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The Auto-Bond Society: Encounters in Carpooling

September 1, 2010 by john cave osborne

The world of parenting is dotted with countless commitments, responsibilities, and extracurricular activities of our children. You know, soccer practices, swim meets, school functions, and the like. Whenever these events occur regularly and for an extended period of time, mini-societies are spawn. Societies in which the kids are the focal point. Societies in which most parents play but a supporting role, usually that of chauffeur. Societies in which these chauffeurs are bound by the laws of common decency to engage in awkward conversation with the other chauffeurs regardless of how well they know their counterparts. Societies in which a ruling class of adults will govern. Societies in which many interesting dynamics exist.

With the triplets now at preschool two days per week, and with Lovie in charge of getting them there safely, I’ve suddenly become a member of yet another society. Only this one doesn’t require that I bullshit aimlessly with strangers. In fact, my only requirements are to pick kids up and drop them off. That’s right. I’m now a proud member of the Carpool Society. Piece of cake, right?

Wrong. First off, it turns out that being prompt is a big deal. Which shouldn’t present that big of a problem. Unless, of course, the driver thinks school starts at 8:30 when it actually starts at 8:15.

No wonder Lovie wanted me to leave so early.

Luckily, I got Pookie and her friends to school on time, albeit barely. A wave of relief swept over me until the sight of carefully orchestrated, soccer-mom-operated SUVs brought upon another wave. One of anxiety. After all, if this rookie was fumbling with incorrect start times, no telling what else I didn’t know. I had the sinking suspicion that these right-hand-only-turning divas would make mince meet out of me in short order.

As if my peers in this Auto-Bond society weren’t daunting enough, suddenly before me stood the ruling class of adults presiding over the carpool line, their smiling faces belying the steely disposition required to attain such a lofty and authoritative post. My hands trembled, struggling to maintain their grip of my leather-covered steering wheel. My right foot sat like a boulder atop the break pedal, rendering me unable to lift it, and, therefore, unable to coast the few feet that now separated me from the car in front of us.

What was I to do? Pull up and bridge the gap? Or wait until the three cars at the very front rid themselves of their backpack-toting cargo such that I could assume the foremost position of the unloading area, thereby allowing those behind me to fully occupy the yellow lane, thus allowing for maximum unloading? In a moment, my mind locked in on its answer.

Pull up and unload now, it said. Who’s to know how long the cars in front of you will take? Better to keep the unloading process going rather than to get greedy and wait for a maximum unloading opportunity which may not quickly present itself.

Wrong move. Or so one of the kids told me. One is to wait and pull all the way up. Embarrassed, I quickly put my car back in gear to follow protocol, the lead cars having vacated the lane and permitting me access to the very front. But one of the kids had already the door open. Which allowed the sinful sounds of my stereo to pollute the carbon-monoxide-filled air, a no-no, I have since learned. All stereos are to be turned off in the carpool line.

How Footloose-ean.

Surely my peers scoffed at my embarrassing faux pas and would delight in recounting my cumbersome navigation of the carpool society at the water cooler, gym, country club, or wherever their day might take them.

Not to mention the ruling class. The only thing that could have possibly drawn more disapproval from the elite would have been a poorly timed cell call.

I drove out of the parking lot that morning with hampered pride, but also with an unwavering determination. One that will compel me to one day master the intricacies of the carpool line such that I can promptly, safely, responsibly, and efficiently execute my commuting duties, thus pleasing both my peers and superiors.

Incidentally, if any of y’all have the handbook, would you mind emailing me?

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Three Days Until Football, But Who’s Counting?

August 30, 2010 by john cave osborne

Just three more days until yet another football season kicks off. And I’m here to tell you, not one single thing can keep me from watching a big-time football game.

But three things have certainly posed a threat before.

note to reader: i don't look like this guy. i'm uglier.

It was late November of 2007 and the trips were barely eight weeks old. My favorite team, the Tennessee Volunteers, had stumbled out of the gates that year, starting the season 1-2 thanks to an unimpressive win over Southern Miss sandwiched between two lopsided losses to the California Golden Bears and Florida Gators.

