Coffee, Cults, and the American Dream

This blog is about parenting (allegedly). But a big part of being a dad has nothing to do with your child and everything to do with your child's mother. It pays to make the mama happy. And the best way I've found to do that is to bring home Starbucks coffee. It's warm and sugary and comforting. My wife loves it.

But here's the thing: Starbucks is a cult.

I know you're waiting for a punchline, but it's not coming. Think about it. It's an organization that doles out performance-enhancing drugs to its addicted disciples. It started with a few locations and now it literally covers the globe. Just take a quick look at these fabricated statistics:

• For every American over the age of 18 there are 75 Starbucks.
• There are more Starbucks in America than synagogues, churches and mosques. COMBINED.
• 1 in 3 children will be hooked on Starbucks before the age of 13.
• 3 in 3 children will grow up in a home affected by caffeine addiction.
• 4 in 3 children will be assaulted by Starbucks advertising by the year 2020.

You've been warned.

For all its dangers, I used to think that the simple act of PICKING UP coffee from Starbucks was fairly safe and painless. I mean, yes, Starbucks is infiltrating our lives with caffeine and sugar, but at least I can get it from a drive-thru. And bringing home that steaming paper cup of addiction earns me so many husband points! I'm willing to be a coffee mule if that's what it takes to make my wonderful wife happy. 

But you know what? Even that has to be difficult. Did you know that there are unwritten rules to the Starbucks drive-thru? Yeah. There are. And you'll be shocked to learn that I DON'T LIKE THEM.

Our nearest Starbucks has a weird parking lot. There are two entrances that snake around and feed into the narrow corridor of the drive-thru lane. So there is one line that starts on the North side of the building and another line that joins it from the West. 

I was at this important juncture one day and my wife, Shelsey, was in the passenger seat. As I moved past the intersection and up to the intercom, my wife gasped in horror.

"What's wrong?" I asked, a picture of concern and loving care.

"You just cut that lady off!" Shelsey whispered.

"No, I didn't. I waited for my turn." 

And I had. Because, as everyone knows, when there are two merging lanes, the proper etiquette is to allow one car to merge from Lane A and then another car to merge from Lane B. This back-and-forth continues until traffic is clear. At least, this is the way traffic works in civilized society. But in Starbucktopia? NOOOOO!

Apparently we're supposed to keep track of who has been in line the longest and let that person go first, without any sense of what is best for keeping the whole line moving.

Sure enough, I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw a very angry, uncaffeinated woman in her middle years glaring at the back of my head. I had broken the unwritten rules of this godforsaken land.

But it gets worse. Apparently the Starbucks-initiated also hate capitalism. Read on.

On another trip, I managed to navigate the nonsensical line and make it to the pickup window. A chipper young girl leaned out, smiling.

"Hey, the person in that car in front of you paid for your coffee!" she said joyfully.

"Oh, wow! Really?" I leaned forward and tried to see who was in the SUV in front of me. I knew it must be a friend of mine but I couldn't quite tell who it was.

"That was really nice of them," I said. The smile froze on the girl's face. She stared at me like I was from another planet. Then she coolly gave me my total and handed me the coffee.

My wife whispered frantically from the passenger seat.

"You broke the CHAIN!" she said, mortified.

"What in the world does that even mean?!"

"The chain of kindness! The pay-it-forward! You were supposed to keep it going!" She tried to melt into her seat, ashamed to be seen getting coffee with such a lowlife.

Apparently, when you go to Starbucks, you risk getting caught in a Ceremony-of-Kindness-and-Communist-Ideals. One person pays for the car behind them in line. That person is thrilled that they received free coffee. As a token of their undying love for Starbucks and their fellow man, the gifted person proceeds to pay for the coffee of the addict behind them. And so the chain goes on, unbroken... until Scrooge McWasserstein ruins it.

Does this make sense? No. Because you know what coffee I agreed to pay for? My family's coffee. I know how much it costs. And, Lord knows, it's enough! Sure, my one latte was paid for by the car in front of me. Am I then obligated to pay for the entire volleyball team in the van behind me? Apparently so!

