Iron Man and Connor

My son, Connor, has a brilliant mind. I mean, it’s intimidating. I’m just saying that we should all be grateful he has decided to use his powers for good.

Case in point, he’s only 13 years old, but he made this.

I KNOW, RIGHT?! You know what I made when I was 13? Farts. That’s about it.

Connor is what they call in the biz "a pretty big Marvel fan." I mean, the year the first Avengers movie came out? That year at Thanksgiving dinner, when we went around the table saying what we were grateful for, Connor said, “Joss Whedon.”

So, always jockeying for the position of Coolest Dad, I told my older kids that I would get tickets to an advanced screening of the new Avengers movie. And we went last night.

Three weeks ago Connor got it in his mind that he would build his own Iron Man outfit, from scratch. He began hoarding cardboard, plastic, weird parts of stuff I was sure I had thrown away and asked him not to dig out of the trash ... etc. He used his own money for LED lights, and he asked me to buy him some spray paint. And during this time, he’s been down in the basement whenever he has spare time.

So, here’s how last night played out.

Me: Ok, guys! We need to go! Get in the car!
Connor: Dad, I need to get dressed first. In my Iron Man outfit.
Me: Uhm... you’re going to be uncomfortable sitting in it.
Connor: I won’t wear it in the movie.
Me: Why wear it?
Connor: You can take a picture of me in front of the giant poster, and ... you know ... maybe other people will want to take a picture with me, too. And then I’ll go and change into my Tony Stark shirt for the movie.
Me: Uhmmm....ok. [I sneak off to talk to Katie.]

Me: So, Connor is going to wear his Iron Man outfit to the movie.
Katie: Sweet. He’s worked really hard on it.
Me: Yep, I know. I just ... I’m a little worried about his expectations ... of, like, how he thinks the public is going to receive him. Like, I think he believes strangers are going to want to take photos with him.
Katie: You’ll handle it just fine.
Me: Really? Because if people don’t love it, it’s going to hurt his feelings. And then I’m left with a deflated teenager. And that hurts my feelings. And I realize this isn’t about me. But kind of I’m not up for watching our son be sad.

We pull up to the theater. We get out of the car, and Garren, my 15 year old, starts dressing Connor in his Iron Man get-up. A few people walk by on their way to the theater and mumble, “Cool suit.”

“Whew,” I think. Someone acknowledged him. That’s all he needed.

Then Connor says, “Abbie. Light me up.” He spreads his arms away from his chest, and Abbie walks towards him. “You have to peel off the Pringles cap and turn on the LED light.”

Then we start walking towards the theater - and Oh. My. Goodness. Cars are stopping and taking photos. People are looking out the windows of neighboring stores and, getting all animated-like, hitting their friends and pointing at Connor.

The closer we get to the theater, the more reaction he is getting. Then we get inside, and the place is all abuzz. Theater employees are snapping photos - groups of people are grabbing Connor and asking him to jump in their photos that they’re taking in front of the poster. Including a group with a  Thor and a Captain America. Couples on dates are asking him to take photos with them. People are asking him how he made it and making a huge fuss over him. Two security guards finally walk up, lean into me and say, “That’s the best one we’ve ever seen.”

Thank you, Provo, Utah! Thank you for making my son’s night. Thank you for validating this 13-year old’s hours of work and ingenuity and moxie to actually head out in public and put his efforts on display. I salute you.

Sidebar: I am equally proud of my son, Garren. Garren spent hours with Connor, supporting him in this work, talking Connor off the ledge when things were going south, cheerleading him when things were going well. And last night? Garren asked for no recognition, no attention, no reward. He loved watching his brother have a moment. I love these two. I am grateful to be their dad.

Guest Post: My Son, Garren.

My 14 year old son, Garren, following in his dad's footsteps, recruited two of his friends, and they started a blog.  They named it G.A.S. It's the first initial of each of their names. I should point out that the two other friends are of the female persuasion. How he convinced them that GAS would be a good name for their blog is beyond me, and I can only fathom that the word means one thing to him (re: bodily function) and something entirely different to them (re: something a car needs).

He is guest posting for me today.

Pretty Much My Most Favorite Thing EVER.
by Garren Craig

I totally love food!  It's what I live for.  I would die without it! (Literally.)  But don't ask me what my favorite food is.  There's so many choices.  It's too hard.  It's In-N-Out.

Well, it's at least my favorite fast food.  Well, that and Tommy's.

See what I mean?  I can't make up my mind!


But the best food experience I've had, was on my twelfth birthday.  My parents took me and my sister, Abbie, to Del Frisco's.

Del Frisco's!  Only one of the fanciest restaurants in Las Vegas!  There is a dress code to get in!  This place was pretty darn fancy!

