossed. Our three-year-old daughter once invited me into a game of “I Spy.”

“I spy something blue,” she said.

“The sky?” I asked.

“No,” she replied.

Her five-year-old brother had overheard and chimed in: “The tree?”

“Yes!” she announced.

When she was five, she was attempting to improve both her spelling and her handwriting.

“Dad?” she asked. “How do you spell ‘opportunity’ in cursive?”

Here’s to the joy of youth where not even the blue sky’s a limit!

 

Write to Kevin Thompson at kevin@kwt.info

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The golfer’s dilemmas

Golfer: “How do you like my game?
Caddie: “Very good, sir, but personally I prefer golf.”

I usually answer the question “Do you play golf?” with “I own a set of clubs.” This response captures the tension most casual golfers feel. I can hit 100 errant shots in a round, but, like an addict, I fixate on that one strike that settles down a fairway, on a green or, best yet, in a hole.

Golfer: “Do you think I can get there with a 5 iron?”
Caddie: “Eventually”

Club selection is the bane of a golfer’s existence. I can approach the ball with quiet confidence, execute a flawless swing and strike the ball in the sweetest of spots only to watch it land 20 yards in front of or behind the desired destination. My kids’ bags have four or five clubs. Why does mine have fourteen, all hard to use and easy to lose?

Golfer: “That can’t be my ball; it’s too old.”
Caddie: “It’s been a long time since we teed off, sir.”

Golf’s biggest critique is the time commitment required. I’m not real sure how 18 holes became the standard. Thirteen or fourteen holes would allow me my one good shot without completely exhausting my energy and my wife’s patience.

Five hours away from work and family is certainly a sacrifice. It’s also a relatively undivided time to build quality relationships, assuming you’re playing with the right people. Does anyone have an extra set of left-handed ladies clubs? She’s about five foot six.

Golfer: “Please stop checking your watch all the time. It’s distracting.”
Caddie: “It’s not a watch, sir. It’s a compass.”

Ponce de Leon’s fountain of youth pursuit can’t touch my epic searches for a lost ball. In a golfer’s psyche, a horrible shot becomes decent if you locate your ball. Alternatively, a horrible shot becomes respectable if you find someone else’s lost ball. It’s proof you haven’t completely driven off the map.

Golfer: “I think I’m going to drown myself in the lake.”
Caddie: “Can you keep your head down that long?”

The fundamentals of a golf swing seem so simplistic: Don’t over-grip, don’t over-swing, don’t sway, don’t pull your head out, don’t try to kill it. I have executed all this and more in some gorgeous practice swings.

But then, somehow, demons overtake in the 6 inches, 6 seconds and 6 thoughts between a practice swing and an actual one.

When I top, hook or slice a ball into the next zip code, everyone is responsible but me: the cart girl, the president, my parents, the people I’m playing with, my caddie.

Golfer: “You have to be the worst caddie in the world.”
Caddie: “I don’t think so, sir. That would be too much of a coincidence.”

Kevin Thompson is a weekly columnist for The Boerne Star in the Texas hill country. Follow him at http://www.kwt.info

When Twins Came

It seems like yesterday that we welcomed a double dose of bundled joy into our home. A life-sized print of boy/girl infant twins – asleep, head-to-head, feathered angel wings on their backs – has hung in our hallway ever since. The years have flown like cherubs, but the memories remain.

When I told one gentleman back then that we were having twins, he asked if we had used fertility treatments. It was a reasonable question given the modern prevalence of multiple births. But it was unreasonable given that I had previously told him these twins had three older brothers!

On the day we found out we were having twins, I sensed the shock in my wife’s voice. She had gone to her OB appointment alone. It was, after all, our fourth pregnancy.

“Can you come home over lunch?” she asked on the drive back.

I figured she would tell me we were having son number four – that Daddy wouldn’t be getting his little girl. That was fine, of course, as long as mom and child were healthy.

At this point, she was only nine or ten weeks along, well before genders are generally recognized. But maybe something anatomically undeniable had appeared on the sonogram, I supposed.

When I walked into the house at lunch, all was quiet because all were in bed: our one-year-old, our three-year-old and my wife of eight years. She was not asleep, however. She was probably treasuring in her heart the pleasures of a lifetime with four sons.

