The Resturant

"Dude" I told my traveling companion.  "If there is a bar fight in this place, I don't think I could hang.  I"m just letting you know."  He laughed at my funny joke, my god damn funny joke.  Always making a joke, have to be screwing around when I should have been reconsidering why we were choosing to it here with our children. 

This was a local establishment.  This is kind of a rule with me when we go adventuring to places we have never been before.  Eat come place local, eat some place that you can experience the town in.  Eat at a joint where the regulars go, stay away from the chain restaurants.  It's the flavor of the town I'm looking for, it's soul.  And you only get that if you eat local. 

In a little place like Cawker City, KS, there isn't much to choose from.  There was a Mexican joint down the street however when I want Mexican food, the middle of Kansas is not where I would go.  I'm sure it's a fine place with great food, but I didn't want to take any chances to ruin my ball of twine adventure.  Let's keep Montezuma revenge down by the border.  Good food, bad bathroom time.

Our other choice was this place which was remarkable for the amount of tin that it used.  It wasn't a large venue by any means, about the size of a small house, complete with a screen door.  I wonder if they are baking cookies inside?  There was a patio area as well, blocked by some sort of fencing, I assumed tin.  The placed looked like it would be right at home at the edge of a trailer park, serving the finest 4 dollar malt liqueur.  We wanted local, we got local.  We walked in, 2 stay at home dads and our 4 children. 

We passed through the screen door, making sure to slam it on our way in to bring as much attention to ourselves as possible.  There was a bar area, perhaps the whole restaurant was a bar area, I'm not sure.  The lighting wasn't great and it's hard to tell whats what in neon red lights.  There appeared to be 6 gentlemen at the bar, fine upstanding citizens.  We refer to these as "locals". 

Like a sitcom, they all swiveled on their bar stools.  They looked at us.  They didn't say anything.  We didn't say anything.  Even the kids didn't say anything.  Everyone stared.  Silence. 

This was awkward. 

Not a sound was made, by us or them because after 30 seconds of long silence it always becomes an us or them situation. 

My eyes darted from face to face, trying to find out if perhaps one of these locals was the owner.  Perhaps they could show us to our table because in a place like this, "wait to be seated" is the norm.  I looked behind the bar for maybe a bartender but instead saw a opaque looking mirror covered up by brands of beer that sat in front. 

The silence continued.  Was there a waitress?  I couldn't find a waitress.  I was looking for a waitress, desperately.  Surely she could restore some proper order here or at least provide some impartial refereeing as I got my ass thrown through the opaque mirror.  Of course, I didn't see any waitress.  I assumed her body was probably stuffed in one of the trunks in the parking lot, with the bartender as well. 

I read to much, my mind tends to envision the worst case scenarios from the stories I've read.  But being who I am, Hossman, I also envision that in those worse case scenario's I am the hero.  Soon I would get rushed by the six gents on the bar stools and I would give a war cry while tearing off my shirt.  My daughter (she's Hoss to ya know) would grab a beer bottle and smash it's end on a table and use the jagged pieces to pierce eyes out while I body slammed one of them.  My son would look at the neon lights, so pretty the neon lights, so pretty. 

We were out numbered.  We were (obviously) from out of town.  No one knew we were here.  There didn't appear to be any authority figure present.  My best bet was to take the first blow and let our other Dad run away with the kids.  I doubt he's much of a fighter anyway.  In the silence, I started to think of ways to stall thus giving him time to move towards the door. 

"Hi!" I said in my best Texas drawl and a volume that was 3 times to loud.  Be friendly, be gregarious.  Be the guy that shows no fear.  Don't wet your pants in front of your children.  I even waved, an exaggerated wave like I was just introduced on Wheel of Fortune and was trying to get Vana's attention.  Let's see what they make of that, I thought. 

One of the men got up from the far end of the bar.  He began shuffling towards us.  I checked his hands for perhaps a switch blade or a length of rope that he would surely tie me up with so that he could put the ball gag in without interference.  I thought back to my joke I made outside and wished I would have just kept my mouth shut. 

He came close, way into my personal space.  Inches from me I could see his nostrils flair like he was taking in my aroma.  I was uncomfortable with him that close but couldn't back down, that would invite the others and I'm sure at least one of them had a ball gag and a set of handcuffs stashed somewhere on their person.  I braced myself as he leaned in closer, inch by inch. 

And then he gave me a hug.  This shit just got Deliverance weird. 