Yes.  They really did have these crumb tools.


Anyway, we start out the meal with bread, and salad.  I'm eating the salad, and the waitress lady, (there were like 12 waiters/waitresses waiting on us), came over, and in a high pitched little girl voice says "Fresh ground pepper?"  I have my mouth full of salad, so I just nod.

And then these two guys bring out the pepper grinder.

Is is just about six feet long.

One guy holds it up to my salad, the other guy cranks the handle.  Ever since that day, every time we have something with pepper, me and Abbie will say to each other, "Fresh ground pepper?" in that annoying three year old girl voice.

After the salad, they brought out the food.  I had a steak.  It was the best steak I've ever eaten! 

But all those things are nothing compared to the bathrooms.

The bathrooms were surprisingly the fanciest part of the restaurant.  I walk in there, and there is a guy cleaning the mirror.  Like, they always have a guy in there, just cleaning the mirror.  But that's not the half of it.  On the counter, there were mints.  Breath mints.  Tic-tacs.  But that's not all.  There was cologne.  There was freakin cologne in a bathroom!  Just sitting there.  For people to use.  So when I'm done using the bathroom, the window guy has walked out.  So I'm like "why not?"  I use the cologne.  I go back out to our table smelling like someone filled a gallon bucket with Axe Body Spray, and then dumped the whole thing on me.  I wasn't very good at putting on cologne.  I put on so much, the waiters stopped coming over to me to offer me pepper.  I smelled so strong I bet the people at the next table were like, "Oh Gertrude! Look at that boy. He's soaking wet with cologne.  Can you smell it?  Take a video with your iPhone5!"

Presenting Garren

14 years ago today, Garren was born in our Las Vegas apartment, on our Futon.

At this point you’re saying to yourself, “Futons aren’t comfortable for sleeping on, sitting on, or even lifting to turn it from a couch into a bed – why on earth would you birth on one!?”

Well, because the kitchen table was still full of dishes from dinner.

Not really. But when you imagine people that homebirth, your mind kind of goes that direction, doesn’t it? Mine used to. Like, “They homebirth; who knows what they’re capable of?!” To quote comedian Jim Gaffigan, “We homebirth and we use a midwife – because, of course, we’re into witchcraft.”

Having a home birth was never actually on our radar. Of course, living in Las Vegas and owning a Futon were never on our radar, either. You just can’t predict everything, people.

Even with Abbie, our first born, we employed the services of certified nurse midwives, who delivered in a hospital. This was more reassuring to me. Like it was kiiiind of homebirthing...but with a net. (Which would probably still be more comfortable than birthing with a Futon.)

After that first midwife experience with Abbie, we moved to Las Vegas. We couldn’t find a practice of certified nurse midwives, like we’d found in Utah, so we began looking at the option of a homebirth with a homebirth midwife. And that is how we found Margie the Midwife. And Garren’s birth then became our segue into homebirthing. And that’s the way all of our children since Garren have been born.

I act like it was this natural and carefree transition, but until we met Margie the Midwife, I was slightly unnerved. I would time how long it took me to drive from our apartment to the hospital, and I would try different routes. You know, in case of an emergency. Like an arm coming out before a head. Or like me freaking out. But after we met Margie, I had all the confidence in the world in her. I already had all the confidence in the world in Katie. So I started to accept that this would be a really neat, really new experience.

It was mid-morning on Saturday, September 18, 1999 when Katie started “early labor.” Katie’s mom had been with us for a few days, and my mom was at home in Lake Tahoe, waiting for our phone call to summons her. I wanted to document the “homebirth experience,” so I had a small notepad with me and jotted down thoughts as things progressed. Here they are, ripped from my journal:

1:00 p.m. Katie makes it public that she is in fact having regular contractions every 20 minutes or so. This continues through the afternoon, with the contractions getting closer – like, five to seven minutes apart – but never getting to the stage one would call Active Labor.

5:00 p.m. I call Mom, telling her to make some plans to get down here from Lake Tahoe, and the sooner the better. She finds two flights: One getting her here at 9:45 p.m. tonight, the other at 9:40 a.m. tomorrow morning. Mom feels impressed to come tonight or it would be too late. Katie feels impressed to kiss Mom, so ecstatic is she at Mom’s suggestion that this baby will come before tomorrow morning.

7:00 p.m. Katie’s sister, Shellie, and her daughter Annmarie (editor’s note: they happen to be living in Las Vegas at the time) come over to visit with Katie’s mom. We decide to distract Katie from the contractions, and we leave Abbie with Katie’s mom, Shellie, and Annmarie, and we head over to Monica’s, our friend who is having a big barbecue for the Oscar de la Hoya fight. On our way over, we get distracted and go to the movies.

