Do You Speak in Parent Code?

Christmas time brings out the best in parents' secret-keeping skills. We downplay the degree to which we help St. Nick deliver presents. We venture into the least attended corners of our closets, drawers, and sheds to hide things we don't want our kids to find. We put on elaborate performances to trick our children into good behavior--performances that lose their power if the kids find out it's all a sham.

Image credit: Mike Roberson

My parents were expert secret keepers. If they had to discuss anything in front of us kids we weren't supposed to know about, they did it in Spanish. And that wasn't just a Christmas thing; they used their foreign language skills for everything from birthday plans to whether we should eat at McDonald's. Because once a child hears you even mention something he might like to do, you're stuck until you do it.

(This is also true of dogs. To prevent hyper rampages through our living room, we learned to never say the words walk and dog in the same sentence; we used the French marcher and chien.)

Image credit: Debi Downer

My parents' secret code evolved as we grew older. When my siblings and I got into junior high and started taking foreign language classes, my mom still spoke to my dad in Spanish but my dad responded in French. That way, no matter what language we studied, none of us caught more than half of our parents' conversations.

Pretty smart.

Now that I have children of my own, I understand more every day why parents need a special code. Saying the wrong thing--or rather, the right thing at the wrong time--can have some awful consequences when you're dealing with a child.

The Parent Code can take at least as many forms as there are children in the world.

My wife and I aren't ready to use foreign language on our kids the way my parents did. She can usually get the gist of my Spanish, but her French is worlds beyond my own. Instead, we've developed code names for our toddlers' common triggers. So, for example, if we're not ready to go yet we don't say we're going to the library; we say "book depository."

We don't verbally consider popping popcorn after dinner. We "prepare a salty, buttery refreshment."

We don't plan on watching a movie when the boys go to bed. We "enjoy visual entertainment."

The iPad is not an iPad. It's an "infernal device."

We've had to get creative, but that's the fun part of the Parent Code: inventing diverse ways to keep things from our children.

They will do it with their own kids someday. The Parent Code may change, but it always gets passed down.

Last week my mom described to me in Spanish what she bought my two-year-old for Christmas. I am now officially in the club.

Why I Suddenly Love Oatmeal

The Uinta Mountains, June 2003.

I groan and writhe inside my sleeping bag when the Scoutmaster's voice booms through camp. "Everybody up--let's go!"

My heart sinks. My whole body aches. I feel heavy and I don't remember dreaming.

I pry apart my eyelids and brush snow off of my sleeping bag. Filtered sunlight pokes in through a gap between two tarps I used for cover. I cram numb feet into wet hiking boots and join the other boys around the campfire.

Melting snow drips from the pines surrounding us as our small fire brings a pot of water to a boil. Tin cups and spoons rattle in our shaking hands, and fog rises from our mouths and nostrils while we wait for a hot breakfast.

We each get one small portion before we tear down camp and hit the trail. Each boy carries five paper oatmeal packets in his backpack--one for every day of camp. Wally, our leader, distributed them at random before we left the city; if you're lucky, you'll find something with a bit of flavor in your rations, like apple and cinnamon or maple.

I am not lucky.

I don't like oatmeal anyway, but this morning I get to choke down the flavorless "original" variety. 

Gag.

Just... no.
Image credit: CityWideSuperSlow

It's day two of my first fifty-mile hike with Wally Rupp. 

I'm cold. 

I'm wet. 

I'm smaller than my pack. 

Yesterday I threw up all along the trail.

I have never endured a worse ordeal than this hike. 

And yet, despite oatmeal for breakfast every morning, despite the aches and dirt and blisters, something will possess me to do it again. 

And again.

And again, until I look back on my teenage years and relish those hard summers with my Scout troop in the High Uinta Mountains. 

The Fifty-miler will become a highlight of each year--something I look forward to as school gets out and days grow long.

And I have Wally Rupp to thank for that.

He has led thirty-six long hikes over more than forty years as Scoutmaster. He's in his seventies when I first hike with him, and he's stronger than anyone. Through his leadership, friendship, and example, Wally will shape me throughout my adolescence into the very best version of myself.

And not just me; Wally will have more than 200 Eagle Scouts to his name before he retires from Scouting.

Now, thirteen years after that first Fifty-miler, I'm all grown up.

And much of the man I have become is thanks to Wally Rupp.

With all the training I've received in words and how to use them, I have no words to say how much I love my dear friend Wally. I'll never know how to describe my gratitude and joy at having known a man like him.

Almost three months have passed now since he died.

And dang if that wasn't the most awesome funeral I've attended. You had to show up early just to get a seat. Blue Eagle neckerchiefs all over the place. Old friends reunited--a whole roomful!

And naturally lots of tears . . . but even more laughter as we remembered our good, hard-working, generous, sometimes inappropriate, hilarious friend.