I am not normally a hugger and when I am I make it a point not to hug random gentlemen that I meet in a sweaty dive bar in the middle of Kansas.  I admit, at this point, I had no idea what to make of the situation.  No more jokes came from me because I thought surely the joke is on me.  While I was giving him the half shoulder hug you would give a distant relative he was giving me the big bear hug you would give your dear old ma, god rest her soul. 

"Hi folks!"  he said.  "Sit anywhere you like!"  As the choices were limited to 2 tables, the bar or outside where my screams could be heard, I chose the bigger of the two tables. 

"Let me get you folks something to drink!"  His volume was louder than mine and yet, he seemed to pull it off way better than I did.  "How about some Sprite for the kids!  You guys want a glass with that Sprite?"

"Sure" I told him once the realization set in that I wasn't going to be tied up and called Piggy. 

But that seemed to break the ice for everyone in Cawker City, Kansas.  There was no more silence.  There were questions.  Where were we from, where were we going, does anyone know you are here and can we have your cell phones.  In fact, things got down right friendly, like they had known us their entire lives.  They offered me a beer.  One of the patrons ( I assume) came in from the patio and went behind the bar.  She got herself her own beer and then headed back out again.  I quickly realized that this was how this place operated.  This was the local flavor that I was looking for, without the ass raping of course. 

Soon we had Dixie cups (no ice) set in front of us.  The cups were pretty dirty so I cleaned them with my shirt so as not to offend.  I don't think this is the type of place that you send stuff back strictly because you would probably just get something equal to what you sent back.  But that's the way we like it, that's the way we adventure.  And this is why you always go to someplace local.  The character of the joint shows the character of the town.  Apparently, Cawker City is a hugging type of small town America and it's a damn fine place with a damn fine local restaurant. 

Soon a waitress did appear out of no where and didn't seem to be locked in someones trunk after all.  We placed our order and I will admit, we had the best home fries I have ever eaten.  Anywhere.  Home made, hand cut, delicious.  The cost of our meal for 6 people was less than 40 bucks and a couple of dirty dixie cups, well worth it. 

I found out all about the big ball of twine and they pointed the way to me as we talked for the next hour.  I got some town history, a little gossip and several life stories.  This is what adventuring is all about.  As we got ready to leave, I got a series of high fives, handshakes and one more hug for the road because everyone needs a road hug. 

We of course saw the big ball of twine that night.  We made it home just fine the next morning.  My traveling companion relayed the story to his wife.  She remarked that we probably through them off their game a bit, to gay dads walking into a small joint in Kansas.  Gay dads? 

By god, I bet she is right.  I bet they thought we were gay.  And what do they do with gay dads on an outing in Cawker City Kansas.  Why, they give them a hug of course. 

The Big Ball of Twine

I have been asked, on several occasions and not in the most sincere of voices, why on Earth do I want to go see the world's biggest ball of twine.  I have been asked, with some snickers, why I would want to drive 4 hours into the middle of Kansas to see something such as this.  People then would ask "With your kids?" on the off chance I forgot that I had children.  And sometimes I do forget I have children which is always a mistake because if you are not on constant guard, they tend to smash you in the nuts and destroy the house. 

People would ask where the great giant ball of twine is.  People would ask me where I would stay when I got there.  People would ask me why, why, why I was going to see the ball of twine. 

But no one never asked me What the ball of twine is.  And there, my friends, is the rub. 

I will admit, the idea for going to see a giant ball of twine, several tons, started off as a joke.  It was an off hand comment.  What are doing today?  Oh, going to see a ball of twine.  It was that simple, a small little ha ha to make uncomfortable silent moments more bearable, to showcase how funny I am.  There the ball of twine stayed, a punchline in an bad joke. 

But it refused to stay there.  Over time, my mind would go back to it.  A few moments of the day here, a few moments of the day there.  The joke started to become a little more serious.  Questions came into my head, like why wouldn't I go see the ball of twine.  What else have I got to do today?  The world is open to me, I can do anything I want because my awesome wife makes all this possible. 

The kids and I have the whole summer to fill.  There are things to see, experiences to be had, memories to build.  The ball of twine?  Yes, we will see a giant ball of twine strictly because I have been a very unique opportunity to stay home with my kids.  An opportunity that most father's don't get.  This opportunity won't last forever, it will last only as long as they tolerate me.  Sooner than I would think, they will grow up.  They will not want to take road trips with dad.  They will want to spend time with their friends.  They will want to go to summer camps, they will want to spend alone time with guys named Chet.  They will go to high school and then college.  They will stop coming home on summers so that they can go to retreats in vans so that they can "discover" themselves.  And of course, Chet will be there. 

