5 quick thoughts on the death of Osama bin Laden

New post at joshwoodtx.com: 5 quick thoughts on the death of Osama bin Laden.

If you have 15 seconds, vote for me...

I recently discovered that there is a "Top 25 Daddy Bloggers" poll going on out here in the internet. I was honored to be included....and by "honored to be included", I of course mean that I honored myself by entering myself in the poll.

Anyhow, please take a second to vote for me in the poll here: http://www.circleofmoms.com/blogger/life-josh

You don't have to register or enter any contact info. All you have to do is click the little "thumbs up" button. Apologies to all of you who dislike my blog. There is no "thumbs down" button for you to click on. I'll be sure to let you know if I enter myself in a "Worst 25 Daddy Bloggers" poll.

Vote early. Vote often. Thanks!

View the current top 25 here: http://www.circleofmoms.com/top25/daddy-blogs

P90x - How I loathe you

My blog has been moved here: www.joshwoodtx.com. However, it has been requested that I post over here as well. So, I'll copy and paste my posts for a bit for you die hard blogspot people. Anyhow.....

P90x - How I loathe you

So, my wife and I decided to give this P90x thing a try. We finished day 3 yesterday. I think I can safely file this decision in the "overly optimistic" category (like the time I said "yes" to dodge ball with middle schoolers...but that's another story). Here's my brief synopsis of the experience thus far:

Day 1: We decided to start with the plyometrics disc. Tony (the leader-whom I have officially declared to be my arch-enemy) pointed out that one of the guys on the video had a prosthetic leg. Assumption: how hard could it be if a one legged man could do it? Stupid assumption. I collapsed around 40 minutes into it. I was no longer the boss of my own legs. I realize that the following sentence isn't exactly politically correct; but, I don't care. I hate that jolly one legged man.

Day 2: I decided to go with the "chest and back" disc as my legs felt like jello and were barely functional. My wife was initially opposed to this disc because she wanted to avoid getting a muscled-up "man back" (as she so eloquently put it). I assured her that this wouldn't happen to her...and warned her that it might not happen to me either. Apparently each workout includes a "warm up". This "warm up" included things called jump-lunges. I hate Tony. As for the rest of the workout....I, again, ended up sprawled on the floor-like a dead man-after semi-completing countless push-ups. Pain. So much pain. Not only am I unable to walk like a normal human, I am now unable to lift my arms to floss my teeth.

Day 3: I sifted through the discs and found a disc titled "Yoga". YES. This one had to be easy. I knew a fat guy in college who took a yoga class to meet women (didn't work). Assumption: if he could do it, surely I could also. Horrible assumption. Apparently all yoga is not the same as P90x yoga. It's as if the P90x trainers thought to themselves: "By now, the people who are stupid enough to do our program probably have ridiculously sore legs, arms, and shoulders. I wonder how we can intensify that pain until our participants cry.......OH, I KNOW! Let's make them do 90 minutes of yoga!" I did something called a "downward dog" until my soul hurt. Realization 1: I am not flexible at all. AT ALL. Realization 2: Yoga is not what I thought it was (a style of peaceful, calming stretching and breathing). Yoga is not peaceful at all. Yoga is designed to punish you for not being flexible. I hate yoga. I hate Tony.

I'll admit, before beginning P90x, the thought crossed my mind: "the wife might be impressed with my strength & athleticism". Wrong. Unless, of course, shouting various insults at the tv whilst lying motionless on the floor is "impressive".

P3x down. P87x to go. Bring it on.

Oh, in case you were wondering, this post is tagged under "religion" because P90x almost caused a premature meeting with Jesus.

joshwoodtx.com

FYI...I'm posting more often now on the new blog at http://www.joshwoodtx.com. This site will not automatically redirect you as I lack the technical mojo necessary to make that happen. My apologies.

New Year, New Blog Site

To the 6 or 7 readers of this blog: I have moved my blog over to a new site: www.joshwoodtx.com. Check it out. I have a new post or two up there. God Bless.

The Santa Failure

I've often pondered the "Santa predicament". When do you tell your kids that the magical jolly man isn't real? Is it ok to lie to your children about him? Will this charade cause them to paint Jesus in the same mythical light?

We planned on playing the game as long as we could. Then, our 6y/o started to ask a lot of questions. A LOT OF QUESTIONS. The proverbial straw that broke the camel's back was:

"A friend said that Santa is dead and that only his spirit is alive. Is that true?"

"We'll talk about it on your night to stay up." I replied. (each of our kids gets one night per week to stay up 15 minutes later than everyone else for one-on-one time)

I hoped that she would forget by then. She didn't. So, rather spontaneously, I decided to have one of the top 5 most dreaded conversations of parenthood. For the record, I still don't have a clue how to solve the Santa predicament. However, I now know (and can pass along to you) how not to do it.

I said something to the affect of "Ok. Mommy and Daddy are going to tell you a big kid secret. If we tell you, you can't tell your friends at school or your brothers or sisters."

Her: "Why?"

Me: "Because you might ruin a really fun game if you tell them this secret. Are you ready to hear the secret?"

Her: "Yes, Daddy."

Me: "SANTA'S NOT REAL!!!!"

....just kidding....I didn't say that....but the result might have been better if I had.