These are not the principles that made America great, dear readers. We need to get back to our roots. We need to get back to the lifestyle and beverage choices of our Founding Fathers. And that's why I've chosen to announce my candidacy for President of the United States of America. For all you need to know about my platform, see my campaign poster below.

Make New Friends but Keep the Old, One is Silver & and Other's Chrome

My son and I were hustling that morning, trying to get out the door and onto the road. We piled into the truck about five minutes later than we intended but I still had a fighting chance to get the kid to school and myself to work on time. That’s when I noticed that I was nearly out of gas.

Yeah? So it’s gonna be like that, universe?

I used the petrol fumes remaining in my tank to coast into a gas station right off the highway. As I pulled up to the pump, I noticed there was a biker gang off to the side of the parking lot. I pointed them out to my boy.

“Pretty cool bikes, huh, Jono?”

The kid began pointing and staring at a motorcycle he particularly liked. The large, bearded men in leather watched as he pointed and talked. The biker dudes looked none too pleased.

I jumped out of the truck and started to fill the tank. We were really running late now. In my periphery, I noticed one of the bikers starting to walk toward me.

Side note: I’m very aware in situations like this. I try not to judge people by their looks and I generally assume that if I’m not bothering people they won’t bother me. But still, you have to be ready to defend yourself and your family, right? Anyway, that’s how I see it. And Batman agrees.

The guy came around from behind my truck and said, “Excuse me.” 

It looked like I was about to get another chance to make an unexpected friend! Jono has a way of doing this to me. Like the time I walked into a pizza place and told the kid at the counter that I had an order for "Wasserstein." Jono piped up and mentioned that there also might be an order under the name of "Skywalker." That's a good way to make a new friend. Just an excellent ice-breaker.

Jono also likes to ask people at the grocery store things like "Do you know something cool about dinosaurs?" They usually don't. We help them. Friends!

Or there was the time Jono insisted that we stop and give money to a homeless man on the street because, come on... he doesn't even have a house! He needs some money! (That one was actually super convicting. Thanks, Lord, for a kid who is often holier than me.)

There are a lot of people to meet out there in this big world and Jono is usually more willing to meet them than I am.

Anyway, back to the scowling biker guy. He was pretty scruffy-looking (though not quite of the “nerf herder” variety), wearing a worn leather vest and chaps. He was also pretty big. Some of his buddies were even bigger. He had noticed us pointing at him. He definitely wasn’t smiling.

“Yeah?” I said.

“I noticed you have a kid with you,” the man said, nodding to the cab of the truck. 

“Would he like a temporary tattoo?”

He handed me a sweet B.A.C.A. tattoo sticker.

“Thanks!” I told him. “That’s awesome!”

The guy walked back to his buddies. I had to grin. I love it when people turn out to be as cool as you hope they are. As we pulled away from the pump a few minutes later, my son rolled down his window to scream “THANK YOU” at the top of his lungs. The bikers still didn’t smile. But they had definitely made one kid happy.

Okay, it was time to get my little hooligan to 2nd Grade.

Let’s ride.

Misreading the Moment

Ok, I'll admit it. Sometimes I let my son watch too much television. But it's not my fault! Batman is on television. And when you can't get Batman there are other, slightly less awesome, things! It's hard to resist stuff like that.

But every now and then, even the TV seems to be telling you to read more books. This happened the other day when I found The Mouse and the Motorcycle on Netflix. It's a mid-80s adaptation of one of my favorite childhood books. The special effects are horrible. The acting is ridiculous. My son and I both loved it.

So there I was, a dad with a fun childhood memory that my son also appreciated, and an opportunity to spend some quality time together. We started reading a chapter of The Mouse and the Motorcycle together every night before bed.

Jono sleeps in a bunk bed even though he's an only child. It's awesome because the top bunk is awesome. Also, the bottom bunk sometimes gets turned into a cave. Caves? Also awesome.

