The Car Seat Follies

Parenthood and home ownership have one striking similarity; you are always one unanticipated cost away from walking outside to unleash a string of expletives under the sonic camouflage of the lawnmower motor - which sounds like it could use a little oil.  Goddammit.

Toilets break and kids grow faster than you expect.  When you're on a budget, you try to delay those unexpected costs as long as possible.  No big deal when it means not using the half-bath by the living room because you haven't gotten around to fixing a plumbing issue, but it's a little tougher to push back the purchase of a new car seat when you look over and see your freakishly tall five-month-old with his ass in the air and feet on the floor.

My son has learned to escape a level one car seat, but gives me a befuddled look whenever I try to get him to hold his own bottle so I can get things done while he feeds.  Bullshit, Houdini.

Normally it's cause for concern when my wife tells me to get in the car and drive to the house of a stranger she met on Craigslist, but these things seem reasonable when following the aforementioned budget, and said stranger claims to have a car seat for $30 under retail.

After a 30-minute drive to a suburb on the other side of Dallas, we pulled up the the house of the woman selling the car seat.  The house was in a nice semi-affluent neighborhood in the kind of suburb where everyone has the same shit and looks pretty happy about it.  This is also the type of neighborhood where the local news interviews people who can't believe their quiet, church-going optometrist neighbor had a rape room in his basement and tortured 26 women between 1996 and 2011.

The last bit didn't occur to me until I looked up and realized I had been checking Facebook on my phone for 25 minutes while my wife was inside the house, a curious amount of time since the woman had originally brought the box containing the car seat to the door with her.

At this point I confronted the reality that I may have to barge into what I had determined was a suburban torture chamber and save my wife from impending doom.  Of course that would have meant releasing my son's car seat from the base and carrying him into the firestorm with me, because in Yuppie Suburb America assault and murder can be swept under the rug, but leaving a child in a car unattended for 3 minutes - even with the air on - while you save your beloved from a Craigslist serial killer is the second most damning act you can commit. The first, obviously, being striking a dog for any reason whatsoever.

So I resorted to a very direct, yet understated method of rescue...

Text message: problem?

Shortly after, Summer emerged from the house without the car seat.  Son of a bitch, I was right, she's making a run for it!

Actually the woman had spent most of that time explaining to Summer that the car seat was probably not right for her, laying out an explanation that covered weight, rear-facing vs. front-facing, and neck muscle development of the typical five-month-old.

Knowing that one out of every two Craigslist postings is a front for sexual deviants, we decided not to go back to the well, instead shifting gears and going to Target to pay full price on a car seat like a couple of hip-hop moguls.

The car seat selection at Target is vast and overwhelming if you allow it to be.  Because I am above all that, I simply looked for the cheapest model containing the desired features we agreed upon.  Summer, predictably, took my liking of the economically sound, reliable-looking $100 car seat as an act of careless parenting.

I'm convinced the only reason the $100 car seat is on display is to make people feel better about getting the more expensive model, despite the fact there is little to no difference in quality.  It wouldn't shock me at all to learn that everyday they just switch the price tags around based on inventory.

But I'm not here to hate the hustle, and it worked like a charm, as my wife pointed out the $180 seat was on sale for $150 and there was only ONE LEFT!!!

"Baby, we lucked out!  Do you realize how lucky we got?!?"

So lucky.  In fact, at that very moment I felt the tingle in my loins usually encountered after surviving a near-death experience.  My wife experienced a similar rush of carnal desire ten minutes later when she stopped, weak-kneed in the coffee creamer section.

"Yes!!!  Holiday flavors already!"

We are very different creatures, men and women.

CrossFit Cult(ure)

What would a Sunday afternoon be without a lively game of Puke or Pass Out?  That's the street name.  In a garage-like gym full of crazy people, they call it CrossFit.  It's a strength and conditioning program which provides a convenient facade under which a cult of incredibly fit lunatics gather to wear goofy socks and compete in a series of made-up events called a WOD.  I'm told this stands for workout of the day, meaning this charade is carried out on a daily basis.

