tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73857346138531511972024-03-13T11:20:19.252-06:00Ask Your Dad BlogThis is my dad blog. Sometimes I'm funny on purpose. Most of the time it's on accident.John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.comBlogger200125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-34753943810127981312018-02-12T13:49:00.000-07:002018-02-12T13:55:25.427-07:00Emails I Don't Know How to Answer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YDoBRJq9kF0/WoH9ojHuOdI/AAAAAAAAVpM/r8Hdu7UNAico8y8DZCxPAKmkv5GGFBZfgCLcBGAs/s1600/chess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="720" height="456" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YDoBRJq9kF0/WoH9ojHuOdI/AAAAAAAAVpM/r8Hdu7UNAico8y8DZCxPAKmkv5GGFBZfgCLcBGAs/s640/chess.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;"><br />
</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">Every once in awhile I get a sincere email (or sometimes a sarcastic one) asking me how to be a good parent. I honestly have no clue. I don't even really know what that means. Learning most things is so linear. You learn, practice, do. Not with kids. We don't ask rocket scientists to build a rocket while simultaneously launching said rocket. They have years of school. They have simulations. And sometimes the rocket still explodes due to forces that may or may not be outside o<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">f their control.</span></div><div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px;">So I don't know how to reply to emails asking me how to be a good parent any more than I would know how to respond to someone asking me how to build a rocket.</div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">That said, kids are arguably more durable and less likely to explode than rockets, and replying to emails about parenting with rocket metaphors probably just pisses people off. So here's what I tell the backs of my eyelids when I find myself asking if I am being a good dad:</div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">If you show up,<br />
If you try,<br />
If you try to be better,<br />
If you listen with the intent of hearing,<br />
If you talk with the intent of communicating,<br />
If you teach instead of telling,<br />
If you apologize to them when you fail,<br />
If you fail and try again,<br />
If you succeed and don't use it as an excuse to rest,<br />
If you rest when you need to rest,<br />
If you can be weak when you need to be weak,<br />
If you ask for help when you need help,<br />
If you admit to your kids when you're wrong,<br />
If you tell them when they're right,<br />
If you speak with kindness,<br />
If you tell them their questions are good,<br />
If they see you defend others,<br />
If they see you defend them,<br />
If they know you love them,<br />
If your love is your attention,</div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">If you show up.<br />
If you try...</div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">you'll probably be an OK dad.</div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">I know there's more that I am missing. I know my failures will only be clear when they are behind me. But this is what I have for now, so it will have to be enough. It helps me sleep, and it keeps me showing up.</div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">And that's all a parent can really ask for, enough confidence to keep trying and enough doubt to keep trying to be better.</div><div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;"><br />
</div></div>John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-73268086800984602152017-10-02T21:32:00.000-06:002017-10-03T08:43:26.914-06:00Guns and Silence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Did you know you can hear your own heartbeat? You can. All the time. It’s loud too. Try this sometime. Find a very quiet place where you can be still. Close your eyes and listen. It might sound faint and far away, but it’s there and I promise, it’s loud.<br />
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How do I know this? A few years ago, I got a call from my wife telling me that she was short of breath, her heart was doing “weird things,” and that she was going to the emergency room. Somewhere between 15-45 minutes later I too found myself in the emergency room screaming at the poor lady at the front desk to tell me where my wife was.<br />
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She was down the hall and she was fine. Turns out she has heart palpitations. Every once in awhile her heart skips a beat or it has an extra beat out of rhythm to help catch up for some small fraction of beats it missed at sometime leading up to the palpitation. At least that’s how I interpreted what the doctor was saying as I worked my hardest to suppress my own heart attack. He also said that part of why heart palpitations are so uncomfortable is because we’re so used to the normal beat of our heart that when even a single beat is off, our body become alarmed and we feel discomfort.<br />
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Last night <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2017/10/02/us/las-vegas-attack-stephen-paddock-trnd/index.html" target="_blank">Stephen Paddock</a>, who had been staying for the last few days at the Mandalay Bay Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, used a hammer to smash out the window of his 32nd floor hotel room, and used between 1 and 10 of the guns to fire indiscriminately down into a crowd of sixty-thousand men and women attending a music festival below. The number dead is currently around 50. The number injured, 500. The Mandalay Bay Concert shooting of 2017 is the worst mass shooting in modern American history... second only to the Pulse Nightclub Shooting of 2016. I spent my morning calling everyone I know in Las Vegas to make sure they were alive. My Twitter and Facebook feeds are on fire.<br />
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We have to talk about gun control.<br />
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We can’t we can’t talk about gun control.<br />
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We have to prevent mass shootings.<br />
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We can’t prevent mass shootings.<br />
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Can’t we avoid politics and just focus on the dead and their families?<br />
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Now is when we have to talk about gun control.<br />
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The answer is that we need to love each other more.<br />
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You’re the problem.<br />
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No, you’re the problem.<br />
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Don’t worry. In two weeks someone will tweet something ridiculous, we’ll find something shiny to distract us, a Kardashian will marry someone or divorce someone. We’ll put a plaque in a field somewhere and login into Facebook in a couple months to see that a susceptible teen trusted the wrong people online, or our friend was depressed and took their life, or someone who needed mental health treatment had easier access to assault rifles than they did to healthcare, or gang members got a hold of untraceable guns that were purchased legally at one point in their existence but then sold and sold again through unregulated markets. Subconsciously we’ll check the number in the headline and if it’s a 1 or a 2 we'll shrug and scroll on, and if it’s a 30 or a 50 we’ll cry and feel uncomfortable, maybe reach out, maybe say it hurts, maybe ask for change… for a minute.<br />
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Somewhere around <a href="https://fivethirtyeight.com/features/gun-deaths/" target="_blank">30,000 people die a year</a> in the US from gun related death. Just under two thirds of those are suicides, another third are violent deaths resulting from homicide, the rest are accidents and unclassified. 30,000 people. That is 2,500 a month. 208 a day.<br />
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That’s our current normal. That’s the heartbeat we can’t hear.<br />
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The heartbeat of America is 208 bullets killing 208 people a day, every day. Every. Single. Day.<br />
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And the only time we notice, when things are irregular, out of the normal rhythm, uncomfortable, is also the time we’re not allowed to talk about it.<br />
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It’s disrespectful.<br />
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I want to respect everyone’s feelings. I really truly do. I desperately want to put enough love into the world that it will somehow shift the scales of chance away from a person becoming so damaged that they want to shoot and kill people. But I will never understand why we can’t address the issue from both sides, the person and their access to a weapon designed to kill as many human beings as it can as fast as possible.<br />
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Too soon though. It is disrespectful. I’ve been told to wait 24 hours... which is someone else’s 72... which is someone else’s 30 days, which is someone else’s never. "It's too soon to get political."<br />
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This isn’t politics to me.<br />
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And honestly, I’ve been quiet all day today. At work, online, at home. I wasn’t going to say anything at all. Not out of respect (I do) or out of mourning (I am), but out of defeat. I am defeated. I don’t believe anything is going to ever change.<br />
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The big ones are getting closer and closer now. They’re getting less coverage. The half-life of a tragedy is decreasing with each mass shooting. Columbine was covered for nearly a year. Pulse was covered for a few weeks.<br />
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The big ones are becoming our new heartbeat, and pretty soon we won’t be able to hear them either.<br />
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Earlier this morning Bill O’Reilly made a lot of people mad when he wrote in a <a href="https://www.billoreilly.com/b/Mass-Murder-in-Las-Vegas/851098107399788721.html" target="_blank">blog post</a> about the Vegas shooting “This is the price of freedom.”<br />
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I very rarely agree with Bill O’Reilly, and only partially do in this case. This is the price we <b>choose </b>to pay for our freedom to have easy access firearms, these daily deaths, the less and less anomalous big numbers. We can fight about the "politics" of it, but somewhere inside we all have a kernel of the truth in us. This is the price we pay. This is our Hunger Games. Only it’s not once a year. It’s every day. Forever.<br />
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Sorry. I love you guys. It’s been a rough day for me, much much rougher for others. If you hate this post, just ignore it. Or message me and tell me you hate me. My love to you and your family. My heart for those who died and theirs. <br />
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- JohnJohn Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-74646355558094093242017-09-13T08:43:00.000-06:002017-09-13T14:56:51.026-06:00Horrible Moments in Parenting #3569Last week during dinner I was trying to ask Duchess about her day and she matter-of-factly told me that she didn't feel like talking. A few minutes later she had chewed her tortilla into the shape of a star and was remarkably proud of herself. <br />
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"Look dad! I made a star."<br />
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"I don't feel like looking at it." I quipped back. <br />
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And then she started bawling. <br />
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I thought I was being snarky and she would immediately relate it back to what she had said earlier, but that's not how it came across. It came across as cruel and dismissive... which honestly she has probably never experienced from me before. <br />
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Anyway... not my finest parenting moment. But, there are no take-backs. We fill our lives with irrevocable acts, and its only later we find out which ones actually mattered. <br />
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One time, when I was about my daughter’s age, my dad and I were going to the store. I was probably a year into reading and was paying particularly close attention to business signs. When we pulled into a strip mall I asked “Dad, why are the O’s on the Payless Shoe Store sign orange dots.”<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ajy012et97Y/WIpk0vDWHAI/AAAAAAAATQM/z7PUYe_VY30lqy3VFz3pgRBg91VKgrkXgCLcB/s1600/payless_shoes_800x600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ajy012et97Y/WIpk0vDWHAI/AAAAAAAATQM/z7PUYe_VY30lqy3VFz3pgRBg91VKgrkXgCLcB/s640/payless_shoes_800x600.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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“I don’t know. That is a really good question,” he replied.<br />
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Let’s be honest. It wasn’t a really good question. It was kind of a dumb question. Knowing the answer to why a graphic designer decided to make the O’s orange dots on the Payless Shoe Store sign probably would not have been a life changing realization. But all six-year-old me could think was ”YES! I asked a good question!”<br />
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Even now, knowing that it is a silly six-year-old question, I still get that little tinge of pride in my gut thinking of my dad saying that. There is NO way he knew at the time that he was creating a tiny happy memory nugget in my growing brain. But here it is 30 years later getting written down. I kind of wonder if someday my 35-year-old daughter will be making a tortilla star with her teeth and suddenly become very sad at the thought of me not wanting to look at it. <br />
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What’s the lesson I learned? I guess I have two. 1, I need to be less of a snarky asshole with my six-year-old. She understands a ton, but sarcastic teasing is still just dad being a jerk. 2, kids operate on a different scale. I should be proud of star shaped tortillas just like my dad was proud of my questioning of brand fonts. If my kid starts a blog someday I want it to be about how I was proud of silly things, and not that I walked away in a snarky huff. <br />
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I want to be the dad that is proud. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ffXUOv3T_iU/WItqZKB8GVI/AAAAAAAATQk/PwE7oU_Rg7IzubZ_8ZNJRXtohfiqzzVzQCLcB/s1600/IMG_0001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ffXUOv3T_iU/WItqZKB8GVI/AAAAAAAATQk/PwE7oU_Rg7IzubZ_8ZNJRXtohfiqzzVzQCLcB/s640/IMG_0001.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a re-creation. This time I told her it was the best tortilla star I had ever seen.</td></tr>
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John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-68373302203665621432016-12-09T10:52:00.000-07:002016-12-09T14:24:17.324-07:00In Defense of Santa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xr8Kk2AzcEI/VJmqydrlUwI/AAAAAAAALGA/kUNYxbI7wfQ/s1600/Santa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xr8Kk2AzcEI/VJmqydrlUwI/AAAAAAAALGA/kUNYxbI7wfQ/s1600/Santa.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The other day, a buddy of mine posted an article about how <a href="http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/plato-pop/201312/the-santa-claus-lie-debate-answering-objections" target="_blank">lying to your kids about Santa is bad for them</a>. He agreed with the article. I disagreed. We're still friends. No big deal. BUT at one point in the conversation he said, "I still have yet to find an
argument FOR perpetuating the Santa myth that is the least bit
compelling."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">AND I thought, "Challenge accepted. I am going to
convince this guy that the Santa myth is awesome." I started to write a point by point rebuttal, and halfway through realized that it didn't matter one bit. Trying to
convince people why they shouldn't feel how they feel about something tends to become more of
an exercise in self-justification than a sincere effort to make a connection
with someone who sees things differently than you. I wasn't <i>really</i> trying to convince my friend. I was just having fun writing about Santa. So I’m giving up any pretense
of trying to change my buddy’s mind, or anybody's mind for that matter, and admitting that this post
is all about me. And my kids. And Santa… who. Is. AWESOME.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We play the Santa game. We tell the stories and
perpetuate the myth. We visit the guy in the mall, and at various company parties.
We make cookies and leave out milk. We stay up late after the kids go to bed
wrapping presents in paper we've kept hidden all month. We eat the cookies
they left out as messily as possible so our overzealous crumbs will provide the obvious clues needed to figure out that, indeed, Santa was here... and he's kind of a slob. Why do we do it? What's our compelling argument? It’s
fun. The kids enjoy it. Stevie and I enjoy it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We like magic</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Stevie and I feel that it is important for our kids to
believe in magic for a bit. We think that a belief in magical things is great
fertilizer for cultivating imagination in tiny humans. The magic of the world
will be removed by the curse/blessing of perspective soon enough. For these few
years we want to let them believe reindeer fly, and see where it takes them. Yes, some people will say that it is our job to drop as much reality on
our kids as possible so that when they’re eventually confronted by a world full
of it they have the faculties needed to cope – but I like to believe that
having that tiny memory somewhere in the back of my head of what it felt like
to believe impossible things were indeed possible <i>is</i> what helps me cope with
the harsher realities of being an adult.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We don't mind lying</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“But what about the lie? You’re lying to your kids?” Says
the imaginary person in my head I am arguing with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If the worst thing I ever do to my kid’s is lie to them,
then I will be forever happy with my parenting score card. We lie to our kids
all the time. We tell them they are safe. We tell them we’ll never go away. We
make promises we know we may not be able to keep. And we do this to help them
feel secure, because the fallout from discovering the lie is less than the fallout
of dealing with the truth. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Chances are that I’m not going to die any time soon,
so I tell my kids I’m not going to die. I tell my kids there is a Santa because
I believe that the joy they get from believing in Santa is more than the disappointment
they will feel when they discover the truth. Do I know this for sure? No, but I don't really know anything <i>for sure... </i>not since becoming a parent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Learning the truth is a great exercise in... learning the truth</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I do know that, for me, discovering the reality of Santa was one of the first times in
my young life that I can recall gathering facts, exploring their validity,
questioning what I had been told, and finding out things weren't the way I had
been taught. I wasn't resentful of my parents for lying to me. I felt empowered
by the process of figuring it out, and excited to move to the other side of the myth. It felt like a right of passage. Yes, all of that is anecdotal. I don’t really care. I don’t need to.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You know why? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We don’t </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">have</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> to dissect everything </span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That may be my least favorite part of being a parent. Sure, this may not be a compelling argument, but it honestly doesn't need to. Sometimes, when I've buried myself in facts and theories and arguments about what is and isn't best for my kids, when I've kept myself up at night asking over and over if the choices I am making for them will break them or form them into happy humans, I come to the conclusion that no amount of advice will help. I just have to trust my gut. I just have to believe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I believe in Santa. Not, that he exists, but that letting my kids believe that he does is better for them than making sure they know he doesn't. I believe. And trust me, as a non-religious, science loving, fact finding kind of guy, that is hard for me to say. Well... it's hard for me to say until Christmas morning when my kids run out to the tree yelling "Santa came! Santa came!" Then it suddenly becomes pretty a compelling argument.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Merry Christmas,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Kinnears</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><b>P.S. Yes, my favorite Christmas movie is Miracle on 34th Street. Both the original and the remake. I love them both. <br /><br />P.S.S If you want to give me a Christmas present, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/askyourdadblog" target="_blank">please come visit me on Facebook</a>. It would make me tremendously happy. </b></i></span></div>
John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-40105229686640505712016-10-31T08:45:00.000-06:002017-06-03T11:12:56.272-06:003 Simple Reasons Why Voting is Important<div><br />
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</div><i>I wrote this in 2008. I still believe every word of it. Voting is important. It is our obligation. It is our privilege. It is what makes us American.</i><br />
<h3><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Why I Vote <i>( Written November 2008)</i></b></span></h3><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I voted early yesterday. I stood in line for forty-five minutes with a few hundred other people and cast my ballot for the 2008 election. It wasn't very hard. I didn't have to take too much time out of my day. A little planning, one skipped class and it was done. For others in line it seemed considerably harder. The lady in front of me was about my age and had two children with her. One child, a blond haired, wide-eyed 5-year-old ball of energy insisted on saying hello to everyone in line. The other was a teething baby in a carrier. The gentlemen behind me in line had to be at least 85. On his arm was a young lady who I eventually found out was his granddaughter. After cordial greetings we returned to our waiting. I silently admired their tenacity to come and stand in line to do what many people these days regard as an act in futility, especially in Utah.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
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For those of you who read my blog that don't live in Utah, we are that state that is highlighted red on pundits maps the second the polls close. Utah always goes Republican. We are a Republican stronghold. And that is OK. The problem is, being in such a Republican state discourages people from voting. <b>It discourages everyone.</b> Democrats and Independents say "what's the use?" And Republicans have become complacent living in a state that last voted for a Democratic Presidential Candidate in 1964. So I just wanted to take a few minutes and explain why, even living in Utah, I feel it is incredibly important to vote.<br />
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Let me just start with a reality check, because as we approach Tuesday everything coming from both sides of the ticket ends up getting drenched in hyperbole. I know that I am not saving the country by voting for my candidate. Neither major party candidate is evil. Neither one's election will mean the end of the U.S. </span><br />
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</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There is no nefarious plot by either party to undermine the constitution or send our country spiraling into oblivion. Some things may get better under one or worse under another, but I believe it is safe to say that both candidates want what is best for the country. <b>They just disagree on what is best.</b> It is so easy to get wrapped up in the fear of "the other" that our motivation for voting doesn't come from our belief in one candidate, but from our fear of their opponent. All of the blog posts I have read for the last two weeks have been about how evil or wrong "the other" candidate is. Let me tell you what I know. I know that if my candidate loses, America will go on. I'll get to that later though. Let's get to the reasons I vote.</span></div><div><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>1. Local Elections, Constitutional Amendments, and State Referendums.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My vote for President may be a grain of sand on the beach, but my local votes can be rocks in a bucket. Whether I am voting for or against Zoo funding, the Governor, School Board appointments, Vouchers, the Definition of Marriage, or any other variety of ballot initiatives - my <b>local elections are the ones that have the most significant impact on my daily life</b>. The state level is where the decisions are made on how to fund public education. The state level is where laws are made and created regarding who and when you can marry. We even get to elect whether or not to keep our judges! Many of these elections are won or lost by a few hundred votes, and I have the opportunity to voice my opinion. In these elections my vote could possibly be the deciding vote. That's exciting to me. That is the opportunity to make real and immediate change. How often do we get that chance?</span><br />
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</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>2. Education</b></span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Voting makes me curious. I go online. I research different candidates and issues. I learn about both sides of arguments. I make educated decisions about my positions. I listen to other people's reasoning. I don't turn the radio station because I hear something I disagree with. In preparing for an election I become a more rounded person in the world by studying the world.</span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Elections bring important issues out into the light of day. Even if we're not voting on something in particular everything becomes fair debate around election time.</span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Before this year I didn't know anything about labor issues in Ohio. In 2004 I had no idea why Palestine and Israel didn't get along. Until about a month ago I didn't really have a clue what a Socialist was. I researched these things, and although I am no were near an expert on any one of these topics, I have thought about them. Just thinking about things is important sometimes, and elections make us think. On a side note, after reading about Socialism I can definitively tell you that Barack Obama is not a Socialist, but that is a completely separate blog.</span><br />