7:25 p.m. We nestle into our seats to watch Adam Sandler’s new movie, Big Daddy. Apparently we wanted Katie to be able to say that labor wasn’t the most painful thing she endured today.

8:50 p.m. The movie ends, but we still have some time before we need to pick up my mom at the airport. We head over to Monica’s. As we pull into her driveway, Katie pleads with me to not tell everybody that she is in labor. She just doesn’t want people gawking and wondering if she is going to deliver right here in the Van Brocklin’s living room, in front of de la Hoya and all his fans. I, of course, love my wife, and have every intention of honoring any requests she has regarding her current state…that is, until I reach the front door, where I promptly announce that Katie is in labor. I have to do it, I am just too excited not to. All the girls oooh and aaaah and come running over to cater to Katie – asking her how she feels and if she needs anything, and about these dreams they’ve had lately where Katie is in labor, and even wearing the exact same outfit that she had on this very evening! (Okay, only our friend, Yvonne, had that dream.) We munch on some food, get some well-wishing, and flee to the airport to get Mom.

9:50 p.m. Mom arrives, but I can’t find her.

10:15 p.m. Oh, there she is. But I don’t know how she got on a broken escalator that has no exit on the main floor where I’m waiting for her. Mom is relieved to have not missed the birth.

10:45 p.m. Now we are home. And I’ve got to say, I don’t see this happening in the next several hours. Katie’s contractions are close together, but they haven’t gotten any harder. Katie says they are uncomfortable to a degree…but she can joke and walk and talk through the contractions. And that’s no good. We did call Margie the Midwife to bring her up to speed, so she’s aware. She told us to keep her posted when “things” start happening.

I feel anxious just in the anticipation. Even though this will be very different from Abbie’s laboring and delivery, I feel like because we’ve gone through this before, we’re more familiar with the process. I tell you this – I am not looking forward to seeing Katie in pain. I don’t like that part. It is emotionally draining.

Sunday, September 19

9:00 a.m. Katie has had contractions through the night – regular and slightly more uncomfortable. We decide church meetings might be a bit much - for us, and for members of the Desert Shores ward, who would justifiably stare at us in horror.

4:00 p.m. Things begin to get more serious. Katie’s contractions are painful. That’s right, Katie is in pain, and we couldn’t be happier! I am not allowed to leave the room or go too far. We labor mostly in our bedroom, where we find comfortable positions for Katie to sit in, and I can rub her lower back. Sometimes I stand up behind her and she slumps in my arms. We also try sitting on the bed, where I sit close behind her and rub her lower back. We made that one up, and we feel kind of cool that we are so professional and confident in our abilities that we could do whatever we want, even if it isn’t on the list of “preferred positions for laboring.” We are like…laboring vigilantes.

5:00 p.m. Shellie and Annmarie go home, and in anticipation of the baby coming soon, they take Abbie with them. They bring Abbie into the room to tell us goodbye. She is very cute and sweet and I dare say, at two years old, she seems somewhat sensitive to the situation. She is asking, “Mommy, what’s the matter?” “What’s wrong, Daddy?” Then she tells us she is going to Annmarie’s house, and she gives us hugs and kisses. We both get a little emotional at the gesture.

6:00 p.m. The contractions still don’t seem that hard, compared to laboring with Abbie, but for the peace of mind of knowing how far along Katie is, we decide to call Margie and see what she thinks. Margie, just getting back from a family outing, asks me a few questions about the contractions, but also about how Katie is feeling, and if Katie wants her to come now. I say it might be good for Katie’s strength in mind if she could find out how far along she is, and how dilated. Margie says she will pack her stuff and head over as soon as she gets home. We were to expect her in the next 45 minutes. Katie moves to the Futon in the front room, where we plan to have the baby.

7:00 p.m. Margie arrives and Katie is lying flat on the Futon. Margie sets up her stuff and checks Katie. Judging by how uncomfortable Katie says she is, but also by how calm and together she appears, I’m betting she’s at a 6. Katie, starting to doubt that anything good could be happening soon, thinks she’s perhaps at a 2. Margie checks her and she’s at an 8. We couldn’t believe it. We all let out a noise that was somewhere between a cry and a sigh and a laugh.

While she was checking how far Katie was dilated, Margie feels the bag of water right there in front. She says it is bulging, and although she doesn’t normally break the water, she recommends it this time because it feels like an arm might come through first, and that would mean an emergency rush to the hospital. I tell everyone precisely how many minutes that will take. We decide we are fine with Margie breaking the water and guiding the head down. As soon as she breaks the water, the contractions are intense. Katie must have shot into the transition stage.