I will be at home.  With the cat and my fat dog.  And no ball of twine. 

This all started 2 years ago.  I put the word out to the other Dads I hang out with that there was a ball of twine out there and damn it, we were going to see it.  My reception was a bit less than enthusiastic.  But they were in.  But we can't go on a Tuesday, we were all doing something else.  We can't go over the weekend, we need to spend time with the wife.  Monday is out, Monday is a shopping day. 

And so it went.  The first year passed and no ball of twine was seen.  The second year came and so did summer responsibilities.  Soccer camps, vacation bible schools, trips to see families.  The ball of twine got pushed back.  I talked about it, I waxed poetic verses about how it would be epic.  A random road trip to a random attraction.  Year 2 went just like year 1. 

School came and Little Hoss went to kindergarten.  I was locked in now, I couldn't go anywhere.  I had a schedule to keep.  I had missed an opportunity.

But the thought of the ball of twine was still there and over those two years, it became important to do so.  I would think about it, I would research it.  Sometimes it felt almost as if I obsessed about it.  I realized that the ball of twine had become my white whale, the mythical sea beast that was always just out of my grasp.  It would rub against my thoughts every morning I put Little Hoss on the bus and drove Bubba Hoss to preschool twice a week.  I thought about it as I did grocery shopping and made lunches.  I thought about it as I sat at the soccer fields. 

The ball of twine isn't just a ball of twine.  It's not just a bunch of farmer's rope that some guy spent 60 years collecting, although that is what it appears to be.  It's more than that. 

It represents an opportunity.  It represents the gift that my wife has given me by allowing me to stay home with the kids until they are older.  It is a chance to make memories, to have experiences unique to us only, before the chance to make those precious memories are gone.  It is a chance to show the kids our country, to see rolling hills of wheat, to feel wind so hard that it almost pushes you back, to see the kind of communities that dot the landscape of America.  To live their culture, to leave the city behind and do something, do something that on the face is completely silly.  To make memories that would last as long as I do. 

That's what the ball of twine is and that is why we needed to see it.  That is why we needed to go.  We needed to catch our white whale, which really isn't a ball of twine but the memories of doing something silly with the children, just because we can. 

I will go back to work one day.  I will get up in the morning and shower and shave.  I will put on nice clothes.  I will not get kicked in the balls.  There will be no stains to clean up.  There will be no breakfast to make.  There will be no snuggle time on the couch while we wake up.  There will be a quick bagel and a commute to an office, that is devoid of color, to sit in a cubicle for 8 hours.  There will be the commute home, the talk radio about sports or politics, the deadlines of my latest projects. 

But this year, if I do this right, there will also be memories of going on a random road trip with my children. 

Car Seat Covers

I know that she is going to hate them before I even buy them.  After being with one person for so long, there are certain things that you learn about them.  For example, I know that Hossmom will never, ever watch any scary horror movie unless it contains a very large prehistoric corcidile.  I have no idea why this and yet we have seen Lake Placid many, many times.  I have no idea why she will watch this one and seem to enjoy it so much, but the movie Jaws is not allowed in this house.  I know that Hossmom likes to shed her pants as soon as she gets home, many times as soon as she is through the door. The speed at which she does this makes me question if she is multidimensional.  She doesn't just change into pajama pants as much as she morphs into them.

And so, I can state with a pretty big certainty, Hossmom will probably hate them, hate them like the plague.  At first, my daughter hates them as well.  However, I point out that the skulls have wings, almost like fairies and doesn't she love fairies?  That problem is solved.

However, that still leaves the problem of my wife.  My son on the other hand, thinks they are cool.  Good god  do I love that boy sometimes.

I know that Hossmom will hate them because we do not live in the 1980's and we are not following the band Van Halen around.  She will hate them because they look like they belong in a Zroc and not in brand new minivan. She will hate them because we don't smoke pot nor do we consort like teenagers in the back of a van down by the river.  She will hate them because they are not sensible, normal, or beige.  I don't know why that woman loves beige so much.

As soon as I put them in the basket, because my mind was made up the minute I got a minivan, I knew that there would be a "discussion."  It should take about 7 hours and linger over a  3 week period.  After that 3 week period there should be another 4 months of brooding and heavy sighs every time she gets in the van with the death metal seat covers.  Finally, she will decide that my better qualities will outweigh my poor fashion decisions but she would still give a cross eyed look anytime we went anywhere as a family.  This is the way we dated.