Anyway, the other night I tucked Jono into his bed and I lay down on the bottom bunk to read him The Mouse and the Motorcycle. I had one of those moments that parents often have but usually don't admit; the "Wow, I'm such a great parent" moment. You know, that moment where you'd never SAY you're a great parent but you would gladly post a picture of your parenting activities on Instagram so everyone knows what a crafty, fun, motivated parent you are? Here's my picture of that moment (though it never made it to Instagram):

See?! See what a great dad I was being?! We have a dang LANTERN in that bedroom! It's like a CAMPOUT or something! We're reading a book that most little boys love! Whoa! Father of the Year?! I mean, I wasn't going to say it... but sure, maybe Instagram could say it for me!

Well, before I had time to add a filter to my photo, I had to actually read a bit of the book to my kid. Details, right? So we started reading. It was stinkin' magical. I was loving it. I assumed Jono was loving it.

Then I heard a page turn.

I hadn't turned a page.

"Hey, what book are you reading up there?" I asked.

"Uh... nothing." Jono replied.

"What is it?"

"Darth Vader and Son," he answered.

Darth Vader and Son is a hilarious picture book. I love it. Or I used to. 

"Well, I thought we were reading The Mouse and the Motorcycle!" I whined.

"Um... how about you read your book and I'll read my book," Jono said. "To ourselves."

I let Jono finish his book before turning out the lights. I got on Twitter. I avoided Instagram.

Attic Adventures and the Box of Doom

All throughout the past week, my son has been begging me to take him up into the attic. I tried to warn him that it wasn't as exciting as he hoped. I knew what he was thinking. I knew he expected to find buried treasure or dinosaur bones or an antique elephant gun. "There's nothing much up there," I said. But I was his age once. I knew eventually he'd have to see for himself.

Now, it's one thing to discuss climbing into a dark attic. It's another thing to actually do it. I mean, who knows what's up there, right? Sure, there could be treasure. But isn't there a chance there are ghosts? Not to mention rats or skeletons. "Are you sure it's safe?" Jono asked. But his curiosity was much stronger than his fear.

Jono scaled the ladder, cautiously shining his flashlight into the mysterious darkness.

"There's nothing up here," he said.

I thought, Yep. Life's full of disappointment, kid.  But what I said was, "Shine the light in there a little farther. Let's see what we can find."

"STAR WARS!" Jono shouted. He scrambled into the attic and grabbed a box.

And sure enough, we had found treasure. Namely, my brother's Chewbacca/C-3PO Christmas ornament. Judging by Jono's reaction, it may have been made entirely of gold. I was starting to get a little excited about this journey, too.

I had intended to take a quick peek into the attic. I never even thought we'd get off the ladder and climb in there. But there were old coats to examine and a little track for toy race cars. Pretty soon we were both digging through little bits of the past. And that's when I saw something I had completely forgotten. Something I had constructed long ago and had never planned to see again. Yes, my friends. I had rediscovered the Box of Doom.

I built the Box of Doom with my childhood best friend. It was pieced together out of scraps of wood, a rusty door hinge, and an old lock. We spray-painted it grey and added suitable warnings to would-be trespassers.

At this point in our Attic Odyssey, I stopped chuckling at Jono's cute and naive excitement. Things had just gotten real.

"JONO!" I hollered. "This is my BOX!"

"What box?" he asked.

What box? Only the box that sat in my room for a decade or more. Only the box that contained my greatest treasures and darkest childhood secrets. This is no ordinary box, my son. This is the Box of Doom.

And just like that, there ceased to be a man and a child in the attic. There were two children crawling among the rafters. One of them young and adorable, the other old and bearded. Both excited at what they might find next.

The Box of Doom was marked with ancient hieroglyphics, depicting my primitive love of baseball.

The Box's title was clearly written in blood, presumably the blood of my enemies. I was always a very serious child. But best of all, the BoD contained my comic book collection, a series of ancient tomes that had been thought lost to the annals of mankind.

And there was more. Baseball cards were tucked into the box. I found one of my favorite books, a children's version of the Arthurian legends.