But the Vols turned it around, and I was taking the credit, thank you very much. After all, it was my astonishing virility which created the wee threesome, and Tennessee had gone 8-1 in during the OTE (Osborne Triplet Era). Coincidence, you say? Yeah, right. I think the facts speak for themselves.

Anyway, Tennessee’s resurgence was enough to earn them an appearance in the SEC Championship Game against LSU. Come hell or high water, I’d obviously be watching the important matchup, no matter what Lovie had to say about it.

“Honey, Pookie’s cookie swap party is this Saturday. She and I will be gone all afternoon. You’re in charge of the triplets.”

“But the SEC championship is this Saturday.”

“That’s nice dear.”

That’s nice dear?

My participation in the biggest game of the season was in jeopardy due to a yuletide assortment of snickerdoodles and ginger bread men at a country club? Unfathomable. But it was true, for I, and I alone, would be tending to three infants during the most fussy era of their brief life. (Not that I was complaining about the fussiness. If it was the downside to the karma they’d given the Vols, so be it.)

I’m not sure which was more astonishing. The fact that Tennessee was tied with the heavily favored Bayou Bengals at the start of the fourth quarter, or the fact that I hadn’t missed a single play of the game — in spite of a combined six feedings (and burpings), not to mention one of the most preposterous blowouts I had ever been associated with.

Hey, at least the game wasn’t a blowout, right?

It was obvious that the Vols were in the thick of things thanks only to my can-do attitude and subsequent refusal to allow the country club confectionary coup to disrupt my focus. It’s a given that we would have won the game had my brother-in-law not (unknowingly) popped my viewing bubble by swinging by our house with his family in tow. Mere minutes after their arrival, Tennessee quarterback Erik Ainge threw a pick six that provided LSU the game-winning score.

But I digress. You see, it wasn’t the outcome that mattered, but rather the effort required to assure I was able to participate in the title bout that was important. Not that my effort that day was anything out of the ordinary. It’s what I do week in, week out. And I’ll need that same tenacious brand of dedication if I’m to make this season, my fifth as a dad, as successful as the prior four.

Let’s face it. Being a football junkie is a piece of cake with no kids. But with kids? It can get kinda dicey. Now, at age nine, Pookie’s no longer a factor in terms of interfering with my viewing commitments. But the triplets? They’re another story entirely. That’s why I’ve come up with a list of five ploys ideas to help safeguard the integrity of my season.

5. Incentivize: Some may perceive this a mild form of bribery, but such folks are off base. Plus, they probably don’t have an offshore gaming account set up online. Or an odds hotline programed on their speed dial.

Prudes.

Should any of the trio demand my immediate attention, I’ll merely incentivize him or her to, um, suspend their demand until the end of the game (or at least until halftime). A crunchy pretzel inside a colorful candy shell from the friendly folks at M&Ms oughta do the trick. Hell, those things practically potty trained the triplets by themselves. Surely they can buy the old man an hour or two.

4. Profit share: While incentivizing is an effective place to start, I can’t resort to it too often. After all, if the little monsters gobble up too much chocolate-covered candy, a stomach ache would surely ensue, which, of course, could lead to, um, messier things which would demand my immediate attention. (After all, there’s no putting off Mother Nature.) So, should one of my trio come pitter-pattering in during, say, a potential game-winning drive, instead of giving him or her an eighteenth handful of candy, I’ll give them some upside.

“If y’all can sit tight and watch the rest of the game with Daddy, I’ll buy y’all some stickers. Assuming the blue team wins. By three and a half points. And, of course, that the combined points scored by both teams totals less than 47.”

3. Educate: My good friend Jack recently wrote a post encouraging parents to be on the lookout for mundane moments they can turn into teaching moments for their kids. I smell an opportunity. (Or is it a byproduct of too much incentivizing? Tough to say…) I can use the games as a chance to teach the trips more about the mysterious world of numbers they’re starting to encounter.

*clicker in hand serving as chalkboard (TV) pointer. triplets, holding candy, sitting on the couch.*

“See, guys? The top team has 10. The bottom team has 17. We need the bottom team to score a field goal. That will give them 3 more points and a margin of victory which would exceed 9-1/2. If that happens, guess who’s gonna buy y’all a sticker?!”

