Fluffy Life Decisions

The average adult makes over thirty thousand decisions each day. The vast majority are trivial. Nobody lives and dies based on how many toilet paper squares you grab. But life will inevitably give rise to weightier choices. What’s my career? Where shall I live? Should I marry this person? What about children? And not necessarily at the top, but decidedly important: Should we get a dog? After all, we’re still living with that same choice we made 16 years ago.

I’m fascinated by how humans make important decisions. Machines might follow a logical path to conclusion but we have this wonderful element called emotion. For my mother and her lineage, the measured purchase of a single television may draw out across years, encompassing countless hours of research and intense debate at holiday gatherings. Conversely, a Chapman could be headed for Oklahoma tomorrow with a trailer ready to go all-in on a random new hobby they just heard about today. This has historically put me at the precarious crossroads of being a collateral beneficiary of Dad’s super fun toys while also agreeing with my mother that it was a silly thing for a person to spend money on.

Allison and I are a balance of these two extremes. One of us will bring up an idea half-jokingly. We’ll both say “not right now” and brush it off. Then, after a few weeks, if it survives incubation, we’ll start texting links to nudge each other. This is when we enter the research phase. A final decision is then rendered by whoever cares the most. In this particular case, that would be the person choosing to light his free time on fire in order to mind a puppy.

We recently saw friends who have made many children and therefore don’t get over to our house as much as they used to. The husband saw our seventy-pound mix breed and asked what the dog’s name was. When I told him it was Lucy, he exclaimed “THIS IS THE SAME DOG!?” Yep, now 112 dog years in, she’s trucking along against all odds. We had Lucy prior to the girls being born, so it has been a life of constant, unwelcomed change. In her stubborn cataract-covered eyes, our little humans do not exist unless they are holding a droppable snack. 

Worth mentioning is that we already housed two cats. Lucy didn’t care for them either. Peter, a gleaming feline poster child, makes delightful conversation and is always fun at parties. Frank, on the other hand, is beautiful but oddly mysterious. Despite their differences, this triumvirate had been relatively easy on us. Our felines are catered to by robots while Lucy sleeps and farts the day away. This is a relatively easy homeostasis to maintain.

My reasoning for expansion was three-fold. For starters, the girls could use a companion that would grow up with them and evoke some character-building responsibility. Secondly, while we await the inevitable with our old girl, she’d prove to be a chill role model for a young impressionable pup. Lastly, out of pure selfishness, I wanted a friend to take along for outdoor adventures. The timing was good, if that is ever possible. 

There is always this moment of recognition when I’m about to do something with large implications. A hotness starts to throb in my ears and then radiates throughout until a thin veneer of sweat begins to form. Whether the setting is a car dealership, a negotiating table or the checkout line at Costco, I have this semi-helpless feeling that the freight train is in motion and all I can do is mentally buckle up. On that beautiful summer morning in Albertville, Alabama I found myself with a whole bunch of furry adoptable cuteness running around. The heat was coming.

How does one choose a best friend? I had already narrowed my dog preferences to male, under seventy pounds and the regular allergenic kind. Fluff is my jam and we have the good Roomba. In surveying options available within these boundaries, my mind naturally went into risk assessment mode. While the hopeless romantic in me couldn’t rule out an instant soulmate connection, statistics favor the middle of the pack. An overly friendly and outgoing guy was cut. As was the little goober who hid in the back, repeatedly getting stuck in precarious positions. Two of the more independent chaps were selected to move on to the holding phase. From there, I Facetimed Allison for input, but the signal isn’t great in Albertville. I was on my own for a final verdict.

Unlike our haphazard adoption with Frank, I was prepared this time with all the things a proper puppy could need. The crate was decked out and Lando Norris Chapman (a name I pre-selected) slipped easily onto a bed made for kings. A pitiful whimper rang out from the back as we drove away from the only home he’d known for two months of life, but Lando settled in for a nap after only a few minutes. My nerves calmed considerably. This was a good sign.

You always remember day one. Everything is new. Normal is thrown out the window while our new paradigm materializes. Not having had a puppy since rearing two human children, I recall scoffing at those who couldn’t stay anywhere for more than an hour because of a silly dog back at home. In a flash, we are those people.