That is the price for awesome and it is a price that must be paid.  No IOU's, no checks and no I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.  So I'll fork it over and I'll do it with a smile on my face.  I'll do it with the smile because this is my car, my first new car that is all mine.  Every time we have bought a new car, it went to the wife.  Most of it was because I knew it would make her happy.  I would take whatever she was driving and she would get the car because most of the time I didn't care.  I did start caring though when 2 years ago my AC went out, I started caring a lot then.  I've paid my dues man.  I'm 37 and damn it, this my car and if I want death metal seat covers in my car, then death metal seat covers it's going to be.

And yes, there have to be seat covers.  They have to be there because the kids have a habit of destroying things like Hurricane Katrina.  The label "unbreakable" only means that it hasn't' been fully tested in my house yet.  It wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that one day my kids grow up and learn to time travel.  By pure happenstance the first two places that they would go is to tour the Titanic and the Hindenburg, both of them would have been doing fine until my kids decided to "see what this does".  It's just in their nature.  Leave a piece of steel at my house and it may make it a while but eventually it will end up as twisted and bent as a drug whore's soul.

So the seat covers are necessary to avoid gaping holes and crayon marked upholstery.  But they are also necessary for a completely different reason.  I am a 37 year old man.  I drive a minivan, suburban white.  I take the kids to soccer practice.

Hear all that knocking on the door?  That's just all the ladies trying to get in.

Let's face it, a minivan is about as uncool as you can probably get.  My days of cruising around with the top down and my hair blowing in the wind is many, many years behind me and also many drains behind me.  The hair, it falls out while I shower.

But with death metal car seat covers?  I can make fun of the whole thing.  And by making fun of the whole thing, I can recapture some of my cool.  And yes, I swear to god that if I had extra money to really blow, I would totally do a flame job.  They totally match the skulls with wings thing I got going on.

We get home and quickly put them on. I take a picture and send it to Hossmom via Text.  That went about as I thought it would.

Layers of Pop Tarts

"We don't want to go!" they said.  "Let's go back to our room!" they demanded.

I paid them no mind.  They owe me this.  They owe me this for every tea party I've sat down to.  They owe it to me for every stain that is on the carpet floor.  They owe it to me for every nutshot, every bloody nose and every scrapped knuckle for every toy they've broken and I've fixed.  They owe it to me because I gave them life, I breathed the seed of existence and damn it, they are going.  All of them.

They are all tired, Hossmom and the kids.  I know this.  I don't care. I've gone beyond caring.   They are a bit worn out.  I know this.  I don't care.  They are not overly found of cemeteries.  I don't care.  This is family fun so get in the car.  Just get in the car, turn on your movies, and give me this.  Hossmom can read a book.  This must be done, this is vacation.

Being a father is a complex work of art.  It's a series of intricate plans that are not readily understood by the outsider.  What looks like a simple vacation is usually much more than that.  None of them truly understand what I'm trying to do here but that is ok, they don't have to.  This is not just a vacation, it is a quest and they are all players riding along the stream of my plans.  And the more that I'm yelled at, that I'm told that they just want to go back to the hot tub, the more concrete those plans must become.  It is for their own good because a father knows best.

If we wanted just a nice vacation, we could have gone to the beach.  That pretty much teaches them nothing.  It's hot and sandy.  You get in the water, you poke dead jellyfish on the beach.  We will have a 30 minute conversation about undertow and jaws that will scar them so deeply that they will never venture into the water past their ankles.  This is what Hossmom currently does at the beach and I can only imagine it's because her father did something right.

I went to the dinosaur place with everyone because kids love dinosaurs.  I took pictures of everyone, everywhere.  Dad is not in most of the family vacations because he is the one taking the pictures.  Dad is ok with this because Dad knows that before we head home or back to the room, there is one place that we are going.  For him.  For us.  For the family.  I paid the 8 additional bucks per kid so that they could mimic gold mining in a tourist trap.

I have done this because this is our vacation that disguises our quest.  They will have fun and not realize the foundation of character that I am building.  That's what a father does, he build character and I'm building such a strong foundation that a castle could be built on it later.  Do not question my ways, just get in the car, close your mouths, and appreciate what I tell you to appreciate.

