Conversation with Olivia

It's pretty well-established that I am quite pro-police. Anyone who knows me at all knows this. So it should come as no surprise that I have made it a point to teach my daughters that the police are our friends, and that they help people. Since I've been brainwashing Olivia now for over three years, she has become a big fan of spotting police cars and police officers. I'm still working on June. In just under two years, she's still more interested in spitting cows. In the short-term, I want my kids to know to go to the police if they need help and the Mrs. or I aren't there for some reason. In the long-term, I don't want my kids ever causing the police any problems.

I may have created a monster, though. Here's how our ride to daycare went this morning after we almost immediately got behind a local sheriff deputy, who we followed almost all the way to daycare (about 20 minutes).

Olivia: "*GASP*!!!" (Olivia's very dramatic.) "DADDY!! LOOK!! A police officer is in front of us!"

Me: "I see that, honey."

Olivia: "Police officers help people!"

Me: "They sure do! Very good!"

Olivia: "LOOK! He has lights on top of his car!"

Me: "He sure does."

Olivia (after pausing to contemplate): "Daddy, why aren't his lights on?"

Me: "Well, he's not on his way to help anybody right now, and he doesn't need anyone to stop."

Olivia: "Why isn't he helping anybody?"

Me: "I guess nobody needs help right now."

Olivia: "There's his lights!!!!"

Me: "Those are his brake lights, honey."

Olivia: "His 'bray kites'? What's that?"

Me: "Brake lights. He's just slowing down."

Olivia: "Why?"

Me: "Because there's a stop sign, honey, and he has to stop."

Olivia: "Why?"

Me: "Because everyone has to stop at stop signs."

Olivia: "Why?"

Me: "So cars don't crash into each other."

Olivia: "Why?"

Me: "THAT'S JUST THE WAY IT IS, OLIVIA!!!"

Olivia: "Oh." (Silence for about 15 seconds, but without even looking in the mirror, I can feel her eyes burning holes in the back of the police cruiser.) "There's his lights, Daddy!"

Me: "No, honey. Those are his brake lights again."

Olivia: "Why?"

Me: "Because he has to slow down."

Olivia: "Why?"

Me: "So he won't crash on the curve."

Olivia: "And then he'll get hurt?"

Me: "Yes. Then HE'LL need a police officer. And probably a fire truck." (Olivia also likes fire trucks.)

Olivia: "Oh. Because his car's on fire?"

Me: "Not right now. But it might be if he crashed."

Olivia: "Why?"

Me: "Oh for the love of........"

June: "MOOOOOOOOOOO!!! PBTHBTHBTHBTH!" (We passed some cows.)

Olivia: "There's his lights, Daddy!"

Me: "Brake lights again, honey."

Olivia: "Why?"

(I'll spare everyone the next ten minutes of conversation, but it was a windy road, so you can probably guess how it went.)

Olivia: "What's the police officer doing now?"

Me: "He's just driving, Olivia. Can we talk about something else?"

Olivia: "Where's he going?"

Me: "I don't know. He might just be looking for people to help. Do you see any cows anywhere?"

(Dead silence from June. No cows. Thanks for leaving Daddy twisting in the wind, June.)

Olivia: "Oh. He's not going to the grocery store?"

Me: "He might be. I don't know. I don't think so. Honey, let's just leave the police officer alone." (Where the HELL is a box truck when I need one to pull in between me and this police officer?!?!)

Olivia: "Why is the police officer not going fast?"

Me: "Because there's no one to help right now, Olivia, okay? Come ON!"

Olivia (as we pass a fire station with an engine parked out front): "Look, Daddy! Fire trucks! Why is the police officer not going with the fire trucks?"

Me: "Because the police officer works in a different place than the fire trucks."

Olivia: "He doesn't live there?"

Me (beating my head against the steering wheel): "No, Olivia. The police officer doesn't live with the fire tru--"

(The deputy pulls into a grocery store parking lot.)

Me (to myself): "Oh dear Go--"

Olivia (at maximum volume): "DADDY!! LOOK!! The police officer IS going to the grocery store!!! Is he helping someone at the grocery store? Does he need to buy food at the grocery store? Is he hungry? Why is the police officer at the grocery store, Daddy? Why? Do you see him? Look, Daddy! Daddy? Why? Daddy? Daddy! Why is your face red? Are you mad, Daddy? Are you frust-er-ated?"

(We finally get to daycare. Mercifully.)