Curiosity, a philanthropic spirit, and a bat-shit crazy wife are the main factors that lead me to participate in my first WOD on Sunday.  I have been hearing about CrossFit for quite some time, because I have friends who belong to the cult and in typical cult fashion, they refuse to shut up about it.  A friend invited us to a charity WOD with proceeds going to fight cancer, and said he would keep an eye on the baby while we worked out.  I would have paid the $40 just for the babysitter, so why not get a sweat and fight cancer while we're at it?  WOD for a Cure is the kind of event you can write on the calendar in marker when you are married to a woman whose primary source of happiness is beating others in athletic challenges.

The problem with lying to impress a girl is, if you're successful, you are stuck in that lie.  The bigger the deception, the more dedication and sacrifice required to maintain appearances.  Early in our courtship, I took up running because my wife is an avid runner.  I also got a membership to the gym she worked out in, as well as her tanning salon.  I hate all that shit, but given it's the foundation on which our relationship was forged, I am now stuck doing things I absolutely despise, like CrossFit on a Sunday afternoon when Tombstone is on AMC.  Lest she discover I am a lazy fat-ass.

The entire day leading up to the 2pm WOD, I did everything I could to convince Summer we should bail.  

...That gym is 45 minutes from here (not quite) and I'm pretty sure we need an oil change (not true), can you imagine if we broke down in this heat with the baby (it was unseasonably cool, but looked hot and she hadn't been outside)...

Not a chance.

You tend to make certain assumptions when an event is for charity.  There is a lightheartedness that accompanies the very word.  Take golf, for example.  At a charity golf tournament there is often a large contingency of people whose ability levels range from average all the way down to piss-poor.  It matters not, everyone is just there to have a good time and support a good cause.  Driving to the charity WOD, I expected to be greeted with an equivalent field of well-intentioned participants.  Wrong.

The charity CrossFit crowd looks strikingly similar to a regular CrossFit crowd, the lone exception being a dopey heavy-set gentlemen wandering the gym in a "Will Play For Beer" slowpitch softball shirt.  I suspect they took one look at me and rightly assumed I would be gassed after the warm-up and that CrossFit is so foreign to me I actually believe WOD is a verb.  Both correct.  I suck at WODing.  Summer, on the other hand, WODs like a champ.  

While my wife obliterated the field in the women's division, I managed to take third place in a men's division that consisted of three men.  I estimated the second place finisher to be no fewer than 15 years older than me.  When my third place finish was announced I re-entered the gym behind the stroller containing my sleeping son, a shameless move to excuse my poor performance.  The "new" baby excuse holds up significantly better when the woman who actually gave birth to the baby isn't handed a first place prize four minutes later.

The drive home was wrought with silence, on my part anyway.  Summer was on cloud nine and wanted me to find satisfaction in a tremendous first step toward getting back in shape - remember, she still thinks that is important to both of us.

I know approximately how the CrossFit cult operates.  The good news for me as I walked away tired and dejected was I couldn't imagine a group of people with whom I felt less connected.  CrossFit is loaded with ripped guys covered in tattoos who remain strangely unintimidating.  I think it's their rigid Paleo diet.  I fear no man who fears complex carbohydrates.  By any account, I couldn't imagine a situation in which we would mesh in a social setting.  Cult averted.

"You know what was great?" Summer asked, somewhat rhetorically.

"Oh shit," I thought, but didn't say.

"I've been to a couple CrossFit places, but I think those people are more like us.  Like, I could actually see us hanging out with them"

Four years was a pretty good run for such an elaborate lie, but this is where I draw the line.  If anyone needs me I'll be on my couch watching Tombstone.

P&G Thanks Mom, Pisses Off Sensitive Dads

For two glorious weeks, the United States kicked the world's Olympic ass to such a degree the mere rumor of water's existence was reason enough to send a mega-rover to Mars in search of a more competitive swimming adversary.  In between these dominant sessions, Procter & Gamble unleashed its 'Thank You, Mom' advertising campaign.  The ads were impeccably produced and struck an emotional chord that would make Hollywood's top filmmakers envious.