2. Use Your Hall Pass: But what should I do if my kids have chocolate-covered teeth, no interest in yet another sticker, and a recently developed aversion to numbers?

Bail out on my family entirely and watch the game with my jackass friends at the bar of my choice. Duh.

Only I’ll have to cash in a hall pass to accomplish that. And, as everyone knows, hall passes are by no means infinite, so it’s imperative I use them wisely. Most experts agree that the most one can accumulate during any given season is three. To attain that many, I’ll need to deploy preemptive strikes displaying uncommon husbandly goodness such as bringing home dinner, random love notes, and selfless insistence that Lovie enjoy a girls’ night out while I keep the monsters.

Assuming, of course, the aforementioned girls’ night doesn’t fall on Saturday, Sunday, or Monday.

Or Friday.

And Thursday. After all, there’s football on each of those nights.

1. Get Creative: If I’m all out of hall passes and ideas 1 through 3 aren’t working? It’s time to bust out the creativity.

I’ll share with you one such example which manifested itself in a game I invented that’s in the process of getting patented. A game that’s flat-out guaranteed to work for three weeks.

It centers around children’s desire to spend time with their parents and exploits fosters their need to feel valued. I invented it when Pookie was four and I call it Sick Dude on the Couch Who Needs Football to Get Better.

Its only downside was a mouthful of splinters resulting from Pookie’s less-than-gentle use of a tongue depressor.

And constant ingestion of pretend medicines from a plastic cup.

And the indignity of sitting naked from the waist up while enduring the icy touch of the round steel tip of Pookie’s stethoscope.

But if it means I’m actually watching the game of my choice? It’s well worth it, my friends. Well worth it, indeed.

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A Troubling Question

August 27, 2010 by john cave osborne

Henry Louis Granju was checked into a Knoxville hospital on April 27th, 2010 due to complications stemming from a brutal assault coupled with a drug overdose. He was the eighteen-year-old son of my close friend Katie Allison Granju and Chris Granju, who graduated from my high school a year before me (in Lovie’s class). He was the step son of two supportive and loving step parents. He was an idolized big brother to three born children, as well as to the one unborn child in Katie’s womb. He was a beloved grandson. He was an incredible cousin. He was a friend to countless. He was a gifted musician. He was bright, charming, sensitive, irreverent, kind, gentle, and funny. He was also addicted to drugs.

And now, he’s dead.

Katie and I were emailing back and forth one morning, but our flurry was interrupted by a meeting I had. After the meeting, I texted her to see if she had time to finish our exchange via a brief phone call. She responded with “I’m in the ER. Please pray for my son. He’s been beaten up and is on life support.”

So quite literally, from moment one, I’ve read each and every single word of her horrific account as it’s unfolded and have given each and every imaginable element of this tragedy great thought. I’ve stood in awe of Katie’s candor and bravery and watched with great pride as she used her enormous platform to share her story, in hopes of preventing other families from living the hellish nightmare which befell hers.

And I’ve watched with great frustration an investigation that seems impotent at best, a charade at worst. I’ve also watched with great anger how some of the media as well as some of my city’s high-ranking civic employees have portrayed her. As a nuisance. A pest. As a unjustified squeaky wheel.

But all I’ve ever seen is a mom who loves her son.

Katie has posed a question for her readers today on her blog. A troubling question. I’d like very much for you to click on the link below and read that question. And then ask yourself what you would do if you were Katie. Would you be as brave as she’s been? Would you open yourself up to great criticism, to controversy? Would you continue to mother your child in death? Because that’s what she’s doing.

And it fills my eyes with tears. For countless reasons.

I have a feeling this local story will one day become a national one.

Katie, our family continues to hold you and yours extremely close in both thought and prayer. Don’t give up, girl. I’m on your side. And I’ll do anything humanly possible to help you and your family.

http://mamapundit.com/2010/08/something-i-find-difficult-to-understand/

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Happy Anniversary, Lovie

August 26, 2010 by john cave osborne

lovie and me moments after arriving at our reception.

Exactly four years ago from today, Lovie and I stood at the alter in front of Dr. William Barron in a small chapel inside Sequoyah Presbyterian Church and made a solemn oath before God and fifty of our closest friends and family members. To love, honor and cherish one another for the rest of our lives. With only Alli by our side, the three of us became one that day, completely unaware that we’d double the size of our family in thirteen scant months thanks to a triple blessing which no one could have ever predicted.