Daycare provider: "Rough morning with the girls?" (Apparently I was exhibiting some telling body language.)

Me: "Just an overly talkative trip over here. You see, we got behi--"

Olivia: "We saw a police officer!!! He didn't have his lights on. But he wasn't going fast because he wasn't helping people. Then his lights came on. But that's because he had to stop. Then his lights came on again. Then they came on again. Then the police officer.................."

As I left the daycare provider in the midst of receiving the "exciting"--and incredibly detailed--account of our drive there from Olivia, I had to chuckle to myself.

She's got Olivia for eight more hours.

You Know What They Say About Assuming...

I posted a status update on my Facebook page a few days ago after a particularly rough day at home with my kids, and I received several responses from friends, relishing my frustration and taking great joy in pointing out that I now know what women go through all the time. I didn't take offense--the comments were all in jest--but it got me thinking.

My college degree is in Sociology, with a minor in Psychology, and human behavior has always fascinated me. I've also been a probation officer for 13 years and a supervisor for 5 years, so human behavior is something I deal with on a daily basis, in great depth.

What the comments got me thinking about was the assumptions we make about people. Many of these assumptions are based on minimal information, or even qualities of a person of which they have no control.

For example, people make assumptions about my role as a parent, based solely on my gender. I get extra attention in stores and at parks when I take my daughters out, and people frequently make comments that it's so cute to see a couple of girls out with their daddy. As if that's as rare as a sighting of the Loch Ness Monster. While I certainly have no objection to people saying nice things about me, I'd wager that the Mrs. doesn't get those sorts of comments when she's out with the girls. That's because she's expected to do that sort of stuff. She's the mother, right? An interesting discussion budded from my comment on Facebook, as my cousin, who is a father of four kids under the age of four, commented that he gets a lot more help opening doors than his wife does. Perhaps he, being male and presumably unaccustomed to coordinating the opening of a door and the insertion of a small ocean liner on wheels loaded with kids through the doorway, just screams incompetence at parenting while his wife, trying to accomplish the same task, needs no help since she's the mother.

As a society, we make all sorts of assumptions about people, beyond making inferences about their parenting acumen based solely on their gender. I know these assumptions are often based on culture and, in some cases, current events, but I still find it interesting.

I'm certainly not immune. I make assumptions about people. I find that many of my assumptions are formed, at least in part, by what I do for a living.

I was at a sporting event with my father-in-law over the weekend, and I noticed a young woman with her wrist in a cast. My first assumption: her husband beat the hell out of her. She couldn't possibly have fallen off her bicycle or slipped on some stairs or anything. It had to be an act of domestic violence.

Before you laugh at my assumption, have you ever seen a man and a woman walking together in a store, and the woman has two black eyes? What assumption do you make about the man? Many years ago, my ex-wife broke her nose in a car accident, which blackened both of her eyes. When we were out in public, people who knew us would ask her what happened...all the while, giving me the stink eye. People who didn't know us would look at her, and then scowl at me. I wasn't even in the car with her when she had her accident!

I also noticed that, while she looked very young herself, the woman at the sporting event had what I would guess to be a 2-year-old child with her, and she wore a wedding band. Naturally, all sorts of assumptions were going through my mind about which came first, the child or the marriage. All of it based solely on observations made from several feet away, without any conversation with her. As if it was any of my business to begin with.

People who have had contact with the police often make assumptions. They assume the officer is having a bad day, corrupt, making a quota, racist, and/or any number of other assumptions as to why they were stopped. It's rare to hear someone say, "Yep, I was flying down the interstate, and I deserved the speeding ticket."

Employers frequently make assumptions about the people I supervise, based solely on a felony conviction. If that person has ever been to prison, that's even worse. What I almost never get, though, are phone calls from employment agencies or potential employers, asking my thoughts on a particular applicant. I've supervised felons who I wouldn't mind having in my home because, while they haven't always made the best decisions (who has?), they're decent people. And I've supervised misdemeanants who I wouldn't trust any farther than I could throw them.

I was at a conference one time when the speaker put a phrase up on the overhead and wanted everyone in the room to shout out what immediately came to mind. The phrase was: BOY SCOUT LEADER. Immediately, the room full of probation officers shouted in unison, "Child Molester!" I was one of them shouting, and I'm an Eagle Scout and was briefly an adult Boy Scout leader (but not a child molester, in case you're inclined to make an assumption about me). The speaker looked at us in feigned amazement and said that when he does this exercise with a room full of business people or government officials or corporate executives, he gets answers like "community leader", "role model", and "hero." But in a room full of people involved in law enforcement, he always gets "child molester."