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</b> <b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. Obligation and a Peaceful Transition of Power</b><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I feel like voting is my responsibility. I've often times heard the saying "If you don't vote, you don't have the right to complain." While that sounds witty, and at times I'm sure people wish it were true, the fact is that we all the right to complain whether we vote or not. </span><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Voting is not a requirement, but it is a responsibility.</b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> It's an obligation. It's part of a bigger picture. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sure, everyone has the right to not vote. That is a great thing, and it's important. Still, Voting in any election is not <i>just </i>about supporting the candidates or amendments or referendums in that specific election,<b> it is about supporting the idea as a whole</b>. It is about believing that the will of the people is a driving and important factor in the success of our country. And it is about supporting a peaceful and consistent transition of power. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Both major party candidates have spoken at times during this election about setting an example for the rest of the world. We don't always achieve this, and often some of the things we do as a country are out of any one citizen's control. Yet one major thing we have done right every four to eight years since the civil war is facilitate a peaceful transition of power. I don't think most people realize what an amazing accomplishment that is. We check ourselves. We give people power. We take it away. We limit authority. We cycle public servants because we know that absolute power corrupts absolutely. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That is why I know that we'll be fine after this election, because we are the deciders, and 232 years ago we decided that a consistent influx of new ideas was necessary to sustain a growing experiment in democracy.<b> I absolutely believe in this. I absolutely believe in the idea that voting for any candidate, any side of any issue is supremely important.</b> Because when I vote I know that I am not just voting for a candidate or a zoo or a judge, but I am also voting for the future. So maybe I'm not saving the country by voting for my selected candidate, but I am saving the country just by voting, and so are you. Take that for hyperbole.</span></div><br />
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John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-3272872245840143972016-10-13T20:53:00.001-06:002016-10-13T20:56:38.842-06:00I Still Believe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last night I went to a political debate at the middle school near my house. There, my friend Zach Robinson sat with his Republican opponent Robert Spendlove at table in front of about 40 people. The two of them talked about what mattered to them, and how they thought they could help the constituents of Sandy, Utah. They differed in ideology, but they were steadfast for their love of us. It was exactly what I needed this week. <br />
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Presidential elections are my Super Bowl. I look forward to them in the same way my kids look forward to Christmas. I believe they are a sacred time in our country where our obligations as citizens of our country cross paths with our obligations to each other. The peaceful transition of power in this our country is, in my opinion, among our finest achievements. <br />
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My daughter thinks that President Obama is the boss of America. That’s probably my fault. In a random, from the back seat conversation when I was distracted by trying not to drift into lanes of oncoming traffic I probably answered her first political question with an oversimplified answer. A few months ago when I told her that President Obama would no longer be our president, she asked if he was getting fired. I explained that no, he wasn’t getting fired. Presidents don’t stay presidents forever and every so often we get to choose a new one.<br />
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That blew her mind. <br />
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“We get to choose?”<br />
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“Yep! We do. That is called democracy.”<br />
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“I choose Pinkey Pie”<br />
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Pinkey Pie is a cartoon pony, and ineligible to be president. Not wanting to get into this, I explained that she could pick Pinky Pie when she was 18. She was fine with that. <br />
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Since then she has been wonderfully curious about democracy and civics. We’ve talked about the different branches of our government. We’ve talked about the different ways people can serve. We’ve talked about how a lot of the time people disagree on what the best choice is for our country, and the reason why we vote is to give everyone a voice in choosing. <br />
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“Just like we got to choose what to do in gym yesterday, huh dad?”<br />
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“That’s right.”<br />
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Things were going great. Then they weren’t. I told her she could watch the debate last week, not knowing that the first question would end up being whether or not one of our candidates meant it when he said he sexually assaulted women. <br />
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Superbowl canceled. <br />
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How do I explain that to her? Politics aren’t perfect, and the subject matter can be tricky, but I was planning on having trouble explaining tax policy, not consent and rape. <br />
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Don’t get me wrong. Those are really important topics and not ones we will shy away from in due time at our house. I just hate that it may have to be explained in the context of someone who may be “The Boss of America.”<br />
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So instead I played her the live-stream of Zach Robinson and Richard Spendlove talking about air-quality on the Wasatch Front. I let her listen to Zach talk about the years he spent as a fireman and how they taught him that everyone’s life matters, even those he doesn’t agree with. She heard these two men be kind to each-other and gracious. She heard what is right with America. She also got bored quickly, and wanted to play on the iPad… but that is more of a six-year-old thing than a problem with politics. <br />
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Like I said. The debate was exactly what I needed. I needed to believe.<br />
This presidential election has felt like a punch in the chest. It has gotten worse and worse, and I have started to end every day burying my head in my pillow and just wishing it was over. Until last night…<br />
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Until last night, what I’d forgotten is that there are only two presidential candidates compared to the thousands of other candidates and volunteers out there working hard every single day to gather signatures, knock on doors, and talk about issues that matter to real people. <br />
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There are propositions and amendments to be voted on. There are Federal and State Senators and Representatives. There are bond measures, and taxes. There are issues that will affect each and every single one of us on a personal level. Last night I saw two people who had different ideas about those things, but a shared love for the people of our country.<br />
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The greatest kindness you can do for a person is know them, and last night I saw two candidates who genuinely wanted to know their constituents. They both stayed after the event and had long, sometimes difficult discussions with everyone who wanted to talk to them. It was exactly what a civil servant should be. Civil. <br />
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As long as we still have people like that, good people of any party willing to commit their time and talents to the public good, I have to believe our country will be ok. <br />
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I still believe, and I hope you do too. Our kids are watching. <br />
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P.S. I endorse Zach Robinson for Utah State Representative, District 49. Robert Spendlove seems like a nice guy too though.<br />
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John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-37567604507873185752016-10-13T11:43:00.000-06:002016-10-13T20:08:09.915-06:00How to Be a Dad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The first part is easy, unless it's not. Which honestly, sets the tone for the rest of it. Fear comes next. Then excitement. Then fear.<br />
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Rinse. Repeat.<br />
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Next you start asking yourself questions you never thought you'd ask. Am I enough for them? Can I be enough? What can I do to be enough? Was that enough? Will this be enough? Those questions never stop either, but don't worry. They pair nicely with the fear from the first paragraph. Next thing you know, they're older. There're two of them. One toddler, one in grade school. </div>
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You're older too.</div>
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You look at yourself in the mirror and it is still just you. You're still just a kid. You're still worried about what people think of you. You're still worried about kid things. But also money and food and making sure your kid's don't have eyes that are full of worry like the ones you're looking at in the mirror. </div>
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You close your eyes and hope when you open them again you will see a dad looking back, not a kid with graying hair. When you open them you're still there. </div>
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"Dad! I need to go potty!" There is a tiny hand pounding on the door. </div>
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Splash some water on your face. Go make lunch. Peanut butter and jelly. One kid likes triangles, the other one wants rectangles. One wants milk. One wants water, no ice please. Next, gold fish crackers and a string cheese. Pick two plates that are the same color. This will result in less fighting over who has the blue plate. Sit with them and ask them about their week. </div>
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"Annie wasn't being nice. She was tattling on everyone and she told me she wasn't my best friend."</div>
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"I am a dinosaur. RAAAAAWRR. DINOSAURS EAT PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY!!"</div>
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After lunch, wrestle. You are a dinosaur now too. Attack, softly. When you flip him upside down place your hand below the back of his head so it doesn't smack against the hardwood. He doesn't know you're doing this. He thinks you're wrestling hard. He fights against you, pushes you over. Yells RAAAAAWRRRR! </div>
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Your daughter joins too. She is a pirate with a paper tube sword. She jumps into the tangle of laughs and screams, lands a blow across the side of your face and pauses in fear to see if she hurt you. </div>
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She didn't. You smile and tackle her. Remember the hand behind the head. Remember to be fierce AND soft. Remember to be a dad. </div>
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You are a T-Rex. He is a Steggysaurus. She is a pirate. </div>
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You are a dad. </div>
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After wrestling, he is coloring at the table. She is quiet and sitting by the window. </div>
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"Hey honey. Are you OK?"</div>
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She's not. You can see the tears in there. </div>
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"Annie said she wasn't my best friend."</div>
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Find words. Dads need words. You need to explain to her that Annie may have not have meant that. Explain that Annie is a kid, like her, and sometimes says things that she doesn't mean. Some kids are just mean. Some kids, like some adults just suck. Quick, find words to fix the tears that are starting to come out. Find words to make her better. Find words that will be enough. Will these be enough?</div>
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"Come here."</div>
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And you hug her. And you don't have words. You don't have anything but a grown up chest to pull her into, and hand to hold the back of her head while she makes little first-grade sobs that will leave a tiny teared face mark on your shirt. </div>
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That is what have, that and your questions. Is it enough? Are you enough?</div>
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Later, after a dinner with chicken nuggets and same-colored plates and milk and water without ice, it is time for bed. Your wife takes the boy and you take the girl. She needs to brush her teeth. You need to show her. Front, back, top and bottom. </div>
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"Dad! I have a loose tooth?"</div>
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"Oh yeah?" Wiggle it. It's not loose.</div>
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"Maybe. Let's give it some time. Hop in bed," you say.</div>
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"Can we play the story game?"</div>
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The "story game" is something you made up. She starts a story and then tags you in. You keep the story going for a bit and then tag her in, and so on and so forth until the story comes to its conclusion - usually with a party or a wedding or everyone getting eaten by a dinosaur.</div>
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"You start this time, daddy."</div>
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"Once upon a time there was a boy... OK, you're turn."</div>
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"No, keep going," she says.</div>
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"OK. Once upon a time there was a boy who was sad."</div>
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"Why was he sad?"</div>
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"Oh, just because sometimes people are sad."</div>
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"OK, keep going."</div>
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"So the boy decided to go on adventure to find his happy. He went to the desert and climbed mountains. He put ropes on and went into caves. He drove his car all over and lived in exciting places. He slept under a different sky every night."</div>
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"Was it enough? Was he happy?" She already knows the answer.</div>
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"Not yet, but soon. One day he met someone. A kind and friendly girl who looked at the world like it was exciting and new. OK you're turn."</div>
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"And then they got married. I know this story. You're turn." </div>
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"You're right. And then they got married."</div>
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"And then they made a baby, and that baby was me."</div>
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"We made you out of love."</div>
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"I know dad. You told me."</div>
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"I know. It's my favorite story. It's how a became a dad." you say. </div>
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"I'm glad you're my daddy."</div>
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"Me too, kiddo."</div>
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"And then they all got eaten by a dragon. The end."</div>
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She giggles. You tickle her. She giggles more.</div>
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"Goodnight."</div>
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"Goodnight."</div>
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You go upstairs where kid two is asleep. You kiss him on the forehead, and go to look for the kind and friendly girl who tied you to the world and kept you from flying away. She's downstairs reading. </div>
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"He go down OK?" You ask. </div>
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"Yep. Did she?"</div>
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"Yep. Let's go to bed. I'm tired."</div>
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"Me too."</div>
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Go to the bathroom. Brush your teeth. Splash some water in your face. It's still you in the mirror. </div>
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<b>This is how to be a dad: </b></div>
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Wake up. Do your best. Find the words when you can. Hug when you can't. Be a soft dinosaur. Tell stories. Be a team. Be enough. </div>
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Rinse. Repeat. </div>
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John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-18740461447464097312016-07-28T17:04:00.000-06:002016-08-25T10:19:15.197-06:00'The Pocket Guide to Girl Stuff' Is Just as Horribly Sexist as You Think It Will Be - Updated with Author ResponseToday is my daughter's sixth birthday. Let me tell you a little bit about her. She looks out for herself and others. She is a leader. She gets in a group of people and makes them feel important. She never says "look what I did," she says "look what we did." She looks at the world in ways I didn't even know existed. She is everything that is good and right about the world, and I am confident that there is no ceiling, glass, concrete or plate-metal, that can keep her from leaving her mark on the world.<br />
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This morning we took her to breakfast for her birthday. Her grandpa gave her a crisp twenty-dollar bill to spend on whatever she would like. At the front of the restaurant is a small gift shop with a selection of books. That is where she found "<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Pocket-Guide-Girl-Stuff/dp/142360573X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1469747245&sr=8-1&keywords=the+pocket+guide+to+girl+stuff" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">The Pocket Guide to Girl Stuff</a>" written by, of course, a male named Bart King.<br />
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Here is the vomit inducing Amazon Description :</div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.2px;">Girls can be a mystery-even to themselves. Sometimes girls just need a little guidance and know-how. They get that and more with</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.2px;"> Pocket Guide to Girl Stuff</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.2px;">. Acclaimed author Bart King delves into the secret world of girls-with the help of his five sisters and fifty other girls, of course. </span></i><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.2px;"><i>Girls can: </i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.2px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.2px;"><i>Take the Friend Test to see how their friends rate. </i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.2px;"><i>Discover their celebrity name! </i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.2px;"><i>Learn the greatest, super-duper amazing diet of all time! </i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.2px;"><i>Figure out why boys do annoying things. </i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.2px;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"></span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.2px;"><i>Fashion, friends, and fun stuff-everything is covered in this volume petite enough to fit in any girl's purse.</i></span></span></div>
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The oh-so-helpful chapters to this conveniently purse sized tome of self-understanding for my daughter included, "Chapter 1 - Boys" and "Chapter 2 - Friends, Cliques, Secrets and Gossip." I took a couple gulps of air, choked back some profanities and came up with...</div>
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"Yeah, we're not getting that book."</div>
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"But says it is for girls."</div>
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Stevie stepped in. "Any time anything says it is just for <i>girls</i> or just for <i>boys</i> you should leave that thing where it is and go find another thing. This book is stupid."</div>
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"It's not nice to say stupid, mom."</div>
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"It may not be nice, but this time it is right."</div>
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She was right. The book was stupid. The Boy version was just as stupid. Where girls got a chapter on boys, boys got a chapter on "experiments." Let me type that again so it can sink in. Boys got science. Girls got boys. What the EVER-LOVING F*CK?? Also.. let's not even start to unpack the "boy" chapter titled "weapons."</div>
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This book was not written in the 50's. It was written in 2009. Bart King is an actual person who thinks this shit is OK.</div>
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It is not OK. I don't care how many of his sisters Bart asked.</div>
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I try not to get too riled up about the general stupidity of the world, but this really got to me. This waste of paper found its way into my daughter's birthday, just like crap like this is going to work its way into many of her days from here on out. I almost bought the book just to throw it away. I wish I could buy all sexist shit out there and throw it away. </div>
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I shouldn't have to tell my daughter that girls are more than boys and gossip. That is not a lesson we should need to teach. </div>
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My daughter is and will be more than boys and gossip. She may have to claw her way through a world of shitty pink books by shitty male authors to do it, but I have faith in her. Why? Because I see the strength of my wife in her, who is willing to call stupid things stupid. I see the resolve of her grandmas in her, who have shown her what a lifetime of work and dedication can build. And most of all, I see her in her. She is a singular and self-contained ecosystem of awesome. She is the beginning of all things her. </div>
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On the car ride home from breakfast I mentioned that for the first time ever, a girl is very close to becoming President of the United States. She shrugged it off as if it were as normal as the orange juice she had with breakfast. </div>
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I like that. I like a world where pink purse books are stupid and women presidents are normal. </div>
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Happy birthday, daughter. The world is yours. It's not perfect yet, but you're helping.</div>
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UPDATE:<br />
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Bart King, the author of The Pocket Guide to Girl Stuff read this blog post and reached out to me with a nice e-mail. I think it is only fair to give him a chance to reply to this post. I asked him if I could publish our email exchange, and he was kind enough to say yes. So here you go!<br />