I spent many glorious summers with friends in Hutchinson, KS, wandering trails and splashing in swimming pools. But in the quiet and slow hours of the afternoon, I often found a lonely spot and jumped into the magical and dangerous world of King Arthur. And suddenly, a 31 year-old man in his dusty attic had returned to that ancient realm. And he was thinking of taking his son along with him.

I think everyone has a Box of Doom. I mean, not literally. We weren't ALL psychotic children. But we all have real or imagined boxes that hold the most important parts of our childhoods. We can't really go back to those times and places we knew when we were young. But sometimes it's enough just to remember them. Sometimes it's nice to blow the dust off our collected memories of past summers. It's hard to resist the urge to be a better man when you think about the boy you once were. Hopefully the best of you can be passed on to your own children. You can at least hand them your favorite book.

Little League of His Own

Little league is upon us. My boy is learning to play baseball in an instructional league this summer. So far he likes it a lot more than soccer. ('MURICA!)

Soccer is fun, but at the entry level it's just a bunch of kids all running around in a herd trying to kick the ball at the same time. I think Jono likes getting his own turn to step up to the plate. And that's really the essential moment in baseball, isn't it? No matter what happened in the last play, the next batter has to step into the batter's box. Baseball is a team sport but every play starts with an individual opportunity. Batter versus pitcher. It combines teamwork with rugged individualism. Seriously, God bless America. I love it.

As Jono has started to enjoy baseball, we've started watching more games together and even watching some baseball movies. A few weeks ago, I decided A League of Their Own would be a film the whole family could agree on. It has baseball for the kid, baseball-in-history for me, and women's issues/baseball/relationships for my wife. Plus, it has Tom Hanks. And everyone knows that Tom Hanks is the best at everything. If you don't agree, just stop reading this blog. Seriously, what's wrong with you? You need Jesus.¹

To be honest, I didn't think the movie made much of an impression on my boy. But, as usual, I was wrong.

Last night at baseball practice, an adorable four-year-old shortstop sustained an injury. (Don't worry, it wasn't anything career-ending.) He started sobbing. And he just wouldn't stop. My son walked over to talk to him. The boy kept crying. Eventually, his mom walked out onto the field and calmed him down. Play resumed.

After practice, I asked Jono what happened to the other little boy.

"He fell down on his knee," Jono said.

"But it wasn't because you pushed him or anything?"

"No."

"Well, what were you trying to say to him when he was crying?" I asked.

"Well, he was just breaking the rules of baseball," Jono replied.

"What do you mean?"

And then, in a decent impression of Mr. Tom Hanks, Jono said...

"There's no crying in baseball!"

I think I might wait a while before I show him Field of Dreams.

---

1 This is actually true. You need Him. We all do. Talk to me sometime for details.^↩

Entertaining Angel

A few nights ago, my son invented a fun new game. Well, I say “fun.” For him it was all about imagination. For me it mostly involved figuring out what game we were playing.

It all started when he was allegedly taking a shower. I was in the room next door, laying out pajamas for him. 

I heard a voice from within the shower.

“Hey, um…. Where am I?”

“What?” I asked.

“What is this place?”

“You’re in the shower,” I offered helpfully.

“Oh. But where is that?” he continued.

“You’re in your house, with your mom and dad.”

“Oh,” he said, seeming to grasp a new concept. “What color is the house?”

I told him.

“And… what's a ‘mom?’”

“Well,” I said. “It’s the woman who gave birth to you.”

“What does my mom look like?” he asked,

“She’s got curly hair and she likes to smile.”

“Oh! Okay!”

I was glad to see we were getting somewhere now.

“And what about you?” the shower stranger asked. “I suppose you’ll need a name, too. How about ‘Matt?’”

“I like it.”

He continued this act throughout the shower. Problems arose when we turned off the water and tried getting him ready for bed. 