Children are great for helping devalue all the stuff in your house. We’ve seen some wild oopsies over the course of nine years. There’s the incident when our television was busted with a teddy bear. Or that time we learned never to leave a Sharpie sitting around. A day will eventually come when we can finally invest in quality household appointments, but today is not that day. With Lando, however, we were playing a whole new ballgame. I can’t ever recall Maggie eating parts of our actual house.

The chaos of potty training was totally expected. Razor sharp teeth, crazy puppy energy and a short attention span dialed up a cocktail of sheer madness. I would run into the bathroom for what cyclists term a “nature break.” Meanwhile, young Lando would be nibbling away on a tasty door frame. My head was on a perpetual swivel as our entire coterie adjusted. Thought previously to be impossible, Lucy was even more annoyed. The cats were genuinely displeased. Even the enthusiasm of our girls waned as their bite wounds grew in number. Then, to make things more interesting, Allison left the country for a week…

This puppy thing was, after all, my idea. I knew the schedule and had my usual steely-eyed resolve when staring down seven days as an only parent. Normally I would ratchet up the fun a notch so our kids will like me more - offering science experiments, arcades, fun dinners and such. Not this time. In between soccer and dance commitments, we banded together to shape Lando into a respectable citizen. 

While the mayhem between puppy naps was often maddening, one couldn’t help but laugh at the little quirks that emerged as Lando’s personality blossomed. We offered a pile of toys and things to chew upon, yet an iconic yellow cup from a filthy bar in Tuscaloosa was all this pup needed. Lando would prance back to the shower, cup in mouth, so he could bark with maximum acoustics. Maddeningly, his favorite party trick was to nip the toilet paper dangling in the hallway bathroom, then joyfully gallop as far as he could before getting caught. In one go, he managed over fifty feet of run, then did all he could to suspend the reclamation project. 

As days of incessant rain hemmed us all indoors, Chapman house began to show the strain of being a very cute war zone. Areas that had previously brought me moments of peace and tranquility were now barricaded due to the mysterious gravitational pull they had on young Lando’s genitals. I aspire to a rational level of cleanliness, which also brings me joy. Less joy filled my heart, however, as I personally handled gallons upon gallons of puppy excrement. There was one touching baby parallel, thankfully, that had me getting used to the experience. Y’all are all friends, so I can admit this to you. There were several times when I was still chewing on carrots, grapes, nuts, etc. and already working a newly discovered cleanup site. Mine is always the weakest of stomachs, but maybe that’s a little love creeping in to get me through it.

Silver linings were struggling to outpace the not so great times. Three days into Allison’s trip, we reached a low point. For such moments, it was a familiar setting…on my knees in front of a toilet. This time the circumstances planting me there were more mechanical in nature - a clog that was defying both logic and reason. Lando’s toilet paper hobby had caught up with us, as had the lack of available drinking toilets for Lucy (she’s a classy gal). I had tried multiple plungers, boiling water, my own flippin’ bare hands, a coat hanger and a 6 foot plumbing snake. Sitting down had become a concept of the past, as I was either reigning in the fury or preparing battlements while the beast slept. To top it all off, our frantic movement about the house had led to several accessories being ripped clean off the walls. Two new holes in the sheetrock and a busted sliding door lay in wait. As Allison casually sipped rosé and snacked on Hungarian delights next to the Danube, I was losing my flipping mind. 

The light of a new day brought with it a cautious optimism and an increased plumping budget. Doing is the only way I know how to cope in times of crisis. For his part, Lando certainly intuited a correlation between my anger at the toilet and his actions. He sheepishly cooled his belly on our tile floor as I fished ever further into our pipes. When the clog finally let loose, I rode that serotonin boost down the hall to our assorted other projects. There’s something very empowering about spackling over your sins.

Meanwhile, we had a little dude that was starting to pick up on the lack of screams when he used the bathroom outside. Lando was trying to please us, or at least get as many reward treats as possible. The scales were tipping in a favorable direction.

