This Blog Has Moved

I have moved my parenting blog. My new location is http://www.waltmussell.blogspot.com/. Please click here to be taken there.

Thanks to everyone who has visited me at this location.

Moving Day

There’s an old saying that “A good friend helps you move. A great friend helps you move a body.”

I thought about that as I contemplated what I’m doing today.

For the longest time, I’ve managed two blogs on my own. One, a blog on my activities as a parent. The other, a blog on the activities of the football team of my alma mater, Auburn University.

However, as life gets busy and my kids continue to get even smarter than they were the day before, I’ve decided to focus on the parenting one.

However, in deciding on the parenting one, I realize that the blog that has my name on it is the one that has football.

And I want to keep both.

So I’ve decided to move my parenting blog to my football blog.

And for those of you that read my blog, I hope you’ll move with me and sign up as a follower on that one.

I do have some nervousness. The last time I gave up writing about football, Auburn ripped off fifteen straight wins (AU vs. Georgia 2003 through AU vs. Virginia Tech 2005). After Auburn’s previous perfect season, I started writing about football again and Auburn opened the 2005 fall season with a loss to Georgia Tech. I felt responsible for that.

Given that Auburn is now on a 15-game winning streak, I worry what effect any writing change I make might have. In order to alleviate any karma backlash, I may occasionally pen a football post from time-to-time. However, unless it relates to parenting, it will be in addition to instead of in lieu of a parenting post.

Again, I hope you’ll help me move to the new location. Please click here to be taken there. Please sign up to be a follower. Thanks.

The First Snow of the Year

My sons are happy.

It snowed in Atlanta and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Like their Dad, they’re Auburn fans. My wife would say it was forced upon them. But with school out today and also tomorrow, my boys got to spend Monday during the day playing in the snow.

They got to spend the night staying up late and watching Auburn play football.

And they spent the evening staying up late and watching Auburn football.

I’m posting this prior to the game kickoff. Hopefully, I’ll be celebrating an Auburn victory.

Either way, I’m celebrating a wonderful season…and some happy kids.

Yes, that is an igloo.

Santa in a Box

“Daddy, I don’t think Santa Claus is real anymore.”

I was in our basement, assembling one of those indoor basketball shooting games. It requires three people to assemble, one to screw things in and two to hold things in place, so my boys were helping. There were times when I didn’t need their help, so they played with some of the other toys in the basement.

And then my eight-year old found a box.

My wife and I had hidden his gift from Santa, an electrically-powered dirt bike, in a section of the basement he wouldn’t check. It was behind some things and under a blanket. He hadn’t seen it prior to Christmas. I’d assembled it sometime after midnight on December 23rd (technically Christmas Eve), got it charging (it takes 18 hours), and just kept him out of the basement on Christmas Eve. Sometime about 12:30 a.m. Christmas Day, I brought it up. He woke up about 1:00 a.m. and found it.

I knew, though, when I assembled the dirt bike, that getting the box outside was going to be a challenge. We were traveling after Christmas to visit family and would miss garbage day. I would have to hide it until I could dispose of it. I chose the same place I hid the gift.

It wasn’t good enough.

“What do you mean you don’t think he’s ‘real anymore?’”

“I found the box for my Christmas gift.”

My heart skipped a beat. I’d expected that this would be the last year of him believing, though I’d hoped for one more year. My wife and I had discussed this. We knew from discussions with other parents that the kids were getting older. (Actually, my wife was talking with the other moms about whether or not their kids still believed and then telling me.)

Like the Grinch, I thought of a lie and thought it up quick.

“Of course,” I said. “Santa can’t carry the boxes everywhere. He assembled it in the basement, so that he wouldn’t get any oil or grease on the carpet. Can you imagine what Mom would say if he had?”

My son nodded his head. “Yeah, Mom would be mad.” He went back to helping me put together his latest gift.

Until next year.

Have you had years where you didn't get rid of the evidence quickly enough? What did you do?

Football

My wife has put up with me watching football for years.

I've tended to be a college football follower so it's been a good year for me as my beloved Auburn Tigers are this year's SEC Champions and playing for the National Championship. However, good or bad, my wife has put up with me.

However, this post has nothing to do with college football.

It's Monday night, December 27, and I'm watching the Falcons play the Saints.

The most amazing thing is that my wife is watching the game, too. She's even cheering them on.
In 15+ years of marriage, I've never seen her like this

It's not to say my wife has become a total football fan. She could pretty much still care less about the NFL in general. But after a season of watching our son play football, living and dying with our 8-year old's season, she's picked up on football as well.

And she's become a Falcons fan.

Granted, our 8-year old takes it a little more seriously. He can name many of the players just by their numbers. My wife is a long way from that.

But my wife now wants to watch football, at least occasionally.

It's a start.

The Littlest Actor

Every family has a story that keeps on giving, one that will be retold for the rest of their days. This is ours. And while I have run it on previous Christmases, I hope you won't mind if I run it again. It occurred a few years ago, when we lived in Oregon. May you Christmas worship time be memorable to you.