Katie has a few more contractions, and it’s time to push. Our Moms are down with Margie at “the business end,” watching for the head. I stay up by Katie’s face, talking to her and holding her hands. When they all say they can see the head, I don’t believe them. I honestly don’t. I think for sure they are lying in order to sustain Katie and give her some sense of false hope.

Katie has a strength in her that she is very connected to. She is aware of her body and its abilities and the sacredness of what she is doing. I am in awe of her when I see her like this. She is stronger than I am.

I hear the three ladies letting out a relieved gasp, and Margie is suddenly handing the baby up to us. I scan the child looking for the “stuff.” And there it is – a brand new baby boy! Katie holds him for a few moments, then passes him to me. I sit on the end of the Futon looking at this new baby, and he opens his eyes and looks right at me. And I realize I am overwhelmed with the feeling that I have missed him. The words seemed to bubble to my lips and I almost involuntarily whisper, “I’ve missed you.” Upon whispering it, I realize what that means. It wasn’t the first time I had seen him, but the first time in a long time. I feel immediately that I know him.

I look around and it is the oddest, most comfortable thing to realize we have never left our home. We just brought a life into this world…right in our living room. And on our dark, blue Futon too. I’m left with the impression that birth can be a very peaceful, private thing.

The Moms go pick up Abbie from Shellie’s. Abbie has fallen asleep on the way home, but we wake her up when they get here. She is all smiles. She sits on the bed and holds him. She just stares at him and kisses his head and gives him hugs. She can’t stop smiling. She seems to know it’s the same baby that was in Mommy’s tummy, and that he is now out. She also still thinks we should name him Winnie the Pooh.

Margie packs up her stuff, and I help her carry it out to the car. Margie really knew what she was doing; she was kind and social and professional all at the same time. And we now have a new 9 lbs. 9 oz., 21 ¼” long, brown hair, dark blue eyes, perfect baby boy.

Self Promotion! Everyone Enjoys That!

To avoid being fined for ignoring my civic duties, there are a few things I need to let you know about.

One: Katie and I recently did an interview on The Mormon Channel, speaking on a show called Tech Savvy about Parenting in the Tech Age. We were interviewed by our new friend Elisa, the delightful host of the program, and we were appearing with Richard and Linda Eyre. Yes, those Richard and Linda Eyres, the authors of over a dozen bestselling books, including Teaching Your Children Values which was the first parenting book to make it to the position of #1 New York Times bestseller since Dr. Spock's book.

Are you keeping score here?

Authors of Bestselling Books: Eyres: 12, Craigs: Less Than Zero.

Sought After for Parenting Advice: Eyres: Constantly, Craigs: As of This Afternoon, Not Once.

Raising a Large Family: Eyres: 9 children, Craigs: 7. (Ok, we’re closer on that one.)

BUT…Richard Eyre ran for Governor of Utah in 1992, and lost to Mike Leavitt. Katie ran for Student Council President that same year at Ryle High School…and won! So yeah, I guess we were pretty evenly matched for this interview.

Sincerely, the Eyres are a most wonderful, genuine, and kind couple. It is no wonder they are so accomplished. It was intimidating to be sitting next to such prolific people, but they made us feel like we belonged. Every time Richard made a comment I was so tempted to say, “I’m going to have to disagree with you there, Richard.” Because – HA! – it would be hilarious. Because nobody disagrees with him. Because he’s kind of a maharishi in his field. So it would be funny. You get it? No? See, I was kind of worried nobody else would either, so I didn’t do it.

Anyway, you can listen to the interview right HERE – but be warned, you aren’t going to hear anything from us that you haven’t already thought of yourself. In fact, if you don’t say, “Uhm…no, doi!” at least three times after I speak, you aren’t listening close enough. Here is a two-minute clip of the show, and soon you'll be able to see the entire episode. 

Second: It’s Mother’s Day on Sunday, and you need to get her something! I can’t believe you’ve even waited this long! But your secret is safe with me, and I’m even going to help you out. Order this book, “Tell Me Who I Am,” and you will get a special bookmark and chocolates to go with it. And your mom will love you! I am a contributing author to it, so finally, one day, it will change the score to Bestselling Books: Eyres: 12, Craigs: 1. Order today in order to get it by Mother’s Day! Order by clicking right HERE!

Finally, and most importantly: Shakespeare. He’s dead. But just as I anticipate with my blog, Shakespeare’s writings are still celebrated years after his death!

If you live nearby or just across state lines or you’re related to me and have no choice in the matter, you simply must attend this weekend’s performances of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night! You won’t regret it – because I SAID SO!

This play’s got everything! Sword fighting, flirting, drunken 12 year olds, sad clowns, and a spit-take! What’s a spit take? You know, it’s that thing, where you have water in your mouth and someone makes you laugh or makes you angry so you spit water all over everyone… (And yes, there is a “splash-zone.” That’s just good theater.)