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EMAIL FROM BART KING - AUGUST 3<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Dear John,</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">You caught my attention with the title of this blog post, but I was a little surprised at your analysis of the two books in question.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The primary reason for my surprise was that while you considered the books’ Tables of Contents and Amazon descriptions, you didn’t read them. If you had, it’s possible that you might have had a slightly different opinion.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">As a history lover, I believe most people like having background. So: I taught middle school for 15 years, and still visit schools regularly. I love working with kids, and as a teacher, I was in charge of my school’s reading program. Getting kids excited about reading was then (and still is) my primary professional goal.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">And what I want for ALL of my students and readers is for them to be empowered, educated, and entertained.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">In 2002, I was contacted by an editor about writing a book for middle-schoolers. She’d worked with me on a previous project and wondered if I had any ideas about appealing to reluctant readers.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">I did.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">In fact, I’d been waiting for someone to ask this, without even realizing it. The bulk of my reluctant readers were boys, and over the years, my colleagues have had the same experience. While that is anecdotal, studies show that this gender distinction in reading is the case nationwide. This is what led author Jon Scieszka (aka, the First National Ambassador of Young People’s Literature) to start his literacy program, Guys Read: </span><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?hl=en&q=http://www.guysread.com&source=gmail&ust=1472222854129000&usg=AFQjCNFMQwBbX_j49RfZtCO9G5XPGFc6Mg" href="http://www.guysread.com/" rel="noreferrer" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" target="_blank">http://www.guysread.com</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The question I asked myself: “Can I write a book so irresistible, boys who are reluctant readers will find it engaging?”</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The Big Book of Boy Stuff (2004) was my answer to that question. And I was surprised when my editor then asked to write The Big Book of Girl Stuff. After all, I’m the wrong guy to write that book — as is every EVERY guy.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">So I declined the offer.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">But my editor asked if I let my students off the hook so easily when they were presented with a writing assignment they didn’t think they could do.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">“Humph,” I thought. And despite my gender disenfranchisement, two things made writing the book possible:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">1. I got a lot of help (as described below).</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">2. I took a leave-of-absence from teaching to devote myself to doing the best job I could on Girl Stuff full time.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Perhaps it’s worth mentioning that the CEO of the book’s publisher is a woman. And I'm almost certain that every one of The Big Book of Girl Stuff’s editors, designers and publicists (and the book’s artist) were women as well.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Anyway, I asked 55 of my former female students (most of whom were in high school and college at the time) to help contribute to, edit and proofread every chapter in the book. The vast majority of my ideas came from interviews and correspondence with those young women—as well as from my five sisters (whose input you were happy to wave off).</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Girl Stuff came out in 2006. The two pocket </span><span class="il" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">guides</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> you saw are adapted versions of The Big Book of Girl Stuff and The Big Book of Boy Stuff. Keep in mind, those source books are sizable, and contain a wide range of material. Both books have heaping amounts of material on topics that have nothing to do with gender, for example, gross stuff, humor, activities, sports, practical jokes, etc.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Now, as to the book covers and tables of contents: I didn’t have final say over what material would go into these two pocket </span><span class="il" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">guides</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> in question. I didn’t have “first” say, either. I wasn’t asked.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">This is unfortunate, because a quick glance at their table of contents do not perfectly capture the tone, contents, and messages of their respective books. And some of the most seemingly gender-normative material did go into The Pocket</span><span class="il" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Guide</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> to Girl Stuff. (I write “seemingly” because it’d appear that way after a glance at the ToC.)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">As to the actual covers, when I learned Girl Stuff would be pink, I howled in disbelief. After all, I wrote a section in the book about how foolish and arbitrary these gender-based color distinctions are! (I also write about the history on this topic—for example, at the start of the 20th century, pink was considered a “boy” color, because it was the watered-down version of the oh-so manly red.)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Anyway, as with the pocket </span><span class="il" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">guide</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> contents, the cover decisions were made inside my publisher’s marketing department.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">So hopefully you’re getting an idea of how a “sh***y pink book” written by a “sh***y male author” came to be. Which reminds me of a conversation that took place in one of my middle school classes.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">STUDENT ONE: Is it sexist to tell someone they can’t write something because of their gender?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">STUDENT TWO: Duh!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">(So maybe your statement should be amended to a “sh***y pink book” written by a “sh***y author”? </span><img alt="☺" class="CToWUd" data-goomoji="263a" goomoji="263a" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/e/263a" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; margin: 0px 0.2ex; max-height: 24px; vertical-align: middle;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> )</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">John, since you mentioned the President of the United States, I’ll point out that the second chapter in Girl Stuff (“Girl Power!”) is about women in leadership. In it, I point out the then current numbers of female senators, representatives, governors, and so forth. And obviously, I dwell on the lack of a female president to date. However, I was happy to this week update that passage to:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">“In the United States, there are 100 senators. Yet as of 2016, we’ve never had more than 20 female senators at any one time. There are 50 governors. But there have never been more than six female governors at any one time. There are 435 U.S. representatives. But there have never been more than 84 female representatives. So what’s going on?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">“It gets worse. The odds that a boy will grow up to be the president of the United States are about 10 million-to-1. But until Hillary Clinton was elected in 2016, the odds for a girl to become president were infinity-to-1. What a rip-off!”</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">This change will be reflected in the book’s next printing, early next year. (And yes, I’m confident about —and happily anticipating— the election results.) And since books can be altered and edited as the years pass, I’ve been lobbying for other changes as well, including ones discussed here.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Finally, I’d like to address something else, John. On the occasions that an author writes something that I think I disagree with, I write to them. I do this for a variety of reasons, but mostly it’s in the interest of discourse. (This also explains why I read a book before I write about it.)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The way that you chose to express yourself — with an incensed blog entry — is another way to go. It’s a great way to express your free speech, though in terms of consciousness raising or starting a productive dialogue, it something to be desired.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">After reading your reader comments, I have to wonder if what you were really trying to do was publicly “shame” me over the Internet. I don’t know for certain if that was your intent, so I’ll hold off on the “torches and pitchforks” jokes. Still, it’s enlightening to read Mari’s message that I’m “the perfect example of what’s wrong with society.” Really? I’ve been really off-base by being a lifelong proponent of gun control? A Sierra Club member since high school? A volunteer for Start Making A Reader Today? A guy who rides his bike as much as possible to reduce carbon emissions? Okay, enough already.)</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Also of interest is the message from a visitor who senses “a new Amazon review” coming on. Sheesh, I wonder where she got the idea or reviewing a book she hasn’t read? :P</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">In closing, I’ll just say there are countless cases where the “shaming” approach has gone wrong, sometimes in really unfortunate ways. (Jon Ronson’s book, So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed, provides an interesting analysis of this phenomenon.)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">I hope I’ve expressed myself in a thoughtful and even-handed manner.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Sincerely,</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Bart King</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Regards,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Bart King </span><br />
<br />
MY REPLY AUGUST 3<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Hi Bart, </span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
Thanks for the kind and thought out e-mail. You're right. I didn't read the whole book, but I did thumb through the chapters and read more than the chapter titles. I was not impressed with what I read, and when I saw the description on Amazon I was even more sure that a deeper reading was not required. But hey, I have been wrong before and am open to that. If you would like me to do a thorough reading and a longer review, I'd be happy to give the books a second look and write another post. I'm not going to purchase it, but if you have review copies available feel free to send one my way. Perhaps there is more inside that I missed.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
That said, I think criticism of the way the book is presented and organized was fair, even if it was angry. A <span class="il">guide</span> for girls organized by gossip, boys, beauty, hair, and shopping? Come on man. You've got to know that is shoehorned, stereotypical, and yes... sexist. Dieting?? Ugh... sorry. Getting riled up again. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
Anyway... your points about public shaming, how I choose to express myself, and my incensed blog entry are fair and well received. My intent was to vent my displeasure with the books, not to shame you personally. I can see how it came across poorly and apologize for any pitchfork pokes that came your way. You seem like a nice guy, and your taking the time to reach out only drives that point home. Also, I agree - Ronson's book is excellent.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
If you would like, I would be happy to add our correspondence to the end of the post and mark it as updated. I think you have a right to defend yourself, and to call me out for rushing to judgement. Let me know. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
Thanks again, </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
John</div>
</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
-----</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We emailed back and forth a few times after that, but this was the meat of our exchange. He is sending me a full copy of the book, and I will be sure to follow up with any new and exciting revelations. Thanks for reading!</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">John</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-81734014788763943482016-06-15T13:42:00.000-06:002016-06-15T10:44:00.672-06:009 Summer Vacation Tips from My Daughter's Kindergarten Teacher<div class="tr_bq">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0WEcsSygZBU/V1h0RsxMBGI/AAAAAAAAQ14/2-cPtHnVml0LROH7X_0aGwuMi8tqQNZGwCLcB/s1600/Day%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0WEcsSygZBU/V1h0RsxMBGI/AAAAAAAAQ14/2-cPtHnVml0LROH7X_0aGwuMi8tqQNZGwCLcB/s400/Day%2B1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 1</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Thursday was Duchess's last week of Kindergarten. It all went so fast. She has grown and changed so much since Stevie and I first walked her to the door of the school, watched her line up, and march into her new school in an adorable orderly line. I'm sure I was more nervous than she was.</div>
<br />
But I shouldn't have been. She had Mrs. Johnson.<br />
<br />
Mid-way through the school year I got the opportunity to volunteer in my daughter's class. It was fun to watch my little girl and her friends interact and play, but my favorite part of the experience was getting to see Mrs. Johnson handle a room full of five and six-year-olds.<br />
<br />
In my life I have seen people fly planes. I have seen captains steer ships. I have never seen a person direct a symphony of potential chaos and energy in the calm, kind fashion that Mrs. Johnson handled those kids. I like to pat my own back for what a great kid my daughter is, but I realized that day that I had a ringer on my side. Teachers are so amazing.<br />
Anyway... when the end of the year came around I wanted to send her a note of thanks and glean any additional knowledge I could from her. So I sent her the following e-mail.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Hi Mrs. Johnson,</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
This is John, Duchess's dad. I wanted to send you a quick e-mail thanking you for all of the wonderful experiences Duchess has had in your class this year. It has been a rewarding experience for all of us. She has just blossomed over the past months, and listening to her read to me before bed is consistently the highlight of my day. Thank you so much for all of your hard work. It is obvious how much you care about our daughter, and I hope you know how fond she is of you. We love hearing the stories she brings home.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
With the summer coming, I'd love to get the chance to chat with you a little bit about how we can keep up the momentum you've established. Duchess is coming out of your class with a love or numbers, reading, and learning in general. I want to make sure we continue to foster the learning-positive environment in our home that you have set up in your class. I'd be incredibly grateful for any advice, guidance or suggestions you might have. I'd be happy to stop by and chat any day this week if you have time. If not, I understand how busy the end of the year can be. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Thank you again for a wonderful year, and for playing such a pivotal role in our daughter's education. The other day I asked her if she was excited for summer vacation. She paused for a second, then replied "I'm excited I get to be in first grade, but I am sad that I won't be in Mrs. Johnson's class anymore." </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Stevie and I both feel the same way. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Thank you. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Stevie and John</blockquote>
<br />
Today I received her reply, and it has so many great suggestions I just had to share it here. <br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Dear John,</blockquote>
<blockquote>
Thank you for your kind words. I loved having your daughter in class this last year. She is a sweetheart!</blockquote>
<blockquote>
I have a few ideas for your darling daughter for the summer. Keep her reading and writing! </blockquote>
<blockquote>
<ol>
<li>Let her get her own Library card and go to the Library often. They have a section of easy readers for children learning to read. You could also read one of your favorite books to her and discuss it to build comprehension skills. She could draw a picture and write a sentence about her favorite part. The Library also has summer programs she can participate in.</li>
<li>Give her many opportunities to learn and experience new things. You could go on small field trips around the valley. Talk about what she sees and learns.</li>
<li>Get her a journal or notebook to draw pictures and write about her experiences. Don’t worry about her spelling everything correctly. Do have her capitalize and punctuate. Help her sound out the words. You could teach her the silent e or -ing rules if she asks for help. This should not be a chore but a fun way to remember the fun she has over the summer.</li>
<li>I sent her <a href="http://www.lexialearning.com/products/core5" target="_blank">Lexia</a> number home the last day of school. She can continue to play reading games on the web site all summer. It will give her challenging learning opportunities at her level.</li>
<li>The district web site has a link for extra learning opportunities. If you click on the parents tab there is an A-Z directory. Click on Homework Helps for some web site ideas.</li>
<li>There is a web site I like called <a href="http://happyhooligans.ca/" target="_blank">Happy Hooligans</a> that has fun crafts and learning activities.</li>
<li>You might create an account with <a href="https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/" target="_blank">Teachers Pay Teachers</a> and download learning activities. There are many core aligned sets and many of them are free.</li>
<li>Costco often has workbooks. So does the dollar store.</li>
<li>Teach her some new skills. She can go to Home Depot on Saturday mornings and build things in a program they have for kids. She could help plant a garden and learn about different plants. She could learn how to read a recipe and make cookies. Let her talk about the steps in order for each activity.</li>
</ol>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<br />
Let her help choose the activities and have a fun summer!<br />
Mrs. Johnson</blockquote>
So there you have it! So many good ideas! I am so grateful for all the love and hard work Mr's Johnson gave to our daughter. I know public schools get a bad rap sometimes, but I can't imagine a better Kindergarten experience than the one she gave our family. <br />
<br />
This morning, as with most mornings, Duchess came up and crawled into bed with Stevie and I when the sun came up. Half asleep I heard her say "Dad, I don't have Kindergarten today."<br />
<br />
"Nope, you're on summer vacation."<br />
<br />
"When is summer vacation over? I want to go back to school."<br />
<br />
If that's not the best review a kid can give, I don't know what is.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vAXKAbohwKo/V1h0lY7KwZI/AAAAAAAAQ2A/3n53BPjWPr8Zm4FUMPeEWl9A-J5E_YNQACLcB/s1600/Last%2BDay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vAXKAbohwKo/V1h0lY7KwZI/AAAAAAAAQ2A/3n53BPjWPr8Zm4FUMPeEWl9A-J5E_YNQACLcB/s400/Last%2BDay.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last Day!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>If you enjoyed this post I would honored if you would share it. If you hated it, I would still be pretty stoked if you shared it with a comment like "Look at how horrible this post is." You can also come be <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AskYourDadBlog/" target="_blank">nice or mean to me on Facebook</a>!</i><br />
<br />
<br />John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-87089634819306939882016-06-06T15:55:00.000-06:002016-06-06T19:07:52.482-06:0035 Things I Have Learned in 35 Years<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-btHxHvMNszM/V1XrSjsMkgI/AAAAAAAAQ08/-uPSMPqDcN8SSW4UL82acfcJCRiIgvzHgCLcB/s640/13344509_10153752831514053_993036022450044625_n%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm old now, but I remember being this young.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-btHxHvMNszM/V1XrSjsMkgI/AAAAAAAAQ08/-uPSMPqDcN8SSW4UL82acfcJCRiIgvzHgCLcB/s1600/13344509_10153752831514053_993036022450044625_n%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Today is my 35<sup>th</sup> birthday, or... as my dad likes to put it "half-way to 70.” I don’t really feel old, but my head and beard full of gray hair say differently. (Thanks again dad.) </span><br>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br>
</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If there is anything I have learned from getting older it's that at any individual point in the last 35 years I've known far less than I thought I did. Case in point: I once said that Oasis would be bigger than The Beatles. I know. The disappointment you are currently feeling towards me does not outweigh the shame I feel. </span><br>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What's worse is that even though I feel like I have a somewhat good handle on things now, in another decade or two I will probably look back at 35-year-old me and think “Wow, I really didn’t know anything about anything back then. I can’t believe I thought it was a good idea to write a list of things I thought I knew. Stupid 35-year-old John. You really shouldn’t have written that list.”</span><br>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br>
</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Oh well. Sorry future me. Here are 35 things I am pretty I am fairly sure about as I turn 35. I'm probably wrong about at least a few of them. Feel free to tell me which ones!</span><br>
<ol>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cynicism and sarcasm make for good jokes, but kindness and sincerity make for better friends.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Don’t be the person that tells other people why they shouldn’t like what they like. Nobody likes that person.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You’ll learn far more from considering the possibility that you might be wrong than you ever will from insisting you were right.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The majority of internet fights are dumb and unproductive – even if you are right.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Artisan ketchup is always horrible. Always.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Never delete a picture of you and your kids because you don’t like the way you look in it. In a few years you will like the way you look in it. I promise.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Going to bed angry is fine once in a while.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Politics don’t matter nearly as much as you think they do, and they are never worth losing friends over.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My career has never suffered from being very clear that my family is my top priority, but it has suffered from pretending they weren’t.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The secret to happiness in life is clean socks.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">No matter what size you are, buy clothes that fit you - not clothes you wish fit you. If you are comfortable in your clothes you look happier and happy people are more attractive.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If someone has hurt you, find a way to forgive them. Forgiveness is a gift you give yourself.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sometimes my kids know more than me, if only because they see the world from the ground up.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If Doritos sold their various flavors in bottles as seasoning I would probably be dead by now.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There’s no statute of limitation on apologies, but if you are expecting forgiveness you are apologizing for the wrong reason.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Some foods make you happy while you are eating them. Some foods makes you happy when you’re done. The best foods do both.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sometimes you should ignore your own advice and eat an entire pizza.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">No matter how right you think you are right now, fifteen years from now you will be surprised by how wrong you were. You should probably avoid writing advice lists.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Facetime isn’t just an app on your iPhone. Go visit people. There is power in presence. Every conversation I have had while looking at a campfire or a horizon has been infinitely better than ones I’ve typed into a comment box.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The facts are friendly. If a situation seems insurmountable, write down the facts. Everything is more manageable on paper. (Or Excel)<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If the question is “Should I put this on the Internet” the answer should almost always be “No.”<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not caring if you are cool is exponentially better than actually being cool. One, you worry less, and two, you get to carry your own personal bottle of hot sauce around in a fanny pack!<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Being pale and covered with sunscreen is better than getting cancer.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You can learn how to do 95% of basic home repairs on YouTube.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Everyone feels like they faked their way into a new job. Do your best, ask questions, and just keep trying. For the most part, doing anything for 8 hours a day, five days a week, will make you good at it.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Whenever possible, shut up and listen. Listen more than you talk. The smartest people I know also tend to be the quietest - and when they do talk, everyone listens.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There are few better gifts than music and gratitude.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Buying expensive whisky is not a good strategy for getting yourself to drink less whisky.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Marshmallow Mateys are much better than Lucky Charms.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Don’t flip people off while driving. Instead, use the “condescending thumbs up.” Nothing tells someone they messed up better than a passive-aggressive thumbs up.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Never…ever… make life decisions within 5 minutes of stubbing your pinky toe on a door frame. In fact, don’t even talk to anyone. Just roll around on the floor and cry.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you see someone rolling around on the floor and crying while holding their pinky toe, “Are you ok?” is not the right thing to say. Nothing is the right thing to say. Just walk away and leave them to their world of pain. That is their life now.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you go into every day seeking out reasons to be mad, you will find them.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Never be afraid to sing out loud, unless your windows are down.<br><br>
</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At the end of the day, you are the love you put into the world.</span></li>
</ol>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bonus:</span><br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-joTVIDaV4f0/V1Xqripxo3I/AAAAAAAAQ0w/8UV_kkcJQXwKqa8p-YE1CRE8Hkq87XicgCLcB/s1600/13327412_10153765832159053_7191881776218814506_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-joTVIDaV4f0/V1Xqripxo3I/AAAAAAAAQ0w/8UV_kkcJQXwKqa8p-YE1CRE8Hkq87XicgCLcB/s400/13327412_10153765832159053_7191881776218814506_n.jpg" width="370"></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One last note on perspective. I remember thinking when this picture was taken that I was the coolest kid in the world. For years after I hid the picture away, embarrassed not only by my ridiculous mullet and suit coat, but also in the confidence I had placed in my coolness. It is only now, 30+ years later that I am able to realize how cool I actually was. I may be old and fat and bearded and gray haired now, but I will always have a ridiculous mullet of happiness in my soul. And that makes me happy no matter what age I am. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><b>Thanks for reading! Want to give me a birthday present? I would be honored if you would like or share this post. And if you are so inclined, please come visit me on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AskYourDadBlog/" target="_blank">Facebook</a>. We have a lot of fun on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AskYourDadBlog/" target="_blank">Ask Your Dad Facebook Page</a>. </b></i></span><br>