I make the same assumptions about those ice cream trucks that roll through residential neighborhoods.

Take something a little less sinister: dog breeds. We make all kinds of assumptions about dogs, based solely on their breeds. When I say "pit bull", what comes to mind? Nothing good, right? How about "Rottweiler"? Again, nothing good. Try "Doberman." We have a Chow mix who is the most harmless dog you could ask for. Our kids climb all over him, step on him, pull his tail, and otherwise abuse him like kids do, and he doesn't bat an eye. But people see that black tongue of his, and all kinds of assumptions are made. We've had groomers refuse to cut his hair because of his breed.

How about mail? Ever get a certified letter? That's never good, is it? Certified letters from our County Clerk's Office are constantly refused by the addressees. And then people don't show up for the Court dates that were contained in those letters. But sometimes the Clerk's Office doesn't have an address for a victim of a crime, but they have a restitution check for the victim. If I supervise the person who paid the restitution, the Clerk often sends the restitution check to me, since I likely have the victim's address. I send the restitution check to the victim via certified mail, and frequently, those checks are returned unclaimed. It seems no one wants to sign for a certified envelope sent by the Probation Department, even when there's money in it.

I know I'm often in a cold sweat when I get something from my bank that isn't obviously my monthly bank statement. My assumption is that I've bounced a check, someone has stolen my identity, or my bank has gone under and I've lost every penny I had with them.

I feel for the person of Middle Eastern descent who tries to fly from one U.S. city to another. I can imagine the assumptions being made about him.

The latest presidential election brought out all kinds of passionate assumptions. People assumed Barack Obama would be a terrific president because of his race. Other people assumed he would be a horrible president because of his race. One of the most laughable assumptions I heard was that he is a terrorist because his middle name is Hussein.

The examples go on and on. We base our assumptions on our life experiences, our education, our background, our occupations, current events, and our social norms. People will always make assumptions. It's part of human nature. I just find it interesting to observe what assumptions are made.

Now if you'll excuse me, I hear "Pop Goes the Weasel" blasting from an ice cream truck as it rolls through my neighborhood. I need to round up my kids and stow them safely inside the house until the child molester is gone.

Marchelle Mosley Photography

I realize that I haven't posted in awhile, but it's been a busy week, and I have an entry in progress, but I've gotten distracted several times and haven't finished it yet. In the meantime, enjoy the following photos. We had some professional photos taken by Marchelle Mosley Photography yesterday, and Marchelle was kind enough to provide a couple of freebies to post while we choose from the multitude of outstanding shots to have printed.

For those in the Indianapolis area, if you're looking for a professional photographer, I highly recommend Marchelle. As you'll see in these photos and on her website, she has a great vision. My kids, who aren't fond of strangers, instantly warmed to her, and Marchelle had a large number of terrific photos in a very short period of time (perfect when your subjects are 3 years old and 2 years old). She posts her prices clearly on her website, so there is absolutely no question as to how much each size photo costs. Our experience with Marchelle Mosley Photography was nothing but positive.

So without further ado, here are Olivia and June:

Happy Mt. St. Helens Day

Twenty-nine years ago today, I washed and waxed my parents' car by hand.

How do I remember this?

Well, I was about 10 years old at the time, and on a nice day in May, I decided to make our family's grey 1976 Datsun 710 station wagon sparkle and shine. My parents may have made me do it as part of my chores, but whatever. I worked hard on that car all morning. To my disgust, I saw the dark clouds of what I thought was rain on the horizon. "Figures," I remember thinking, "It's just my luck that I wash and wax the car, and now it's going to rain."

Turns out, it wasn't rain.

Anyone who lived in the Pacific Northwest on May 18, 1980, can tell you exactly what fell from the sky that day. It was volcanic ash, as Mt. St. Helens blew 1300 feet of itself off, killed 57 people, wiped Spirit Lake off the face of the map (it has since returned), destroyed countless trees and wildlife, and did all kinds of other damage that you can read about here.

