The whole deal has really thrown me for a loop. It’s pointless to try and explain why — in fact, I’m not 100% certain I understand, myself. Or, actually, maybe I do understand, and I’m just ashamed.

A friend emailed and asked: What happens when your dog tears his ACL?

What happens, I answered, is you’ll shell out three bingos and your dog’ll go under the knife.

OH. And your four-year-old boys’ll wanna go to the vet with you, only the trip’ll turn into a dark one when they see Daddy’s eyes gloss over with an emotion they can’t quite place when he hears the news he’d predicted. And they’ll do their best not to cry, but they’ll get a bit misty.

And you will, too, because when you get down on the cold, tile floor to hug your dog one last time before he’s taken back to be prepped for surgery, he’ll lick your face like he’s not done since he was a puppy, as if to say Despite the fact that a wife and five kids have pushed me from the fore of your consciousness, you’ve never once, not even for an instant, been pushed from the fore of mine, which’ll make you flash back to the time when you decided to become a newcomer to the hometown you thought you’d left for good, a super-fucking broken newcomer in the complicated aftermath of the death of your dad, compounded still by having intentionally blown up a lucrative white-collar career because of a nebulous and difficult-to-articulate set of ideals, armed only with a pile of cash you’d worked hard to attain and some pipe dream about becoming a writer, whatever the hell that meant, and how, during that time, a little brown puppy with a fuzzy crinkle on the bridge of his chocolate-colored nose somehow made everything okay, which’ll make you wonder how in the world it is that you could have ever taken a creature capable of such healing, capable of such steadfast and unconditional love for granted while random images pop into your mind, like the way he rode shotgun and poked his head out the sunroof and looked at the dam as you drove through the gap, or how he curled right beside you as you lay in your tent beneath the canopy of stars that shone dimly through your rainfly, basking you in a soft light that lulled you to sleep on one of the countless nights that littered the era in which camping with your dog wasn’t something that required permission.

You’ll come home from the episode downtrodden and tired, and you’ll wonder if you’re visibly upset as your four-year-old daughter runs outside to meet you before you’ve even gotten to the five large flagstones which bridge your driveway to the side door, and you’ll stand on the first of those stones and feel the warmth emanating from the sun-drenched rock, and the sensation’ll comfort you until you notice the tears streaming down your little girl’s face which’ll prompt you to open the arms she instinctively seeks, and you’ll listen helplessly once she’s jumped safely into them as she tells you in her sob-stuttered voice that all she wants is for Briggsie to come home, this, from the girl who seemingly thinks his name is Move Briggs as often as she’s bellyached about his well-intended shadowing, which’ll prompt you to ask her if she knows what taking something for granted means, and she’ll say no, and you’ll think, Well, hell, how could she if I don’t even know what it means, though you won’t say that as instead you’ll explain that it’s what you’ve all been doing to Briggs, at which point your two other triplets and your ten-year-old daughter will sit down with you and the little girl in the keeping room, where Briggs would normally have been, and you’ll all discuss this business of taking things for granted and how your faithful brown hound deserves so much better and you’ll all vow to never do that to him again, and your baby’ll be there, too, agreeing with this group decision, or so you’ll gather by the squeak he makes with his plastic giraffe, the very noise that makes Briggs point his gray-whiskered chin straight to the heavens as he forces a comical howl out of the tiny O his pursed lips have unknowingly made, which is exactly when it dawns on you how interconnected it all is, making you wonder if you would have ever found your family, if the triplets and Luke would even be alive without the silent canine council of yesteryear which you seemingly discounted if not discarded entirely once all was well.

Briggs’ll be fine, but he’ll need to take it easy for a while. We can’t wait for him to come home, though. Because the next eight weeks? They’re gonna be all about him for once.

Just like old times, no?

No problem, right? I mean, “that guy” has been there before, so just dust off a bit of charm and see what happens, right?

Wrong. Because Caroline was a single mom.

[Read More at BabbleVoice by clicking HERE]

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there. Especially you, Caroline. We love you SO much.

It’s funny — the triplets hardly even seemed to notice Briggs. But Luke? He’s all about my faithful hound. I suspect that’s because we’re always so full-steam-ahead dealing with our domestic chaos that Luke is often left to his own devices. And that’s a boat Briggs has found himself in a time or two, as well. All of this to say that I think that Briggs and Luke are developing a bond, and it’s been awfully fun to watch.

So, yeah, I guess that kinda how I stumbled upon this topic, which, you should know, is heavy on Luke pictures. Click HERE to read over at BabbleVoices.