As I approached the bedside, I gave her an understanding “I’m here for you / I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a girl” kiss and then picked up the sonogram strip off the floor.

As I ooohhed and aahhhed at the cloudy forms on the film strip, my wife slowly turned it right side up. At that point, the labels came clear. “Twin A” and “Twin B”. Like Abraham and Sarah, all I could do was laugh.

The heart-stopping moment had happened for her a few hours earlier. “Whoa!” The sonogram nurse exclaimed as she abruptly paused her examination. “There’s two in there!”

We should have at least thought it a possibility. My wife’s maternal grandmother has twin sisters. An early sonogram of our first son showed a dissolving sac where a twin had been. “Disappearing Twin Syndrome” we were told.

But after three conventional single male births (did I just call births “conventional”?), we had tunnel vision. That is, until twins thrust double vision upon us. Two cribs, two car seats, two high chairs. Mom feeds of A; Dad’s got B. Dad diapers A; Mom wipes B.

Our six-year-old showed maturity beyond his years when he heard the news. “Oh, man. That’s going to be a lot of work.” His three-year-old brother exhibited youthful vigor: “Let’s have six kids!”

A few months later, we were spring cleaning and preparing for the two arrivals. While boxing used books to take to a reseller, I came across a hard-back that had barely been cracked. The title? “Taking Control of Your Fertility.”

“Oh. There it is,” I thought at the time. Now I think, “How boring!”

Kevin Thompson writes weekly for The Boerne Star in the Texas hill country. Follow him at http://www.kwt.info.

To the mountains and back

I love to ski. I love to ski so much I’ll ride twelve hours in a packed 7-passenger SUV. I’ll ride those twelve hours in that packed SUV even if one of those six other passengers is sick. I’ll take my chances. I love to ski.

It takes this kind of perseverance to get two adults and five kids – all under twelve, one under the weather – to northern New Mexico, a place not easily accessible from here – or anywhere.

Route options: (1) Drive west then north and see cartoon aliens in Roswell, NM; or (2) Cut the corner and smell Lubbock. I couldn’t decide so we did both, one going, one coming. It really broke up the monotony.

Eating on the road is about as appetizing as eating off the road. Cheeseburgers, chicken fingers, cheeseburgers. I never complained on a fast food chain’s web site until Dairy Queen, Ozona, TX. I’ve seen cleaner port-a-johns. My wife used the experience to teach our kids the importance of marketplace competition.

Sleeping on the road isn’t exactly a dream. Thank you, oil & gas industry, for the thrill of paying $275 for a room at a Fairfield Inn.

With just a single room for seven humans, we needed our four-year-old son to share a bed with his older brother. He vehemently refused, because his brother was wearing “panties” (a.k.a. briefs) instead of pajama pants.

Around midnight I needed to retrieve a pillow from the car. A rough-looking roughneck startled me as I entered the elevator. I’m not sure what was on his mind, but it wasn’t pillows.

That wasn’t the only scary moment. I mistakenly trusted a Google Map for my route to Red River. The faulty map included a pass up County Road 18 through nearly-deserted Mora, NM. I felt like a character in a horror movie.

As dusk approached, freezing air fell. A thin layer of snow covered the ground next to mountain stream where I stopped to let the boys relieve themselves. In midstream, a 1980s Chevy pickup drove past. About thirty seconds later it returned.

“These two guys are up to no good,” I sensed.

“Hey, buddy, you got five dollars for gas?” one asked.

I needed to parse my answer. A “yes” would open up my wallet to perhaps further thievery; a “no” would be a clear lie from a Texas vehicle full of kids and gear. Murderers don’t like liars, I reminded myself.

“I buy all my gas with a debit card.”

The two locals seemed slightly confused but relatively content with my answer. Strangely, they drove off in a different direction than they were heading before. The snow angels surrounding our vehicle must have told them to go that way.

The way home through the Texas Panhandle was no less eventful. After winding down the mountain, a four-year-old threw up on his eleven-year-old brother.

Seven people endured another night in a room built for four.

When we drove past a cattle feed yard, an eight-year-old asked his siblings, “Who peed in their pants?” This is the same kid who saw me in my skiing underlayer and asked, “Skinny jeans?”

We loved our three days on the slopes, but we’ll probably remember our four days on the road!

Kevin Thompson writes weekly for The Boerne Star. He can be reached at kevin@kwt.info.