I remember that Mt. St. Helens gave plenty of warning of what was to come, in the form of tremors and little spouts of gas and debris. Every night on the news, experts were pleading for people to evacuate the area around the mountain. Most people made the correct choice not to tempt fate, and they got the heck out of Dodge before May 18. Otherwise, the death toll would have been much greater. I do remember an elderly man on TV, though, and I can even remember his name: Harry Truman. He lived on the side of Mt. St. Helens, and he had lived there for most of his however-many years, and by gum, no one was gonna tell HIM he had to leave his home, dagnabbit! Those young whippersnapper scientists were overexaggerating things!

Rest in peace, Mr. Truman.

My hometown was about 300 miles from Mt. St. Helens, and we got quite a bit of ash dumped on us, including on our freshly washed and waxed car, as our house did not have a garage. I remember it being the middle of the afternoon, and yet it was black as night outside. It appeared to be snowing in May, but it wasn't snow. It was fine powdery grey ash. Dry, it was very light and fluffy. Wet, it weighed a ton. It didn't take long for homeowners to realize how completely screwed they were going to be if it rained. All that wet ash would collapse roofs. Yet it was too light and fluffy to clean up when it was dry, so some water had to be applied. The key was getting the correct water-to-ash mix. And once you got the ash off of everything, then what did you do with it?

I remember my dad donning the dust masks that everyone had to wear outside so as to not breathe in the ash, and carting the snow shovel around from house to house as neighbors worked together to get everyone's roofs and walks cleared.

I remember that when the schools finally reopened, we had to wear dust masks any time we were outside.

I remember that one of my school's teacher's first name was Helen because other teachers had cut out the headline from the newspaper--"Helen Blows Her Top"--and taped it to the classroom door as a joke. I didn't get the joke until my mom explained it to me.

I remember that for years afterwards, you could dig in the dirt and find a layer of ash. My sister, who is college-educated in geological matters, tells me that this will always be the case. Millions of years from now, there will still be that layer of ash in the soil. She could be making that up for all I know. I barely passed Rocks-for-Jocks in college. But it sounds plausible.

I remember all kinds of debate about what the short-term and long-term effects the ash would have on the local crops and on human health.

It's interesting as an adult to read about the eruption and all the havoc it caused when, as a 10-year-old, my primary emotion was anger that all the work I did on the car that day was for naught. It was a pretty unique event to experience, that's for sure. And I'm glad we were 300 miles away.

The Solace Brothers

I’ve been on a quest lately to find classmates from the town in the Pacific Northwest in which I grew up. I have found several on Facebook, and now I’m branching out, trying to find people who aren’t on Facebook. It’s been a really long time--23 years, give or take--since I’ve talked to most of those classmates, so this isn’t always an easy quest to complete.

One of the people I’ve been trying to find lately is a guy named John Polle who lived directly across the street from me when we were in school. I’ve picked up little pieces of information about him from other classmates, and from what I’ve been able to piece together, he’s been playing guitar and doing vocals in a handful of bands, pretty much from high school on. I tracked him from one band to another to another on a variety of websites, and yesterday, I found the band he’s currently in. At least, it’s where the trail ends, and the band put an album out a year and a half ago, so I’m assuming it’s his current band.

The band is called The Solace Brothers, and I was able to find their “official” website here, as well as their MySpace page here. John's on the far left in the picture, in the white t-shirt. On their MySpace page, they have six of their songs to listen to. An additional song, “Big Shot,” can be heard on their official website. “The Sound” started automatically as I was looking at their MySpace page, and I sort of subconsciously listened to it as I was trying to determine if the John Polle listed as a band member was the John Polle I’m looking for. About halfway through the song, I realized my foot was tapping to the beat, and I was rather enjoying the song. So I played it again, this time giving it my full attention. And I really liked the song!

So I tried the next one, “Dreaming for the World.” Another great song!

The next song, “2000 Miles,” was another catchy tune. In fact, all six songs were enjoyable.

Their albums--“Bad Will,” “I Think of You”, and a five-song album called “Discover!!!”--are all available on iTunes. I know this because I bought all three albums there last night. They’re also available on CD Baby.

It’s hard to describe their style. It seems to vary a little bit from song to song. I like the sound of the vocals. When blended, they’re harmonious without sounding fabricated by a studio. And the lead singer has the right voice for their songs. The guitar is rich and strong. There’s a little bit of ZZ Top in their guitar sound sometimes. Other times, they remind me of the Presidents of the United States of America. About the time I think they sound a little like Tom Petty in “Feel the Love”, they sound like Nirvana in “2000 Miles,” the Rolling Stones in “Set the Sun on Fire,” and the Violent Femmes in the vocals with a hint of the Screaming Trees in the guitars in “Certain Times.” They throw in some keyboard on some songs, some brass on others, and even some choir on “Feel the Love.” A lot of their songs make me chuckle, which I enjoy. They do upbeat well. They do thoughtful well. They do fun well. If you like the six songs on their MySpace page, you’re going to like all their albums.