On Friday morning, the girls and I were optimistic. The weekend offered a bit of relief from our hectic schedule. It also meant that we would be a complete foursome again soon. As had become typical, I leapt from bed in a rush to get Lando outside, back in to eat, then back out again before anything unwanted could exit him. The girls were fed and readied in spurts as I darted back and forth. Requiring another nature break myself, I took solace back in our master bath for a solitary minute or two. Then a tiny little howl of terror rang out, followed by frantic puppy yelps all the way down the hallway…

About sixteen years ago, the Chapman clan was gathering for a lovely afternoon at my parents’ house. Allison and I, engaged at the time, had brought Lucy over for her first meet and greet with everyone. Indy, the hosts’ lovable black labrador, greeted all guests with his usual benign disposition. Things were going swimmingly until young Lucy’s bouncy enthusiasm rubbed Indy the wrong way. One jump too many was all it took to elicit a quick bite to the face. Along with a fresh cut across her snout, Lucy’s face now bore the expression of a dog who had just realized the world was not a safe and wonderful place. Pitiful yelps lasting for minutes not only broke our hearts, but could be heard clear across Jeffferson county. She still has the scar, and frankly hasn’t been the same dog since.

Back in 2024, I burst out of the bathroom all out of sorts. The room was still dark due to our mad morning rush, but I could faintly see a ball of fluff hurriedly making its way under our bed. With Lando recovered, I checked for damage. On his snout was a massive gash, open and bleeding everywhere. His puppy heart rate was blasting out of the stratosphere, but familiar comfort was calming him down. On the bottom of his chin was another notable cut. A tiny black flake of puppy nose dangled loose in the front, creating the saddest of all visuals. 

Throughout all this, my two animal-loving children were still sitting in the kitchen, casually making their way through their respective bowls of cereal as if nothing had happened. As witnesses, they were of no use. I told them as much, but they could at least confirm that Lucy was nearby when it happened. A quick look to my right and the old girl was standing there, her graying face looking guilty as hell. 

Having paralleled the moment at hand with the scar that still sat visibly on Lucy’s face, it all felt a bit surreal. Was there some twisted canine initiation our dogs must endure in order to properly understand the real world? It pained me, however, to think of sweet Lando changing his sunny outlook. Though his shenanigans to this point had been numerous, they were at least carried out with a smile.  

Thankfully, we already had Lando’s first check up scheduled that morning with my brother-in-law. I can’t tell you how convenient it is to have a veterinarian in the family. Uncle Jason, as we refer to him in the company of our pets, glued lil’ Lando’s nose skin back together while deftly avoiding curious little nips of a completely unphased pup. Our little guy was back to his old happy-go-lucky ways, at least until Uncle Jason snuck up the back entrance for a fecal sample. I don’t know if there can be a funnier look on an animal’s face than when they get that surprise. 

With Allison back on this side of the Atlantic, we began to hit our stride. Mornings were no longer a game of high stakes traffic control. Toilet paper rolls started to feel safe again. Our nights were reliably quiet as Lando settled into the familiarity of his crate. With the girls gaining confidence, we all learned how to act more appropriately around a creature that doesn’t know any better. Once folks stopped excitedly screaming at his face, he mirrored that calmer demeanor. 

Maggie really stepped up along the way, as I hoped she would. While weathering occasional bites and scratches, she took some initiative to train young Lando. Libby occasionally picks her snack wrappers off the floor now. That warms my heart. 

While Frank has gone into almost permanent hiding, Peter doesn’t much mind cohabitating with another dog. He just sticks to higher ground these days. Lucy is greeted first by Lando each morning and you can see it in her face that maybe she thought it was all a bad dream until that point.  

Meanwhile, Allison and I are smitten. I was worried initially about Lando playing favorites in the motherly direction, but I feed him more often so you can guess where that loyalty sits at present. We’re getting much more outside time, regardless of weather conditions. This has been a welcome adjustment, except maybe for some of the neighbors who have seen me chasing a dog in my undies. After a while, you simply forget that laying in bed later on the weekend was an option. If a creature is that stoked to get started with his day, it tends to rub off on you a bit.

As for the future, our little guy will continue to grow and experience all the things that a human teenager does, just on a more extreme timeline. There will be inevitable bumps in the road. But a friend adeptly cut to the chase, asking “Would any dollar amount buy Lando back now that you’ve had him for a month? Absolutely not. He’s family now. And, while we’re talking about money, it’s time to convince Allison that we really need a bright orange Vespa with a sidecar.