As one fellow Boy Scout put it, Wally put the fun in funeral.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

But I know you're dying to ask: what about the oatmeal?

That's why I'm writing this now.

Because, you see, the story doesn't end at Wally's funeral.

He's following me.

In packs of oatmeal.

Oatmeal reminds me of cold mornings, stiff legs, and interrupted sleep. I've never liked it. Ever since my last fifty-mile hike I've avoided any kind of oatmeal not in cookie form. 

And yet, just a little while ago, my grocery store had oatmeal on sale and I bought myself four boxes.

I don't know what came over me.

But it gets worse . . .

. . . because I ate it!

I willingly ate oatmeal. In my house. After a warm, soapy shower.

Savage.

And I loved it.

Granted, it wasn't that nasty plain stuff. But still--I loved it.

I eat oatmeal for breakfast at least once or twice a week now. Because as soon as that sweet maple flavor hits my tongue, for just a moment I can see a troop of tired Boy Scouts huddled around a fire, shivering with tin cups in hand before another long day on the trail.

And Wally's with them.

The people we love live on in how we use the things they taught us. But they also live on when we do nothing more than think of them.

When we take that drive through the old neighborhood.

When we tell our kids those stories.

When we have that bowl of oatmeal.

Oatmeal reminds me now that some of my most difficult experiences were also some of my happiest. It reminds me that the greatest destinations sometimes require the longest journeys. It reminds me that I can push myself, that I can grow, that I can be better and better every day. 

One of my favorite pictures. I worked hard to get it.

Oatmeal reminds me of Wally, who taught me all those things.

So I'll help myself to a nice hot bowl the next time I might need a boost.

Mmm . . . oatmeal.

6 Unsettling Reasons Not to Live in Lego City

As a lifelong Lego fan, I have many fond memories of friendly tabletop towns and little yellow people with perpetually smiling faces. I think most of us do.

How many of us have dreamed of shrinking down to minifigure size and inhabiting our toy utopia? 

I sure have. 

Lego is happy. Lego is safe. Who wouldn't want to live in a world like that?

Well, take those rose-colored glasses off, because here's some real talk: moving to a place like Lego City is pretty much the worst thing you can do.

Don't believe me? Here are six reasons you should stay away from the alleged plastic paradise:

1. Crime in Lego City is Sky High

Chris Malloy describes Lego City as "the world's most crime-ridden city." Indeed, of the seventeen Lego City sets revealed so far for 2017, eight feature police locked in intense, improbable chases--just a few to add to a list of Lego police sets already pages long.

I have no problem with police. But why does Lego City need so many?

To manage a gigantic population of bold, resourceful criminals, that's why.

In 2017 alone, we'll see an ATM blown apart with dynamite, a bulldozer busting out the wall of a bank, and a tow truck driver making off with a giant safe. And that's only the start.

Just a day in the life of a Lego citizen.

This seriously happens every single day here.
Image credit: The Brothers Brick

And here's something else that should trouble you about these miscreants: they're all wearing jailbird stripes.

As in, they've all broken out of jail. Every one of them.

But that's not hard when the city police station comes built with easy escapes: trapdoors, collapsing walls, and probably a police mole or two. And don't expect anyone to do anything about it. This has been a problem at least since 1995, when Lego police chased a minifig officially named Jailbreak Joe.

You don't get a name like that without a reputation.

Too easy.
Image credit: The Brothers Brick

But if you don't mind the high crime rate, you should at least consider that:

2. Chances Are Your House Will Burn Down

Next to law enforcement, firefighting is the most common profession in Lego City. Either minifigs can't turn off the dang stove, or there's a serious problem with arson.

"This is our third fire today. Let's take a group photo in front of it!"
Image credit: Brickset

Based on the crime rate, I'd say arson. Minifigs are horrible, horrible people.

3. Construction Will Drive You Insane

Every city has construction. And everybody hates it.

In Lego City, construction never stops (probably due, in part, to all the fires). Construction Lego sets are nearly as constant as police and fire sets.

For Lego locals, that means a life full of stopped traffic, closed sidewalks, and hard hats.

Arson keeps these guys in a job.
Image credit: Brickset

4. Lego City Sorely Undervalues Education

If you want to send your kids to a good school--or any school--Lego City is not the place to do it. Locals have precious few options for education: either they can travel to the high school in neighboring Heartlake City, open an interdimensional portal to the Elvendale School of Dragons, or take a literal dive and enroll in Mrs. Puff's Boating School.

Is it any wonder, then, that out of a sample population of 121 minifigs over the course of seven years, only one graduated from an accredited institution? That's an embarrassing 0.8% graduation rate.

This guy has an amazing resume just for showing up.
Image credit: Lego Asia

And museums? There isn't a single museum in Lego City that isn't either getting robbed or under investigation by the gang from Scooby Doo.