In addition to my three favorites on their MySpace page, I also really like “Frankie & Johnny” on the “Bad Will” album. I like songs that tell stories, and the moral of this story cracks me up! If you’re somebody’s man, don’t do your girl wrong!

The next song on the album, “Melody Line,” is also one of my favorites, with a humorous final verse.

“Moulan Blue,” “Pittsburgh Steamers,” and “20-Hour Ride” are among my favorites from the “I Think of You” album.

So anyway, I just wanted to share that with you. I don’t get a toaster or anything for promoting them. I just like their sound and thought maybe some other people would, too.

Incidentally, I sent John a message through the band’s MySpace page. I hope to hear from him.

I Miss You, Grandpa

It was a really awful day, 23 years ago today.

It seems like yesterday.

My Grandpa died on May 8, 1986. He was diagnosed with cancer, and only a matter of weeks later, he was gone.

It was right before my Junior Prom. I still feel badly for my date. She was a really nice girl, but I just wasn’t mentally there. We flew out to California the next morning for the funeral.

I was very close to my Grandpa. He made me feel special. Important. We just clicked.

I struggled for years to come to terms with his death. I was in shock for a long time right after he died. I barely remember his funeral, other than “Taps” and the 21-gun salute. He was a veteran of World War II and Korea. To this day, hearing “Taps” chokes me up. I remember having the opportunity to speak at his funeral, but being incapable of getting my legs or voice to work. So I just sat there in stunned, miserable, pathetic silence.

After the shock wore off, anger set in. I felt robbed. Every time I accomplished something in my life that he couldn’t be there to attend or be available to share with, I felt angry. My Eagle Scout. My high school graduation. My college graduation. Awards at work. Promotions. My wedding. The births of my children. Just to name a few.

Only in recent years has the anger given way to sadness.

Christmas is a difficult time. I have a lot of absolutely fantastic memories of Grandpa at Christmas. It’s just not the same without him here.

I had a tattoo done on my shoulder several years ago in his memory, and that helped. I think of him every morning now when I get dressed in the mirror.

I still talk to him, too.

For years, I remembered him on May 8 through a number of rituals. Then the Mrs. suggested that it might be a little less morbid to remember him on his birthday, instead of on the anniversary of his death. So for the past 9 or 10 years, I’ve done that.

But May 8 still hits me like a bag of bricks. Because I still remember being in French class and getting a note from the school office, telling me to call my mom at lunch. My mom never interrupted my schooling, so I knew what she had to tell me, even before I called home. And I still remember standing at the phone in the hallway, yelling “SHIT!” when she told me he was gone. And I remember everyone staring at me. Just like it was yesterday.

May 8 is never a good day. It still hurts, even 23 years later.

I miss you, Grandpa.

Time to Put Up or Shut Up

A few weeks ago, I wrote that I had some potentially exciting work-related news coming down the pike. This afternoon, it came to fruition.

I represent seven counties as the District 9 Representative on the Probation Officers Advisory Board. There are about two dozen of us probation officers from all around the state who converge on the Indiana Judicial Center in Indianapolis once a quarter to address issues that affect probation officers across the board, whether they involve training, workload measures, salaries, how we supervise offenders, or anything else that universally affects our profession.

There are two ways to get on the Advisory Board. The first is to be elected by your constituents. You nominate yourself, and if anyone else nominates themselves, there is an election. You can be elected a maximum of two consecutive three-year terms. I have run unopposed both times, and I just completed my first term and am entering my second term.

The other way to get on the Board is to be appointed by the Chief Justice of the Indiana Supreme Court. No one argues with the Chief Justice. I suppose you could be appointed endlessly by him.

Regardless of how you get on the Board, it's considered to be a pretty prestigious position.

So I've served on the Board for the past three years. In that time, I was frustrated by a number of things. Without dragging dirty laundry out in front of everyone, there were just a lot of things that were done differently than I thought they should be, given the prestige of the Board. I vented to my boss, who is also my friend and mentor, and who served on the Board a few years ago. I also expressed those thoughts--constructively at first and then less constructively as my frustration grew--to everyone at the Indiana Judicial Center who is involved with the Board. I got no response. I reached a point where I had privately decided not to run for a second term.