Truckin'

I have been witness to much handiness over the years. There is a diploma in my closet that belies a thorough understanding of physics. The spectacular nature in which I can fail at simple tasks, however, can sometimes baffle all comers. If we’re self-analyzing, I would pin much of my failure on the desire to do things without assistance. Such stubborn resolve tends to get hella dangerous when heavy, sharp or moveable (bonus if you have all 3!) implements are involved. 

I wonder how much of this hubris can be chalked up to genetics. The Chapman men, while being noted do-it-yourselfers, have a long history of getting in over our heads. Impressive failure is quite effective as a primary teaching method, plus the stories are lit. Fireworks, believe it or not, can set your cousin on fire if used incorrectly. If there is a tornado in the area, don’t leave shelter to “go have a look.” When sharing a boat with another fishing enthusiast, it’s best to hook the fish instead of your compatriot's face. Sure you could simply be told this, or you could be witness to the barb stuck in uncle Pat. Tell me what method is more impactful.

With so many memorable life lessons stored away, you’d think I would simply know better by now.

Over lunch on Tuesday, I had the pleasure of catching up with two long-time friends. They asked how I fill my days since taking a break from work. Instead of listing out things, I instead opted for the weighted priorities. Number one: keep my family happy. For this week, completing that directive meant that I would be renting a trailer from U-Haul and trucking some cargo for  our Labor Day vacation. This was a perfectly reasonable request. 

Vehicle purchases are an area where I devote oodles of thought. I hear people say they are not car people, and that’s a perfectly fine way to be. Especially with younger children, that thing in the driveway can seem like a rolling trash can simply delivering utility. The default in my neck of the woods for any red-blooded male is a big ass truck or truck-adjacent SUV. Because I wear a lot of Patagonia hats and prefer something sportier, this season of life finds me in a Subaru Ascent. My tow hitch is such a de-prioritized feature that it lives hidden behind a piece of plastic that masks as bumper. Subaru people are, by and large, more apt to use it as a way to attach assorted racks for carrying all of their outdoorsy paraphernalia. 

Someone once told me that the largest U-Haul location, by size, happens to be the one closest to my house. The acres of pavement abut a Red Lobster, which my firefighter friend has seen the kitchen of and accordingly refuses to eat there. This is not a block we are eager to put on the poster. Yet such convenience does afford ample opportunity to fill one’s American belly with unlimited shrimp while figuring out what to do with all your extra stuff. When I pulled out of the U-Haul Store successfully attached to my five by nine-foot rig, there was a fury of rattling metal at every transition, but otherwise smooth sailing until the final stretch.

My mother spent over forty years in the insurance industry and regularly reminds us that almost 80% of car accidents happen within 15 miles of home. Statistically, we spend most of our time in that range, so it makes sense. The familiarity of everything can also cause us to put our guard down. I am constantly dodging walkers, scooter children, a cat named Mowgli who occasionally pops out of drains and (notably) some very hazardous bumps down the stretch. We like to say that if you can make it out of the neighborhood, then the rest of your adventure should be a piece of cake.

If you are unfamiliar with the City of Vestavia Hills, where we live, the name is a solid clue what you are in for topographically. There is not a flat place in which to park a trailer. But I had to immediately turn the ship around and pick up the kids from school, so I thought it best to drop it in the driveway real quick. First mistake.

I hopped out and disconnected, figuring I could make short work of it by simply walking twelve hundred rolling pounds into place on our flat-ish parking pad out front. It instantly started building speed when loosened and I knew where things were quickly headed. Our steep yard would only assist in adding momentum and from there it was full speed ahead all the way down to our minister’s house. 

At the last possible moment, I lunged forward and pushed the tongue as hard as I could in a perpendicular direction to the hill. Mercifully, the trailer turned back uphill and came to a precarious stop in the front yard. I said some things that my mother wouldn’t be proud of as I surveyed the scene. Sweat rolled down across a pair of dusty scraped hands. The whole front of my big toe had been skinned and that was starting to bleed like crazy, because of course I had sandals on for this adventure. Side note - I’m the guy who will happily point out every knucklehead pressure washing, lifting things or chopping with open-toed footwear, but I’m just as dumb. The skinned toe was a nice compliment to the one on my other foot that I had broken doing laundry a week previous. Dear reader, I live an extreme life.

After some further salty language, a little bit of ingenuity and a change of clothes, the trailer was parked somewhat safely on the street and loaded with a dining room table I really should have asked for help with. 