My son, Garren, plays said drunken 12 year old. And more proud, I could not be. He is so delightful to watch, you’ll want to take him home with you. But you’ll regret it. Because he eats two double-doubles whenever you go to In-N-Out; and folks, that adds up! But WAIT – the talent doesn’t stop there. The play is being directed by my triple-threat wife, Katie! She speaks on technology, she directs plays, and she…well, she does everything else under the sun with impeccable talent and good looks. And my daughter, Abbie, is helping direct the play. It’s a family affair! And you’re invited!

THIS Friday and Saturday, 2 p.m. matinees for $5/ticket or evening shows at 7 p.m. for $10/ticket. They are performing at Family Music Center, 8125 West Sahara Avenue  Las Vegas, NV 89117. Let me know if you’d like tickets, as Garren is selling them and needs money to support his In-N-Out habit.

That is all the announcements I have for today, friends! Thanks for coming by. I can't tell you how much I love you for it. 

The Craig Bunch: Our Christmas Card

THE CRAIG BUNCH Episode Guide for Season 13

This is brief listing of some of the episodes from 2008.  Each is a mix of hectic and calm, laughter and tears, desperation and inspiration.  And of course, every episode teaches a very valuable lesson!

The Florida Episode: The Craigs fly across the continental United States to Florida and pack in as much Disney, seashore, and scenic alligator sightings as they can. Take Home Message: Family togetherness is important. Cramming three different amusement parks into three consecutive days? Less important. Spread it out, folks.

The Child Development Episode: Garren (age 9) plays club baseball, involving many weekend trips up to St. George. Connor (age 7) can usually get out of trouble by saying something funny. Roxanna (age 5) has no filter and says whatever comes to her mind. Take Home Message: Garren won’t be playing club baseball anymore, Connor will continue to work on new material, and the family agrees that Roxanna’s comment “You smell like rice pudding” must be a compliment.

The Theatrical Episode: The entire Craig Family performs in the Stake Play: A musical review called “We Go Together.” Their ditty? As 7-month pregnant Katie belts out the Oklahoma classic, “I’m Just a Girl Who Cain’t Say No”, Ken and the kids dance around on stage.  Tanner (age 2) steals the show as he shakes what his momma gave him.  Take Home Message: What’s a stake play without a little harmless innuendo?

The Birth Episode: (Originally aired during "Sweeps," of course.) Katie delivers 10-pound Rebecca Craig…at home…unassisted by anyone but Ken.  Take Home Message: Immediately calling your midwife when you are in labor is important. So is keeping a clean guest bathroom. We’re just sayin’.

The Church Service Episode: Ken completes his first year as The Ward Bishop and loves the members of the Elk Ridge Ward. Take Home Message: Sometimes bishops are forced to feign amusement each time someone comments on his rapidly graying hair. Bishops have feelings too.

The Family Reunion Episode: The Craigs join The Entire Craig Family and then the Fillmore Family for a summer of family reunions in Utah. Take Home Message: During the summer months, the Craigs will leave Las Vegas at the drop of a hat.

The Bakery Episode: Abbie (age 11) starts her own bakery business out of our home, supplying a variety of homemade breads to a burgeoning clientele list. Take Home Message: Man cannot live on bread alone…unless it is Abbie’s homemade bread, because then, yes you can, people. Yes you can.

The Music Episode: The Craig kids are tapped as musical prodigies as they masterfully play the piano, trumpet, flute, drums, and cowbell. Take Home Message: The kids take after their mom. Dad is useless unless you are interested in “music appreciation.”

The Holiday Special: Katie directs a group of home schoolers in a Christmas play and produces it at a homeless shelter and two retirement homes. Take Home Message: Putting 30 kids in costumes on a stage is entertainment, no matter what happens. Everybody loves them.

The Christmas Episode: After surviving the biggest Las Vegas snowfall since 1979, the Craigs take time to express all their love and gratitude to their family and friends. Take Home Message: They recognize how truly, truly blessed they are to know such wonderful people and such wonderful doctrine as the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Merry Christmas from The Craig Bunch!

The Agent & The Client

The Agent
The other night my 10-year-old daughter, Abbie, asked me what an Agent does. I naturally assumed she had at some point overheard me refer to myself as an Insurance Agent, but I remained ever hopeful that she really wanted to know more about being a Hollywood Agent or a Sports Agent or even a cleaning agent. All of which are flashier careers than an Insurance Agent.