But a funny thing happened last fall. I was working on a project with a woman from the Indiana Judicial Center who is involved with the Board, and we got talking about my frustrations with the Board. At the next Board meeting about a month later, another Judicial Center staff member talked to me about my future with the Board. There was talk of reassigning me to a different committee, which I had requested, and that was enough for me to reconsider running for a second term. A couple months later, I spoke with a Judicial Center staff member, who mentioned the possibility of me Chairing a committee. That sounded really cool! I could run a committee the way I wanted to! Pretty exciting!

Then at our April Board meeting, two Judicial Center staff members talked to me to gauge my interest in becoming the Vice Chair of the entire Board. The plan was that the current Vice Chair would replace the outgoing Chair--as is commonly done--and serve the typical two-year term as Chair. Meanwhile, as Vice Chair, I'd learn the ropes, and in two years, I would likely become Chair. Heck yeah, I was interested! I've gone from complete frustration to the doorstep of being the #2 person on the entire Board! Nothing's official yet, I was told, as the Chief Justice of the Indiana Supreme Court still has the final say on appointments and structure of the Board and such. But even if it all fell through, it was really nice to know that the Judicial Center thought enough of me to want me in that position.

I got a call this afternoon from the Judicial Center. Tomorrow afternoon, in front of about 3000 probation officers from all over the State of Indiana, at our Annual Meeting in Indianapolis, the Chief Justice is going to announce me as the Vice Chair of the Probation Officers Advisory Board. He is also going to extend the current Chair's term one more year, and after that one year (instead of the two years we discussed last month), I will likely become the next Chair. I'm not really sure what happened to the current Vice Chair. I'm really looking forward to the opportunity, though. I thought all my complaining fell on deaf ears, but the Judicial Center was apparently listening the entire time. Now I have the opportunity to put my money where my mouth is and orchestrate some positive changes in the Board.

Time for me to put up or shut up.

Maybe now that I'm the Vice Chair, they'll spell my name right on the website.

Olivia and June

I'll forewarn you. This segment will bore you if you have no interest in my kids. But for the friends and family who follow them, I wanted to provide an update.

The Mrs. and I have two daughters. Our three-year-old, we'll call Olivia. Our younger daughter, who we'll call June, is exactly 15 months younger than Olivia. She'll celebrate her second birthday next month. Aside from their gender, they are about as opposite as you could imagine. Olivia has a head full of curly blonde hair. June has straight brown hair. Olivia is rather clingy. June is quite independent. Olivia is very cautious. June has no fear. Olivia gets a lot of boo-boo's and needs each one thoroughly attended to by me or the Mrs. (preferably the Mrs., in Olivia's mind). June is a hoss. Olivia has always been small for her age, consistently scoring in the 10th percentile in height and weight. June has always been big for her age, consistently scoring in the 90th percentile in height and weight. They are nearly the same size, despite being 15 months apart in age. And the examples could go on and on.

They are the best of friends, though. After awakening, each of them immediately starts searching for or asking about the other. They play together all the time, they look out for each other, and especially as June's vocabulary explodes, they converse with each other. They dislike being apart from each other for very long. That's not to say that there aren't the typical sister spats, raw nerves, and sharing disputes, but for the most part, they love being around each other.

So let's start with Olivia. If you've ever read any of the "Olivia" stories by Ian Falconer, then you know our Olivia, because those two are identical. I suppose it's encouraging, though, that Falconer could create such a popular character as Olivia the Pig in the world of children's stories. I imagine the books are popular because Olivia the Pig is such a universally familiar character for parents of three-year-olds. Most parents can say, "My child is just like Olivia!" As can we. Which means our Olivia is normal.

Olivia was a very high-maintenance baby, which was probably learned behavior to a large extent since she is our first child, so we agonize over every little thing. But now she's becoming a lot more self-sufficient and able to do things on her own, so that's quite the relief to me and the Mrs. She does, however, come into our bedroom every night at some point and sleep with us for at least half the night. Well, she sleeps. The Mrs. and I get the crap beaten out of us by Olivia as she tosses and turns and kicks and flings her limbs wildly all night long. Nothing quite like taking a heel to the eye socket when you're in a dead sleep. It's a real joy.