Early the next morning, I loaded in the last of our items then lined up to reconnect the Subaru. Not surprisingly, this did not go well. With a full load and no handy jack in place to steady the tongue, it started rolling on me again. For sure I was ready this time with a few well-placed wheel chocks, but the dance of moving them a little, then repositioning the hitch was maddening. When I finally succeeded, I was once again drenched in sweat. For some reason, the clamp didn’t seem to be screwing down as far as it had previously. After some furious attempts at tightening it as much as possible, I attached the chains, connected lights and started off down the hill.

I was still descending when one wheel hit a deep rut and the other caught a different one. In one of the more terrifying things I’ve witnessed in my rearview mirror, the trailer removed itself from the hitch and took a course independent of the vehicle. In a panic and with pedestrians on the road ahead of me, I stopped. The trailer slammed into the Subaru with a sickening thud. 

Believe it or not, my driving record is impeccable. I’ve never been in an accident while behind the wheel. The sound and force that came through the chassis, however, sounded expensive. I stepped out to survey the damage. One of the walkers who had witnessed the scene asked “Do you need help!?” before qualifying with “I wouldn’t know what to do here but I can call someone for you.” I must have looked a treat, sweat-dampening the third shirt that morning with assorted cuts on my hands.

Through some miracle of miracles, the front of the trailer had dropped right before impact, missing the bodywork entirely. It had glanced off the connection hardware before ramming into, get this, the spare tire. There were some superfluous plastic pieces up underneath that had seen better days, but they would all be hidden from view when I eventually reattached the bumper cover. Instead of using my still shaking hands to call Allison, I instead put it all back together (correctly this time) and carried on my way as if nothing had happened.

The rest of my cautious and solitary trip provided plenty of time for introspection. I’m not one to live life with regrets, but yeesh the previous twenty-four hours had been an unnecessarily wild ride. Certainly, my age requires that more patience and thoughtfulness be employed in dangerous situations. How lucky am I that disaster struck within walking distance of my house and with no lasting damage? What if this had all played out on the interstate just a few miles later?

As my journey came to a close, The Grateful Dead’s “Touch of Grey” fittingly was the last song to play. When Jerry Garcia sings “Every silver linings got a touch of grey” I instinctively stroke my sideburns, which are starting to betray the future color of my mostly brown hair, knowing I’ve probably just accelerated the process a bit. I continue on, dear reader - not particularly wiser but possibly better prepared against my own future stupidity.

You're Really Growing On Me

Thanks to the internet, I can tell you exactly what I was doing on the evening of April 8, 2004. My college roommate and I ditched afternoon classes so we could drive up to the Tabernacle in Atlanta and attend one of the most entertaining concerts of all time. 

The Darkness was a hot new British glam rock band with one album to their name, but oh what an album it was. Among their hit singles on Permission to Land was a song titled “Growing On Me,” a super catchy tune. It also served as a rather honest real life account of lead singer and guitarist Jonathan Hawkins’ troubles with herpes. 

While a raucous crowd sang along with the choral call and response of “You’re really growing on me. Or am I growing on you!?” the zipper on Hawkins’ leather jumpsuit malfunctioned and we were all witness to the tattooed flames emanating from his crotchal region. A Union Jack was swiftly pulled from atop the speakers and stuffed down in the offending area, but we were already rolling in the aisles already with laughter.

I don’t hear Growing on Me often these days. When it does pop up on an old playlist, I’m teleported back to that night in 2004 and crack a smile. But I also still appreciate the age-old philosophical ponderance of the song. Who really is in charge? And when does the parasite become the host?

In April I left a job that served to largely define who I was and had been for over a decade. If my team was getting acquainted with a potential partner or customer, my bosses wouldn’t hesitate to introduce me simply as Chappy (many thought that was actually my first name) and drop a nugget about my involvement since the very early days. I can’t say I minded this. People love a good origin story, and I was proud to be a part of it.

But here we are four months later and that former life is feeling a bit distant. While I’m tempted to say something cliche like “that part of me is missing” I’d be better served to ask “Who am I, really?” If you pull back the superficial egoic layers that have accumulated over time, what is left? Simply put, what ideas do I cling to so tightly that they have started getting in the way of personal growth?    