I put something up on Babble today that kinda tickled me, primarily because it’s one of those JCO / Caroline banter deals that’s akin to watching a really good tennis rally. Check it out if you have time, but before / as you do, ponder the following riddle:

If Caroline really wants my help, then why does she put so many qualifications on it?

Click HERE to read the post on BabbleVoices.

Over the course of the past five or six years, a friend and I have been slowly but surely knocking out sections of the Appalachian Trail. Our goal is to complete the entire 2,181 miles. Last week, we finally completed the “southern leg” of the Appalachian Trail which means we’ve hiked (not in order) every step of the way from Springer Mountain to Damascus, VA–some 460 miles. If we average 100 miles per year (which we have been the past four or five trips), then we’ll finish the trail when we’re close to 60 years old–a patient man’s goal, for certain.

Within the next week, I may post a  more-detailed account of our latest trip, a three-day, rain-soaked journey which began at Unicoi Gap and ended 52 miles south at Springer Mountain. Until then, however, I thought I’d post a three-minute video of our trek for anyone interested. A constant cloud-like mist accompanied us almost the entire way, so we were short on breathtaking views. Even so, this may have been my favorite trip yet, as my friend and I were more efficient than ever, relying on our experience, perseverance and gear to make quick work of our aggressive goal (finished a half day early!) all while staying (relatively) dry, the latter, quite an accomplishment, indeed, given what the other hikers looked like! Here’s the video:

But I got one last week that struck me as different. So, for the first time ever on my blog, I’m actually doing a giveaway post because (a) there are ZERO strings attached (you don’t have to “like” an FB page, leave a comment, send a tweet, or slap your dog on the ass, etc…) and (b) it’s will allow my Ktown peeps to attend a preview of a movie that I actually want to see–one, I think the whole family might enjoy.

I’m speaking of The Pirates! Band of Misfits from Columbia Pictures. Have you heard about it yet? It features Hugh Grant in his first animated role and it looks fantastic. Check out the following synopsis:

In The Pirates! Band of Misfits, Hugh Grant stars in his first animated role as the luxuriantly bearded Pirate Captain – a boundlessly enthusiastic, if somewhat less-than-successful, terror of the High Seas.  With a rag-tag crew at his side, and seemingly blind to the impossible odds stacked against him, the Captain has one dream: to beat his bitter rivals Black Bellamy (Jeremy Piven) and Cutlass Liz (Salma Hayek) to the much coveted Pirate Of The Year Award.  It’s a quest that takes our heroes from the shores of exotic Blood Island to the foggy streets of Victorian London.  Along the way they battle a diabolical queen (Imelda Staunton) and team up with a haplessly smitten young scientist (David Tennant), but never lose sight of what a pirate loves best: adventure!

Pirates! hits movie theaters on April 27, but all you Ktown peeps can see it this upcoming Saturday, April 21st at the Regal Riviera by downloading FREE advanced screening passes (limit 4 admit-one passes). All you need to do to make this happen is visit the following website:

www.gofobo.com/rsvp

and enter the following code:

GFB34

If you don’t have an account with Gofobo.com, they will ask you to register. It takes like two seconds. Then just click on “get a pass” to download your free pass(es) to the advanced screening.

I’d see you there, but this weekend, I’ll be on a backpacking trip. Even so, I wanted to spread the word. If you know of some other folks who might want to see the film, please forward this link to them, too.

The other day, I posted a request on FB to hear from those of you who had ever experienced a profane moment courtesy of your own child. The ensuing thread was quite an enjoyable one for two reasons. First, it’s nice to know we’re not the only ones. And second, the stories were hysterical. I wish I could have used every single one of them. If you’d like to check out the ones I did use, click HERE to get to my BabbleVoices blog, JCO Multiplied.

And a huge thank you to everyone who shared a story.

Oh, and one more thing. I hope you’ll swing by this site on Monday (especially you, Ktown peeps) because I’ll have something that I think might be fun for your whole family.

Photo Credit: Flickr

C and the trips last Easter

Please don’t faint, but I’ve actually got a post for you today which I wrote for this site. No clicking over to somewhere else. Original content, I believe it’s called. I know. Shhh. Ocking. I’d like to get back into the habit of writing here more often. Maybe this is a start. I kinda like this one, but I wrote it in a stream-of-consciousness blur, so it’s a bit random. Still, a worthy effort, I believe, on this Good Friday. Here it be:

Ironic, I thought, as we drove to the Easter Egg Hunt. The rain, I meant. Only it wasn’t ironic, well, except for maybe in an Alanis Morissette kind of way, like ray- eee -ain, on your wedding day, which, incidentally, isn’t ironic at all. Bad luck to be certain. But ironic, it is not. I confuse irony more than I’d like to admit, and I blame yesteryear’s bitter songstress for said confusion, too lovesick, I suppose, to fully understand the term, that angry woman was. Still, she, she, she oughtta know.