Kids say the darndest things in 2014

A great joy of fatherhood is hearing firsthand how little people process the world. As we close out the year, here are the funniest, cleverest, most innocent and telling things my kids have said in 2014.

We have five children but only one daughter. She’s four. Tucking her in one night, I asked what she was going to dream about: “Maybe just you.” I kissed her goodnight and immediately pre-ordered a 2026 BMW convertible.

Once, when she was anxious to leave for a party, she bargained, “If you get dressed fast, I’ll give you some gum and a new phone.” She already knows technology unlocks my heart.

Her twin brother could pick out the phone. Though only four, he is the technologist among us. One day he rounded the corner with my smartphone and announced in a sassy tone: “I know your password. You better change it.”

While I was waiting for a fax, my kids became fully native to the digital landscape. To them, analog is analogous to Stone Age.

When my six year old came to my office one morning, he asked if he could call his mom. “Yes,” I said, “but you’ll need to dial nine first.” He stared at me blankly. After repeating myself three times, he finally asked, “You mean ‘push’ it?”

On spring break, we took the family to a camp in the woods. As we settled into our cabin, my eight year old tried unsuccessfully to check sports scores on my phone. He asked, “Why don’t they have Internet? I mean, they have lights.”

On a hike that week, one of the four year olds asked, “Can butterflies kill us? What about ladybugs?”

In a houseful of mostly boys, sports are a hot topic. I asked the eight year old why you get two points for a basketball shot: “Because the ball goes through the rim and the net.”

While waiting for me to throw him a pop fly, the six year old declared, “Here comes the last out of the World Serious.” Another day he handed me three tennis balls. “Will you jiggle these?”

Vocabulary is a crap shoot. In the summer we try not to forget our sunscream. Sometimes we watch movies on Nexflips. If you want to know the price of something at the store, just scan the zebra name tag.

The little girl loves music. She often asks her twin brother, “How ‘bout you dance and I sing?” Lyrics aren’t yet her forte. “How much is that doggie in the rainbow?” “From the mountains to the cherries, to the oceans white with foam…”

We try to teach them what really matters. It doesn’t always click. The six year old’s translation of Proverbs 3:5: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Lean back on your own understanding.”

Before dinner one night, I asked for someone to complete this sentence: “The family that prays together….” Expecting “stays together,” all I got was “eats together.” Heathens.

After I told the little girl we always need to be ready for Jesus’ return, she asked, “Will he want to see our rooms?”

Shortly after Halloween she asked me, “What do you want to be for Thanksgiving?”

A pilgrim, dear. A pilgrim, wandering through the wild wilderness called parenthood.

Kevin Thompson is a columnist for The Boerne Star in the Texas hill country. He can be reached at kevin@kwt.info.

Herdmans, herdsmen and me

“What do you want for Christmas, Dad?” my six-year-old asked. “Maybe some floss?”

“Some what?!?” I replied, hoping I had misheard him. Surely he thinks I have more compelling Christmas wishes than dental floss! Full disclosure: As a 15-year-old I did request a file cabinet from jolly old and organized Saint Nicholas.

To my chagrin, I had heard my son right. (At least my hearing’s not going!) He actually asked me if I wanted floss for Christmas. Woe is me. My offspring thinks I’m mind-numbingly boring or that I have really bad teeth. Or worse, both.

Later that day, our family attended a heartwarming holiday classic in the league of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. A story of hygiene-free rugrats who commandeer an annual Christmas tradition: the church Christmas pageant.

Barbara Robinson’s comedy The Best Christmas Pageant Ever has been a favorite of mine since I saw it performed in a community playhouse in the mid-1980s. It probably sparked my love of redemption stories.

By way of review if you haven’t read or seen it in a while, the Herdman kids are a ragtag, uncouth, welfare-dependent bunch of bullies. Their parents are nowhere to be found. A social worker attempts to bring order to their chaos.

When the oldest, Leroy Herdman, is tipped off that Twinkies are served at the local Sunday School, the scraggly siblings suddenly find their religion. In Sunday School they hear about auditions for the church Christmas pageant.

“That sounds interesting,” they think.

After intimidating the buttoned-up church kids into relinquishing their starring roles, the Herdmans secure lead parts. Ralph is Joseph. Imogene plays Mary. Gladys gets her wings.