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John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-26371827958637815992016-05-08T09:17:00.000-06:002016-05-08T08:28:11.054-06:00What I Want My Wife to Know This Mother's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>This post originally appeared on <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/john-kinnear/the-most-important-thing-i-want-my-wife-to-know-this-mothers-day_b_7163748.html">Huffington Post Parents</a> for a series of letters they commissioned from various bloggers for Mother's Day 2015.</i><br />
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Dear Stevie,<br />
<br />
For your first Mother's Day, you were seven months pregnant with our first kid. I bought you a bag of Oreos and you said you would love me forever. We laughed and tried to picture what our lives would be like after our daughter was born. We talked about what she would look like. I was positive she would have brown or black hair like everyone in my family. You said when you closed your eyes you could see her face. I tried, but the only face I could see was yours. Turns out I was right. She is you. The funny thing is, we spent so much of those months leading up to the birth thinking about what our daughter would be like that we very rarely took the time to think what we would be like. I obsessed over what it would be like to have someone call me dad, but I never could have predicted in a million years how proud and in awe I would be to witness you becoming a mom.<br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7385734613853151197" name="more"></a><br />
They say that the change is supposed to happen overnight. A switch flips. And while it is easy enough to put the label on, becoming a parent is not nearly as seamless. It is a process. We struggled. I struggled. There were nights when we got frustrated with the kids, which led to us being frustrated with each other. We joked about how, when a baby is screaming, e<a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2012/11/comic-when-baby-is-screaming.html">very conversation -- no matter how menial -- is a fight</a>. We worked our way through nights when our kids were sick with 104-degree fevers. We spent nights in the emergency room. We learned how to get pee out of microfiber couches and waterproof sunscreen out of the carpet. And even though it seems like for the past five years our gaze has been at our knees -- while we kept the kids from falling down the stairs, or taught them which shoe goes on which foot, or showed them how to write the letter A -- I want you to know something that is infinitely important to me.<br />
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I see you.<br />
<br />
I see the way you look at our kids. I see you step into their rooms every night before we go to bed. I see it when you subtly move a toy out of the way while they are dancing, so they don't trip. I see you check their seat belts three times. You are kind to our children. You surround them with love and opportunity. You never condescend. They can see that. I can see that. You encourage me to be a better father. You don't shut me out from parenting. I feel strong with you. We look at problems together, and together we find our best solution. (Sometimes Google helps... especially with the waterproof sunscreen.)<br />
<br />
I didn't know we had this in us. I didn't know you had the capacity to become what you've become. To be clear, I didn't think the opposite. I never thought you weren'tcapable of being a great mom; it's just that I had no concept of the range and depth to which your love could extend. And honestly, I still don't. Every day is a surprise. Every day I am more and more proud of you. Every day I realize how lucky we are to have you, and that makes every day pretty damn great.<br />
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We've still got a long way to go, and we're still becoming the parents we're going to be. I still think a lot about what our kids will look like when they grow up. Sometimes, when we're all sitting in the living room and our son is reading a book while you spin in circles with our daughter, I close my eyes and try to picture them as adults. It doesn't work, of course -- it is hard to pull the future into focus -- but when I open my eyes, I see you, and I know that whatever comes will be what we build together.<br />
And together, we can move mountains.<br />
<br />
Thank you for being such a wonderful wife/friend/partner/soul mate, and -- today most of all -- thank you for being a mother.<br />
<br />
Happy Mother's Day,<br />
<br />
John<br />
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-----<br />
By the way, in case you didn't know, you can also find me trying to be funny on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AskYourDadBlog/" target="_blank">Facebook</a> </div>
John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-35943590706123248472016-04-08T15:49:00.000-06:002016-04-11T08:55:38.285-06:005 Parental Super Powers I Didn't Ask For<div style="text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7I9LGwgy9Y8/VdT5Z_7wknI/AAAAAAAAMe4/4x5s-ZSw3ck/s1600/DSC_0539.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 0em; margin-right: 0em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7I9LGwgy9Y8/VdT5Z_7wknI/AAAAAAAAMe4/4x5s-ZSw3ck/s640/DSC_0539.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was supposed to get hit by gamma rays or get bitten by a radioactive spider. As a kid I dreamed of waking up some day and suddenly being able to lift heavy objects with my mind or shoot laser beams out of my eyes. Not this. Not these powers... Who wants the "super" ability to smell their child's unique poop odor from across the room? </div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">"Nobody panic! That poo smell belongs to my kid. My unique parenting power tells me that this is a class 4 blowout. Don't worry. I can handle this!" </div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Possible Super Hero name: The Sniffer</i></div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">See what I mean? What am I supposed to do with that crappy (pun intended) super power? Sigh… here are four other super lame super powers that being a parent has given me... none of which, by the way, are flying – double grrr.</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Super Power: Parental Precognition</b></span></div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">It's kind of like Spidey-Sense, but it only works on my kids. I know just before something horrible is about to happen – usually because my kid says something like "Look dad!" or "Oooh! Gum!" or "Uh oh!" or things just get really, really quiet. Unfortunately, knowing something is about to happen and being able to prevent it are two very different things. Most of the time I have just enough parental precognition to say the beginnings of various words in succession. "Wai! NO! STO… ugh." Then it is too late and I say other, complete words quietly under my breath.</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Possible Super Hero Name: The Dammit Whisperer</i></div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Super Power: Super Distraction</span></b></div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">This isn't so much a super power as it is a super skill. For some reason I thought that when I had kids I would just explain to them, in very simple and kid friendly terms, why they should do something, and since they were <i>my </i>kids they would understand and do it. </div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">I was dumb. </div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">I quickly realized that 90% of getting kids to do what you want is tricking them by gently distracting them in the right direction. I would compare it to herding cattle since that is a completely accurate comparison, but people might get angry if I compare my kids to cattle. So I won't. See what I did there? Distraction.</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">I don't say "Want to go to bed?" I say, “Let's go read a book in bed.” I don't say, "Do you want to stop watching that ridiculous show that makes me want to stab my eyes out?" I say "Oh look! Your toy room is clean for once. Quick. Fix that!" By the way, the toy room is a perfect example of my wife's distraction skills too. It used to be my office, until she distracted me.</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Possible Super Hero Name: Mr. Ooh Look Something Shiny</i></div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Super Power: Sleep Functioning</span></b></div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">Any shlub with a predisposition for sleep disorders can sleep walk. I can work an eight hour day, go home, cook dinner, and only suffer minor second-degree burns on occasion - all while half asleep. I figure that if I am half asleep all of the time, I don't have to be full asleep half of the time. Trust me, it makes sense when you haven't slept for seven months.</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">Sure, I'm a zombie. Sure, I nod off while reading stories to my kids. And maybe I do lie down in the shower sometimes and let the hot water running out be my alarm clock. A dad has got to do what a dad has got to do, even if it means living in a nightmarish half awake dreamscape from time to time. Isn't that right Mr. Flying Dragon-pig? Now let's hurry. We're late for the roller coaster eating contest.</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Possible Super Hero Name: The Walking Dad</i></div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Super Power: Tolerance to all things Gross and Disgusting</span></b></div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">Nothing disgusts me anymore. Nothing. I have been baptized in endless baby piss and shit and snot and have emerged from the font of fluids a super-parent. What does this power do for me aside from allowing me to clean feces out of my kid's various crevasses? Well, I went to Walmart with sweatpants on the other day and didn't feel embarrassed. I also dropped my breakfast sandwich on the floor and picked it back up to eat it. Basically, anything that isn't covered in poop is clean now.</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Possible Super Hero Name: The Slob</i></div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">So there you are: my powers. Will I use them for good or evil? That remains to be seen. For now, my dad sense is tingling which means that there is either a bottle of sunscreen being emptied on to my carpet or something far, far worse. It is too quiet. Gotta go.</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">DAMMIT!!<br />
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<i>If you liked this post, be sure to come see our other super powers on the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/askyourdadblog" target="_blank">Ask Your Dad Facebook </a>page!</i></div></div><div style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div></div><div align="center"><div class="fb-like-box" data-colorscheme="light" data-header="true" data-href="https://www.facebook.com/askyourdadblog" data-show-border="true" data-show-faces="false" data-stream="false"></div></div>John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-24197110049018007642016-03-23T09:14:00.002-06:002016-04-07T05:34:06.030-06:00Choose the Dark Side - Guest Comic by Fowl Language Comics <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I'm pretty excited for this one. Brian Gordan writes <a href="http://www.fowllanguagecomics.com/" target="_blank">Fowl Language Comics</a>, one of the most popular comics on the web. We met via me fan-boying his page a few years back, and after years of asking and begging he FINALLY drew me as a duck. OK. That's not completely true. I only asked once, and he was cool enough to say yes! Below is an actual, word for word conversation I had with my daughter after watching The Empire Strikes back. </div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C8aBEcPlt30/VvKxKDb7NsI/AAAAAAAAPeg/JI2oQ7m23CoyP9ynUjNzCUq6uF0G1ZohA/s1600/Dark%2BSide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C8aBEcPlt30/VvKxKDb7NsI/AAAAAAAAPeg/JI2oQ7m23CoyP9ynUjNzCUq6uF0G1ZohA/s1600/Dark%2BSide.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i style="text-align: left;">Guess what! Brian's first book of comics came out this week. You should buy it. Seriously. They are all short and easily readable comics that you and your kids will love. I haven't been able to get it back from Duchess since it showed up at our door! <a href="http://amzn.to/1T6fyz6" target="_blank">Click here</a>, or on the photo of the book to buy it on Amazon. You can also find Fowl Language Comics on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/FowlLanguageComics/" target="_blank">Facebook</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/fowlcomics" target="_blank">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://fowllanguagecomics.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Tumblr</a>! </i><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fowl-Language-Parenting-Brian-Gordon/dp/1449479677/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1458745964&sr=8-1&keywords=fowl+language+comics" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KhGCeJjHuAk/VvKyR9-jZCI/AAAAAAAAPew/dABcJi6yfR04adBxAblYsWEJXOnxI7vFQ/s400/914621_361413904028918_1116117667_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-12026054260771329222016-03-15T08:20:00.000-06:002016-03-15T08:20:44.629-06:005 Dinner Table Rules According to My Kids<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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I have my own dinner rules. No hitting. No biting anything but food. If you don’t eat the crust of your pizza, dad gets first dibs. Stevie has her own rules. It’s ok to spill, but no doing it on purpose. Try everything on your plate before you get seconds. No electronics at the table. Whoever sat down first has to be the one to get up and get the kids more water when they eventually ask.<br />
Our kids have rules too. They aren’t written anywhere. They are communicated through tears, screams, laughter, or worst of all, politely asking me to fix whatever rule was broken… over and over and over until I either fix it or go insane and die. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1. All Water Must Contain Broken and Fixed Ice </b></span><br />
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We have been blessed enough to not have to bring juice and soda into our dinner table rotation. We just don’t keep it in the house. Our dinner offerings for refreshments are milk or water. Ever since our daughter discovered that there are two settings on the ice dispenser ALL water MUST have both “broken” and “fixed” ice. She doesn’t demand that this happens, she orders it like it as an item on a menu.<br />
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Me: What do you guys want to drink?<br />
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Duchess: Yes. Thank you. I would like a pink princess cup of water with broken and fixed ice please.”<br />
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Captain: YEAH. BOKEN ICE. FIXED ICE.<br />
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Whatever she wants, her little brother wants too.<br />
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Captain: I WANNA PRINCESS CUUUUUUUP<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2. Whatever one kid gets, the other kid must also get. </b></span><br />
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I learned a while ago to buy two of everything. We have two blue bowls, and two pink bowls. We have two princess cups and two monster cups. There is no gender assignment to our dishes, regardless of what culture dictates. Captain doesn’t want “boy” plates and Duchess doesn’t want “girl” plates. Duchess wants what Captain has and vice-versa. And GOD FORBID one of the matching dishes is dirty and they have to eat off mismatched dishware. Then Ms. Duchess gets all polite again<br />
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Captain: I WANNA PRINCESS CUUUUUUUP<br />
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Me: Buddy, the other princess glass is dirty.<br />
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Duchess: Daddy, would you mind taking the dirty princess glass out of the dishwasher and using that brush you use in the sink to wash it for Captain. I think that would make him happy.<br />
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Me: Nope. He can drink out of the monster glass.<br />
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Captain: I WANNA PRINCESS CUUUUUUUP<br />
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Duchess: Daddy, remember when you washed that other cup for me that one time. It was really quick. Will you wash the cup for Captain?<br />
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And on and on it goes. Yelling, politeness. Yelling, politeness. And then I wash the cup.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>3. If the kids find a word in their </b><a href="https://www.campbells.com/campbell-soup/condensed/chicken-alphabet-soup/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Campbell’s Condensed Chicken Alphabet Soup</a>, <b>they get to fish the letters out of their soup with their hands and spell it on the table. </b></span><br />
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They call it “letter soup” and while Campbell’s Soup is usually a quick and easy meal to whip up at the end of a long day, evenings with “letter soup” are always evenings with baths. Why? Because this happens.<br />
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Stevie and I have both fought this one, but by the time we catch on to what is happening it is too late. The handful of soup is already on the table. The letters are already spelling “Mom” or “Dad” and how sweet is that?? They spelled mom and dad with their soup letters.<br />
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Granted, that is Duchess. Captain also likes to spell with his soup. He spells “HM(Pea)L(Carrot)(Squished unidentifiable letter)” But whatever Duchess does… you know how it goes.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>4. EAT ALL THE BREAD</b></span><br />
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It is almost indescribable how much my kids love bread. You know how you hear those stories of really unfortunate families that have to survive off of bread and water. My kids would be so happy if every meal was bread and water. That is their dream meal. At gymnastics the other day my daughter’s teacher asked all the kids what their favorite food was and my kid said bread. Not bread with butter. Not bread with cheese and turkey in between. Bread.<br />
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Again, this is my fault. I also love bread. When I was little I used to tell my mom that when I grew up and moved out of the house the first thing I was going to do was buy a loaf of garlic bread and eat THE WHOLE THING! And you know what? I did. And you know what else? It. Was. Glorious.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>5. If you fart or burp at the table, you must blame the dog. </b></span><br />
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So this is totally my fault. I did it once and everyone laughed really hard. OK… I did it like five times because the kids laughed really hard every time. Then Duchess did it and we laughed really hard because it is cute when our kids imitate us. Then Captain did it. Then it was a thing. Stevie wants me to tell you that she has never done it. Stevie has never done it. (She totally does it. She also can’t read things I put in parenthesis.)<br />
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I know it’s not the most polite thing, but there is no going back at this point. If you burp or fart at the table you yell “RILEY!!” And then everyone laughs.<br />
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And then we have dessert… sometimes. Not every time.<br />
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-<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>John<br />
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<i>Wait! One more thing! </i><br />
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<i>Hey guys! This is my final post in my series for <a href="https://www.campbells.com/campbell-soup/condensed/chicken-alphabet-soup/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Campbell’s Soup</a> and their #RealRealLife campaign. I want to thank the Campbell’s crew for welcoming me into their family and being great patrons of the blog. I love it when a brand contacts me to sponsor Ask Your Dad and I can open my cupboard and find their product already there. Another great part about brands I like and trust sponsoring my content from time to time is that I get to keep writing this blog and providing it to all of you for free. That means a lot to me. Anyway. Thank you, and thank you Campbell’s. Now everyone go eat soup!! </i><br />
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<br />John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-19428284675449941972016-03-07T21:57:00.000-07:002016-03-07T08:14:59.851-07:00All the Things I Can’t Throw Away<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Since she could pick up a crayon my daughter has drawn every day. The first time she presented a scribble to me, I held it up and didn’t see a purple kind-of-circle. I saw a certificate that said, “Now you are a dad.” </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I used to look at colorful drawings hanging on the fridges of my kid-having friends and think “Meh. It’s cute I guess.” But when I held that first piece of art, I realized that it didn’t matter if it was cute. It was her. It went directly on the fridge. </span></span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So did the second drawing, and the third. Eventually when the fridge filled up and a combination of gravity and crappy magnets forced me to take down the older ones I’d walk over to the trash can, look at it for a second, then walk away from the trash can deciding that the pictures could live on top of the fridge. When the top of the fridge filled up, I went and found a box… and another box.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I know. I had a problem. But these pictures were the glitter and glue covered footprints my little girl had left of a life where she could barely count to fiveteen. Every day they got better. An almost circle became a face. A face grew legs, then a body. Lines became houses. A sun. A moon. Planets. She was creating the world around her. She put it in crayon. I put it on our fridge. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Source: <a href="http://www.lunarbaboon.com/comics/art.html" target="_blank">Lunarbaboon</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As she got bigger her world took up more and more paper. I wanted to hold on to that first purple scribble, pull it close to my chest, and remember how it made me feel to become a dad. But when I did, I felt like I missed the fact that she rewrites that contract every day. </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I knew that they were just papers, and that the little squirt that drew on them had morphed into something even more magnificent. Still, I didn’t feel a sense of loss of my little girl when I looked at her drawings. I felt a sense of emotional geography. I could see how far she’d come. I could see how far Stevie and I had come. </span></span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A few weeks ago, I was cleaning off the top of the fridge and found an extra stack of drawings I hadn’t looked at in months. I flipped through them, traced my finger over the textured wax, and smiled thinking about the look on her face when had I put them on the fridge. Then I did something that even surprised me. </span></span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Instead of walking over to the garbage, pausing, and walking away, I quickly crumpled the handful of drawings into a ball and shoved them deep enough into the trashcan that I wouldn’t have the chance to see them sitting on top of the pile and pull them out. Then I washed my hands. Then I felt guilty. </span></span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In that moment I realized that what I had thrown away was just paper and wax. That smile. That smile on her face when I had thanked my little girl and praised her hard work. That was my art, and it was safely tucked away in a place much safer than the top of my fridge. I don’t have to look at circles and trees and suns and flowers to connect with how far we’ve come. I just have to look at her. </span></span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I still have my favorites. They are hanging on the wall next to me as I write this. But now I don’t feel as bad tossing out the majority of them. They are not all art. They are the beautiful byproduct of art. They are leaves from a tree that has a very long time to grow. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Instead of drawing last night, Duchess asked us if she could show off her sweet, new number skills by counting by fives to a hundred. Far be it for me to deny her the opportunity to count by fives. We put away the colored pencils and Stevie, Captain and I sat attentively. </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She did it so fast the numbers blended together. We listened in amazement as she hit a rhythm punctuating the “ty” on every other number. When she hit 100 she shouted it like it was the top of a mountain. ONE HUNDRED!! We clapped loudly for her and she did her proud little giggle. She stopped saying “fiveteen” a year ago and now we’re into the hundreds. She’s counting faster than our hearts can keep up. </span></span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That’s a lie. We can keep up. We will keep up. </span></span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sure, I can’t pin her counting to the fridge or put it in a box, but she can pin our clapping to her heart, and that is a lot harder to throw away. </span></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you enjoyed this post, read more! I have a bunch linked in the sidebar. Also, be sure to like the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AskYourDadBlog/" target="_blank">Ask Your Dad Facebook Pag</a>e. We have a lot of fun over there and I promise not to throw away your art. Also, thanks to Chris over at <a href="http://www.lunarbaboon.com/" target="_blank">LunarBaboon</a> for letting me use his fantastic comic. He's a great friend, and an amazing artist. Be sure to check him out. </span></i></div>