Every Christmas Eve, my wife and I take our sons to the children’s service at our church. The service includes a kids’ pageant and our boys seem to pay closer attention than they do during the typical church service. Also, we feel that attending Mass on Christmas Eve provides a wonderful way to begin the holiday. After the service is over, we go out to dinner to the one place open on Christmas Eve, a Chinese restaurant. While my wife and I believe every family Christmas is special, we cannot conceive that any will be more memorable than this one.

It was to be a big night as our older son, Andrew, was finally old enough to participate in the Christmas pageant. He enjoyed two rehearsals and getting into costume, admirably playing the role of a shepherd. Because church seating at Christmas is limited and we wanted to take pictures, we arrived almost an hour early to get a seat up front.

We knew it would be difficult to keep our pre-school age son, Christopher, seated for the long service and the time before it. Therefore, my wife saved our seats while I played with Christopher and kept him entertained. When it was close to time, I corralled him and took him to our seats; he sat on my wife’s lap and anxiously looked for his older brother and the start of the show.

Just before the beginning of the pageant, the stuffy air in the crowded church became a little more unbearable than usual. As there were several babies in the immediate vicinity, my wife and I both thought one of them must have needed changing. Catching the odor, Christopher said aloud, “What’s that smell?” He turned around, looked at his Mom, and said, “That’s disgusting! Mommy, you stink! Mommy, go to the bathroom!”

We did our best to quiet him down, while the people around us were suppressing their laughter. He continued on, repeating the words, “That’s disgusting! Mommy, you stink! Mommy, go to the bathroom!” Eventually, Christopher quieted down and the pageant began.

After Mass ended, we walked to the car, buckled the kids in, and drove away. On the way to the Chinese restaurant, my wife and I discussed the incident. She realized that the words Christopher used in church were the same ones she had used with him during his potty training. Also, we were convinced one of the babies close to us during the service must have had a poopy diaper or probably just passed gas. We chuckled about it.

However, our little guy provided the last laugh. Overhearing the discussion, Christopher, with the smile that only a young child can produce, piped up with one more comment, “Oh, in church? That was me.”

Daddy's Little Teacher

“Daddy, can I have miso soup and rice for lunch?”

It was Sunday morning and we were nearly home after attending Sunday school. We would get an hour or so to relax before heading back to church for services. My eight-year old, starving, requested his favorite meal.

“We’ll see,” I said.

I laughed inwardly at his request. It’s not that the request is funny. All kids have a favorite dish of some kind. My kids are no different. However, as my wife is Japanese, she has cooked Japanese food for our kids since they were babies. Their favorite dishes are a slew of items that none of their friends have ever heard of. My 8-year old once invited one of the neighbor kids for miso and rice. (For some reason, the little boy declined.)

My son loves miso soup so much that he follows his Mom around the kitchen whenever she makes it. However, with me doing the honors this Sunday morning, he decided I needed a little help.

We started the rice, tossing a couple of cupfuls in the rice cooker, prepping it, and getting it going. Then it was time for the soup.

“Ok, Daddy. Here’s the pot. Boil some water. Once it boils, we need to put in the fish stock and the miso.” He then retrieved both items from the fridge. “We need a spoonful of this” he added pointing to the stock. “And three spoonfuls of miso.”

“Alright,” I said, letting him take the lead.

As the water came to a boil, my son searched the room. “Dad, we need tofu.”

I checked the fridge and pulled some out. I prepared to cut it when my son stopped me. “Dad, Mom always lets me do it.”

“OK. What should we do?”

“We put it on a small cut-thingy—“

“You mean a cutting board?”

Yes, a cutting board.”

I grabbed a cutting board from a drawer under the stove and handed it to him whereby he dumped the tofu onto the board. “Now, Dad, we do it this way so we can scrape it off the board into the soup with a knife after we cut it.”

I nodded and let him demonstrate. He sliced the tofu into chunks and then checked the pot. “OK, water’s boiling.” He added the fish stock and stirred, making sure it was mixed, then added the tofu. “We let it cook a little, then we add the miso.”

I’d been an observer most of the time. I saw no reason to change. Two huge spoonfuls of miso later, he made an announcement. “Dad, we need to taste it.”

We each had a spoonful. “Good job,” I said.

“Da-a-ad, it’s too salty.”

My wife entered the kitchen at that moment and tasted it herself, and concurred with Julian Child, adding more water to it and suggesting we cook it longer. Finally, he pronounced it ready.

The rice cooker beeped and we sat down for lunch. My little chef, impressed with himself, ate heartily.

“And that’s how you make miso soup,” he said.

I thanked him, recalling days long ago when he was much younger. Maybe one day I’ll actually tell him that I used to make miso soup for him on days when my wife was due home late from the office.

Nah, I’ll leave it like this.