Thank you, Mom -  a universal message people can get behind.  With the exception of your run-of-the-mill misogynist blowhard, who could possibly find offense in a heart-string tugging homage to the amazing women often overlooked in the sports lexicon?  Needy dads with hyper-sensitive feelings, that's who.

In response to the claims of sexism and gender stereotyping, and to the call for P&G to apologize to dads and grant them equal time, I offer a response P&G's lawyers would rather they not deliver directly: get over yourselves, dads.

Yes, dads coach, encourage, discipline, and support.  Yes, dads are critical to the development of children, let alone children that become world-class athletes.  There are libraries of research to back up these claims, but I am quite certain a critical piece of market research also revealed something dads do with far less regularity - purchase shampoo and laundry detergent.  'Thank You, Mom' is designed to woo the demographic with greatest influence on purchase decisions for household products.

In other words, there is a subculture of dads who have caught feelings and congregated on the internet to demand an apology and lobby for equal time...in a shampoo commercial.  Is this where we are as a society, whining about equal attention from marketers regardless of the product?  If so, look out.  Hell hath no fury like a community of mommy bloggers spurned by the lack of strong feminine players depicted in commercials for jock itch spray.

The other day, my father-in-law and I walked into a restaurant to meet my wife and mother-in-law, who spent the day out and about while we watched the baby.  It was not all that long ago the idea of men watching the baby while the women went out would be laughable.  Fathers increasing their domestic responsibilities is progress.  Demanding the world give you credit every time mothers receive a tip of the cap is not progress, it's whiny bullshit, and it's embarrassing.

Let's spend less time worrying about public kudos from corporate giants with an agenda, and focus on preparing our children for success.  We'll need a collective effort to take gold at the Rio Games in 2016, especially if the Martians are as tough as advertised.

The Glorious and Irrelevant Wrigley Field Scoreboard

It has been regrettably easy to lose sight of the Cubs in the three years since I moved to Dallas.  While my favorite franchise in all of sports has been sucking wind, I have been trying to justify my flirtation with the suddenly successful Texas Rangers.  Essentially the Rangers are the sexy girl you meet in college, with the Cubs playing the role of the high school sweetheart back home, who - between you and me - isn't helping matters by gaining weight and talking your ear off about the same stupid bullshit.  You're STILL hanging out with Alfonso Soriano?  You're closer STILL walks in the losing run in the ninth?  Jesus, are you ever going to grow up?!?  Whatever, I gotta go.  What??  No, it has nothing to do with the Rangers, we're just friends...

The Rangers and I have had some good times.  They've let me ride along to Division Titles, AL Pennants, and back-to-back World Series appearances.  The only problem is as fun as these successes have been to witness, they aren't mine to celebrate.  I am just a Cubs fan, living vicariously through another long suffering franchise that finally figured it out.  Being a Cub is woven into my DNA, but my son was born in Dallas in a time when the Rangers are the class organization in all of baseball.  He has the chance to cheer for a perennial winner, provided his father doesn't do something asinine like get him hooked on a team whose best shot at the big prize was derailed by a guy in a green turtleneck nine years ago.

Society would be outraged if an obese parent disregarded their child's natural affinity for vegetables and forced Twinkies on them to cultivate a common ground on which to bond.  So why on Earth did total strangers shower me with approving smiles as I carried my three-month-old son into Wrigley Field with a freshly purchased "My 1st Cubs Cap" atop his precious little Texan head?

There are plenty of insults lobbed at Cubs fans from the other side, and nearly all question the fundamental way in which our minds process the game.  South-siders marginalize our historic stadium as The World's Largest Singles Bar - an environment void of genuine passion and fundamental baseball knowledge, replaced by stacked plastic cups previously full of Old Style Beer and the carnal desires that accompany shirtless summertime day-drinking.

The most hurtful criticism, though, is not the one lightly veiled in truth, but backed up by a startling undeniable trend - that it is entirely likely we will spend our natural lives waiting for a championship which will never materialize.  That generations of Cubs fans - generations, plural - have suffered such a cruel fate.