I lean heavily on consistency and predictability. A well-maintained schedule is my jam. We Chapmans eat dinner at exactly 6pm every night. Why? A long time ago, my wife casually indicated that time sounded good to her. After years of dogged adherence, this evening routine is now ingrained in my bones - to the point where food regularly hits the table at six and zero seconds, even without the aid of a clock.

While you might place such obsessive dedication in the good column, I could share plenty of examples of where this need for comfort and consistency quickly turns unhealthy. A type of madness develops where my mind is constantly yearning for that next warm embrace of familiarity in the day, that little hit of adrenaline when I check another predictable box. I also hardly ever pivot with a positive attitude. Throw a change into my snug little world and you’ll get a look that says “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?”

Bob Goff is an author, lawyer and humanitarian who is one of my favorite personalities. Bob has a few interesting quirks. For instance, he always wears a Boston Red Sox cap (for a friend that died of cancer) and lists his personal phone number publicly so people can call him (I actually did this and had a lovely chat). Another is that every Thursday, Bob chooses something to give up. This could be literally anything - from a personal habit to a project, involvement or business venture.

Why does Bob insist on this constant change? Because he understands the impact that attachment can have. The love and want of material things is a pretty noticeable indiscretion. We can see that impact on our bank accounts, as well as our closets and storage units. But what about the simple ideas that start to trap us over time? I’ve had a bit of fun channeling this mindset - indulging in a bit of self reflection and simply asking why I do pretty much everything. Let’s rip off that band-aid. 

Exhibit 1: So Long, Large Hunk of Meat

Food has always had an outsized presence in my life. I will spend hours a day planning future meals and reliving the delights of dishes past. As much as I love it, though, we’re still talking about “feces in waiting” as a famous Canadian chef put it on Parts Unknown. It’s perfectly OK to celebrate food, but in a measured and intelligent way.

The American plate, like many things in this country, is a bit over the top compared to the rest of the world. I find that to be quite selfish of us, especially since it doesn’t seem to be working for our waistlines. My entire consumptive life has featured a sizable hunk of meat with a little bit of vegetables (usually from a can or fried) thrown in to fill the remaining space. If the rest of the world carried on like this, there wouldn’t be enough dead animals to go around. 

I could continue along, putting this thought in the far reaches of my mindspace, leading my family down an unsustainable (and pretty unhealthy) path of endless chicken tenders and cheeseburgers. Or, I could put on my big boy pants and get to cooking a more comprehensive offering of vegetables, grains, fruits and nuts. Anything coming fresh out of the garden gets priority vs. what our discriminating palates might have historically found on Doordash.

I’m a month into this new routine and it has made a big difference in my overall energy, along with growing our family recipe library. This simple change has reawakened my imagination a bit, while simultaneously helping fuel…

Exhibit 2: Outside Time

Having moved across state lines at the age of 14, I don’t have many people in my current life that understand how different things were for young Chappy. While goobers who haven’t visited Alabama may assume the inverse, I went from a very rural situation to the type of suburbia where they give you floor plans to choose from. For ten years in the tiny town of Senoia, Georgia, my parents would encourage us to get lost in the fifty acres we shared with my Grandmother. There was a pond, trails, wide open fields and all kinds of wildlife. I loved it. 

There are people who take comfort in the hum of city life and proximity to their human neighbors, but it still gets to me occasionally. I’ll pass another huge parking lot with two cars in it and get pissy about how much better that would have been as a park. But this is the same guy who has started to count watching soccer on our screened in porch as “nature time.” I live in fear that Patagonia is going to come for all the stuff I’ve bought and REI will revoke my membership for being a fraud.

It makes sense that so much of our days are spent in the comfort of the indoors. We’ve outsmarted bugs, inhospitable temperatures, rain and such. If comfort is the sole aim, however, we’re on a fast track to Wall-E playing out in real life. 

In an effort to get reacquainted with the out-of-doors, I have been leaving the house in search of trails and hills. I participated in my first legit trail race in over five years this Saturday - a test here in the summer heat of Alabama called Ridge to Blazing Ridge. I got so close to nature during my quiet two hours in the woods that I was digging bits of it out of my shoulder afterward.

It has also helped my sanity to simply walk out the front door and down the street whenever I have a break in the schedule or need a reset moment. Rather than putting exercise and nature in their own little boxes to check, I’m getting reacquainted with the idea that one can simply go outside for fun and get lost in it.