I gave her my brief description of how an Agent works, and assumed that was the end of her curiosity. I woke up the next morning to find this note on my nightstand (original spelling included):


Dear Mr. Ken Craig,

I, Abigail Craig, am now working as Garren Craig’s agent. He requested that I send you a letter asking for a job. This needs to be an outside job that does not include pruning or going to the neighbors houses. He will willingly work on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saterdays. His vacations are requested on the 2nd, 4th and 5th weeks of the month. He would also like to be payed 15¢ a day. If this is all right, please let me know. If you request something different, please let me know what it is and I will try to make it work for both of you. Thank you very much.

Sincerelly,
Miss Abigail Craig
Agent to Mr. Garren Craig

I was duly impressed. My 10-year-old was now representing my 8-year-old. And at a pretty outrageous deal of a price! Sidebar: Garren’s stand on not pruning comes as a result of us having 38 rose bushes in our backyard. He has seen the work that goes into these suckers, and he is standing his ground, to be sure.

I responded:

Craig Enterprises
Attention: Abigail Craig
Craig House, Bedroom #2
Las Vegas, NV

Dear Miss Abigail Craig:

On behalf of Ken Craig Industries, I appreciate you contacting me regarding the employment interests of Mr. Garren J. Craig. We are always looking for talented, dedicated individuals who are interested in providing quality work at a minimal cost to us; thus, keeping our stockholders fat and sassy.

I’ve reviewed the demands of Mr. Craig concerning his wages and hours of labor, as well as his request that his duties not include the pruning of rose bushes, nor maintaining close association with the neighbors. (We at Ken Craig Industries have a Tolerance Policy where we respect the phobias of all employees, including anthrophobia (the fear of flowers) or agyrophobia (the fear of crossing the street), which we have concluded is Mr. Craig’s reason for not wanting to talk to the neighbors.)

We have an extensive list of jobs that can be done on the Ken Craig Industries property, and we would be most interested in hiring Mr. Garren J. Craig to come work for us.

Regarding the salary arrangement, we would like to propose that we pay Mr. Craig 25¢ for each task he completes, with the understanding that he will place 50% of his earnings into our 401K Plan (a savings account), for his use once he reaches the age of 18 years.

If this meets with the approval of Mr. Craig, we would like him to begin work immediately, effective today, starting with the task of clearing his baseball equipment from the lawn, and repairing the very window through which he hurled a rock (being used as a mock-baseball).

I eagerly await the impending decision, and look forward to seeing you at dinner tonight.

Sincerely,
Ken Craig
President, Ken Craig Industries

(I was originally prepared to offer Garren $1 for each task, but Katie, my wife and primary stockholder within Ken Craig Industries, strongly opposed, fearing Garren would attempt to run up quite a bill.)

After reviewing my letter, Abbie immediately scheduled a meeting with Garren. Then Abbie and I had a sit down and came to a verbal agreement that Garren will begin work immediately, but he requests that his paying for the broken window be removed from the binding contract. Agreed.

I know you shouldn’t mix business with family, but what do you do when they are this adorable and child labor laws don’t apply?

The Client

Mouse House

The family I grew up in was not what you would call a Pet Family. I had a hamster as a child, and then we went through a short six-month stint with a black and white Shih-Tsu puppy that quickly received his walking papers one afternoon when he did something unspeakable with a baby’s dirty diaper. (I said it was unspeakable!)

It’s not that I didn’t care for pets, as much as they were just never really around and I was fine with that. The family I am currently leasing however is bound and determined to have animals in our house. In the past couple of years we have had several pets aboard Craig’s Ark, and most recently, mice.

Two of my sons, Garren and Connor, each wanted a mouse, so we got Jenny, a small white mouse, and Minnie, a larger, brown mouse. Both females. A week had gone by when one morning my son Garren came downstairs looking a bit despondent.

“What’s wrong, bud?”
“Oh, you’ll have to come see.”
“What is it?”
“Just come see. In my room. Jenny’s dead.”

I’ve never been a fan of mice of any kind, but as distant as my relationship was with these rodents, I felt bad for my son. He was clearly taking this death personally.

I grabbed my CSI kit, which I had purchased with $2.00 and three Lucky Charm’s box tops, and headed into the boys’ room to investigate the scene. It was quiet. Too quiet. It felt almost eerie. I knew why I was there, and I knew what had to be done, but I wasn’t prepared for the grisly sight that awaited me. There was Jenny, lying at the bottom of the mouse cage… Well, there was half of Jenny, lying at the bottom of the cage. Where was the rest of her? As unbelievable as the answer was, it was equally obvious. Sitting on top of Jenny, fat and sassy, with blood all over her hands and face, was Minnie. Minnie was eating Jenny. Before I could even look away, Minnie froze and looked up at me as if to say, “…And you’re next, jack-face!”

I escorted Garren out of the room before he could view the ugliness. I took care of Jenny’s remains and thought long and hard about turning Minnie into the authorities. What had made her turn? Did she actually kill Jenny? Were we that late with her breakfast that she thought, “Well, I guess this will teach them to be late with my meals!”