Simply put, I’m incredibly in love with my beautiful wife and my four wonderful children. I’m also genuinely humbled by the good fortune bestowed upon me and so thankful to have the opportunity to be the patriarch of our unique clan. None of it would have ever come to pass had the love of my life not uttered those two magical words while holding my sweaty hands and looking directly into my eyes with her beautiful, bright blue ones.

To pay homage, a quick recap of our marriage by the numbers:

13 — years of parenting. (9 w/ the trips and 4 with Pookie)
12 — total pounds of babies Lovie birthed on 9/29/07. (actually 12.4375, but I rounded down.)
11 — total weeks of bedrest.
10 — times per day I annoy Lovie.
9 — times per day I annoy myself.
8 — individual shoes our children require.
7 — times Lovie will ask me why I uploaded such a lame picture of us for this post.
6 — times I’ll tell her it was the only wedding pic I had on this computer. (I’ll be asleep the seventh time she asks me, therefore unable to respond.)
5 — weeks of hospitalized bedrest.
4 — gallons of milk we go through per week.
3 — glorious births.
2 — houses owned.
1 — crazy-ass dog.
0 — percentage chance we’ll ever get divorced.

Happy anniversary, Lovie! I love you so much!

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Snoop Dogg’s In The Miz-osque

August 24, 2010 by john cave osborne

Pookie may not ever win any penmanship awards, but that doesn’t detract from the beauty of her writing. Within the past year or so, she’s taken to leaving her mother and me notes, usually in the kitchen to prohibit us from various sweets she’s classified as hers and hers only. Whenever I run across one of her communiques, I know I’m in for a treat, even if the note’s purpose is to actually deny me one.

Accordingly, I was tickled pink when I found one of her sloppily written doctrines the other night. But my delight quickly disappeared as I read the downward-tilting and crooked verse of her scribblings. It was the lyrics to Katie Perry’s California Gurls – more specifically, Snoop Dogg’s part.

Color me old school, but no little girl should ever write all that ass, hangin’ out. Ever. Speaking of hangin’, y’all hang tight. I gotta puke real quick.

K. I’m back. *wipes mouth with Kleenex.* Where was I?

I’ll tell you where I was — smack dab in the middle of a crisis. One which I can no longer ignore. Pookie’s been asking me for months to download various (and morally questionable) songs on her iPod, California Gurls among them. And maybe I’m just a big prude, but I’ve found it difficult to give my pony-tail-sporting daughter unfettered access to tunes such as Jerimiah’s Birthday Sex. So I’ve been putting her off.

But truth be told, I’m split right down the middle on this one. On the one hand, many of today’s popular songs contain lyrics dripping with age-inappropriate themes. And while I realize that Pook probably isn’t catching the double entendre when Katie belts out Sun-kissed skin so hot, we’ll melt your popsicle, I’d still rather she not be exposed to veiled fellatio references (or is it coitus?), thank you very much. Hell, I’m having a hard enough time with her John Stamos obsession. (Damn you, Nikelodeon.)

But on the other hand, songs containing sexually explicit themes, misogynistic lyrics, and drug references are hardly anything new. Recently, Elise LeQuire White shared with me a comical essay she once wrote about super-cheesy songs. One of those referenced was a tune I’d not thought of in years — Sammy John’s Chevy Van. Reading Elise’s cleverly penned column reminded me just how much I loved that song when I was in kindergarten. Its premise? Sammy is driving around one day in his Chevy van when he stops to pick up some random-ass, hitch-hiking chick who naps innocently for a bit in his front seat. Before waking up, that is, at which point she grabs the singer “by the hand.” Next thing you know it, ol’ Sammy’s relentlessly banging this nomadic nymphomaniac in the back of his (presumably disgusting and pimped out) vehicle. Hardly an appropriate song for a five-year-old to know by heart, yet I turned out okay, right?

Crickets.