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John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-33295147515867022402016-02-25T23:14:00.002-07:002016-02-26T13:48:40.250-07:00How I Found Happiness as a Working Dad<div style="text-align: center;">
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I’m currently on a plane. In 3 hours and 45 minutes I will land in Salt Lake City, exit the airplane, make my way through the airport and onto the parking shuttle, find my car, pay the parking meter, drive 25 minutes to my house, walk to my door, unlock it, go to my daughter’s room where she most likely has been struggling to stay awake long enough to see me and hug me upon my arrival. She will most likely have failed, and I will kiss her forehead, whisper that I love her in her ear, and make my way upstairs to do the same for my son. Then I will go and crawl into bed with Stevie and we will chat a little bit about my trip before one of us falls asleep while the other one is mid-sentence. Whoever is left awake will kiss the other one and roll over happy to not have to sleep alone again. I don’t really like being away from my family, but the coming home part is sure nice. This isn’t the norm for me, but it could have been. </div>
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Allow me to tell you a story. </div>
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When I was in my early 20’s I was hired to work for a little shipping company that transports something like 40% of the US’s GDP every year. When some percentage of that percentage was late or delayed or lost or damaged, I was the guy you called and yelled at. Eventually I became the guy who got on the phone when you asked for a supervisor, and shortly after that I became the guy who trained the guy who got on the phone when you ask for a supervisor. From there I moved on to become the guy who you got to speak to when you asked for a supervisor’s supervisor, then asked for that supervisor’s manager, and then asked that manager for the phone number of the president. No, I wasn’t the president of company. I was what was called a Corporate Customer Relations Manager, and if you got me on the phone you were either incredibly important, or incredibly angry/persistent. These phone calls were the worst of the worst, not always because of the people. Sometimes it was because we had really dropped the ball. Regardless of whose fault, the calls were rough. The job was rough. </div>
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I spent my days putting out PR fires and averting disasters. I fixed things, and I helped a lot of people. But every evening when I came home after a day of being screamed at, ordered around and insulted, I was toxic to my family. </div>
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Stevie would think I was mad at her. I’d explain it wasn’t her and that it was work, and she then she would want to talk about work. Then I would explain that I already had to go through it once and rehashing it again would only lengthen the amount of time I had to think about work, she’d say OK and we’d both sulk in angry silence, usually with our newborn daughter staring directly at us. </div>
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I decided that instead of coming home and transferring my shitty, toxic mood to my family I would go directly to the office and decompress every day. It worked at first. I would come home, go straight to the office, write away the anger and stress of the day, and emerge a new man! The only problem was that by the time I emerged from my pain pit, my daughter would be in bed and Stevie would be ready to follow. Something needed to change, but I was terrified. </div>
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By this point I had worked at at my job for nearly a decade. I considered it my forever job, and was in the process of interviewing for a position that would have brought with it a hefty pay increase. My boss at the time had been with the company for longer than I had been alive. People don’t leave that job. Still, something in my gut told me that if I didn’t find a way out of that job, Stevie and the kids were going to be the ones that paid the price. Sure, I was bringing home money, but I wasn’t being the kind of father I wanted to be – a happy one. A balanced one.</div>
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Stevie’s support I took a leap of faith and started over – all the way over. All I had known for most of my adult life was logistics and customer service. I didn’t know what else I would be good at, but I knew that whatever job I took would need to be one that let me be a father first. </div>
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After applying for a few different positions I finally was given an opportunity to move into marketing by a woman who became one of Stevie and I’s best friends. It was an entry level position, and small cut in pay, but a huge opportunity to learn a new skill that would pull me from the grips of a lifetime of decompressing alone in my office while my kids grew up outside the door. </div>
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I spent the next two years at that job learning SEO and Online Marketing, and when I eventually was offered a senior position at a different company, my boss congratulated me and wished me well. </div>
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In my interview for <a href="http://www.clearlink.com/" target="_blank">Clearlink </a>I was nervous. I knew it would be more pay, and I would have more opportunities to advance, but what I didn’t know was how they would feel about my priorities. In my experience, and in the way a work-ethic had always been communicated to me, the job came first. Not that family wasn’t important, it was just that my lot in life as man was to sacrifice my time with my family for the good of my family. That just didn’t fly with me. That is not the dad I want to be. </div>
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So I took another leap of faith. I was honest. </div>
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When they asked me what I was passionate about, I told them my passion was my family and my kids. I mentioned my blog and how I built it from scratch telling stories about fatherhood. I let them know that my perfect position would be one where I got to come into the office and work with a smart, fun collaborative group and at the end of the day I could leave work and work and go home to be an engaged father with my family. It was a long, rambling answer, but I could tell by their faces and their nods by the end of the interview that I had found the job I was looking for. I received an offer within an hour. </div>
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I’m truly blessed now. I have not missed a single gymnastics or ballet practice. I have been at every parent teacher conference and Halloween Parade. When my child is sick, my boss is the first one to say go. But the most important part? I may work extra hours here and there, but when I walk in the door after work now I don’t go straight to my office. I go straight to my kids.</div>
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I still get work done, a lot of work done. I go to work and for 8+ hours a day I work with one of the smartest collaborative teams I could ever dream of. Then I go home and laugh with my kids. When Stevie asks me about work, I don’t shy away from it. It is perfect. I feel balanced. Oh, and the guy who got the position that I was interviewing for before I left what I thought was my "forever job"? He has spent the better part of the last few years away from his family training customer service reps in Malaysia. He’s a good friend and a wonderful father too, but I can’t imagine being away that long. And thanks to a leap of faith, a little bit of gentle nudging by my wife, and openly communicating my needs to my employer from the beginning, now I don’t have to. And that has made all the difference. </div>
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<i>This post is sponsored by <a href="http://www.plumorganics.com/" target="_blank">Plum Organics</a>. Recently they teamed up with one of my favorite new websites, Fatherly. Be sure to go check out their other <a href="https://www.fatherly.com/parenting-unfiltered-work/" target="_blank">posts about working parents</a>. They are so well written. I am honored to be counted among them!</i></div>
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<i>But first, a little more about my sponsor: </i></div>
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<i>Plum Organics makes amazing, nutritious food for kids and the have been sending them to us for the past year. For that reason the kids are ecstatic that Plum is a sponsor of this blog. I am excited for another reason. Well, two really. I like the product, and two, do you notice how many times in the post above I mentioned Plum Organics? That’s not what they are looking for. They want to sponsor conversations. They want to be patrons of my writing, and for that and the fact that their product is delicious and healthy, I honestly think you should give them a try. </i></div>
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John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-54761619451936737072016-02-25T13:26:00.003-07:002016-02-25T15:21:01.323-07:00Dad 2.0 and the Very First DadSLAM<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Three years ago, at the suggestion of a friend, I applied to speak at a dad blogging conference with 0 expectations of being selected. I was relatively new to blogging, and while I had worked in marketing and social media for a while, I figured there were plenty of people more suited to speak.<br />
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A few months later I got a message on Facebook from Doug French, co-founder of the <a href="http://www.dad2summit.com/" target="_blank">Dad 2.0 Summit</a> asking if we could hop on a call and find a place for me in the speaking schedule. In my reply, and the subsequent phone call I kept my voice at an even keel and told myself over and over in my head to do my very best to sound like this was just a regular thing for me. It wasn’t.<br />
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When I hung up with Doug I immediately called Stevie and let out the child-like excitement I had tried to keep hidden. A few months later I picked up my “speaker” badge from the registration desk of the J Willard Marriot in New Orleans and felt a sense of pride in myself that had only been surpassed by the four moments.<br />
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Those four moments are as follows:<br />
<ul>
<li>Walking to my car after my last college final</li>
<li>Looking Stevie in the eyes when she said “I do”</li>
<li>Becoming a dad </li>
<li>Becoming a dad of two</li>
</ul>
On Friday night I was able to add another one to the list. Sure, that's a bit hyperbolic, but it was a really great night! I'll explain. <br />
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I'm not sure if you know this, but there is a pretty tight-knit community of Dad Bloggers out there. We congregate online to talk about all things parenthood, some things blogging, and pretty much everything else. We argue and squabble about religion and politics. We read and share each others' posts. We ask for and give advice that is sometimes wrong and sometimes right. It is a community unlike any I have ever been a part of, but despite how close we are, one thing we rarely get to do is hear each other.<br />
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For the past 6 years Dad 2.0 Summit co-founders Doug French and John Pacini have worked to not only give dads a voice, but to also foster conversations about our roll of the modern father. In years past, conference goers have attended key-note speeches and panel discussions about helping out more in the home, finding work life balance, working with brands to promote the image of an engaged father in the media in contrast to the bumbling, goofy one that was once such a problem. <br />
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In-between these sessions, the conference usually selects 4-6 spotlight readers. These are dad bloggers, like myself, who aren’t famous published authors, media personalities, or professional speakers who are selected to stand in front of a room of several hundred of their peers and read something they have written about being a dad. They are usually a mix of humor and more serious subjects.<br />
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The first year I attended, I heard Lorne Jaffe of <a href="http://www.raisingsienna.com/" target="_blank">Raising Sienna</a> read a post about clawing his way through his often crippling anxiety to find a way be the father his daughter needs. I was moved to tears. I needed more. Four readers a year wasn’t enough. I immediately knew what my pitch for the following year would be. We needed an open mic.<br />
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The next year my pitch didn’t get picked up. I’m sure there were logistical reasons, but I was bummed. I was also honored to be picked to speak on another subject that bloggers wanted to hear about, SEO. But I knew, deep down, that what I really wanted was to get more of the guys to read their work. I remember mentioning the idea to one of my dad blogger friends. His reply was disheartening. “I don’t think it will work. I don’t think enough guys will want to give away a night of their conference to sit in a room and read their posts.” Part of his fear was also mine. The nights at this conference are usually saved for festivities and libations. Would a big enough group of guys want to just hang out and hear each others' words instead of a night out on the town in a fun city? I closed my eyes and saw the standing ovation Thom Hoffmon received after reading a post about his son in 2015. Yes. If we give them a podium, they will come.<br />
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I set my sites on 2016.<br />
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This year I was asked to return to Dad 2 Summit to moderate an awesome nuts and bolts blogging panel about making data based decisions to grow social channels and content creation. That may sound boring, but as an online marketing guy it is something I know a lot about and have a ton of fun speaking on. I was elated to be invited back for a third time, but before I let Doug off the phone I gathered up any courage I could find and brought up my passion project. I wanted them to have an open mic, in the vein of <a href="http://themoth.org/" target="_blank">The Moth</a> and <a href="http://listentoyourmothershow.com/" target="_blank">Listen to Your Mother</a>, for the guys. Not only did I want them to agree to have it, I wanted plan it, prep it, and host it.<br />
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Doug didn’t take any convincing. He even had a name. DadSlam was born. Doug is good people.<br />
There was one problem. DadSlam was an official conference activity, but it wasn’t a sponsored one. The way the blogging conferences work is that most of the revenue comes from the brands that sponsor it in the hopes of making contact with a group of influencers. The brands will set up booths, sponsor room drops with fun product, and even sponsor activities by providing a location, food, and drinks.<br />
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Doug and John were able to get us a location, but it was too late to secure a sponsor. To make things even more stressful, DadSlam was on the schedule for Friday night 9:30 until 11:00. From 6:30 – 9:00, the awesome folks at LEGO were taking pretty much the entire conference to an after hours party at the Smithsonian with amazing food and plenty of yummy beer. Outwardly I had always been confident that people would come. At around 8:30 when I called Uber to get from the Smithsonian to the hotel to set up the room for the first DadSlam, I looked back at the giant room of dads drinking and eating and laughing, and for the first time worried that none of them would follow.<br />
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Well, as I already spoiled at the top of the post, that didn’t happen. With five minutes to go before our first DadSlam the room was at 80% capacity. At 9:35 we were at standing room only. I started the night out with a few laughs and a regrettable story about my kids and Mcdonald’s play place, and by the time we had 5 readers up there were so many names in the hat that it would be impossible to get through them all. My face hurt from smiling.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W6s80_ilSQg/Vs8n_MKlGzI/AAAAAAAAOys/bokb0QVyPG4/s1600/12718253_10204157563339765_526175486262469616_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W6s80_ilSQg/Vs8n_MKlGzI/AAAAAAAAOys/bokb0QVyPG4/s320/12718253_10204157563339765_526175486262469616_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">James of <a href="http://www.sahdpdx.com/" target="_blank">SAHD PDX </a></td></tr>
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I sent Doug a text. “It is packed!” A few minutes later Doug was there, sitting with me at the front of the room. As each reader finished the room erupted with applause. Guys who couldn’t make the conference sent text messages to the guys who were and asked us to Periscope (live stream) it. We made a sign from a piece of paper and a Sharpie marker and created a the hashtag #DadSlam. Hundreds of tweets started rolling through my phone. Midway through, Doug leaned over to me and said “This is amazing. We have to do this every year.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VNqQTBxjpOk/Vs9ix_mzBzI/AAAAAAAAOzw/o5c5A5G2tuA/s1600/12744457_10103071480715045_9113422009771278354_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VNqQTBxjpOk/Vs9ix_mzBzI/AAAAAAAAOzw/o5c5A5G2tuA/s320/12744457_10103071480715045_9113422009771278354_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Scotty Schrier of <a href="http://dadswhochangediapers.com/" target="_blank">Dads Who Change Diapers</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Guys read funny posts and sad posts. One started crying mid-post and another dad came up to the podium and put his hand on his shoulder until he was able to compose himself and finish reading. We had standing ovations and hoots and hollers. It was a thousand times better than I could have ever imagined it would be. <br />
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Here’s how good it was. When 11:00 PM came around and they kicked us out of the room to clean it, we picked up shop, moved rooms and kept going for another hour. Nobody wanted it to end. <br />
I know I didn’t.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x4OA4HJ7n48/Vs9i2FBKPMI/AAAAAAAAOz0/qaz_18Xe2L8/s1600/12747911_10103071479672135_4602679474654828341_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x4OA4HJ7n48/Vs9i2FBKPMI/AAAAAAAAOz0/qaz_18Xe2L8/s320/12747911_10103071479672135_4602679474654828341_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Armin Brott of <a href="https://mrdad.com/" target="_blank">Mr. Dad</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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For the rest of the weekend guys continued to come up to me and say how much the #DadSlam meant to them, and how it was the highlight of the conference. I couldn’t do anything but agree. It was more than the highlight of the conference for me.<br />
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It was one of the best nights of my life.<br />
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<i>If you liked this blog, please come find me on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AskYourDadBlog/" target="_blank">Ask Your Dad Facebook Page</a>!</i><br />
<br />John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-83830655332874460872016-02-10T08:40:00.000-07:002016-02-17T14:16:50.881-07:004 Tips for Getting Our Kids to Eat <i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This post is part of a partnership with <a href="https://www.campbells.com/campbell-soup/" target="_blank">Campbell’s Soup</a> and their #RealRealLife campaign. You can watch all their <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLKpUGn2DrPGv6rlkbf7NIOKvmHBvtwQ7A" target="_blank">adorable videos here</a>. I am being compensated by Campbell's in money and, more importantly, in delicious soup...</span></i><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Hey everyone! Guess what?? Stevie, my wife/best friend/partner in crime/author of <a href="http://www.bigawesomemess.com/" target="_blank">Big Awesome Mess</a> stopped in to write this months #RealRealLife post! The theme was "tips and tricks for getting your kids to eat their dinner" and there is no one better at that than my wife. I'm horrible at talking the kids into eating. I basically do a line for line reenactment of the scene from Beauty and the Beast where Beast is trying to get Belle to come down to dinner. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On the oth<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">er hand, <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">when it comes to talking the kids into eating dinner, Stevi<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">e is the to<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ddler whisperer. Here<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> is her blog post on how she does it<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">:</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">---------------- </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Hey Ask Your Dad Blog readers, Mom here. </span></span></span></span></span></span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here’s the thing about “tips." I can give you all the tips, but there’s no telling if it’s going to<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">work for your kid or not. I once read a “tip” somewhere that I needed to get down on my kid’s level to talk when she’s in trouble. I got poked in the eye. So <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'm not going to give you <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">tips. I<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> am just going to tell y<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">o<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">u what kind of works for us</span></span></span></span></span>. As John and I have always said, this is not an advice blog. This is a place for us to share what works (and what doesn't work) for us and the eye patches that often come with it.<br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That being said…here are some “tips” for getting <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">our </span>kids to eat.<br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If there’s anything the duchess has going for her, it’s her willingness to eat. I’ve watched fellow parents beg and plead with their toddler for the love of God, at least LOOK at your chicken!<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So far, we've done ok. Here's how (I think) we've done it:</span></span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><b>**Disclaimer: if I’ve upset the Toddler Gods with this post and they suddenly strike me down with a completely stubborn eater, I reserve the right to take it down and forevermore deny its existence**</b></i></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
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</span> <span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Involve them in as much of the decision making process as possible, as long as it has nothing to do with the food they are going to eat.</span></b></span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What I mean by this is: our kids already seem to have very little control over their lives to begin with. <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">John and I</span></span> tell them what time to get up, <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">sugges<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">t what </span></span>they wear, where they are going at what time and when to go to bed. Personally, <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">i</span>t sounds like a pretty awesome life to me, but I can see how it could be frustrating for a toddler. So <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I</span> give them some power. Just not the power that they <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">can </span>use to <i>not </i>eat food.<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> D<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">uchess, do </span></span>you want to set the table? Where do you want to sit? Where should mommy and daddy sit? Which fork would you like? Do you want water or milk? Which cup? All these decisions <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">give</span> her some control over her meal time<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">, which<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></span>I think it makes her less power-hungry when it comes time to “choose” what to eat.</span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We also try to involve them in the "choosing what to eat" department. One easy way we do that is to have simple meals on hand that kids can help with and make decisions about. We always have our cupboards stocked with Campbell's soup and have them on display. It's pretty easy to just open the cupboard and say "It's soup night! Which kind should we make?" But you need inflection when you say it. Say it right. "Which kind should we MAKE?" See that? Emphasis on the make. It takes some practice. </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What's nice is Campbell's has so many different varieties that it really gives them lots of options and control. And I can know that whichever one they choose, I know I'm giving them something I can trust. I always hope they are going to go for a yummy tomato soup but they just can't pass up the fun shaped noodles in the Star Wars and Frozen varieties. And Captain typically go for the alphabet soup so he can shout out the letters he finds. Though one time we go<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">t </span>Chicken NoodleO’s<sup>®</sup> Soup and he still insisted on shouting every letter he found. It was adorable. At first. </span><br />