If this had been a movie, it could go three different ways from this point. One, a possessed mouse terrorizes an unassuming suburbanite family. Two, a suburbanite family’s house has been built on an ancient Indian burial ground and the wronged spirits of days of yore are seeking their vengeance on the family…and the first manifestation involves a small animal’s demeanor taking a horrible turn, foreshadowing what is to happen to the family. Or third, Stuart Little III: What Happens In Vegas Stays In Vegas, where Stuart avenges his sister, who was eaten by a brown mouse that doesn’t like her meals to be late.

Since it isn’t a movie, and Garren wasn’t amused by my ramblings, we immediately purchased another mouse. And as soon as we put New Jenny in the cage, Minnie immediately pounced on her. This was disconcerting. Now that she had the taste of blood in her mouth, she wanted more.

We made the easy decision to keep New Jenny and get rid of Minnie the Cannibal. Minnie happened to be Connor’s, so I put Minnie in a box, and off I went with Connor and Minnie back to PetCo to exchange Minnie for a less-cannibalistic mouse.

I grabbed the first pimply-faced teenage employee I saw and began my line of questioning.

“Hi, Jeremy, uhm, we adopted this mouse about a week ago, and I wanted to exchange it for another mouse that we would be happy to adopt. See, this mouse ate one of our other mice, and then attacked a second one, so….”

"Oh, yeah…. hmmm…sometimes they just do that.”

“Well, you certainly are a student of the rodent world, Jeremy. Anyway, could we exchange it?”

“Did you consider buying a separate cage and having two cages – one for each mouse.”

“Yeah, we aren’t going to do that.”

“I understand. I just have to ask because my boss will ask me if I did.”

“Fine.”

We walked over to the cages to select our new mouse, when the manager of the store approached me.

“Hello, uhm, we cannot take that mouse back. YOU adopted it, so YOU are responsible for it. We aren’t running a shelter, you know. You should probably just buy another cage.”

“What, are you guys paid on commission? I’m not buying another cage.”

“Well, it costs me money to keep animals here. There’s food, and then payroll to have somebody take care of them…”

“How expensive could that possibly be?”

“Well, I also…maybe we shouldn’t be discussing this in front of your son.”

I looked down at Connor who had one finger inside a birdcage, and the other in his nose. “I think he’s fine.”

“Well, then ask yourself this question, how would you feel if somebody else came in to buy that mouse to feed to their snake!?”

I could sense that this man was trying to shame me into something, so I tried not to laugh or sing Lion King’s “Circle of Life.”

In my mind I pictured one of those futuristic, sci-fi machines that scans the human body for trace amounts of some chemical or someting. It was hooked up to my body, searching for one, single cell that felt the smallest degree of something resembling guilt. Nothing. The charts were coming up negative.

I was about to tell the guy, “Look, take the mouse back or I’m going out to your parking lot and letting her go.” But his comment had actually given me an idea. I knew a neighbor who had a snake and regularly fed mice to him. Problem solved. Almost. Connor still needed another mouse.

With full confidence in my new pimply underage friend and his understanding of all things mousy, we requested another small, white, female mouse – New Minnie – to cohabitate with New Jenny.

So I came home and put New Minnie in the cage with New Jenny. Then I put Old Minnie in a plastic tub on her own. Then I called my neighbor…who got rid of his snake. So now I was stuck with three mice. And not long after that, I was stuck with five mice, thanks to my friendly neighborhood PetCo employee who can’t tell a female mouse from a male. Yes, Minnie was a Mickey.

This sounds like another possible movie plot, wherein a kind, albeit slightly irrational, father blows up a PetCo.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

I have quite an inimitable relationship with baseball. I know the legends of baseball, but I couldn’t tell you their statistics. I recognize the names of some major league baseball teams, but I couldn’t tell you the name of one, single, major league player. I don’t even have a favorite team…but when I attend a baseball game – minor or major league – I feel more patriotic than anything else I do.

Maybe it’s the small-town feel that accompanies a minor league game: A sense of a community coming together. Maybe the nostalgia that comes with it since communities are all but non-existent, and “coming together” certainly isn’t on their agenda if they do exist. Maybe it’s the history of baseball, identified as an American sport, developed at a time when the people of this country were patriotic. They believed in an American dream. They were kinder to each other. Baseball was a commonality between neighbors, cities, states, and the country.

Maybe it’s the movies about baseball. Films that use baseball as a backdrop against the protagonist’s journey appeal to me on a personal level. I don’t know why, really. It’s the story of the hero that leaves an impression on me, and not the game of baseball, but somehow the two are intertwined.

