Sex?

I have a to do list.  This is most commonly known as the "honey do list".  This is a sweet way of saying this is the shit my wife wishes that I would get accomplished each day.  She's a ball breaker and the pay is for crap. 

Normally though, I do not allow Hossmom to write on the to do list.  I have a good reason for this.  It's because, god love her, she has no idea what's important to get done around the house first and her mind often results in tangents.  I like linear thinking, straight forward directions with clear goals.  Hossmom is more of the "take out the garbage and also, while you are at it, go ahead and solve world peace.  Thanks honey!"  As you can see, that  makes no sense.  It works better if on one day I take out the garbage, then clean the garage.  See, I'm out there already, it just makes sense.  The solving world peace thing is a complicated issue that is going to take at least a whole other day and therefore, is not related.  So I won't do it and I won't allow it to go onto the list that I already made.  It's my sneaky way of preventing her from ever putting anything on the list and therefore allowing me more time to nap and play video games while the kids run around naked flinging peanut butter at each other.  I am an awesome parent. 

There is another reason why I don't allow Hossmom to write on my list.  I can't read her writing.  When she's in a hurry she writes in some sort of bubble code that only her and mermaids can read.  Most times I have no idea what it says.  It works much better if she leaves her Mayan Pictograph writing off my list and just tell me what she would like done.  This allows me to pretend that I heard her and therefore, once again ignore it.  I have a very complicated system. 

However, there are times when she gets the list without my knowledge and writes her gibberish down.  I will then spend the entire morning trying to decipher what it means before finally just doing a random chore and hope that it was the one she wanted done.  Though "cleaning gutters" sometimes gets done before "boss coming to dinner" which allows for many hilarious blogs to be written when I fuck it up. 

And that's what I'm doing right now, I'm looking at my list and her alien cryptography that she left on it.  It's throwing me for a loop which is good because that matches her writing.  I think, and I'm really not sure, but I think I can make out an S.  It could be an 8 though.  And I'm thinking that there is an E right after the S, it's that or some weird bridge doodle because she does that to.  Finally, it ends with an X.  Maybe an X.  Possibly but that just could be wishful thinking on my part. 

I could be mistaken, but it appears that my wife might, maybe, have put sex on my to do list. 

There are many complications to this and with my wife, there is always a deeper meaning that totally passes me by.  Is she sending me a message?  Do I.......do I get to have some sex soon?  Or is it only after I finish my other chores on the to do list?  Is it even sex that she had written down for me?  It could be "soup" just as easily.  There is another word in front of it and I'm not really sure what it says.  It looks just like scribbles to me.  Is it more of the message?

Is she saying we need to have more sex?  Have we gotten to the point in our marriage where we have to schedule such a thing?  Well, we are parents to two kids.  This week I have 2 soccer practices, one of which I coach, 2 soccer games at complete different times, a girl scout meeting, a build a bear meeting, play group and our normal Friday adventures.  I have a lot of shit going on.  If you have kids, you know that it's not necessarily unheard of to schedule sexy times.  Passion?  Passion is when the house is clean and the only one smacking me around is a good looking lady with a broom.  Sometimes I think I should write porn. 

"John went into the room.  All the bills were paid and he still had money left over for his hobby.  The kids put themselves to bed but only after insisting on cleaning their rooms.  His flip flops made the flip flop sound as he walked to the couch.  His flops were covered in duck tape and he was happy that it was holding and he didn't have to buy another pair.  She was on the couch, sleeping.  Before she went to sleep though she gave him the remote and demanded that he watch all of the football game so that he could tell her about it when she woke up early tomorrow.  John had never been so turned on in his entire life."

Good stuff.

However, not knowing the first word of what she put on the to do list has got me a little worried, especially since now my hopes are starting to get up (ha!).  It could say "No sex for you ever unless you clean the gutters and get dinner ready for my boss who is coming over early today.  Entertain him for 4 hours until I get home at which point I will be to tired and you will get NO SEX". 

That could be it. 

She put two other things on my list but honestly, I haven't paid them much attention in the 4 hours I have been looking at it.  It would appear, and I don't speak bubble, to say that I need to mail Zippos to Peter.  Hmmm, that's interesting.  We have no Zippos and I know no Peter.  I promise you I'm not making that part up, the pun that time was unintentional.  Or is this more code though??  If so, it kind of sucks (ha again) because I would expect her to be more creative than "Peter". 

The next one below that says "Call a;dlkfjads;jiuothertheworhowejfr;qwejfrl;asdjkf  @ adoifasdhfgpohft"  Your guess is as good as mine on that one.  Am I supposed to call Peter to ask if it's ok to have sex?  Is Peter cool with this?  Does he have to sign off on it? 

Well fuck Peter.  I don't care what he thinks.  I'm just going to do what I think is best and interpret it the best I can.  What I'm going to do is to mail Zippos to some random Peter guy in the phone book, then I'm going to call him to let him know that they have been mailed, and if I do those things there is a possibility I can have some Prom Sex(?).  Sometimes, you've just got to take a shot in the dark and hope that it all works out, regardless if Peter gets his Zippos. 

Nothing

Our day is a blank page and we have not filled it, it remains as white as the moment it arrived with the sunrise.  There is nothing on the schedule, there are no activities planned, there is not a place to be or a thing to do.  Nothing.  That is what we are doing today.  Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkk.  I'm bored. 

School starts tomorrow for the Hossman Family.  We have seized the summer, we have conquered it, made it quiver as we rode through it.  We have seen the country, we have taken the road less traveled, we have explored.  From the first of June until this week, we were nonstop.  We seized the day and throttled it.  Now we sit here, my two children and I, and we have nothing. 

"Daddy!" they scream in unison.  "What adventure are we doing today?!" they ask. 