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</span> <b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tell them what they are eating.</span></b><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As adults we get to </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">look at menus when we go to a restaurant. We get to read everything that is coming in our meal and often, how it is made. When we cook dinner at home, we know what’s going into it and how it was prepared. Kids don’t. They generally just get handed a meal and <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">all they know is what color it is, what it smells like... and if they dare put it in their mouths, what it tast<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">es like. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I try to introduce them to the food they will be eating before <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">i<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">t is on<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> their plate in front of them.<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Somet<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">imes, with simple meals like Campbell's <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Condensed Soups this in<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">volves letting them coo<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">k.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Othe<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">r times it just involves reminding John t<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">o bring the ingredi<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ents o<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">f a meal over and letting them try them while he is cook<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ing<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. Most of the time it comes down to walking them through everything that is on their plate.<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> T</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>his is chicken, these are brussel sprouts, this is rice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My hope is that this helps<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> them associate one meal with another a l</span>ittle better. Chicken doesn’t always look the same. A chicken breast looks a lot different than chicken strips. If I put chunks of chicken in front of Duchess, she may not know what it is and assume she doesn’t like it. But if I tell her that it’s chicken, she knows she likes chicken, she’ll eat the chicken. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This works 60% of the time every time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span> <b><span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cut back on the snacking.</span></span></b><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This w<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">orks really well, b<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ut is also<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> a tip<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> that</span></span></span></span> John and I are really bad about. When we get home from work and get the kids home from daycare, it’s already pretty late. John has to start cooking right away and I’m on “please make the baby stop following me around crying” duty. So sometimes it’s easier to just let Duchess have a snack if she wants one. But that can often lead to her being less hungry around dinner time. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">T</span>he way we've tried to remedy this is by having only small and relatively healthy snacks available. In our fridge, we have a pull-out that is just Duchess's height.<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Her and her brother ar<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">e </span></span>allowed to choose whatever they want from it<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">, but only one <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">between school and dinner.</span></span> We keep yogurt, sliced apples, carrots, raisins and string cheese in there. So at least if she doesn't eat a TON for dinner, we know it’s because she’s already eaten an apple. And that’s fine by us.</span><br />
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</span> <b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Don’t start a war.</span></b><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is soooo much easier said than done<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">, b</span>ut I <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">if we ca<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">n keep John from going <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">into the <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">aforementioned</span> Beast mode, I've found that<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> dinner <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">disputes <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">generally have positive outcomes. </span></span></span></span></span></span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Going back to my first point, our kids don’t have control over a lot in their world ye<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">t<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">,<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> s</span></span></span>o when they realize that they have control over something, they <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">tend to </span>fight to the death<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> (<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">well not death, </span>time-out)</span> to keep it<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> - e</span>ven if that means refusing entire meals. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">They’re onto us. They know we won’t let them starve. It’s a waiting game<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> that they will always end up wi<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">nn<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ing</span> be<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">cause <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">we lo<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ve</span> them and are legally obli<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">gated to feed them eventually</span></span></span></span></span></span>. I think what happens is that we get so set on them "trying<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">" something that we </span>try to force it. “Try the broccoli, you’ll like it! I promise! I need to you try one bite and you can have dessert. Can you just lick it? I’ll buy you a pony. I'll put the broccoli on a pony. PLEA<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">SE??</span>”<br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For the most part,<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> there is</span></span> no negotiating in the Kinnear house. If Duchess doesn’t want to try something she doesn’t have to try it. We know eventually she’ll come around to it when she’s in the mood, even with <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">broccoli</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">, and </span>since she knows we aren’t going to force her, she doesn’t get combative about it. I think that makes her more open to trying new foods instead of just jumping on the “NO” bandwagon from the start. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Granted... we don't have a 100% success rate. <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">John may <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">or may not have pa<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">id Duchess <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">$5.00 the other night to try salmon<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The good news is that s</span>almon is now her favorite food<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">, the <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">bad news is she thinks s<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">he gets five bu<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">cks <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">every time she eats it. Maybe we'll just stick to soup. We all <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">love soup. </span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">- Stev<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ie</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you enjoyed this post, be sure to come find me on my blog <a href="http://www.bigawesomemess.com/" target="_blank">Big Awesome Mess</a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">, and on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/bigawesomemess/" target="_blank">Big Awesome Mess Fac</a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/bigawesomemess/" target="_blank">ebook <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">P</span>age</a>. It is funny like John's blog, b<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ut craftier<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> and <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">written by me!</span></span></span></span></span> </span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></i> </span><br />
<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D7385734613853151197%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D8383065533287446087%3BonPublishedMenu%3Dposts%3BonClosedMenu%3Dposts%3BpostNum%3D0%3Bsrc%3Dlink&media=https%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-6QJj15kLIxY%2FVrjPh0YlGSI%2FAAAAAAAAOX4%2Ft1Dfbcr5Hpo%2Fs400%2FIMG_2786.JPG&xm=h&xv=sa1.37.01&xuid=KEBnR9zQk0wa&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 42px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 1377px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D7385734613853151197%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D8383065533287446087%3BonPublishedMenu%3Dposts%3BonClosedMenu%3Dposts%3BpostNum%3D0%3Bsrc%3Dlink&media=https%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-6QJj15kLIxY%2FVrjPh0YlGSI%2FAAAAAAAAOX4%2Ft1Dfbcr5Hpo%2Fs400%2FIMG_2786.JPG&xm=h&xv=sa1.37.01&xuid=KEBnR9zQk0wa&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 42px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 1377px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-31451623655266072652016-01-16T11:35:00.001-07:002016-01-16T11:35:58.041-07:00The Importance of SoupI can't overstate this.<br />
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</b> <b>Soup is important.</b><br />
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Have you ever lowered your face over a bowl of perfect soup? The steam floats off the top and before you even take a bite you can breathe its wholeness into yourself. Every time I have a bowl of soup I do this, and I am immediately a child again.<br />
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When I was a small human strep throat was my constant, uninvited companion. My body would ache from fever - my throat would burn, and my parents would take me to the doctor to once again have a giant cotton swab jammed down my throat. It was horrible. I’d gag and cry and cough. It happened every year. Sometimes it happened twice a year, and my only refuge… my only joy during those horrible days was soup.<br />
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It is strange how good something can be when it is the only good thing. Growing up, when I was sick, soup was my thing. My mom would pull out a can of Campbell’s Condensed Chicken and Stars and heat it up. My throat would be so sore that instead of immediately eating it I would just hold my head above the bowl and breathe the salty bullion flavored steam into my lungs. In that moment I would feel them open up, and almost feel normal again. Antibiotics were what cured me, but soup is what got me through.<br />
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</b> <b>Soup is important.</b><br />
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My sister and I didn’t get along very well growing up. She was five years younger than me, and we had very little in common. That said, we both loved snow. When I was in sixth grade and she was in first the sky dropped more snow in our neighborhood than I had ever seen, or have ever seen since. They canceled school for two days and we spent both of them together digging tunnels and building forts in our backyard. I don’t think I impressed my sister much growing up. I was that annoying older brother who wouldn’t let her play my video games. But for those two days, I was the coolest guy she knew. I was a creator.<br />
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We didn’t build snowmen. We built snow worlds.<br />
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Each day when our snowsuits had soaked through and our fingers were numb, we came inside and I made the only thing I knew how to make for both of us for lunch. Grilled Cheese Sandwiches and Campbell’s Condensed Tomato Soup. I clearly remember her telling me it was the greatest thing she had ever eaten, and it was definitely among my proudest moments.<br />
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<b>Soup is important.</b><br />
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Not long after Stevie and I moved in together, I suggested soup for dinner. She scoffed.<br />
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“Soup is not dinner.”<br />
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I may have flinched. What? How? Why? Soup is dinner. Soup is a PERFECT dinner.<br />
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“No, Soup is something you get in a cup before dinner.” She replied.<br />
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“Challenge accepted.”<br />
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The next few months and years were filled with my subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to prove that soup, by itself could be a meal. I bought the heartier, chunkier soups from Campbell’s. I stocked the cupboard with those cool single serving microwavable lunch soups. I made my own soups from scratch: potato and ham, chicken noodle, green chile chicken. Every time, she would say “These are really good, but I feel like I need more.”<br />
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Then a crappy miracle happened. Guess who got strep? And guess who needed me to take care of them? And guess who got chicken noodle soup. And guess whose face I watched transform as she pulled its smell into her lungs.<br />
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After that day, she understood.<br />
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Soup is a meal.<br />
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<b>Soup is important.</b><br />
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My kids never needed to be convinced. Ever since they could work a spoon, soup has been what they asked for. The soup aisle is their favorite one at the store. They like Ninja Turtle Soup, and Frozen Soup. They like Stars and Letters. They feed their soup to each other. Well, they try. They’re not THAT good with spoons.<br />
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The thing they (and I) love about soup is that it is something simple enough to make together. Once a can of soup is opened it is as simple as grabbing a stepping stool and letting my daughter pour it into the pot. Then we add the can of water and wait.<br />
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Once the soup is done Stevie and I sit at the table with our kids. Each one gets an ice cube in the bowl to help it cool down. Then the four of us lower our heads and breathe it in. When Stevie and I try our first bites we both exclaim how amazing it is and what a good job Duchess did cooking it, and regardless of how many times we say it, her little face beams with pride.<br />
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I see myself in that face. Finding joy from simple, uncomplicated things is what gets us through the tougher times in life. Sure, it might just be a can of condensed soup and a can of water, but to me it is more than that. It is something that has always been there for me. And, you know the best part? Soup isn’t just my thing anymore. It is my family’s thing. It’s something we share. It is our favorite… and it is important. Soup is important.<br />
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<i>This is my third post in a series I am writing in a partnership with Campbell’s Soup and their #RealRealLife campaign. January is National Soup Month, but in my opinion every month should be National Soup Month. I've been compensated by Campbell's both in money and in delicious soup that I would have eaten anyway because I love soup. A lot. </i><br />
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John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-24436311219885004872015-12-31T11:02:00.001-07:002015-12-31T11:08:22.191-07:00The Top 10 Ask Your Dad Posts of 2015<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19.32px;">Well, here we are. The end of another year. This is my fourth year writing Ask Your Dad. I can honestly say that back in 2012 when Stevie encouraged me to quit storing my writing in a shoe box, and instead put it online, I never in a million years would have thought that it would have turned into this. And by this, I mean all of you. I feel like we've built a cool little community here, and that is awesome. Anyway, there's more thank yous at the bottom, but I'll toss one up here too. Thank you! These are the top ten trafficked posts of 2015. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you wanted to introduce one of your friends to my blog, this would be a pretty good post to share. Not that I'm hinting that you should share it. I'm just saying that you should share it... if you want to. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ON WITH THE POSTS!! </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">10. <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/04/last-night-was-hard.html" target="_blank">Last Night Was Hard</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Number ten was written on one of the hardest days of the year for me. My good friend had recently passed away and I was not coping well. On top of that, my son was refusing to sleep through the night and my frustration with all things was being translated into how I handled him not sleeping. This is that story. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><i>"At 4:45 AM Captain woke up and started crying again, and I wanted to die. Yes, that is overly dramatic but everything is overly dramatic at 4:45 AM. I threw the blanket off me, jumped out of bed and stomped to his room. I’ve learned not to dramatically open his door, because he is generally behind it</i>." <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/04/last-night-was-hard.html" target="_blank">Read the rest here</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">9. <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/04/we-dont-hit.html" target="_blank">We Don't Hit</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This post clarifying that we don't hit/spank our kids. This one got a mixed reaction. Some people were like "High five!" while others were all "Don't tell me how to parent!" Either way, a mix of the two bumped this into the top ten, so here we are. BTW, we still don't spank.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i3H09yv1Gzk/VS_X5BbylkI/AAAAAAAALzo/Migsg_ghubk/s1600/hit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="297" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i3H09yv1Gzk/VS_X5BbylkI/AAAAAAAALzo/Migsg_ghubk/s400/hit.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"W<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">hat folks don’t seem to understand, perhaps because I haven’t explained it well enough, is that curbing the behavior has always been a secondary or even tertiary goal to Stevie and I. Helping our children become emotionally healthy, teaching them to understand their emotions and be able to cope with them, those have always been our primary goals.." <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/04/we-dont-hit.html" target="_blank">Read the rest here</a></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">8. <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/12/my-life-with-guns.html" target="_blank">My Life With Guns</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Coming in at number 8 is my post about guns. Again, no answers contained herein. We... I... I don't really know what to say about it. A lot of people seemed to like. It came from a place of love and concern. </span></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kpvHVTLWKCI/VmHatNPt7kI/AAAAAAAAMmk/KuVTiw9f98w/s1600/Gun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kpvHVTLWKCI/VmHatNPt7kI/AAAAAAAAMmk/KuVTiw9f98w/s400/Gun.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Sometimes I still think about my grandfather’s .22. The police never found it. I worry that whoever took it didn’t love it the way my father did. I worry that they looked at it and saw a weapon to point at other people. Now every time I hear about another shooting on the news, I don’t picture the shooter with whatever semi-automatic rifle they purchased legally at a gun show. I picture them with my WWII-era 10 shot, pump action .22 rifle." <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/12/my-life-with-guns.html" target="_blank">Read the rest here</a></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;">7. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="color: #141823;"><a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/02/15-i-have-no-idea-what-im-doing-moments.html" target="_blank">15 "I Have No Idea What I’m Doing" Moments in Parenting</a></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Number 7 was a list of moments where I had no idea WTF I was doing. It could have been a much much longer list.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6TUa__gY09k/VOTnQmr5Y7I/AAAAAAAALsc/VqMeHAzzT0U/s1600/sunscreen2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="208" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6TUa__gY09k/VOTnQmr5Y7I/AAAAAAAALsc/VqMeHAzzT0U/s400/sunscreen2.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14px;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"1. When my son peed on my foot while I was on the phone with poison control because he ate diaper cream. <br /><br />2. When my daughter asked about death and somehow walked away with the plot of “All Dogs Go to Heaven.” <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/02/15-i-have-no-idea-what-im-doing-moments.html" target="_blank">Read the rest here</a></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">6. <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/02/fear-of-bad-guys.html" target="_blank">Fear of Bad Guys</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Number 6 was about my and Stevie's fears. No answers contained within, but it is one of my favorite posts of the year - mainly because I think it got across what I was trying to say.. which is always a win.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gLI4HOkGzn0/VOuPluN9TgI/AAAAAAAALts/P-x00RO23sk/s1600/batdad_by_andry_shango-d65npsw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gLI4HOkGzn0/VOuPluN9TgI/AAAAAAAALts/P-x00RO23sk/s320/batdad_by_andry_shango-d65npsw.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"A few months ago some guy walked in the front door of a home about a mile away from us, grabbed their four-year-old daughter and walked back out the front door. The mom heard something, woke her husband up, who ran outside to find a strange man with his daughter wrapped in his arms. The dad frantically asked for his daughter back. The man handed her to him. Then he ran." <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/02/fear-of-bad-guys.html" target="_blank">Read the rest here</a></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;">5. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="color: #141823;"><a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/08/5-parental-super-powers-i-didnt-ask-for.html" target="_blank">5 Parental Super Powers I Didn't Ask For</a></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Number 5 on the Top 10 Ask Your Dad Posts of 2015 was a list of super lame super powers, none of which are flying, time travel, or x-ray vision. Boooooo. </span></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was supposed to get hit by gamma rays or get bitten by a radioactive spider. As a kid I dreamed of waking up some day and suddenly being able to lift heavy objects with my mind or shoot laser beams out of my eyes. Not this. Not these powers... Who wants the "super" ability to smell their child's unique poop odor from across the room?" <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/08/5-parental-super-powers-i-didnt-ask-for.html" target="_blank">Read the rest here</a> </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 19.32px;">4. </span><span style="color: #222222;"><a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/05/please-stop-sending-me-joey-salads.html" target="_blank">Please Stop Sending Me the Joey Salads Kidnapping Viral Video </a></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Number 4 on the Top 10 Ask Your Dad Posts of 2015 was the time that I got sick of a bunch of people asking me to share the Joey Salads Kidnapping Prank Video. I still don't like this guy. In fact, I hate all prank videos. They are the WORST.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K5WH5pGSrFY/VUlR6OMgPdI/AAAAAAAAL3g/7MyY2btzjiw/s1600/joey.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="186" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K5WH5pGSrFY/VUlR6OMgPdI/AAAAAAAAL3g/7MyY2btzjiw/s320/joey.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 21.56px;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Here’s what I am going to do. I am going to keep an eye on my kids until they’re old enough to not go chasing puppies into the back of some YouTube Celebrity’s Pedovan. After that, I am going to teach them how to handle situations, not people." <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/05/please-stop-sending-me-joey-salads.html" target="_blank">Read the rest here</a></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">3. <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/07/not-another-political-post-about-scotus.html" target="_blank">This is Not Another Political Post About Marriage Equality</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Number 3 is probably my favorite post of the year. It is the story of my lifelong friendship with Ken, one of the best people I know. If you haven't read it, you should. If you have read it, you should read it again. Ken is good people.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><i>“They are boys and they are getting married?” This was framed as a normal 4-year-old question, not the way I would have asked it when I was her age. There was no ewww in her voice. I smiled. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><i>“Yep. Sometimes boys marry boys. And sometimes girls marry girls.” And sometimes you realize in the middle of saying something that it is the first time you are able to say it. And sometimes you realize that moment is different than all the moments before it. Something big has changed and you got to see it, and this is the first time the change has worked its way into your life in a real way. And it is beautiful.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><i><a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/07/not-another-political-post-about-scotus.html" target="_blank">Read the rest here</a></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 19.32px;">2. </span><a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/01/dad-am-i-pretty.html" style="line-height: 19.32px;" target="_blank">Dad, Am I Pretty?</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Number two was definitely Stevie's favorite. I know a blog post has turned out well when my wife calls me after reading it to tell me it made her cry. Happy Stevie tears are the ultimate seal of approval.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><i>"You are pretty because you are alive. You are pretty because you are curious. You are pretty because you take the good parts of the world, pull them in through your ears and eyes and mouth and body, and shout them back out to me in action and voice..." <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/01/dad-am-i-pretty.html" target="_blank">Read the rest here </a></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">1. <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/07/dear-crappy-parent.html" target="_blank">Dear Crappy Parent</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19.32px;">This is actually my most read post ever. <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2015/07/dear-crappy-parent.html" target="_blank">You can read it here.</a> </span>It reached hundreds of billions of people. It was syndicated eleventy-trillion times by every website in the world. I received multiple awards, and was invited to read it at the Kennedy Center Honors in front of the President of the United States, Barack Obama. It is currently being developed into sitcom for Netflix. My mom even printed it out and hung it on her refrigerator!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">OK, none of that is true except for the part about it being my most read post ever. It is. And for that, I am truly grateful to all of you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This has been a really great year - for me, for my family, and for Ask Your Dad. You are all a big part of that. Thanks for agreeing and disagreeing with me. Thanks for laughing with me AND at me. Thanks for every share, like, comment and email. I read every single one of them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Most of all, thanks for reading my words. It means more to me than you will ever know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">See you next year!!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">- John</span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">P.S. Don't forget to like the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AskYourDadBlog" target="_blank">Ask Your Dad Facebook Page</a>. AND... stay tuned for big exciting things coming to Ask Your Dad in 2016. I'll give you a hint... it rhymes with shmodcast ;)</span></span></div>