Exhibit 3: Why So Serious?

We had a few whole family beach trips this summer that churned up my childhood nostalgia. I can’t recall exactly when it stopped, but I recall goofing off as much with the adults as I did the kids in our family. We played sports, had rollicking adventures and were constantly on the move. There wasn’t a screen anywhere.

Nobody knows how, but eventually I transitioned from adolescent to adult. All fine and good there, but the shenanigans largely stopped. On our more recent trip, I put the beach beers aside and delved into the activities that I had long since ascribed to the younguns. Boogie boarding is dope, as are scooters, sandcastles, beach bikes and games. Despite the heat and bugs, I successfully drug the entire family outside for an evening croquet match.

As the person who generally does not have a hard and fast obligation with the workweek rolls around, it should be my civic duty to get the party going for everyone else. As a solid first step, I’m now the social chair for our neighborhood organization. They gave me a very respectable budget and plenty of autonomy to get real weird with it.

Exhibit 4: Wabi Sabi

There’s a natural rhythm and flow to life. Though I consider myself a competent percussionist, it seems I often miss the beat because I’m forcing my own tempo. This is why I can’t bear to serve up a 6:30 dinner, go on a spontaneous trip or try out a different hairstyle. I like controlling my own little world. It makes me feel safe and snug living in this illusion that I am in charge.  

This nagging need historically manifests itself in anger when things don’t go my way. My head explodes, leading to worry that needn’t exist in the first place. More than anything, I want to savor the moment for whatever that moment brings. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. I want my kids to learn to live that way too. 

It hurts my heart a little when the girls say things like “I can’t wait to be older.” My thoughts were the same at their age and the mentality has never stopped. Here I am at forty, finally realizing each day is a blessing. Meanwhile, I’m walking circles around the kitchen island trying to get my steps in while the girls lounge away watching cartoons. It’s time to break the cycle.

The stories, experiences and growth opportunities are here for the taking. It’s time to shed some compulsive layers - finding freedom in loosening the grip a bit.

Life is never going to be perfect, but it always has a sense of humor. Allow the real you to shine and have a good laugh about it all.

The Scientific Method

Allison takes several extended trips each year, leaving the remaining three of us to goof off in her stead. The girls and I have naturally designated these periods as “daddy daughter fun week.” While I love my wife dearly, I also look forward to this time and the creative test of entertaining my littles. And we make quite the mess. 

One constant on our agenda is the egg drop competition. This elementary school staple was one of my favorites back in the day, as a fun introduction to problem solving and experimentation. You can instantly see it light up their little brains when I spread the materials out, hand them their egg and let them get after it. The problem as of late is that they have mastered the game. Our eggs generally have no reason for concern. 

As a juicy twist for this year’s competition, I declared the winner would be the one with the lightest successful payload. A kitchen scale was produced so they could measure their creations out to the gram and whittle down to only necessary weight. Challenge accepted, but Maggie couldn’t resist adding googly eyes to her vessel, christened Dr Egglestine. 

I couldn’t be more pleased that my children have embraced the scientific mind. With the likes of Mark Rober, Emily’s Wonder Lab, How to Win at Everything and other fairly pure educational programming, they have access to more engaging content than I could have ever dreamed of at that age. They have built robots, learned the basics of coding, studied the microscopic and interstellar alike. I know it’s standard procedure to have little faith in the next generation but unlimited knowledge is at their miniature fingertips. With some halfway decent parental guidance, who knows how far they’ll go.

Being a scientist inherently is an admission that one does not know everything. You start with a hypothesis and through the crucible of testing, measuring and analyzing, arrive at a conclusion that is supported by evidence. The edge of discovery is moving constantly, so there will always be a challenge to what we think we know. As Anthony Bourdain humbly admitted “It seems that the more places I see and experience, the bigger I realize the world to be. The more I become aware of, the more I realize how relatively little I know of it, how many places I have still to go, how much more there is to learn.”

We are well into summer at this point. “I’m bored” is a phrase that has popped up a few times already, but what I keep reminding our household is that we are constructing our own barriers to fun and growth. Go outside. Look around. We’re spinning around at a thousand miles per hour on a big hunk of spherical rock that just happens to have the perfect atmosphere and temperature for our existence. It’s a miracle you are even on this planet because the odds of you being born are in the neighborhood of one in 400 trillion. The pep talks at Chapman HQ are really strange, I know. 