What I really said: "Santa is a fun game that everyone plays at Christmas time. Mommy and Daddy are really the ones who bring the presents and eat the cookies."

Her (smiling oddly): "Do all the grownups know about this?"

Me: "Yes."

We then talked for a bit. She didn't sleep much that night. She wasn't the least bit sad, which surprised both of us. She actually seemed happily excited to know the "big kid" secret.

I was a bit depressed that I had just killed Santa; but, I felt pretty good overall about how things went down.

Then came the questions. Over the next two days she asked a steady flow of questions that didn't really make sense in light of our previous conversation (mostly the questions were about ideas that should have died with Santa-North Pole, flying reindeer, etc.). Finally one question that she asked flipped the switch on the little light bulb hovering over my head. 6y/o (in a giggly whisper): "So Daddy, who's on the naughty list?"

Now, all of her questions made sense. My daughter thinks that her mommy and I are the ones who keep the nice and naughty list for all the children of the world; and, are the two very important individuals responsible for traveling the globe to deliver presents to those whom we deem worthy. There is no Santa because Mommy and Daddy are Santa. OOPS.

Tonight (Christmas Eve), she was more excited than ever to put out carrots for the reindeer. I just haven't figured out a way to fix my embarrassing failure yet. Perhaps next year....because now I face a new, more painful, dilemma. Not only did I have to kill Santa-now I have to kill the awesome dream of her Daddy as a Christmas superhero. Bummer.

The moral of the story: if you are going to have the Santa talk with your kids, rehearse a bit before you ignorantly ramble on about how Mommy and Daddy do all the things Santa does. Also, please pray that I don't screw up the birds and bees talk also. That would REALLY stink.

The Nap Time Experiment

So, nap times can sometimes be painful. Forcing a kid to take a nap for the sake of a cranky-free evening can be a taxing debacle. Punishing my child when he gets out of bed works; but, I hate doing it. So, a few Sundays ago I thought I'd experiment with a different parenting theory: rather than punish him, I'd gently place him back in bed every time he got up. It would be a bit of a hassle, but all I'd be missing out on was bits and pieces of the Cowboys' inevitable failure. I was curious...how many times would it take? Here's the answer:

#1. Into bed he goes. (Yes, he is using a Ms. Piggy/Muppet Band pillow case ala 1983. Yes, he is using his sister's comforter. Yes, he is fully clothed-shoes and all-the kid loves to wear his shoes. Stop judging me and enjoy the experiment.) "Good night. Stay in bed." I exit the room and listen for the sounds of the inevitable escape.



#1.5. I hear the sound of something hitting the wall. I go back to check. He's in bed, but has apparently gotten out of bed, grabbed a basket of blocks, gotten back in bed, and is throwing them one-by-one at the wall. "Block Daddy." "Yes, that's a nice block...but I have to take it away so that you will lay down and go to sleep. Good night." Technically, I didn't have to put him back in bed so we'll count this as "put him back in bed" #1.5.

#2. I check on our daughters (who were playing in the play room). Someone else was apparently checking on them also. I carry him back to bed. "Stay in bed. Good night."

#3. "Daddy, brother is out of bed again." Sure enough, he is watching his sisters play again. This time he figured out how to get the door open. Sorry, the photo's kind of small...you'll notice a familiar face just above the horse's rear end. I carry him back to bed. "Back to your bed. Good night."

#4. I hear some rustling back in the girls' room. "Sorry, you can yank the Dora sheet off of your sister's bed another day. Back to bed. Good night."

#5. I work on some laundry for about 15 minutes. I haven't heard anything so I go check. Could a miracle have occurred with only 4 "back to beds"? Well, sort of...if by "miracle" I mean totally destroying his brothers' room in less than 15 minutes. "Back to bed. Good night."

#6. Five minutes later I hear the loud and repeated slamming of a door. He's just hanging out in the sewing closet. "Back to bed. Good night."

#7. It's been another 10 or 15 minutes and I haven't heard anything; so, I get up to check on him. I look down the hallway and notice that the bathroom has been toddler'ed. I take a picture (at the perfectly God ordained moment) as my little one peeks to see if I am watching before he ventures off to destroy some other area of our house. "Back to bed. Good night."

#8. I hear more rustling. I get up to check. There is now a marker, a toy, a toy thermometer, a cotton ball, and a bag of cereal sitting in my hallway. Someone must have heard me coming because he almost made it back to his room before he froze like a deer in the headlights when I said his name. I'm not exactly sure what dastardly plan he had concocted that required these items...but I can assure you that it wasn't going to be pretty. "Good night."

#9. I hear static in the kitchen. He must have turned the baby monitor off. Sure enough..... "Back to bed. Good night."

#10. He's getting bold now. "Hi Dadda." "Thank you for the stick-unicorn. Back to bed. Good night." No, I didn't bother picking up the bag of cereal last time. I don't know why...likely because I was busy yelling at Romo or something.

The End. 10.5 attempts later I finally give up and force him to stay in his room for 15 minutes. In an attempt to stick to my bizarro parenting experiment, I give him a couple of toys, a drink, and some cereal (i.e. bribery). I hoped he would fall asleep. He did not.

The moral of the story: Spare the rod, spoil the child. As expected, he was an emotional crankpot all evening.