Stay in school, kids. Don't move to Lego City.

5. You'll Probably Have a Heart Attack and Die

Burgers and pizza have reigned supreme in Lego City ever since the Hamburger Stand set up shop in 1983. Pizza even became such an iconic part of the Lego universe that the plot of the 1997 computer game Lego Island revolved around using the delicious plastic pies to recapture an escaped convict.

In hindsight, this game made zero sense.
Image credit: Reddit

Lego citizens never saw their first apple until 1997. But pizza still goes strong: in 2017, Lego City will be getting a brand new pizza van.

What can I say? Minifigs love their greasy food. It's just too bad they probably won't get any medical attention: only four viable Lego hospitals have been released since the 1970's.

"Maybe you should lay off the pizza."
"Maybe you should shut up."
Image credit: Brickset

6. Everyone Wants to Leave

If there's one thing Lego City knows how to do, it's aviation.

They've got airports for days.

They've got more airports than hospitals.

They've got more airports than schools.

It would make you think Lego City was some kind of tourism hot spot. And you would think wrong.

Lego City needs a lot of airports because everybody wants to leave.

Just look at the box art for any old airplane Lego set. Any plane that's in the air is taking off.

Check it out:

These lucky folks are leaving.
Image credit: Brickset

These ones, too!
Image credit: Brickset

Away they go!
Image credit: Brickset

You don't see this so much in newer sets. Most new Lego airplanes are shown on the ground, loading and unloading passengers and cargo.

Don't believe it for a second. It's propaganda.

Because the powers that reign over Lego City don't want you to leave.

They want to lull you into thinking all is well in their town.

But once you set foot there, nothing will be well for you ever again.

Why Finishing My Novel Scares Me

Confession time:

I've spent over half my life writing the same novel.

Of course by now I suppose it's not really the same novel. I think the only things I haven't changed are the first names of the main protagonist and, like, one minor character. And maybe a little bit of background information.

But essentially it's been the same project.

For sixteen years.

And would you believe it all started with one tiny Lego piece?

I'm not even exaggerating here.

One piece. Sixteen years of writing.

You did this to me, little Lego piece!
Image credit: eBay

When I was eleven I stuck a keypad to the gate of my Lego Night Lord's Castle (still a favorite) and got a story idea: What if two warring factions traveled back in time to give their past selves advanced technology and the upper hand?

This story had everything: two vastly different time periods, a stolen time machine, spaceships, castles, Tolkien-scale armies, gods and goddesses, a giant cannon that blows up the planet. Everything. I even started animating a movie because you just can't hold so much epicness in a book.

Looking back, it was pretty bad. But my story evolved as I evolved. Year by year, little by little, the story changed as I adjusted details--added a character here, dropped a scene there.

Ironically, time travel was one of the first things cut from the story. The plot shifted its focus from my original idea to the rise of a charismatic, vengeful clone super soldier; then to a war over monopolized energy; then to government-regulated life expectancy and reincarnation (which I may revisit eventually).

Needless to say, it's been a wild ride.

Now my story follows a disillusioned government agent who joins a movement to restore humanity to an abandoned world.

It looks nothing like what I started with. But this is the version I will finish. This is the version I want to publish.

It has to be. If I want to write books for a living, I simply can't spend half a lifetime on just one story anymore. And I have so many other ideas I want to play with, too!

So I took a month off of blogging to participate in NaNoWriMo and finally push this story all the way out.

And I didn't write a single page of my millionth rough draft.

I spent my November differently than other WriMo participants. While some of my writer friends stressed about daily word counts and overdosed on caffeine, I opened up a spreadsheet and broke my story down scene by scene until I had a final, detailed outline--another milestone I'd never reached before.

It really helped me to spend November focused on planning. Now I'm ready.

I'm ready to get this story out, once and for all.

I'm ready to flesh out my childhood dream and finish the adventure of a lifetime.

. . . But I can't help but be a little scared.

I can't help but ask what if.

What if I keep getting new ideas for this story?

What if my characters have something else to do?

What if I don't know how to write an ending?

I've retreated into this story's world practically every day since I was eleven. Though their names and roles have changed, I've known these characters longer than I've known the vast majority of my real friends.

How can I let my story out into the world? How will I know it's finished?

Image credit: You Know You're a Writer When...

I think fear of finishing freezes most writers at some point. We want to publish perfection. We edit and edit and edit some more, and some of us never take the plunge and push "Submit."

I don't have a cure for that.

But I can remind myself to determine which ideas make my story better and which ones only make it different.

I can flesh my characters out the best I know how, build momentum through the beginning and middle of the story, and burst into the finale with guns blazing.

I have to tell myself every single day that now is the time. No one's going to read the book I never write. This is what that story idea was born to do.

And I'm excited--because now is the time.