Church members are appalled:

“How could such riffraff be let into God’s house to perform God’s sacred nativity?”

“Mary and Joseph will look like poor travellers looking for a place to stay!” (Heaven forbid.)

“No one will come to the pageant!”

In fact, everyone came to the pageant – to see what the Herdmans would do.

The play unfolds as a story of redemption within a story of redemption. The Herdmans get swept up into the remote possibility that an all-powerful God just might care about them.

“Magi” Leroy Herdman offers a canned ham to the newborn king out of the family’s welfare box. Angel Gladys Herdman announces Christ’s arrival with “Hey! Unto you a child is born!” The story even broke through the hardened Imogene Herdman.

After the play and the crowd disperses, Imogene returns to the stage alone to take in the events that just occurred, to treasure them up in her heart, if you will. In tears, she clings to the swaddled savior of the world.

Imogene was as unlikely a carrier of the baby Jesus as the mother of Jesus herself. And therein lies the glory of the story of stories: God, acting in the lives of ordinary people – people who get dental floss and file cabinets for Christmas.

Just like the Herdmans on stage, the story of Christmas is equally unpredictable. From virgin birth to shepherds witnessing history to a daring midnight escape…nothing is as you or I would have drawn it up.

And how relieving is that? If a saving, gracing Creator can break through to the Herdmans and the herdsmen, just maybe he can break through to me.

Merry Christmas, 2014.

 

Kevin Thompson writes weekly for The Boerne Star in the Texas hill country. Contact him at kevin@kwt.info.

A Holy House of Horrors

For good or bad, Halloween strikes at children’s imaginations (and taste buds) like no other holiday can. Think about it: You get to dress up like something you’ve always wanted to be, run around the neighborhood after dark with your friends and eat as much candy as you want.

Not even Santa can match those specs.

Halloween wasn’t perfect. There were inefficiencies, such as the houses that gave out raisins or pennies or pencils. Sometimes Mom insisted on driving along the street as we went door to door. But for the most part it was – and is – a kid’s dream.

My earliest Halloween memories occurred at church youth group parties. As a grade schooler, I blindly stuck my hand through holes labeled “Eyeballs” and “Brains.” Wet grapes and cooked pasta noodles never tasted the same.

Plenty of innocuous fun filled those parties: bobbing for apples, scarecrow dressing, pin the tail on the skeleton. But there was a next level that I couldn’t wait to experience.

A visionary youth minister (with perhaps a few skeletons in his closet) dreamed up the attraction. High schoolers would concoct and conduct a haunted house for the middle schoolers. Except for the fellowship hall where the G-rated party was held, the high school students had free reign on the entire church building.

Now when I say church building, please don’t picture a 10,000 square foot metal building with a few offices attached.

Picture a 3-story, red-bricked, multi-columned, fully-steepled, 60,000 square foot urban fortress on a 2-acre spread. Built in the Sunday School heydays of the 1950s, it was an imposing monstrosity and an ideal place for monsters.

The building had plenty of spookiness without the high schoolers’ help, especially since declining attendance left many sections minimally utilized.

For instance, the “Room in the Inn” homeless ministry took over the west wing of the 3rd floor once a week. Sleeping cots filled the rooms. An eery plastic molded shower was installed in the hallway.

Legend had it that a man simply known as “George” lived in the building for months, maybe years, without ever being caught. How else could the empty cans of beanie weenies in the church’s commercial kitchen be explained?

All this provided more than a fair share of fodder to freak out ‘tweenagers and early teenagers. The 20-minute tour of terror wound its way from the fellowship hall, through the industrial boiler room in the basement and past the baptistry, dyed red for the occasion.

Limp bodies hung from chandeliers. Masked monsters filled Sunday School rooms otherwise home to flannel board Bible characters. The haunted house was as good as any commercial attraction I ever saw.

Before I got to do my share of scaring, a more mature church leader nixed the annual Halloween party and haunted house tradition. Better to leave seldom-used adult education classrooms boringly neutral than to formally commit them to the dark side, I suppose.

But it was too late for me. Evil had already taken root. My best friend and I began building our own house of horrors in his attic each October. We eventually added a haunted woods.

Kevin Thompson writes weekly for The Boerne Star in the Texas hill country. He can be reached at kevin@kwt.info.


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