With that harsh reality heavy on my mind, I stood at the street entrance of a parking garage on Addison with my son strapped to my chest, facing away from me, looking onto the diverse madness of Wrigleyville on a gameday, and my hand started to shake slightly.  Not the familiar brew-shakes from standing in line for a tallboy at a packed Murphy's Bleachers, but shakes caused by the question ringing in my head - am I about to condemn my innocent son to a lifetime of miserable heartache?

A comforting answer would reveal itself over the course of a typically beautiful day of predictably ugly baseball.  The results on the diamond are secondary to Cubs fans, at least to this particular family of Cubs fans.  Not second to the pursuit of hook-ups and hangovers, but second to the creation of life-long memories and shared experiences that transcend age, geography, and lifestyle.

The Ron Santo statue at Wrigley Field

We were a regular Chicago street gang making our way from the parking garage to the stadium.  Assuming, of course, intimidating Chicago street gangs consist of babies, toddlers, a pregnant woman, and the gang's patriarch documenting the whole thing on his Blackberry.  I married into a tight-knit nuclear family.  This Cubs game was an aggressive attempt by my in-laws to recreate memorable past outings with their children, with the addition of spouses and grandchildren.

Like many Wrigley Field experiences, this one went by too fast.  I fed my son, held him while he napped, held my niece with my free arm when she decided it was my turn in the rotation, and engaged surrounding fans in conversations about families, hometowns, and which Cubs players were due for a big hit, glancing momentarily at the field to see said players on their way back to the dugout.  Cubs players tend to stay "due" for weeks at a time.

But the lasting impression I will take away from this game was not the home runs the Cubs gave up or the runners they left stranded.  My attention repeatedly drifted back to my in-laws, who may have actually seen less of the game than I did.  They always had a grandchild in their arms, and spent a fair portion of the game smiling at the people in the row behind them when told, once again, their family was beautiful.  There is a look of pride a person gets when congratulated on a job well done.  Those looks pale in comparison to the look my in-laws wore throughout this game.

The question as we left the stadium was not whether or not this was the best experience I've ever had at a ballgame.  It was, and by such a margin I couldn't tell you which game is second place.  As I watched my father-in-law standing under the Ron Santo statue with his granddaughter and walked into the frame with my wife and son, I knew this was among the best days of my life.

Those of us lucky enough to have a comfortable deathbed will likely lay in it watching the Cubs lose while a new generation of opportunistic WGN cameramen lens-bang a new generation of busty 20-somethings who sip beer and occasionally glance toward the field of play, advancing the myth of the party superseding the love of the team.  But then our sons and daughters will take their children to Wrigley Field and share special moments not unlike the memories we created.  It won't matter whether it's been three years or 153 years since the last World Series title because the unique love we share in this beautiful ballpark never has to wait til next year.

The Art of Moving On

Mistakes can be rectified and losses can be rationalized, but grudges are a bitch to shake.  I know this because in my four years as a baseball coach, I made mistakes and lost more games than I care to admit, all of which I have come to terms with.  But four years after being forced to resign, I tend to refer to the school's athletic director and a handful of helicopter parents with a word my wife would not approve of me using here or anywhere else.

Coaching baseball in my early twenties didn't make me the man I am today, but it motivated me to cease being the man I was before I got involved.  It began, appropriately enough, on a friend's couch after a long night of drinking, near fights, and a delightful late night burrito - often the salvation of a sad Friday night routine.  While contemplating the amount of hypothetical money I would pay for a toothbrush and a Gatorade, a friend asked if I would be his assistant coach for 7th grade baseball.  I said yes, provided he could give me a ride to my car.

I didn't arrive at the first practice with any intention of making a real impact, and I certainly didn't expect to be impacted.  I love baseball, but truthfully, I just needed a daily activity for the summer that didn't revolve around a case of cheap domestic beer.

Over the course of the summer I realized something; I didn't simply enjoy coaching, I absolutely loved it.  My connection with the kids inspired me to make improvements in my life.  I didn't want to be someone who demand more of the teens I worked with than I did of myself.  I enrolled at the University to get my degree and started making plans for life after graduation.