We saw a missile silo on the way to Mount Rushmore.  The kids just saw a big hole in the ground.  But I explained to them that this is what kept America's enemies at bay, this hole in the ground guaranteed their freedom.  The looked at me and didn't understand.  Hossmom rolled her eyes.  It does not matter, they will remember my words and the big hole in the ground when it matters, when they are older.

We saw Mount Rushmore.  I gave a history lesson of each president there.  From the father of our country to the man who carried a big stick.  I explained to them that each of the men depicted up there gave something to us, to our country, something that we should always be thankful for.  They wanted to go to the gift shop.  That's ok, my plans are many layered and we are still near the top.

I took them to Crazy Horse.  I showed them a mountain and explained who he was and why it was important to remember.  To what we did as a people, to what they did as a people and how we got to the place that we are now.  I explained that through shear force of will, a man could destroy a mountain, how a man could shape his future.  They wanted to go see the random cat sitting in the museum.  Layer upon layer of character, that's what I'm doing.

I showed them a cowboy show, complete with guns firing and comedy.  They liked the guns, they liked the loud noises.  They didn't care for the dialog but that's ok, one day they will.  One day they will know that this was the beginning of manifest destiny and what it took to take it.

And now there is one more stop to make, one more layer to add to their character.  The cemetery.  In this cemetery is buried Wild Bill Hickok.  Adventurer, scout, card player.  And yet, much more than that.  I explain this to everyone as we climb out of the car and head up Boot Hill.  I explain about the indomitable spirit, about the will to take on the world.  I explain about how a man can become a legend and in that legend how others can find inspiration.  They are tired of walking.  It is expected.

Next to Wild Bill is buried Calamity Jane.  It is important that my daughter sees who this is, realizes who this is.  An alcoholic, she had her flaws.  But she proved that a woman can be anything that she wants to be.  That with toughness and grit, she can become a cowboy and ride as hard as any of them.  That there is nothing holding my daughter back other than her own imagination and her strength of character, which by the end of this trip should start to grow.

I have traveled 750 miles and endured countless hours of the Barbie movie to reach this place.  Rushmore was my first big one, Crazy Horse next, but this one, this is the one that is supposed to be the capstone on the lessons that I am teaching.

I show them the graves.  I explain.  I put my hand on their shoulders.  I get down on my knee and tell Russ and Audry who they are, why this is important.  I tell them why Aces and 8's should be folded.

They start throwing rocks.

I tell them that these two people also invented Poptarts.

"Really?!" they ask.

"Yup" I say.  Then I spit because it felt like a good spit was required.

Now there is awe, as there should be.

My lessons are complete, character building is installed, my multi layered Poptart strategy.  In time they will peel away the pastry and come to the truth of this vacation.  In time.  In time.  

Daddyshome

I have another new post up over at Daddyshome.  Go over and check it out.  It's simple this time, more informative I think than past stuff I've written.  It's called "Tips on Adventuring".  I like writing tip stuff, makes me sound credible in front of a jury.

I'll return with more adventures of our latest vacation and what we broke while there.

The Family Truckster

"I think you're all fucked in the head.  We're ten hours from the fucking fun park and you want to bail out.  Well, I'll tell you something.  This is no longer a vacation.  It's a quest.  It's a quest for fun.  I'm gonna have fun and you're going to have fun.  We're all gonna have so much fucking fun we'll need plastic surgeory to remove our goddamn smiles.  You'll be whistling "Zip-a-dee-dah" out of your assholes.  I gotta be crazy!  I'm on a pilgrimage to see a moose.  Praise Marty Moose!  Holy Shit!"
                                                              --Clark Griswald

It's with this quote in mind that I forced my family on the family vacation.  I often think that my life is a movie as it seems to resemble ones at times.  I am a stay at home dad who's wife works in advertising.  My wife has to go to on business trips to pitch Schooner Tuna.  I can lay a guy out with one punch.  I am Mr. Mom.  I know the title of Mr. Mom bothers many of the stay at home dad world, but I can't deny the similarities sometimes.  I grow a beard in the winter and I use a 22 or 23, whatever it takes.

And so when I went to buy my new family truckster for the cross country road trip to Mount Rushmore and all places in between, I wasn't surprised that I got fucked.  I got the switch, the old "Hey, sorry we sold the car you made a deal on, how about this fine family wagon!"

"You think you hate it now, wait until you drive it."  Those are the words that went through my head when Mr. Douchbag car salesman backed out of our deal for the family minivan.  A van that we very much wanted to drive across the plains of South Dakota.  We have a lot of things planned!