In the last few weeks, the girls have used scientific rigor to figure out what animal has been sneaking onto our back porch for snacks (red fox), what kitchen items work best to catch fruit flies (bowl, vinegar, saran wrap with small holes in the top) and how to make your own non-Newtonian fluid while creating the biggest mess possible. As I type this, Maggie is on the back porch grinding black pepper on our plants to see if it will mitigate pests organically. This is the kind of stuff that makes my heart sing, even if some deep cleaning follows. I can spout off fun facts until I’m blue in the face and they can ask our myriad devices any question that comes to mind, but the voyage of discovery will always resonate more.

Stay curious, my friends. And don’t forget to keep a pair of googly eyes handy, just in case.

Maggie somehow got ahold of a red fox print to compare. She included her foot for scale.

The Family Motto

(The voice of a small human heard from across the house)

“No, Maggie! Stop! Gimme! It’s mine!”

My youngest is still in her church outfit and we’re already being covetous again. I give my wife the “I’ll take this one” look and project my voice down the hallway.

“Jesus never said Gimme! It’s Mine!”

I thought this life lesson might fall on sympathetic ears. The Sunday school content was still ringing in their little heads. I am no biblical scholar, but felt safe not consulting Google for historical accuracy.

When it comes to helpful texts concerning our particular situation, however, the Bible does have a few glaring omissions. To start, there is a lack of content concerning little Jesus. Surely Mary and Joseph had it easy, but I’d like some examples of a sinless childhood. Would Jesus throw a temper tantrum and accuse his brother James of taking his stuff? We can make assumptions, but can’t be sure now can we?

From my current role as a father, it’s worth pointing out that we also don’t have “Jesus’ Guide to Parenting’ as a handy reference. That sure would clear some things up. “Honor your father and mother” is another great one to yell down the hallway, but the Old Testament is short on notes pertaining to screen time and the Internet.

Everyone has an opinion on the best methods, but we can all agree that parenting is hard. Each day brings a new adventure in this dynamic world we live in. Through the good moments and the bad, I always try to convey in our home that we’re on the same team, and on that note, will say wise things like “Chapmans always clean up after themselves” or “Chapmans don’t pick our butts in public” to instill the proper expectations and consistency for our brand.

Such quotable edicts occasionally proliferate beyond our immediate family. My niece and nephews love to spread the gospel of “Uncle Chappy always says be cool.” Instead of dogging them for lackluster behavior, it’s a lot more fun to ask them if what they are doing fits the definition of being cool. 

While I have been on this earth a good bit longer than these young ones, it is beginning to dawn on me that the management style of casting down life lessons and rigid standards from above is not always resonating. They soak up much more from how their parents act and treat other people. The whole “do as I say and not as I do” line is a lost cause. If you fart at the dinner table, don’t be surprised when your little ladies join in the fun.

While we’re in the trust tree, I have also been noticing tendencies in myself I would rather not pass along to the next generation. There’s this constant impatience with the pace of life and a jaded attitude that frankly sucks. While I plan to diversify our schedule a bit going forward, that unsettled mindset needs a new perspective. I could try to blame my problems on the unabashed consumerism and the attention economy that surrounds us, but maybe my britches have gotten too big for being curious.

And that’s where I return to the children. They have a lot to offer if we simply slow down and pay attention. Kids also say some hilarious stuff if you take a moment to listen. Jesus had plenty of content on why we should all strive to be more like them. A child looks at the world and sees possibility, nuance and a little mystery. Meanwhile, we see bills, bad drivers and weeds that need pulling.

We went through an exercise recently where our Sunday school couples were tasked with coming up with a family motto. Not one to miss a good Game of Thrones reference, I came up with “A Chapman Always Pays Their Debts.”  There were a few laughs from the collective, but let’s admit that would be pretty lame on a coffee mug. 

Upon returning home, we put the girls on the same task of crafting our motto. Libby didn’t even take a breath before yelling out “Unicorns are Real!” We of course thought that was hilarious at the time, but you know what? That’s right where I want to be. Believe that the world has more to offer than our careers, houses, cars and stock portfolios. The moment you turn on that sense of wonder, then the rest of the crap melts away.