Everything was going well as I entered my fourth season with the program.  Our teams made two trips to the state tournament at the junior high level, and in my first season at the high school level, my JV team finished above .500 despite key freshman and sophomores playing at the varsity level due to a lack of upperclassmen.  What our program lacked in experienced talent, we made up for with youth and momentum.  On top of that, one of my best friends was named varsity head coach.

I went into my fourth season with every intention of making it my last.  I was about to graduate and my desire to move was no secret.  I figured I could stick around, and use my familiarity with the existing players to help ease the transition for my friend as he took over the program.  I never imagined the shit show that ensued...

Losses piled up for the varsity team.  Fast.  As things got worse, the best players on my team were called up to try and provide a spark.  The more we lost, the more upset the parents got.  It should be noted, parents are the fucking worst.  Except the ones who liked me, they were cool.

By the end of the season, the varsity team had managed to win only five games.  My team lost more than they won by a fair margin, the roughest stretch around the time a 500 year flood hit Iowa that summer.  That is exactly what it sounds like - a flood, the degree of which is so great there is only a 0.2% chance of it occurring in a given year, and the most appropriate meteorological metaphor for a baseball season in the history of baseball...or water for that matter.

Mistakes were made.  The losses were painful and relentless.  I told people in the off-season I would consider returning for one more year.  I had done some good work and was not too keen on going out a failure.  I am a competitor, and as such I needed to avenge a poor season.  Not to prove it to myself - I knew I was a good coach, still do - but to all the people (read: parents) whose opinions I pretended not to care about.  I did care about their opinions, but apparently my boss cared even more...

The news of my "resignation" was delivered to me by my friend, who was also ousted as head coach.  He met with the AD and she informed him that he would have the option of remaining on the staff in an assistant capacity, but due to some complaints from parents I was not welcome back, and she would appreciate it if he would let me know.

Upon hearing this, I went to the school for an explanation.  She reiterated there had been complaints, though her descriptions were vague and, of course, no names or details were revealed.  Among the complaints that rendered me black-balled after four years of blood, sweat, and tears - some people think you had too much influence on the varsity line-up.

Translation: I am friends with a couple moms that think you're an asshole, so you can't ever coach here again.

After four years - two of which were volunteer - of pouring my heart and soul into the program I was out, for reasons unclear, without the respect of receiving the news first-hand.  Grudge.  Locked.  In.

I met my wife shortly after that final season.  We moved to Dallas and have done some pretty damn cool things over the last four years.  The mistakes I've made have faded from my consciousness and nothing could possibly feel more arbitrary than teenagers losing baseball games in a town of 2,400 people.  But my grudge against a handful of people in that same little town, people that have absolutely no impact on my life, wouldn't subside.  Stupid pride, I suppose.

The lens of fatherhood has given me a fresh perspective on most of my personal interactions.  This personal interaction actually prepared me for how I intend to approach at least one small aspect of fatherhood.  If my son chooses to pursue sports, I will give him as much instruction as I am capable, but my primary role will be as a fan.  Let the coaches coach, because I know how difficult the job is even without unsolicited advice.  All bitterness aside, I am grateful for that lesson.

Driving home the other night I saw a message on my phone stating the program I used to coach had made it to the state tournament, a dream I had shared with them a few short years ago, ultimately replaced by utter disdain.

I was surprised by the feeling the news triggered within me.  I didn't give a damn.  I expected to be jealous or disappointed, maybe even embarrassed that the people who ran me out now had the ultimate scoreboard justification for their actions.  But I didn't feel any of those things.

My family occupies all the space in my mind and heart I had previously wasted on unnecessary anger.  Each and every second I spend with my son is better than the last, and I have no intention of wasting a single opportunity by using that time to look back at past disappointment.

I have no room in my heart for grudges.  That space is spoken for.

So, what the hell - Go Bears!

Decade Three, Day One

I think I understand why some people cry on their 30th birthday.  It's because they went to a pub the night before and consumed just enough beer to make every second in the office tick by slower than the last, thereby compounding the real problem - in 29 years and 364 days they failed to acquire the foresight to request an obvious day off.