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John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-58377880641302051922015-12-18T15:18:00.000-07:002016-01-02T16:41:46.603-07:00Our Few (Yet Awesome) Holiday Traditions<i>This is the second post in a series of posts I am writing in a partnership with <a href="https://www.campbells.com/campbell-soup/" target="_blank">Campbell’s Soup</a> and their #RealRealLife campaign. You can watch all their <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLKpUGn2DrPGv6rlkbf7NIOKvmHBvtwQ7A" target="_blank">adorable videos here</a>. I've been compensated by Campbell's both in money and in delicious soup that I would have eaten anyway because I love soup. A lot.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>By the way, did you know that in the U.S. Campbell sells nearly 2 billion cans of soup every year? The Kinnear house probably accounts for about half of those sales. </i><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GiyzI6VqJjg/Vm8N_ImDUII/AAAAAAAAMp4/-FhHw-EUkn8/s1600/christmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GiyzI6VqJjg/Vm8N_ImDUII/AAAAAAAAMp4/-FhHw-EUkn8/s640/christmas.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Stevie and I’s first fight was on Thanksgiving 2009. We had just left her dad’s house after having just left her mom’s house after previously having left her aunt’s house which we stopped by after dropping in on her Grandma to say hello. Being a transplant to Salt Lake when I was five, I was not accustomed to Thanksgiving being comparable to a multi-city rock and roll tour, and by the time we had left our final stop at her dad’s I was just about spent. It was a very fun day, but it was also an exhausting day. So… in the midst of a fatigued and food coma ridden ride home, I “suggested” that the Tour de Utah that was Stevie’s typical Thanksgiving (and Christmas) was unsustainable. She did not react well. To be fair, there is a reason I put ironic quotation marks around “suggest” in the previous paragraph. I didn’t suggest anything. I stated what I perceived to be a fact. I think I said “That was a great day, but when we have kids this 10 stops in a day thing is done.” I didn’t really intend to put my foot down. I thought I was just stating a pretty obvious and eventual reality. It didn’t come across like that. Stevie didn’t yell. Stevie rarely yells. Stevie gets quiet. I felt horrible. It was the triple-lindy of screw ups. I had insulted her holiday tradition and offended her, while simultaneously bringing up having kids and getting married for the first time in our relationship. I am not a smart man. Luckily, she is a very forgiving woman. Instead of the fight I started over Thanksgiving leading to the end of our relationship, it eventually transitioned into this: “OK. If we’re going to be together, what do we want our holidays together to look like.” And with that one question from Stevie, my holidays and her holidays became our holidays. Instead of putting our foot down about what we do, we decided to create our own traditions together. Here are a few of them! <br />
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</span> <b><span style="font-size: large;">We still make the rounds on Thanksgiving</span></b><br />
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It’s not as hectic as it once was. Like I had originally thought, having kids necessitated some toning down of the schedule. But, we still make multiple stops and we still see as much of Stevie’s side of the family as we can. My side of the family lives all over the country now, so we leave nice messages on Facebook. Sure, it is a little stressful at times, but I get have Green Bean Casserole made with Campbell’s Condensed Cream of Mushroom at three different houses, and that makes it worth it.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">We put up our Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving</span></b><br />
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I know that a lot of families do this, but this is one of my favorites and it feels very much like it belongs just to us. The day after Thanksgiving I wake up and trudge into the totally not messy, and very well organized area that is our garage. Then I spend the next 45 minutes playing Indiana Jones and the Lost Christmas Decorations. After that we spend the day together not shopping. In the evening everyone in our immediate family knows they are welcome to stop by, grab a bite to eat, and help us decorate the tree.<br />
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Since we rarely know how many people are coming, I usually will make something that is easily prepared and can serve a bunch of people on the fly with minimal attention from me. This year I made my famous (in my family at least) sloppy-joes. They are super simple and super delicious. The secret ingredient? <a href="http://www.campbellsoup.ca/en-ca/products/campbells-condensed/campbells-condensed-chicken-gumbo" target="_blank">Campbell's® Condensed Chicken Gumbo soup</a>. They're not your standard BBQ, overly sweet sloppy joes. I’ll include the recipe at the end of this post.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Giant Advent Calendar</span></b><br />
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The first year we had our daughter, her grandma made us an advent calendar as big as a medium sized human. Each day has enough space for us to wrap and put a tiny present. They’re usually silly presents, like a snack size box of raisins, or a toy from the 99 cent bin, but just being able to unwrap something every day has both our kids sprinting in the door when we get home in the evening. Yes, wrapping all the tiny presents is kind of a pain, but that’s OK because Stevie does it.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Frosty the Snowman, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, Then Frosty the Snowman Again, Then Frosty the Snowman Again</span></b><br />
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This is pretty much every night from Thanksgiving until Christmas. We really shouldn’t have bought them on DVD.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Green Bean Casserole made with Campbell’s Condensed Cream of Mushroom</span></b><br />
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</b> Have I mentioned how much I love Green Bean Casserole? I think I might have. Honestly, it's worth mentioning again. It isn't just a side dish with our family - it is a tradition.<br />
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Apparently I'm not alone in my love. On Thanksgiving 2014 the recipe had 722,052 page views and accounted for a whopping 70% of the traffic to <a href="http://www.campbellskitchen.com/recipes/classic-green-bean-casserole-24099" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">the Campbell's Kitchen website</a> that day. In fact, over 30 Million households make green bean casserole each year... because they are smart and they love delicious things.<br />
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It's been my favorite since I was my daughter's age. If for some reason the dog jumped up on the table and ate every other Thanksgiving dish, but somehow left the Green Bean Casserole, I would still be happy. Stevie can have her crescent rolls. The kids can have their jello, and their crescent rolls, and then more jello. The GBC is mine!!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Source: Campbell's Kitchen Website</td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Christmas Eve Quick Dinner</span></b></div>
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On Christmas Eve we don't do a big dinner, mainly because of another tradition I'll talk about in a moment. So in place of a big dinner, we usually have something that isn't super involved but is also comforting. Some years it is as simple as a grilled cheese and Campbell's Condensed Tomato Soup. This year I think we're going to give these <a href="http://www.freshbrewedsoup.com/" target="_blank">Campbell’s Fresh Brewed Soups</a> a try. They go in your Keurig! I made one for myself the other day, and just loved it. I think what the kids will like about them is that they will be able to pour the noodles in the cup and press the button. They love to participate in things like that. And sure, it's not a giant ham dinner, but we have a lot of those this time of year. Noodle soup is a favorite around our house, and Christmas Eve can be a time for favorites. Check it out! I even made an Instagram of it, complete with sound effects!</div>
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<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/_STeNaAkDC/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A video posted by John Kinnear (@askyourdadblog)</a> on <time datetime="2015-12-14T20:41:20+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Dec 14, 2015 at 12:41pm PST</time></div>
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A video posted by John Kinnear (@askyourdadblog) on <time datetime="2015-12-14T20:41:20+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Dec 14, 2015 at 12:41pm PST</time></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Christmas Eve at Denny’s</span></b><br />
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I’ve written about this before, but Christmas Eve at Denny’s is one of my longest running traditions. After the family dinner, and after the kids go to bed, I sneak out and meet and meet some friends at Denny’s. I’ve been doing it for almost 20 years now. <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2013/12/christmas-eve-at-dennys.html" target="_blank">You can read all about it here</a>, but here's the gist of it. When I was in High School I was working a retail job and had to skip the Family Christmas vacation. I ended up home alone on Christmas. After my buddies were done with their family Christmas Eve dinners, they came and picked me up and took me to Denny's. We've been meeting there ever since.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Christmas Morning (Not when the kids wake up. Early early early morning. Like 2 AM)</span></b><br />
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Since I go out after the kids go to bed on Christmas Eve, the Santa Portion of my job tends to take place when I get home. That is OK though. Stevie and I team up. Stevie wraps the presents. I put together the things that need putting together. We stack them in a way we hope will cause gasps of joy in the morning. We eat the cookies as messily as we can so our kids can feel like little CSI Investigators when they determine that Santa has been there. I write a note in my most unrecognizable handwriting possible telling the kids how proud I (Santa) am of them. Then comes my second most favorite part of the entire holiday season.<br />
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Stevie and I sit down and look at the tree. We are exhausted. She lays her head on my shoulder and I say something like “We did good” and she agrees. Sometimes we talk about that first fight, about how it’s not always easy to take two lives and smoosh them together… about how somehow we’ve made it work so far. I’ll kiss her forehead. She’ll kiss my cheek. And together we’ll peek in on our kids, our smooshed together little lives with their tiny adorable snores, waiting to wake up and see what Santa brought them. They get their gifts in the morning.<br />
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Ours are right in front of us.<br />
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And, as promised, the greatest sloppy joe recipe you will ever find...<br />
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<b><u>Kinnear Sloppy Joe Recipe with Campbell's® Condensed Chicken Gumbo soup</u></b><br />
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This recipe has been in my family for years. That said, it was probably taken from the back of a soup can at some point because, as I have found out many many times, most of our "family" recipes are from the backs of boxes and soup cans. Doesn't matter. Still delicious.<br />
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</u></b> <i>Ingredients</i><br />
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</i> <i>1 lb Hamburger</i><br />
<i>1/2 Onion Diced</i><br />
<i>1 Can Campbell's Condensed Chicken Gumbo Soup</i><br />
<i>3 Tbsp Butter </i><br />
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<i>3/4 Cup Ketchup</i></div>
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<i>3 Tsp Yellow Mustard</i></div>
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<i>Salt and Pepper</i></div>
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1. Brown ground beef. Salt and Pepper as needed.</div>
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2. Saute Onion in butter</div>
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3. Mix beef, onion and all other ingredients in deep pan. Let simmer, covered 30 minutes. </div>
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4 Get back to doing other more enjoyable things than cooking. </div>
John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-54775820625449046582015-12-10T08:54:00.000-07:002015-12-10T08:58:38.863-07:00The Unfiltered Kinnear Family Year in Review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>This post is sponsored by the kind people at Plum Organics and their #ParentingUnfiltered campaign. After you’re done reading this post, please take a few minutes and make your own Unfiltered Holiday Newsletter by <a href="http://www.2015unfiltered.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">clicking here</a> and then share it with your friends. <a href="http://www.plumorganics.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Plum Organics </a>helps Ask Your Dad keep the lights on, and they do it while letting me write about what I want to write about. That’s a win for me, a win for you, and a win for them. </i></div>
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2015 was the length of a blink. My eyes got dry for a second in January so I closed them momentarily and watched a year of my kids’ life flash by on the backs of my eyelids. When I opened them again I had a three-year-old and a five-year-old decorating our Christmas tree, and by the end of the night I had super-glued four ornaments back together. While super-gluing Tinker Bell’s Wing back to her body, I had a minute to think about everything that has happened this year.<i></i><br />
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“You should write a year-in-review post,” I thought.<br />
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“Really? Some people hate those because you just end up sounding like you are bragging,” I continued to think, beginning a conversation with myself in my head… which is totally normal and not a sign of psychosis.<br />
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“We wouldn’t have to write it about just the accomplishments this year. We could talk about the rough times too.”<br />
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“This year was actually pretty smooth sailing. What rough times?”<br />
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“I don’t know. There had to be some messy parts. Like what about the time you super-glued yourself to Tinker Bell?”<br />
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“When did I do that? Oh… crap?”<br />
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So yeah… I took the long way around to get through the intro all so I say this. I could go month by month and tell you all about our big and little accomplishments. Or I could go month by month and tell you about our messier moments. Instead I am going to do both, one handed, with Tinker Bell glued to my index and middle finger. LET THE HUMBLE BRAG BEGIN!!!<br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">January</span></b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
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<b>Brag</b> – Our house was clean and we ate healthy food for 13 days to start the year.<br />
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<b>Messy</b> – Somewhere around the 13th we had forgotten to go shopping and had a van with two hangry kids. We gave up on our plan to never eat fast food again, went to Mcdonald’s, then went home and didn’t clean the house. We watched football instead. It felt awesome.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>February</b></span><br />
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<b>Brag </b>– Stevie and I care about our marriage and want to make time to acknowledge how much we love each other. We planned ahead and got an over-night sitter for Valentine’s Day. Marriage saved. Sexy time was imminent.<br />
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<b>Messy</b> – We put our pajama pants on at 7 and watched two hours of Daredevil on Netflix instead. But there was cuddling for a minute before we fell asleep and Stevie drooled on me.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just before we put our PJ's on.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>March </b></span><br />
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<b>Brag </b>– Nothing happened in March. We complained a lot about how cold it was and how it should be spring already.<br />
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<b>Messy</b> – I slipped on some ice in the drive way and fell like one of the Three Stooges because it is MARCH AND THERE SHOULDN’T BE ICE ON THE GROUND ANY MORE!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>April</b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Brag</b> – To stay in shape Stevie and I continued our training for the Ogden Marathon. We woke up early on Saturdays and went running. We took turns running in the evening.<br />
<br />
<b>Messy</b> – On April 7th we realized that Duchess had a dance recital on the same day as the race and promptly gave up our training. We were so sad. (We weren’t really that sad.)<br />
<br />
<b>Messier </b>– Somehow, in separate instances, both my kids found a way to fall on their faces.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ef1EQJ7zyoc/VmZmv-4tBwI/AAAAAAAAMnw/W9rHsHThgbE/s1600/11150505_10100339931681271_1194240101650380415_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ef1EQJ7zyoc/VmZmv-4tBwI/AAAAAAAAMnw/W9rHsHThgbE/s400/11150505_10100339931681271_1194240101650380415_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>May</b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Brag</b> – To support Breast Cancer Research we signed the whole family up for the Komen Race for the Cure.<br />
<br />
<b>Messy </b>– It was pouring rain on the day of the race. We walked to the starting line, turned around, and went back to the car.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y4-zzBoFV88/VmZmW7wqRVI/AAAAAAAAMng/xstqFcqXA8Y/s1600/11259601_1645419245694385_620905948_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y4-zzBoFV88/VmZmW7wqRVI/AAAAAAAAMng/xstqFcqXA8Y/s400/11259601_1645419245694385_620905948_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We went and got pancakes instead.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Brag 2</b> – Duchess had her dance recital. She was amazing in a way only a four-year-old can be amazing. She was dressed as a puppy. I was dressed as a dad who cries when his daughter does tap dance in a puppy dog costume.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a87DLxgTpDU/VmZmfP5_NFI/AAAAAAAAMnk/_dJCleMiyYY/s1600/puppy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a87DLxgTpDU/VmZmfP5_NFI/AAAAAAAAMnk/_dJCleMiyYY/s400/puppy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>June</b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Brag </b>– My oldest friend Ken got married to his fiancé Jason. Watching them get married and thinking about how happy I was for them and for LGBT people around the country was one of the highlights of my year… no, not my year, my decade.<br />
<br />
<b>Messy </b>– I took this awesome picture of Stevie being annoyed at me for catching her playing on her computer, cell phone and eating curry chicken all at the same time.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O78A9B3psAE/VmZjjGcgrkI/AAAAAAAAMnE/3pLuGPxKEvs/s1600/Stevie_Annoyed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O78A9B3psAE/VmZjjGcgrkI/AAAAAAAAMnE/3pLuGPxKEvs/s400/Stevie_Annoyed.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>July</b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Brag</b> – One of my biggest regrets over the last few years has been not engaging with the people in my neighborhood more. So for the 4th of July I got up the courage to ask my neighbor to co-host a Barbeque and Firework night. It was fantastic. We had nearly fifty people show up and sit on blankets in our front yard while we lit off enough fireworks to invade a small country.<br />
<br />
<b>Messy</b> – One of the mortar shells shot into our empty garage and exploded next to the two full gasoline cans I had in there. I didn’t blow up my house… but I almost did.<br />
<br />
<b>Bonus</b>– My friends Barton and Lisa both wore the same outfit to work.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-38ruP6gpe9c/VmZj8mTOq7I/AAAAAAAAMnU/kiTY7jqv0gg/s1600/barton%2Band%2Blisa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-38ruP6gpe9c/VmZj8mTOq7I/AAAAAAAAMnU/kiTY7jqv0gg/s400/barton%2Band%2Blisa.jpg" width="358" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Oh, and… Stevie and I kept a tiny human alive and mostly happy for five years.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O_VOvIbUsIE/VmZjd1F1piI/AAAAAAAAMm8/03QgsjsLoCQ/s1600/lily%2Bbirthday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O_VOvIbUsIE/VmZjd1F1piI/AAAAAAAAMm8/03QgsjsLoCQ/s400/lily%2Bbirthday.jpg" width="280" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>August </b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Brag</b> – Duchess started Kindergarten. She walked into that room one of the most capable, confident and happy kids I have ever seen. I felt like I had concurred the galaxy. I cried again. I cry a lot.<br />
<br />
<b>Messy </b>– I literally forgot my wife’s birthday. The first day of Kindergarten was also Stevie’s birthday. I am so, so sorry honey.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4sxhkUaOMLI/VmZnKZOAlGI/AAAAAAAAMn4/1hVG5zQlNDk/s1600/11325765_724132604363279_1904153702_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4sxhkUaOMLI/VmZnKZOAlGI/AAAAAAAAMn4/1hVG5zQlNDk/s400/11325765_724132604363279_1904153702_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Homework...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>September</b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Brag </b>– I got a promotion at work! BUT... more importantly, Captain hit the jackpot on the arcade machine and won 1000 tickets!!! (The promotion was really cool, but the Ninja Turtle Flashlight we bought with a thousand tickets was awesome.)<br />
<br />
<b>Messy </b>– The Ninja Turtle flashlight broke two days later. I still have my job, but that didn’t make Captain any less sad about his flashlight.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bLI44DDlYQU/VmZjX_vuvGI/AAAAAAAAMm0/c-pKQ6Gmq-w/s1600/Captain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bLI44DDlYQU/VmZjX_vuvGI/AAAAAAAAMm0/c-pKQ6Gmq-w/s400/Captain.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>October</b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Brag </b>– My kids make the most adorable Butterfly and Dinosaur that have ever existed in the history of the universe.<br />
<br />
<b>Messy </b>– In what can only be described as a moment of parental genius, Stevie and I brought the kids Halloween Candy downstairs to have a few pieces after they had gone to bed. Then we forgot to put it back… or throw the wrappers away. The next morning had some screaming, and then some more screaming.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Jfe8HlxJstU/VmZjspGesjI/AAAAAAAAMnM/03x686XIAQE/s1600/Butterfly%2B-%2BDinosaur.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Jfe8HlxJstU/VmZjspGesjI/AAAAAAAAMnM/03x686XIAQE/s400/Butterfly%2B-%2BDinosaur.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>November</b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Brag</b> – I don’t know what we did right, but we did something. Duchess and Captain genuinely like each other. They have been inseparable all year. They play super heroes together. They play princesses together. I’m including this in November, because…<br />
<br />
<b>Messy </b>– By the end of November my kids have tired of each other and now they just push each other until the other one cries. It was fun while it lasted.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oLP76mbwvs4/VmZpXgYZ_FI/AAAAAAAAMoc/Z-EV4D8Lpj8/s1600/princess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oLP76mbwvs4/VmZpXgYZ_FI/AAAAAAAAMoc/Z-EV4D8Lpj8/s400/princess.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
--------------<br />