Whatever it is about the sport that evokes the emotions that it does in me, they were heightened when my son Garren took an interest in the sport. I came home from work one day, about two years ago, and Garren asked me to play catch with him in the backyard. Garren was four years old at the time and had received a baseball glove from Santa that Christmas. But to my knowledge, he had never really put it to use, other than using it as a prop as he acted out parts of The Sandlot.

I agreed to go play catch with him because he’s my son and I love him. Not because I expected a great game of catch. If anything, I expected a great game of “fetch,” wherein I would throw the ball, Garren would fetch it, he would “throw” it to me, I would fetch it, and on we would go until dinner was ready.

We walked into the backyard and assumed our posts. I turned and looked at him, waiting there for me to throw the ball. He had his glove up in the air, and a colossal smile on his face. He couldn’t wait to play. He looked like the sweetest kid. I threw the ball to him – overhand, even – and, as if the muses of baseball were watching over him, Garren followed the ball with his eyes until he stuck his glove up to meet it. That ball landed right in his glove, with that beautiful echo of a ball hitting a mitt. It was the best sound I had ever heard. Garren was so ecstatic, but so cool about it, he just plucked it out of his glove and threw it back to me. Right back to me. I caught the ball in my glove and threw it back to him. He caught it again. It was no fluke, ladies and gentlemen.

Well, two years later he is finally playing Little League. And my daughter, Abbie, is playing on the same team. She is the only girl on a team of thirteen little hairless boys. If this were a Disney sports movie, she would be the stereotypical female fish-out-of-water character that is at first disregarded by her teammates and dismissed by her coach, only to then impress her coach and teammates with her athletic abilities and woo our hero/team captain with her feminine charm and wily flirtations. Then there’s an awkward pre-teen kiss at the end of the movie, after they’ve pulled together as a team and won the championship.

But we won’t be seeing any such kiss at the end of our baseball season. On our first day of practice Abbie ran to second base without getting tagged by the second baseman, who was holding the ball. The first baseman came running over and said, “He won’t tag you out … because he thinks you’re hot!” Abbie was recounting this story for me, and judging by her face, she is 23% flattered, 67% offended, and 10% confused by these new feelings.

The week before the first game the coach asked if I would be willing to serve as his Assistant Coach. He singled me out, no doubt, because of my expressed interest in the intricacies of America’s greatest pastime, and my unmatched knowledge of the game. You could argue it might have something to do with him asking, “Are there any parents planning to attend all the games?” at which point I raised my hand and he said, “You, Dad, I need you to be an assistant coach.” Then he belched and patted his beer belly. I think we are going to be close friends, Coach Bob and I.

The day of our first game arrived, and we were first up to bat. I took my place on the field as First Base Coach. My job, as it was explained to me, was to stand by First Base and, with league-issued aircraft-landing lights, guide the kids into first base after they hit the ball. I’m kidding of course, my job was never explained to me. Unless you count Coach Bob grunting and pointing at First Base as my explanation. And I do.

I’m not going to lie to you people, my kids are remarkable hitters. Not so much with distance, but with consistency. They have fantastic hand-eye coordination, and as I watched them hit in practice I took comfort in sensing I wouldn’t have any anxiety while watching them bat in a game. That is, until they actually played in a game.

My stomach was in knots as the game started. What have I done? Have I set up my children to fail? Have I set them up for public ridicule? Will this single game cause me thousands of dollars in therapy as they grapple with the emotional harm I’ve incurred upon them at the tender, vulnerable ages of 6 and 8 years old?

My fears were put to rest when Garren stepped up to the plate and immediately knocked out a base hit. He ran up to me at first base and said, “Dad, this is so much fun! Can I play it all year?” He proceeded to run to second, then third. And then Abbie was up to bat. She hit another base hit and ran to first base, while simultaneously allowing her brother to run across home plate. The first run of the season, the first run ever for Garren, made possible by his sister. It will be years before something replaces this moment as one of my Top Favorite Kid Moments.

On the national list of Best First Base Coaches, I’m not sure where I rank. I was stellar at remembering the kids names, giving them high-fives for making it to first base, and removing their batting helmet and handing it off to the next batter without inappropriately mussing up the kid’s hair, as I am wont to do with my own children.

My only weakness made itself known if my own kid was on the field. Many were the times some kid would hit the ball and instead of making eye contact with him and having him follow me in to first base, I would be yelling at Abbie or Garren to run from second to third, or from third to home. The kid batting was suddenly of no interest to me. It could have been a monkey running to first base.

The kids weren’t particularly interested in the score throughout the game, but everyone was excited to have won at the end, a 10 to 4 victory. I felt especially pleased at the outcome. Not necessarily the points, but the fact that my kids felt a little more positive about life, a little more self-assured. Also because I can now put “First Base Coach” on my resume.