Lil Wooly,

You don't know it, because you aren't born yet, but your mommy and and daddy LOVE the Olympic Games.  We are ate up with it.  We watch as much as we can.  You will be three before the next Winter Olympics are held in 2014 in Sochi, Russia  but I hope very much that you enjoy watching them with your mom and dad when the time comes.  I hope you enjoy them always.   I hope you love them, in fact.  I hope you LOVE the Winter Olympics!  Because you will never, ever be allowed to participate in the Winter Olympics.  You can do anything else in the world that you like.  Set your goals as high as you can, and we will stand behind you.  No matter what.  But you cannot be a Winter Olympian.

Not because the Arkansas environment would make it exceedingly difficult.  Although it would.  And not because your parents didn't pass to you sufficient athletic prowess and coordination to succeed at that elite level.  Although we didn't.  No, the reason you cannot become a Winter Olympian is simply because mean old mom and dad just will not allow it.  Simple as that.  Entirely too dangerous.


Rest assured, I'll repeat this once you make your debut, and probably a few times after that, but I'd like to go ahead and lay out a few ground rules for your time on the wonderful planet that you don't yet know is called Earth.  I promise I'll be a cool dad and I assure you there are plenty of DOs in your future, especially if antagonizing your mom is concerned, but I do feel compelled to give you a couple of  DON'Ts here to start.

DON'T, under any circumstances, strap planks to your feet and propel yourself down a mountain.  If you are walking along innocently on top of a mountain and stumble on to two planks that take off down the slope of their own volition, you are not to see just how fast you can go.  If somehow you are propelled into the air while upon those planks, you should turn your attention to getting safely back on the ground.  The number of flips or spins you can complete while in the air should not enter your mind.  And God forbid, if you happen to be, as the kids say, "strapped" when this highly unlikely plank-strumbling scenario plays out,  don't even think about trying to make a game out of it.

If you think ice is any better than snow, you're wrong.  DON'T, under any circumstances, affix sharp blades of steel to the bottom of your shoes and try to gallivant around a surface whose soul mission is to make you fall.  If you are having a picnic in the middle of winter next to a frozen pond and somehow accidentally superglue two knives onto the bottom of your sneakers, don't go anywhere near the ice.  You are not to see how fast you can go.  Or how perfect of a figure eight you can make.  Also, fight the urge to start naming things with ridiculous names like Lutz and Salchow.   And if taking a stick and swatting at the hard, dried-out brownie from the picnic basket seems like a good idea, it's not.  That's when someone else with knife-shoes comes out of nowhere and checks you hard into the boards.  Then they beat the shit out of you.  If you stayed at home and watched the Winter Olympics with your dear old mom and dad instead of going out with your significant other on a romantic arctic rendezvous, you'd know that. 

There aren't very many sports that aren't ruled out by my two previous DON'Ts, but there are some.  When you get a little older, you'll learn about the consequences of taking a vehicle out for a spin without permission.  You're not wondering yet, but this applies to bobsleds, luges, and skeleton sleds as well.  And do you really think, Lil Wooly, that your mom or dad will sign off on you hopping like Bo Duke into the back of a canoe on rails just before it plummets down a twisting, turning frozen water slide?  Of course you don't. 

So there you have it.  Your first encounter with the heavy hand of Big Wooly Law.  If you feel cheated out of your Olympic career before it could even take off, don't feel bad.  There is another variety of Olympic Games held, and instead of prohibiting your participation, here your father will actually encourage and even push you toward greatness.  Sure, the Math Olympics may not be as sexy as the Winter Games, but mathletes have their groupies, too.  You'll see.

Talk to you soon.

Algebraically yours,




Big Wooly

The devil is in... what was it again?

Stephanie says I never pay attention.  She's only partially wrong.  I'm always paying attention to something... it just might not be the exact thing she thinks I should be paying attention.  Like her voice.  Or The Biggest Loser.  Or what color the traffic light is.  To hear her tell it, you'd think I wander through life with noise-canceling headphones and retrograde amnesia.  What little of the minutia of our lives she designates as "important" that I actually manage to catch, I have a penchant for forgetting.  I contend that because she is so enthusiastic about pointing out my fleeting memory, my motivation to keep up with things is only diminished further, but we'll open that can of worms another time.  For the purpose of brevity, I will forgo all defense of her accusation and admit that I, Big Wooly, sometimes have issues holding onto details. 

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I know.  Shocking, huh?

This periodic lack of focus goes hand in hand with the "laid back" trait I often get attributed with.  For the most part, I think it's pretty accurate.  I'm not floating aimlessly through life, bumping into and bouncing off of life's milestones as they pass me by, but I am generally pretty tolerant of what other people want to believe and want to do, around me and apart from me, even if there is some end effect on me.  For the most part.  I just tend not to worry a whole lot.

I worry myself sick over being a father.

For my entire adult life, I have been very comfortable with the fact that my decisions and the fate they determine are my own.  I try to do what I believe will work out best for me... short-term, long-term, karmically.  I also try my hardest to see what other people see when they make decisions that differ from what I would do.  Most often, even if I disagree with someone, I can at least understand the path they took in reaching a conclusion, however divergent that path may be from mine.  Accomplish that, and it takes a lot of potential animosity out of arguments. 

What happens, though, when a child comes into the mix?  You can't let a toddler reach a bad decision and sit back and appreciate the path he took in getting there.   You are responsible for that little rugrat!  You make the decisions for him. The enormity of that responsibility is completely sobering.  Another human, dependent upon ME. 

Truly this is a miracle from God, but still... sometimes I feel like looking up and saying "You DID see me put that entertainment center together inside out, right?"  I wonder if tonight, as I was futilely trying to straighten the shower curtain rod I shoddily assembled a few months ago, He went palm-to-forehead and shook his head.  I know the answer is no... that He has a perfect plan for me and the rest of The Family Wooly... but at the very least, it's proof positive that the big man has a sense of humor.  How else can you explain taking the muttering, chunky, shirtless guy perched precariously on the arm of the bathtub with a shower rod balanced on his noggin and a Phillips head screwdriver in his hand and GIVING HIM A TINY, HELPLESS INFANT to care for. 

I think about it every day.  I can't even fix a flat.  How the hell am I going to suck boogers out of Lil Wooly's teeny, tiny nostrils? 

Ironically, Stephanie is doing spectacularly.  She is a word-class fretter, but she does a 10000000% better job than I do at focusing on the great things we have to look forward to.  It's really a 180 from the roles we have traditionally played.  She has always worried.  About money.  Our house.  Getting rare diseases that she sees on Discovery Health.  It's been my job to talk her back down from the ledge and get her to stop and smell the roses.  With Lil Wooly, though, she is the one who is reminding me of all the wonderful things that will come with all that heaping responsibility. 

While I stress over sucking boogers and not touching fontanelles and frantic late-night calls to the pediatrician, she just wants July to hurry up and get here so she can hold our baby.  There is so, so much I can learn from her.

That's one thing I've made a point not to forget.