"Sorry man, we sold it already" he said.

I reminded the man that I had a check in my hand for the van.  That we had a deal.  That after all the negotiations and talking, we ended the last conversation with, Great!  You have a van.

I don't want to be hard on the guy, after all he's a douchbag car salesman.  By their very nature, they have to fuck you over.  A dog has to eat it's own shit.  A cat must piss on the curtains.  Carsalesmen must fuck you over.

He did try to sell me another car.  I car that in my mind was a wood paneled station wagon which would eventually go careening over the guardrail because I was busy flirting with the hot chick in the vet.  I, of course, told him to suck my balls and to get the car that we had made a deal on.

"I don't know what to tell you man (because now we are bros apparently), I don't got it.  But I do got....."

I didn't let him finish.  I told him about the family vacation that we would soon be going on.  We were going to stop on the way to Mount Rushmore and see a missile silo, an honest to god fucking silo.  A silo that once held the Cold War demons away from America and it's heartland.  We were going to stop at the badlands and see some prairie dogs and buffalo.  We were going to dress like cowboys and find Ms. Kitty's saloon.  I don't want another car, I want my car.

It wasn't working out and he kept trying to up sale me.  So I downsaled him.  I told him if he knocked 10 grand off the price and threw in a reach around, I would consider it.  I told him that if perhaps he cutoff his left nut and gave me free floor mats I would consider it.  I told him that if he did the undercarage treatment with his tongue while forsaking his parents, I would consider it.

It didn't appear that we were going to make a deal.  But I was undeterred!  WE HAVE A FAMILY VACATION IN 3 DAYS YOU DOUCHEBAG!

We would get a minivan!  We would load up the family!  We would name it Aunt Edna and I would call my kids Audry and Russ for the entire trip!  Marty Moose is just out there, waiting for us!  We would damage a national monument in style, in the Minivan!

And we did.  Just not in the car from that guy.

A Story By The Children

Often times my daughter comes up to me and asks me what I am writing.  Then before I can answer she starts pushing buttons and then runs away.  She will come back and we will continue this routine until she gets tired of it and decides to break something instead, like her brother.

Well, today we are trying something a bit different.  I'm handing the reins of the blog over to her.  What follows is her story, verbatim.
______________________________________

i  l0ve buba hos because he       isgrate t

From here on out, I think I will be doing the typing.

Once upon a time, there was a little boy playing Mario Cart in the toy room.  He had brown eyes and was wearing a shirt.  He had brownish yellowish skin and his name was Bubba Hoss and he had brown hair.  He was driving Bowser and he was going awesome fast.   He was hitting his chest.  No he wasn't hitting his chest.  He was doing it like this (he is showing me now).  He was being Donkey Kong Bowser.  He was facing the T.V. and he walked backwards and he fell.  He fell over the scooter which was in the middle of the toy room.  I forgot to put it away (Little Hoss).  He hit his foot on the scooter and went to get a drink.  I didn't see my owie right there.  Um, he hurt his foot.  We thought he needed stitches.  His foot was bloody.  The bloody was right over here (pointing at his heel).  He cried really bad and then he screamed really bad.

Daddy came and helped and so did Little Hoss.  And then Bubba Hoss had a really, really bad owie.  We put him on the counter and got a wipe.  Daddy looked at the owie.  Daddy told Little Hoss to put the scooter away.  Daddy was mad but he calmed down.  Daddy was mad because Little Hoss left the scooter on the floor again (this is a constant battle here in this house).  Then we called Mom and told her that we had to go to the doctor to see if he needed stitches.  Bubba Hoss was hurting really bad.  Then Hossmom came home and we went to the hospital because Bubba Hoss got a really bad owie on his foot.

So we went to the hospital.  That's a lot of words we have Daddy.  We saw the doctor and he looked at Bubba Hoss's foot.  He was crying (Bubba Hoss not the doctor).  He was scared if he got stitches.  No, he was really scared because he was afraid to go to the doctor.  Little Hoss told him to be brave like Daddy.  Dad, I was afraid to go to the doctor because I didn't want stitches.  The doctor looked at his foot and the doctor said he didn't need stitches.  And he didn't need any pokes (a shot), nope.

So the doctor gave Bubba Hoss goop and a special bandage.  Then we came home.  We relaxed.  Little Hoss had to clean up the color room and then Little Hoss and Mom went to the pool.  Bubba Hoss could not go because he had an owie.  And Daddy carried Bubba Hoss to the couch.

The End.