My point? Just as I was during the seventies, Pookie’s getting plenty of exposure to today’s pop culture regardless of what I do. Her bio dad’s girlfriend has much older children. Each and every time she returns from his house, she’s learned something new, most likely from one of these older kids whom she idolizes. Not that I’m blaming her dad (or his girlfriend) at all. I was the youngest of five, so I get it. You think I discovered Chevy Van all by myself? So if Pookie is going to stumble upon the very things I’m trying to shield her from in the first place, why even bother?

* * *

The other day, I read a wonderful post by one of my fellow speakers at next month’s M3 Summit in Atlanta, Jason Falls. His topic was a controversial one — the proposed thirteen-story Manhattan Islamic community center just two blocks from ground zero. Jason’s take was as succinct as it was clear. “Religious zealots,” he writes, “are to blame for the events of Sept. 11, 2001. They were extremists of their religion. Religious zealots were to blame for the events of Nov. 18, 1978. (the Jonestown Massacre) They were extremists of their religion. Blaming 9/11 on Muslims is like blaming Jonestown on Methodists. You’re generalizing and stereotyping and dividing our country. And you’re helping the cause not of Muslims, but of the extremists.”

I couldn’t agree with Jason any more. The day our country decides where various places of worship belong and where they do not will be a sad one, indeed. For it will mean that our government will have imposed the power of censorship on its citizens, thus rendering the first amendment — the right to gather and convene, as well as freedom of speech — impotent. And I don’t mean to get all John Milton on you, but his appeal to Parliament in 1644 to rescind government-sanctioned censorship, Areopagitica, is widely regarded as the best argument ever made against censorship of any kind. I was required to read excerpts from it for one of my high school English classes. It struck a chord with me then, and it still strikes a chord with me now.

Why? Because I’m all about freedom of speech. So given that, I can’t help but wonder why I’m all undone about a few age-inappropriate lyrics my nine-year-old probably doesn’t even understand just yet.

The answer is a simple one. I don’t want my little girl to grow up mistaking misogynistic sentiments as healthy ones. I don’t want her goal in life to be a sought-after piece of scantily-clad ass. I don’t want her to aspire to be the momentary apple of someone like Snoop Dogg’s eye when, in California Gurls, he raps kiss her, touch her, squeeze her buns. (By the way Snoop, buns? Really?)

* * *

So what should I do? Pull a Tipper Gore and censor everything my daughter listens to? Even though I know she’ll easily gain access to it regardless of my efforts? Because that’s essentially what I’ve been doing by putting her off, censoring, that is, and it obviously isn’t working. Thanks to the internet, she’s mere keystrokes away from pulling up any number of vulgar things, no matter how many safety features we employ on our computer. (By the way, does anyone else find it ironic that the queen of censorship was married to the guy who invented the anything-but-censored internet?)

So censorship? No. If I object to it in Manhattan, why should I employ it in my home? Instead, I think I’ll take off my Hypocrite Panties and allow my daughter access to the media she’s hell-bent on accessing anyway. Will I keep my eye on her? You bet. Will I impose limits on her? Of course. But will I censor her? No. Anyone who reads my blog regularly knows that I’m a man of faith. So I’ll lean heavily on it and trust that the strength of our family and the direction it provides will be sufficient enough to preclude Pookie from the miswired legions of her generation who will eventually get swept away in a sea of pop culture superficiality. I’ll stay as plugged in as I can to the things she likes, enough, at least, to be able to chime in with my two cents each and every time the opportunity presents itself.

By doing so, I’ll be a bigger part of her life than I would be if I were to simply deny her access to any and everything that doesn’t completely jive with the values I’m hoping she’ll one day embrace. By doing so, I’ll be better plugged in to her and the issues she’ll face as she creeps ever closer toward adolescence. By doing so, I’ll likely be able to keep an even closer eye on her as she won’t be forced to go behind my back to sneak a forbidden cookie from the alluring jar.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some songs to download. And while I’m not necessarily thrilled about it, at least there’s a silver lining.

None of them are sung by Justin Bieber. That kid gives me the creeps.

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Last Summer

August 20, 2010 by john cave osborne

Pookie’s already back in school. So are the trips, for that matter. Yesterday was their first day. Ever.

It’s hard to believe, but in mere weeks we’ll be referring to the beautiful season that just slipped through our fingers as last summer.