Yet, I’m off track. Regrouping now…

So. It had been beautiful all weekend, right up to the highly anticipated event. Yet just minutes before multitudes of pint-sized basket-toters were to comb the churchyard for various confectionary delights, the heavens opened up.

You don’t have as many kids as Caroline and I have without learning the merits of “muscling through” many a thing. Shitty weather being chief among them. So when we arrived at the church to a Noah-and-the-Ark type downpour, I wasn’t too fazed. And neither were the triplets. They’d brave a lot worse than rain to fill their basket with tooth-rotting treats.

Besides, as we, along with the others, gathered inside the gym and peered through its glass doors, the rain looked as if it’d soon pass. Shortly thereafter, it did just that. That’s when we got word to line up outside for the hunt which would begin any minute. But no sooner had the children lined up than the rain came again, this time with an attitude as evidenced by its loud cracks of thunder.

My kids (and most of the others) still didn’t care. Nor would they have cared if they’d seen bolts of lightning zigzagging from the sky. The same ones that send them into DEFCON 1 meltdowns if experienced in the safety of our comfortable home. No. They’d comb every inch of a roach-infested crack house if marshmallows were part of the deal.

But, to their disappointment, the adults did care. Thus, the hunt was delayed and inside the gym we returned. It was then that Caroline and I decided to pull the plug. But just as we were making our way to the car, the rain not only stopped, but the skies had suddenly become blue as well. The storm had passed. This time for good.

So outward we went where the kids stood in line yet again. The wide smiles of the triplets’, a dead giveaway of the pride they felt at having graduated from the ranks of toddlerhood, as they were ushered away from such dependents to the part of the yard where the big kids would hunt.

But a funny thing happened when the hunt finally began. There were no eggs. At least not very many. It appeared as if some of the bigger kids had ignored the governing body’s instruction to wait inside during the hunt-delaying rain. And to the rule-breakers went the spoils. Which, oddly, brought to mind the widespread looting that followed Katrina, for the same thought popped into my mind on both occasions. Differing degrees, to be certain, but the same thought nonetheless.

Even if you survive Mother Nature, there’s always human nature with which to contend.

Ah, the metaphors which abound. In the great Easter Egg Hunt of life, sometimes there are no eggs. Get good with it, kids, and maybe we’ll swing by Weigles and pick y’all up some Peeps. That’s right, my little ones. As much as Daddy hates it, I can’t say I’m surprised. Nor, for that matter, am I all that upset. For I see the good in it. Natural depravity, that is. Well, at least in getting acquainted with it. For it abounds to varying degrees, ones which worsen as you age. And no thing is immune to it. Not even Easter Egg Hunts.

Beside, y’all would have been the culprits had you been a bit older. Remember, it abounds to varying degrees, ones which worsen as you age. So take off those wet shoes, my innocent ones. And Kirby, you, your sandals. Because we don’t wanna get mud all over the kitchen floor. It’s witching hour, and I’ll be damned if we’re gonna clean you and the floor, too.

Upstairs, before bed, the questions weren’t what they might have been. Because some eggs were, indeed, found. It seemed only the adults were in on to the shortchanging that had occurred.

And much like they weren’t fazed by the rain, we weren’t fazed by the shortchanging . For it was still a week before Easter. There were two more hunts, yet. Ones which likely won’t be looted by the rough, tumble, polo-wearing, ten-year-old-types.

Besides, fewer jelly beans cannot change what it is that I really want them to understand about this Sunday.

He is risen. Despite our natural depravity. And because of it.

Happy Easter.

I used to be a total white-collar type and when I was, I crafted more mission statements than I care to remember. So shortly after the triplets were born, just for kicks and giggles, I crafted one for the institution of parenthood. After all, if I had a mission statement as a financial services wholesaler, why not have one as a father, right?

The other day, I wondered if I was the only dork who ever thought it’d be neat to have a parental mission statement, so I bounced the concept off of some of my fellow writers at Babble. And I have to tell you, I was surprised at the reaction. Not just the number of people who came back with a mission statement of their own, but also of the caliber of said statements.

So this week’s effort at Babble involves those mission statements. Check them out by clicking HERE.