Nothing I tell them, absolutely nothing.

They are confused and I don't blame them. 

I am sure that nothing sounds pretty great to many of you out there.  That you would love to do nothing, to sit at home and contemplate nothing, to have nothing as your greatest goal and achievement. 

Try it for a week.  It blows.  Nothing is not fun, it is not exciting and pretty soon nothing rots your brain.  I have been there, I have taken that train ride.  Eventually, nothing turns your mind into nothing. 

We saw a big ball of twine and gave a back country boy a hug.  We saw a missile silo.  We have gone camping, swam in lakes and seen a dead body.  We have wandered through museums, we have gone fishing, we have danced with worms.  We have held guns, we have yelled in nature, we have drawn pictures.  We have seen the sun come up and light the clouds with pink splashes, we have seen the sun come down and mark still waters with yellow tint.  We have done all of this in the short summer that we had.  Now, now it's time for school and the day before school is rest, preparation, contemplation.  And nothing.  A whole lot of nothing. 

It turns out that I don't do nothing well.  And neither do my children, which doesn't surprise me.  In the absence of the challenge of a giant water slide to conquer or a sun burn to make, nothing does not seem to entertain my children.  And on days like this, when nothing is the only thing on the family calendar that hangs on the fridge, I am reminded of why we don't do nothing very often.  Because my kids, and probably most kids, decide nothing is not very fun.  So they take nothing, stare it down, and turn it into something.

And that something usually involves destruction or me getting kneecapped.  Something is always better than nothing.  Nothing means sitting in a chair all day or when that tires us out, laying on the floor with the dogs.  Nothing means that there is a place out there that isn't being appreciated or a drywall that isn't getting holes in it.  And that, my friends, we just can't have.  That is what my children's philosophy is.  If nothing is the challenge, they will rise to it and decide to make it something and that something usually comes with me having to fix it with tools and money. 

Halfway into our nothing day I am called upstairs, the kids left me on the chair to go create something from nothing.  I decided that I need to walk before my legs cramp up from sitting to long.  And it's been too quite, a sure sign that nothing is getting the shit beat out of it.  I walk into my son's room.  He and his sister are in giggles, they are almost crying with laughter.  I do a quick inventory of the room.  Everything seems to be in place.  I don't see anything broken, smashed or on fire.  I count our animals: 1 skinny dog, 1 fat dog, 1 cat, and the memory of another cat from long ago.  Check, we seem to be fine.  But I am mistaken.  Because I have allowed nothing to cloud my mind, weaken my reasoning, and forget who my children are. 

They point to the ceiling.  I look up. 

It appears that we are no longer doing nothing.  Today we are doing something. 

Bucket Pee

"I peed in a bucket!" my son screamed.  He was very excited.  He then decided to pick up the bucket to show my wife and I.  Except it wasn't a bucket, it was an empty flower pot because I always have great expectations when I buy the flower pots but they never seem to remain filled with dirt and flowers.  Perhaps because my son likes to pee in them all of a sudden. 

"Mom, Dad," he said very calmly.  "This is my pee bucket."  His junk was still out of his pants.  Pretty soon I sure someone in this family is going to be arrested for exposure.  Now he was showing us his pee bucket.  But as a flower pot, as you all know, have holes in the bottom.  Good times.  Good times. 

My wife shot me a look and it wasn't the "aw, look at how cute that is" look that she sometimes gives me when the kids do something unexpected.  It was the look that told me that somehow I was to blame for all of this.

"This isn't my fault!" I said as pee dribbled out of the pee bucket.  The look had immediately put me on the defensive. 

"Who else is going to teach him to pee in a bucket!" She said.  "This is totally your fault, this is something you would do!"

Granted, this does sound like something I would teach my kid, but this time, he's using only his imagination and getting no help from me. 

I've taught my son to pee on trees, flowers, car tires, inside bottles, on Cheerios and we have begun snow peeing as well.  It's an art form and you can only master after years of practice and eventually with the help of beer. 

But I've never taught him to pee in a bucket.  It's never even crossed my mind although in hindsight, it probably should have. 

"This wasn't me!  I didn't teach him this!" 

When it comes to boys, sometimes my wife thinks we are all the same.  That if one has done something, then another boy has done something.  And if I didn't teach him to pee in a bucket, then it is my DNA that is to blame for him peeing in a bucket and then picking it up to bring it to us, dripping and all.  It's all of manhood she blames and I'm the one that gets the brunt of the accusations.  I take the punishment for all men, you all owe me.  My wife blames me, you, everyone with a penis.  Why on earth would anyone want to pee in a bucket? 

Well, to be honest, it is kind of fun.  I'm not sure why but I can understand it from the prospective of a 4 year old boy.  Filling a bucket up, pouring the bucket out, putting stuff in the bucket, peeing on the stuff in the bucket.  I can totally get that and I know that the ladies out there are getting grossed out.  But the guys, they know that for some reason, it's cool to pee on stuff.  It's primordial, like marking your territory.  It just feels right.  I don't know why, but I get it.  And because I get it and because my son did it, I am to blame.  It's not me honey, it's all of mankind.  100 bucks says that if Neil Armstrong could have peed on a moon rock without damaging his junk, he would have done it.  And I guarantee there is a NASA engineer out there somewhere that has worked on this national problem. 

"Go dump that out!" my wife says. 

"Good job boy!" I say right after her.  Then I get the look again.  I couldn't help it.  He peed in a bucket, he had good aim.  In my book, that's a win. 

My wife walks away while shaking her head, disgusted by all things boy.  I go back to reading my book on the porch.  Life is good. 

Five minutes later, I hear my daughter.......

"Dad, Bubba Hoss peed in a bucket!" she screams, excited. 

Yup, she gets it.

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.