Only I’m not quite ready to let it go yet. So I paid homage to it. In part so I could relive it whenever I felt the urge to do so. If you’ve got three minutes, I hope you’ll relive it with me.

It was a good summer, y’all. I’m gonna miss it.

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This Pirate’s Look at 40

August 18, 2010 by john cave osborne

Mother, mother ocean,

I have heard you call.

Wanted to sail upon your waters

Since I was three feet tall.

This pirate's look at 40?

No complaints, y'all.

None.

Here’s a quick slide-show from the rest of our vacation which includes these pics as well as a few others.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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My Interview With Lovie

August 12, 2010 by john cave osborne

Anyone who reads my blog regularly knows how charming and feisty Lovie is. From my words, at least.

But don’t you think it’s about time you saw for yourself? Watch this video and tell me she’s not priceless. You may need to keep your volume up, though. She’s kinda hard to hear, but well worth the effort…

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Talkin’ With Pook

August 8, 2010 by john cave osborne

pook at the beach

Today is a special day. It’s Pookie’s ninth birthday. I’ve had the good fortune of being her step dad for nearly four years now. All told, I’ve known her for two thirds of her life.

And I’ve loved her every minute of it.

While Caroline was carrying the triplets, countless well intentioned people would say something along these lines: “Just wait til you have your own children.”

“I’m sure. I’ve got Alli, so I know what you mean.”

“Yeah, but just wait. You’ll see.”

The insinuation, of course, was that I didn’t know what they meant and that I wouldn’t until I had my own biological children. And I understand what those people meant. The best day of my life (aside from my wedding day) was the one when the wee threesome began their reign of planet Earth. But that said, I don’t love Alli any differently than I do A, B, or C, except, perhaps, for the fact that I love her like a parent loves his or her first child.

My point? The fact that she’s not “mine” has never made a difference. And it never will.

When I proposed to Lovie, it was important to me that Pookie be part of the process. So after I sought permission from Lovie’s mom (her dad is deceased), I sought the same thing from Pook. Here’s how it went down.

“Pookie, I got something very important I wanna talk to you about. So pick anywhere in the whole house where you want to have a serious chat.”

Oddly, she chose the very corner of her momma’s bedroom where we sat Indian style facing one another. Perhaps odder still, my hands were damp with anxiety.

Deep breath.

“You know I love you, right?” I began.

“Yeeeessss,” she answered coyly.

“Did you know I love your mommy, too?”

“I thought you loved her!” She wore a grin that stretched from one ear to another.

“Well you’re right. In fact, I love your mommy so much that I wanna marry her.”

A look of genuine disappointment came across Pookie’s face. “But Mommy’s already married,” she said while looking down at the planks of the hardwood floor, her finger tracing an imaginary pattern.

Understandable confusion for sure. After all, Pookie was only four, and divorce is anything but black and white. A less prepared man might have been derailed by such confusion. But luckily, I had anticipated this stumbling block.

“Oh, honey, your mommy’s actually not married to your daddy any more. That’s why you live in this house,” I said, making a sweeping gesture with my arm. “Remember that book It’s Not Your Fault Koko Bear?”

Of course she did. She and her mom read it together all the time. I had even read it to her a time or two.

“Well, it’s just like Koko Bear’s Mommy and Daddy. They were all grumpy and grumbly when they lived together so they decided not to be married any more and moved into different homes. So, just like Koko Bear, you have two homes now.”

“Well, if you married Mommy, where would you live?”

“I’d move in with y’all.”

Pook’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Would Briggs come, too?”

Hmmm. The downside seemed to be that the prospect of living with my dog was more appealing than that of living with me. But the upside? I had a trump card. So I laid it down like Phil Ivey.

“He sure would, honey.”

Excitement turned to flat-out jubilation. “You better bring his food!”

“I will, honey. I will. So whaddya say?”

Permission granted.

Pookie, thank you for letting me marry your mom. And thank you, also, for being such a wonderful daughter. I can’t believe you’re nine, already! You’re becoming such a big girl, and I want you to know how proud I am of you! Happy Birthday, sweetheart! I love you SO VERY MUCH!

pookie always makes a splash in whatever she does!

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