You see, at some point during the bathing process, my son had been replaced by a new person. I learned over the course of the next fifteen minutes that this person was new to Earth. He had just recently arrived from Heaven. (Please don’t ask me how he got here. He was very vague on those details.)

You’d like to assume that heavenly visitors would be helpful additions to your evening. Turns out they are quite the opposite. Have you ever tried putting an angel to bed? I’ll bet you haven’t. Well, don’t be jealous. It’s no picnic.

“Hey, Heaven Stranger,” I began. “You’d better go to the bathroom before you go to bed.”

“Oh, sure,” my mystic visitor agreed. “But… where do I go to the bathroom? What is a toilet?”

They don’t have indoor plumbing in Heaven?! (Seriously, this has me a little concerned.)1

“Hey, could you feed Otto?” I asked later.

“Who’s Otto?” Of course. Why am I such a slow learner?

“He’s your pet fish.”

“Oh!” Pause. “What’s a fish?”

Needless to say, bedtime took longer than usual. But in the end, I got my little miracle to lie down and go to sleep. 

Hebrews 13:2 reminds us that we should be hospitable to strangers and mentions that some people, by showing hospitality, have “entertained angels without knowing it.” Somehow I doubt that I was talking to a heavenly messenger that night. But he certainly is a gift from God. And I think we were both entertained.

^{1. [Actually, the problem went beyond plumbing issues and raised questions about basic bodily functions in the afterlife. I was also asked “What is poop?]↩}

Sleeping like a Baby

People without kids just don't understand. Try asking a childless person the following question: "When was the last time you got a really good night's sleep?" They'll think about it for a minute. It might have been a while. They might have gone an entire week without sleeping through the night. But eventually, your child-free friend acquaintance will give you an answer. At that point you have my permission to punch them in the face.

Seriously, if you ask a mother when she last slept through the night, she'll pause to think about it, too. But she's only pausing to CALCULATE THE AGE OF HER OLDEST CHILD! That's because she HASN'T SLEPT A WINK SINCE THAT LITTLE STINKER WAS BORN!

Sure, babies can't sleep all through the night. We understand, babies. It's not your fault. But someday you'll grow out of that, right?

Right.

Unless there are thunder storms. Or bumps in the night. Or if it gets too cold. Or too hot. Or if Dad has just been sleeping a little too peacefully. Then they'll be knocking on your door at 3:30am. They'll be thirsty. They'll be scared. They'll be AWAKE. And so will you.

My son has no problem going to sleep in his own room. He just has trouble staying there. About an hour and a half before my alarm goes off, I'll hear a voice from down the hall.

"Daaaaaaaaaad! Oh, Daaaaaaaaaaaad!"

He never calls his mother. He knows I'm easier to manipulate at this hour.

"Yeah, what's up, buddy?"

"Can I come and sleep in your room?"

"Sure, sure," I say. Somehow in my exhaustion I've forgotten how terrible this idea really is.

The kid climbs into our bed and I start drifting off again. Everything is quiet for thirty seconds.

"HEY, DAD?!"

Oh, my dear, sweet Moses. How is this kid so loud?

"What? What?" I ask.

"Did you know that worms don't have eyes?" Jono asks excitedly.

"Yes."

"AND NO NOSES!"

"I know. Go to sleep," I mumble.

"Just one, big mouth."

"Zzzz..." I pretend to be sleeping.

Everything is quiet for another twenty seconds.

"HEY, DAD!" my future opera singer shouts.

"What?!"

"Can we catch some worms?"

I resist the urge to tell him he'll be sleeping with the worms. I slowly coax him back to sleep. I finally get to sleep myself.

Later, I'm awakened by the pleasant sensation of being kicked in the face. Seriously, why is he sleeping upside down now? Why has less pillow space been appropriated for my head than for his feet? The world may never know.

My alarm goes off early. There's work to be done, money to be made, bills to be paid. I'm up and at 'em before the sun comes up.

When it's time to wake the kid up for school, he's sleeping like a rock. I have to shake him and bellow in his ear to get things moving. You see, he's really tired. He's had a rough night.

I've had a rough six years.