Each milestone birthday encourages us to take inventory of accomplishments, failures, and opportunities left on the table.  Most of us have two checklists, personal and professional.  My lists have accrued the bulk of their respective checks over the back half of my twenties.  That's how a branding wizard positions a decade in which the first five years were marked by hazy indifference.  And "hazy indifference" is how a branding wizard says "drunken stupidity."

But in the last four years I met a girl, got a degree, moved to Dallas, got a job, proposed to the girl, got a better job, got a dog, married the girl, got a promotion, bought a house, changed jobs, and became a father.  A pretty good run.  My personal life is better than I ever dreamed it would be, so naturally on my birthday I spent eight hours in the office being depressed about the professional dreams which never materialized.

I didn't have terribly lofty or specific goals, just that by age 30 I would have two published books under my belt.  The first would enjoy modest success, but I would hit my stride with the second and be working out the movie rights, turning down bigger dollars in favor of a small studio that would allow me the pen the screenplay.  You know, easy stuff.  The kind of daydreams that haunt you when, on your 30th birthday, you are sitting at your desk in the ad sales bullpen hanging on a client approval e-mail that will decide whether or not next Thursday's revenue meeting will be your turn to get smeared across the conference room by the CEO.

When my eight hour pity party was over, I climbed into my Ford Escape with a backpack full of work materials and a head full of professional regret and headed home to what was to be a fireworks outing with my wife, son, and visiting brother.  For anyone that is unfamiliar, going to a fireworks show in Dallas means arriving ridiculously early so you can get a parking spot, fighting 100,000 people for a place to sit in the Texas heat, and packing up shop after the first boom scares the living shit out of your three month old son.  Needless to say, this did not seem like a suitable remedy for my state of self-loathing.

When I have a bad day at work, the sight of my son's face as I walk through the door makes my frustration vanish 99% of the time.  The other 1% it takes being greeted with Batman streamers, a baseball cake, and my son in jorts and a patriotic onesie that reads "All-America Hunk."

Gabe and Uncle Jay - two great Americans

I am guilty of placing pride ahead of perspective far too often.  I complain about minor inconveniences and I am always embarrassed in hindsight.  I spend a great deal of energy acting as though I do not care what people think, when in reality it consumes me.  These are the qualities of a man whose sanity depends on a supportive wife and family.  The kind of people who know a bad mood evaporates into the thick smokey air of the Red Knight's cheering section of Medieval Times.

Dallas is very much a "too cool for school" type of city.  There are pretty people everywhere.  This makes choosing a dinner spot incredibly difficult for a 30 year old man driving around with his wife and brother in matching Ultimate Warrior face paint.  Therein lies the brilliance of the Medieval Times tickets they sprung on me as a final birthday surprise.  We would have been ostracized at nearly every restaurant in Dallas, but not MT.  There we were called Lords, complimented on our enthusiasm, and given a very welcoming smile and nod from a man I would later learn was literally a King.

Gabe, understandably confused

If there is one thing I've learned in my 30 years, it's that I am a better husband, father, and person in general when I focus on today.  When I wake up with one simple goal - do what it takes to deserve the family you have when you lay down that night.

There are going to be plenty of rough days and professional frustrations along the way, but I have strung together a hell of a lot of great days, and with the exception of the under-performing Red Knight, I have some amazing people in my life.

You've gotta believe there's a book in there somewhere...

Be A Patriot, Not A Dick

I used to love a good boozed-fueled political debate.  Then a girl I wanted to date, marry, and possibly impregnate informed me I was not being patriotic, I was being an asshole.

Politics and cigarettes are the vices I gave up in order to see The Girl Who Would Change My Life naked.  Smoking was a walk in the park.  It's a far greater challenge to keep from engaging in political combat.  In retrospect, however, I believe those arguments were killing me at a more rapid pace than Parliament Lights.

Passion has the potential to make politics great, but it's also what inspires otherwise polite and agreeable gentlemen to speak in ways that suggest they are irrational knuckleheads.  Far too scarce are political opinions steeped in pragmatism and common sense.  Commonly shared political opinions tend to be bold, exaggerated, and passed down from generation to generation.  Show me the loud-mouth asshole stirring up a political argument in a bar, and I'll show you someone whose father was a loud-mouth asshole that enjoyed stirring up political arguments in bars.