<br />
And now we’re in December. Like I said, I blinked in early January and when I opened my eyes my kids were in the other room and I had Tinker Bell glued to my hand. It’s OK though. I think Stevie has some finger nail polish remover in the bathroom. In the meantime, I should thank all of you for reading my blog this year and for the last four years. It has been an amazing journey and I promise to keep writing about it as long as you keep reading.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
<br />
John, Stevie, Duchess and Captain<br />
<br />
<i>Don't forgot to follow <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AskYourDadBlog/" target="_blank">Ask Your Dad on Facebook</a>, because it is what all the cool kids are doing. </i><br />
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John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-50114992342487048432015-12-04T13:45:00.001-07:002015-12-04T21:00:04.642-07:00My Life With Guns<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kpvHVTLWKCI/VmHatNPt7kI/AAAAAAAAMmg/nYZ2jxiwshQ/s1600/Gun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kpvHVTLWKCI/VmHatNPt7kI/AAAAAAAAMmg/nYZ2jxiwshQ/s640/Gun.jpg" width="640"></a></div>
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When I was a six-maybe-seven-year-old my dad bought me a bb gun. It was the kind that required you to pull the stock away from the barrel and push it back again to force air into the chamber. I could pump it about ten times before it got too difficult for my six-maybe-seven-year-old arms, at which point I knew that when I took the safety off, aimed it, and pulled the trigger a tiny metal ball would come out the tip of the barrel fast enough to breach the side of a tin can. We lived in a town-home duplex at the time and there were no places within walking distance for my dad to take me shooting. Instead he filled a cardboard box with old pillows, propped it against the inside of our garage door, instituted a three pump rule, and taught me how to shoot in our garage/bb gun shooting range.<br>
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My dad had other guns, too. He had a 30 ot 6 deer hunting rifle, a shot gun, and (my favorite) a World War II era pump action, 10 shot .22 rifle. It had been his father's. Someday it was going to be mine.<br>
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The deer hunting rifle scared me. I shot it once, probably around 8 or 9, and the kick left my shoulder sore for a week. But the .22 was the best of all worlds. We’d go to the mountains and my dad would set up a range. He would lay down next to me and help me position the rifle in my arms. He would lay my head against the stock, teach me how to line the sights up, and then walk me through my breaths. Take a deep breath. Exhale. Take another deep breath. Hold it. Don’t pull the trigger. Squeeze the trigger. POP! A Pepsi can 30 yards away would flip up into the air and my dad would whisper in my ear, “Good shot, buddy.”<o:p></o:p><br>
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On October 1, 2015 a kid walked into a college class room in Oregon and executed ten people, including himself. He left one kid alive telling him that he had two requirements for him to be able to leave with his life. He had to tell everyone what happened, and he had to watch his friends die.<o:p></o:p><br>
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In Boy Scouts I learned more about firearms. I learned how to set up and manage a range. I practiced with a muzzle loader until I could shoot the blade of an ax head, split the ball, and crack the two clay pigeons propped gently on either side of the secured blade. It’s not hard, really. As long as you hit the blade the musket balls are usually soft enough to break in two. It’s more of a parlor trick than a skill. But it impressed people more than burying multiple .22 shots in a circle the size of a dime, which at 13 was actually a lot harder to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I was 13 my friend James took a shotgun into his room and used it to end his life. I carried the American Flag at his funeral. I wore my Boy Scout uniform and white gloves.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I was 14 my parents divorced and I went through a really rough patch. My dad moved out of the house and into a nearby apartment. The apartment had a little storage closet attached to it and one night while my dad was away, someone (or multiple someones) shut themselves in the closet and cut a hole into my dad’s apartment. They stole his camera. They stole some cash he had stashed in his room.<br>
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They stole his dad’s .22 rifle.<br>
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The hole into my dad’s one-bedroom apartment from the storage closet was at the foot of the couch. The couch doubled as my bed when, after the divorce, I spent my weekends there. The first night I stayed there after the robbery I spent the bulk of the night staring into the black hole in the drywall, crying about my grandfather’s rifle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I never met my grandpa. He died shortly before I was born. He fought in World War II and was stationed in Northern Africa. When I held that rifle my dad would tell me how much it reminded him of his dad. Of how his dad would lay with him and teach him to line up the sights. About how his dad taught him to squeeze, not pull the trigger. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Hold it.<o:p></o:p><br>
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On November 27, 2015 Robert Dear walked into a Planned Parenthood with at least one gun. Over the next hour he shot and killed a police officer and two civilians. Nine others, five police officers and four civilians were also shot, but survived. The shooter's motives have not been released but one source has quoted him as saying "No more baby parts" as he was being arrested. </div>
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In the months following my parents’ divorce, I started to rebel, push back, and test the boundaries of my new family structure. I started skipping school and smoking pot. I hung out with the wrong group of kids, and loved the feeling of always being on the edge of trouble. Obviously, my parents hated it. On a Tuesday in 9<sup>th</sup> Grade my whole group of friends went out behind the school to smoke weed. I stayed behind for some reason that I've since forgotten. They all got caught, expelled, and I was left to myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This doesn’t have a lot to do with guns except that after all my friends got expelled I started to come out of my funk. I got back involved with school and started writing for the school newspaper. My grades came back up. My relationship with my parents started to mend. One day I came home from school to my dad’s house (he had since moved out of the apartment with the hole in the wall) and found a brand new Ruger 10 shot .22 rifle laying on my bed. It was more than a gift. It meant my dad trusted me again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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According to the authorities, the shooter in Oregon had 13 different firearms. He left two pistols, four rifles and one shotgun at home and brought five pistols and one rifle with him to Umpqua Community College. The makes and models of the firearms have not been released. <o:p></o:p><br>
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When I graduated from college my grandfather on my mother’s side gave me his shot gun. I’ve never shot it, but it lives next to the .22 my dad gave me in a locked safe. When Stevie and I first met she told me we’d never have guns in our house. Every time a news story ran about a kid finding a gun and killing themselves, or their sibling, or their parents she would point to it and say “See. See John. It is too dangerous!”<br>
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I didn’t fight her on it. I just closed my eyes and thought about laying in the dirt with my dad and shooting cans. I’d lock my guns up. I wouldn’t leave them loaded. Guns aren’t evil. People can be. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I saved the fight for another day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The fight never came. When we bought our home I purchased a sturdy safe from my dad and promised that we would only buy ammo as needed for sport. If our kids accidentally found the key and accidentally opened the safe all they would accidentally find would be a few expensive clubs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A few weeks ago I got home and went to the safe where my guns live. </div>
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I unlocked it and pulled out my .22. It has a stainless steel barrel and a black composite stock. The clip pops out from just behind the trigger loop. It is a small black cube with a place to slide tiny .22 caliber bullets.<br>
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I thought about how someday I'd to take my daughter up into the Uinta Mountains where we’d find a steady log and space out 5-6 Pepsi cans across the top of it. I would inspect the area behind them for large rocks that might cause ricochets then pace out a reasonable distance for a kid to learn to shoot. I’d clear an area for us to lay down. She, like I was at her age, is too small to shoot standing.<br>
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I'd have her lie down with the rifle and position it in her arms, teach her to line up the sight. Teach her how to breathe. I’d hear her laugh when the can leapt into the air. I'd tell her "good job."<o:p></o:p></div>
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I put the empty clip back in the rifle, and held it tightly in my hands. This is my gun. It is the gun my dad gave me. I'm not a "nut." I'm just a normal guy. I’m not really worried about the government coming for me, and I don’t personally think having a gun in the house makes it any safer, but I understand why people love their guns. I love mine.<br>
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I feel like I understand, at least partially, the complicated relationship we have with guns.<br>
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Sometimes I still think about my grandfather’s .22. The police never found it. I worry that whoever took it didn’t love it the way my father did. I worry that they looked at it and saw a weapon to point at other people. Now every time I hear about another shooting on the news, I don’t picture the shooter with whatever semi-automatic rifle they purchased legally at a gun show. I picture them with my WWII-era 10 shot, pump action .22 rifle.<br>
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I don’t know what the answers are. I don’t know if legislation will work. I don’t know if research will help. I don’t know.<br>
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But I'm willing to try. </div>
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Because I know this:<br>
<b><br></b>
Virginia Tech - 33 dead.<br>
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Sandy Hook Elementary - 20 children and 6 teachers dead<br>
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Aurora, Colorado Movie Theater - 12 dead.<br>
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Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church - 9 dead<o:p></o:p><br>
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Since 2001 the total number of deaths from gun violence in the US is approximately 406,496. (<a href="http://www.cnn.com/2015/10/02/us/oregon-shooting-terrorism-gun-violence/">CNN</a>)</div>
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This week a husband and wife walked into a community center that helps people with disabilities and gunned down 14 people. At some point before going on this rampage they dropped off their six-month-old daughter at their parents house. </div>
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And I know this, above all else:</div>
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If it were possible, I would give back every day in the woods with my dad. I would forsake every future day in the mountains with my kids and every Pepsi can flying off the log and into the brush. I'd let them all go, without hesitation, if it would give just <i>one </i>of those parents their kid back. <br>
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How do we fix this? How can we make this stop? How can I help? Where do I start? I'm really asking.<br>
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<i>Please join the conversion in the comments here, or over on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AskYourDadBlog/" target="_blank">Ask Your Dad Facebook Page</a>. </i></div>
John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-50240907556991212092015-11-13T15:06:00.001-07:002015-11-15T08:33:16.440-07:00Something I Wrote for My Boy on His Birthday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7ESNZb0tNYw/VkZceQQZwvI/AAAAAAAAMlA/c4wmQJYMxus/s1600/11939280_899377416821574_1585987475_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7ESNZb0tNYw/VkZceQQZwvI/AAAAAAAAMlA/c4wmQJYMxus/s400/11939280_899377416821574_1585987475_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Last night my boy and I rolled around on the living room floor. He'd run towards me arms out, full scream... “AHHHHHHHH!!" Then his whole self would collide with my chest sending us both rolling backwards. His laugh was like summer rain, surprising at first, comforting as it washed over me, strong until it wasn't. </div>
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After a few seconds of rolling back and forth his laugh stuttered out and I set him down so he could grab more breathe from the room.</div>
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“AGAIN! AGAIN! Daddy!” </div>
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He turned, ran to the fireplace, turned again and ran once more to my chest. </div>
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“AHHHHHHHH.”</div>
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When he was born I never really worried about loving him. When his sister came into the world my heart opened up in a way I didn’t know was possible. I found that love was not finite. My capacity to generate it was nuclear. </div>
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I did worry I wouldn’t get time to know him. </div>
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Life gets busier and busier. My daughter fills a room, a world really, with her joy and her tears. I worried for a while that he would get drowned out by her awesomeness. </div>
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I was wrong. He is a beacon on the mountain. All things come to him, including his sister. They co-exist in my everything. They hold hands in the car. They lay on each other while they watch movies. They both jump on top of me and scream and laugh and scream and laugh and scream and laugh. Then they do it again. </div>
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Last night she was sitting at the kitchen table tracing pictures of Stevie with a pencil while Captain and I rough-housed on the floor. “Come on YeeYee! Come on!” </div>
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“I can’t, buddy.” (She calls him buddy too.) “I’m learning to be an artist like mommy.”</div>
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“OK. AHHHHHHHHH” And again we rolled backwards. I am a human roller coaster. I am The Colossus. </div>
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He loves Jake and the Neverland Pirates. His favorite word is pleeeeeeaase. Not please. Pleeeeeeaase. When he says “I lub you daddy” I try to blink and capture the moment like a picture. I want his tiny voice in my ears and his face permanently attached to the backs of my eyelids. I want the moments on dial up, random access memory for my lonelier moments. </div>
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After wrestling we got him in his jammies. He didn’t want pants, because he is a normal human being and who really wants pants. I said OK, because I am a kind and benevolent father also sleeps without pants on. I read <a href="http://amzn.to/1kvcA9r" target="_blank">Little Blue Truck</a>. Then he read <a href="http://amzn.to/1kvcA9r" target="_blank">Little Blue Truck</a>. I read <a href="http://amzn.to/1PGDg24" target="_blank">Naked</a>, and then he read <a href="http://amzn.to/1PGDg24" target="_blank">Naked</a>. His turn is really just him turning the pages and yelling out the words he knows. I like to yell them with him. (By the way, Naked is the title of a book. My wife pointed out that this sounded weird.) </div>
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I turned the light off and I sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” When I sang “Skies are blue” he said “No. Green.” I sang “skies are green” and he said “no, red.” We went through all the colors he knows and he giggled every time. This is our thing. This is our language. This is our goodnight. </div>
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Foreheads were kissed. Hugs given and taken, and another night with my boy was done. I shut the door and went downstairs. </div>
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Later that night when Stevie and I went to bed I opened his door and peeked in on him. He was asleep, Little Blue Truck tucked in the crook of his arm. It was 11:30.<br />
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“What are you doing?” </div>
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“I don't know. I just wanted to see him one last time as a two-year-old.”</div>
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“Let me see.”</div>
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Stevie and I ended our night together staring, perhaps a little too long, at our boy. Our perfect little dude. Our last two-year-old. Fast asleep and almost three. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">Happy birthday, buddy. We love you. </span></td></tr>
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John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7385734613853151197.post-42299700649731522152015-10-23T11:11:00.001-06:002015-10-23T11:40:26.029-06:00Instructions to Be Followed upon My Death<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been thinking about death lately. Not in a dark, depressing way. I'm fine. I could work out more, eat better and drink a little less, but for the most part life is great, busy and wonderful. I'm grateful every morning that I wake up to find my son tapping me on the forehead and asking me to turn on Micky Mouse. But still, death has been on my mind. I've lost friends over the last few years. Some had a chance to say goodbye, others didn't. When I was younger I felt immortal. Not so much anymore.<br />
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I don't know when my time to go is coming, so I figured I would put this out there. Here are some instructions to be followed upon my death...<br />
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Let's start with the simple stuff.<br />
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Stevie, please take the useful parts of me and immediately give them to someone else. I don't want them. Take the eyes that watched our kids come into this world and give them to someone else so they can watch their kids refuse to eat salad from across their dinner table. Take the heart that you listened to when you laid your head on my chest and bury its beat in someone else's... not in the ground. Take my skin and arms and legs and guts. Take everything else and offer it up to the world. Give back a little of what it has given me. We don't get to keep anything in this world. It is all borrowed.<br />
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Next, please tell the kids to not be afraid to cry, ever. I spent too much of my life afraid to cry. Once I realized that crying didn't make me any less of a "man" and actually made me more of a human, things became remarkably easier. So be sad and vulnerable and weak when you need to. Rely on our family and friends. Their love for you and I will carry you guys through this. You never have to walk alone.<br />
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Set up a funeral, but not a big fancy (expensive) affair. Just a room with some chairs, perhaps an ice bucket of beer in the back and couple bottles of good whiskey. I don't need an Irish Wake, but some folks may need a drink. The hard part comes next.<br />
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Once everyone is sitting down and had a few drinks, have someone read this:<br />
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<i>John didn't really believe in a God. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he was right. If he was wrong, he knows that now and he'll be dealing with it in his own way. If you knew John, you know that he was pretty good at talking himself out of awkward situations. He'll be OK. Most funerals John attended in his life focused on a message that the person who had died would be waiting in heaven for their friends and family. Since that isn't what John believed, he wanted to take this opportunity to write his own message to all of you. Also, he was kind of full of himself like that, so he respectfully asks that you humor him this one last time. Here's his goodbye message:</i><br />
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Hey everyone. Thanks for coming. Sorry I died. I'm sure it's really hard - probably extra really hard for some of you. Maybe just kind of sad for others. However you are dealing with dead me is the exact right way to be dealing with dead me. You be you. I hope I had the chance to say goodbye to some of you. If this happened quick, perhaps I didn't. If I have lived my life in a good way, I would hope that the need for me to say goodbye would be small. I would hope you already know exactly how much you meant to me, and how much you enriched my life because I would have told you over and over again. That said, if you are a random person that knew me in high school and you just showed up because you saw my obituary, I probably never got around to telling you how much I appreciated and loved you, but I did random person I haven't seen since high school. I really did. Probably not as much as I loved my wife and my kids, but you understand that would be silly.<br />
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Stevie, Captain, Duchess. (Whoever is reading this, please use my kids real names and not their silly internet names.) I'm sure this is much worse for you than it is for me, because I am dead. I want you to know that you are the very best parts of me. You are everything I ever wanted in life, and every day with you was the best day I ever had.<br />
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Since I don't really believe in an afterlife, my consciousness was snubbed out as soon as my brain was depleted of oxygen. That means the alive me is gone. I'm not waiting for you in the clouds or on another celestial planet. I won't be writing any more words. You don't have to listen to me sing anymore. The creative me, the part with autonomy and free will is gone... unless I am wrong.<br />
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Tell you what. If I am wrong and I can find a way through space and time to be a ghost in the room with you right now, I will turn the lights off and on... now.<br />
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OK. One of three things just happened. A the lights did not turn on and off. B the lights <b>did </b>turn on and off and I have made a horrible mistake and am now doomed to a purgatory like hell, wandering the mortal plane as a disconnected spirit for all eternity, or C someone, probably your uncle, is messing with everyone and turned the lights on and off to be funny. That's not funny, Jim. A funeral is no place for ghost jokes.<br />
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But really, all jokes aside, I'm probably gone forever. I'm really sorry that I won't get to see what happens from here. I know it will be a mix of good, bad, great and horrible things, and I know you will handle them all with grace... unless you don't, which is OK too. I know that I did my best to fill your world with love, and I know that in many ways I succeeded. I believe that the people who are closest to you in your life have a way of reflecting your best and worst qualities. When I look at you, all I see is the love I put into the world. So thank you.<br />
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Which, I suppose, brings me back to not needing to say goodbye. As was mentioned earlier, I did not put any stock in an afterlife. Some may say that a life without the promise of salvation is a life without purpose. To those folks I say my life was a life filled with purpose... and immediacy. I didn't live for a better world after death, I did my best to use the time I had to make a better world in life.<br />
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And, in a way, I do believe in life after death. Just not my life.<br />
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I believe in all of you.<br />
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And it's with that belief that I leave you all with this. You are what is left of me now. There is no need to say goodbye, because each of you bears the awesome responsibility of carrying me with you... just as I carry the love of the folks whose lives touched mine. I'm not waiting at a pearly gate somewhere. Look left. Look right. I'm waiting there. Unless you are sitting on an aisle. I am not in the wall.<br />
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Sorry. I said no more jokes.<br />
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If I knew anything to be true in my life, if I ever put my faith in a single belief it was this: You are what you put into the world. I'm done putting things into the world. My house is built and all of you are its foundation. I hope, I pray (yes, I pray) that it is sturdy and beautiful and filled with love.<br />
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Thank you. Now go have some beer and whiskey or juice or water and tell funny stories about dumb shit I did.<br />
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Love,<br />
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John (Dad)<br />
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<i>P.S. If you liked this, or other stuff I have written, be sure to come like the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AskYourDadBlog" target="_blank">Ask Your Dad Facebook </a>Page. I'm still very much alive and posting over there. I don't plan on dying any time soon. I just figured I would put this out there in case I get hit by a bus or eaten by a pterodactyl that we thought was extinct but was actually just really really patient.</i><br />
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<i>P.S.S Don't read that first P.S. or this one at the funeral. It would be confusing. The post scripts are for the blog post only.</i><br />
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John Kinnearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10217999409806454795noreply@blogger.com3