The generational nature of political beliefs carries a certain weight when you become the generation dispensing lessons, rather than receiving them.  Many parenting lessons are simple - baseball is awesome, firecrackers are dangerous, and school may suck sometimes, but unemployment sucks worse.  Do your homework.  Politics is different.  Our country operates almost entirely in gray areas, but the national political narrative is constructed in the black and white of a two-party existence.   

The only bearable way I see to handle this education with my son is to check politics at the door and focus on patriotism.  

Despite what he may see on television, radio, blogs, Facebook, Twitter, and every platform that gives access to an opinionated blowhard, neither party is more patriotic than the other.  That's lesson one; there are so many reasons to love this country, don't make the mistake of believing your reason is more valid or righteous than others.

Sleeper Cell

My son lives in an amazing country.  He is going to have privileges he won't even know are privileges because he was lucky enough to be born here.  He will also come to find out that because he was born in this country, in this era, political rhetoric is going to be entirely unavoidable.

The late comedian, George Carlin - a great American I will teach my son about with complete bias and appreciation - stated the degree to which you believe someone is an asshole is directly related to your physical distance from that person when you make the discovery.  When you see a guy giving the checkout girl a hard time at the grocery store because a special didn't ring up properly, you're inclined to say - under your breath - to the person next to you, "that guy's kind of an asshole."  Meanwhile, when a political analyst is beamed to your television from a studio 1,000 miles away, you stand and yell, "WHAT A FUCKING ASSHOLE!!!"

The internet has given everyone the ability to share their bold opinions from the safe distance Carlin references.  The result is an overwhelming amount of negativity, misinformation, and incendiary trolling on social media.  Instead of giving these people the 42 comment threads they desire on their Facebook page, I will encourage my son to close the browser and do something productive.  Any act, great or small, that positively impacts those around you, is the truest form of patriotism.  Snarky remarks about poor people or warmongers on social media may draw a crowd of like-minded people, but they accomplish nothing.

When he is old enough, we will look back at some of the seminal moments that shaped our country, and for those in my adult life, I will do my best to explain their meaning without bias or prejudice.

When showing him images and video of George W. Bush delivering his iconic speech from Ground Zero, we will not discuss the political implications.  It is easy for conservatives to give an explanation of a great man in, possibly, his greatest moment.  To speak of a leader picking up a wounded nation by displaying the courage and confidence of a wartime president.  For liberals, it is easy to launch into a tangent about non-existent WMDs and the politicizing of a true American tragedy for years following.

I will pass on the hero worship, as well as the bitter cut-downs.  There will be no description of America's greatest moment, nor will there be a back-handed Dark Knight-themed compliment about not being the hero we deserved, but the hero we needed at the time.  Instead I will talk about a traumatic time in our nation's history, and how in a sensational moment, an imperfect man elected to lead a nation of imperfect citizens, perfectly captured the sentiment of a shaken collective.  And we were better for it.

We'll watch Barack Obama's victory speech without talking about healthcare reform or controversial Chicago pastors.  When my son asks me about the outpouring of raw emotion from the tens of thousands of people in attendance, I will not launch into a speech about the end of racism.  I will also refrain from derogatory commentary attributing their tears to the realization that retirement was no longer an option in socialist America.

I'll tell my son that every four years we hold an election, the results of which upset nearly half of those who voted.  But regardless of how you feel about the man in office, one of the pillars of America's greatness is that any child - even you - have the opportunity to one day hold that office.  Unfortunately, there were multiple generations of Americans who felt excluded from that dream, and this moment made them believe otherwise.  Those people were crying because dreams are that important.

I want my son to love his country unapologetically, and I don't want him to fear speaking his mind when compelled to do so.  I just don't want him to be a loud-mouth asshole starting fights, based on a bumper sticker or Facebook status worth of political knowledge.  That's not being patriotic, it's being a dick.