Olivia can easily dress herself (although her ability to match clothing leaves something to be desired), and she's virtually completely potty-trained. Potty training her was actually pretty easy. She caught on quickly, thanks to her interest in wearing panties and her strong dislike of wet clothing. She's even been wearing panties, instead of a diaper, to bed for the past couple of months, and I can count her accidents on one hand.

She is in constant motion, especially since she started taking gymnastics classes a few months ago. She absolutely loves gymnastics. And now everything in the house is hung on, jumped from, and balanced on. She's pretty athletic, running with a fair amount of speed, kicking a ball with no problems, jumping like a kangaroo, and even throwing a ball with some mustard on it. Like her daddy, though, she can throw the ball hard, but accuracy isn't her forte. She got a scooter for her third birthday that she likes to buzz around the house on, and she's almost got the leg length now to attempt riding her tiny little bicycle with training wheels and her pedal-powered '55 Chevy.

Olivia is real big into Disney Princesses--Cinderella, Belle, Sleeping Beauty, Jasmine, and Snow White, with Cinderella being her favorite--and she loves to dress up. She has a number of princess dresses that she changes in and out of several times a day. She likes to draw and color, and she loves to play with any of the 75 billion or so dollies that she has all over the house in varying sizes and abilities. She's quite good at role-playing with her dollies. Nothing like seeing and hearing your daily life being acted out by a three-year-old with her dollies! (Daddy Dolly seems to yell a lot for some reason.)

She loves to do things herself. Unless she wants attention, and then she can't do a thing by herself. But when she's not turning into the Green-Eyed Monster because her sister is getting attention, she likes to brush her own teeth, climb into her car seat and mostly strap herself in, and drink from a "big girl cup" (one without a lid or straw).

Her vocabulary is enormous. Understanding her is no problem. In the rare occasions when we can't figure out what she's talking about, she can describe what she's talking about in a different way, so we can understand what she meant. She also uses her vocabulary to smart-mouth me and the Mrs., declare her intentions to do the exact opposite of what we've just told her, and express her dismay at landing in Time Out for the 17th time today.

She's a smart kid, and she has a good soul. She's a good big sister, too. She keeps an eye on June, and recently came to her defense when another girl landed on June while they were all jumping on a bed. It was totally inadvertent by the other girl, but it was still nice to see Olivia come to the aid of her sister.

June's most noticeable progress lately has been that her vocabulary is absolutely exploding. She can form rudimentary sentences, and she can respond to a lot of questions. Many times, she can verbalize what she wants, or at least get close enough to it that between me, the Mrs., and Olivia, we can usually figure out what June is after. You can ask her "yes" or "no" questions, and most of the time, you'll get an accurate answer from her.

She's also starting to learn animals and what sounds they make. We pass three cow pastures on our way to daycare each morning. "Cow" was one of the first animals she learned. Everything was a cow to her. Cows were cows. Dogs were cows. Horses were cows. Sheep were cows. She's been getting better at differentiating animals now (although dogs are now "horses" to her), but she's still partial to cows. So a few weeks ago, we were driving by one of the pastures, and the cows were out. I pointed them out to her, and she yelled "COW!" with glee. I asked her what sound a cow makes, and Olivia piped in with, "Moooo!" And for some reason, Olivia added a raspberry at the end of the "Moooo", which is apparently top-shelf humor for a two-year-old. June thought that was HYSTERICAL. Olivia, egged on by a receptive audience, then spent the next 5 miles or so saying, "Mooooo! PBTHBTHBTH!" over and over and over and over again as June howled in laughter until she could hardly catch her breath. And now, every morning, at each of the three pastures, they both break into "Moooo! PBTHBTHBTH!" as we pass the cows. Who knew that cows spit? I sure didn't. But Olivia and June knew.

There are times when June would follow Olivia to the ends of the Earth, mimicking everything Olivia says and does, but there are other times when she disappears into one of the bedrooms and quietly plays with whatever toys are in that room. She can play quietly by herself for quite some time.

Her running is getting a little more under control than it was in the earlier stages of her two-legged travels. She's cute when she runs. She hunches her shoulders up and bends her elbows, keeping her hands at chest level, like some sort of tiny Tyrannosaurus Rex. A pigeon-toed T-Rex to be exact. And a couple weeks ago, she started jumping. Now when the girls jump on our bed, June can pretty well hold her own with Olivia.

June is a tank. Most times, when she wipes out or hits her head or skins her knee or whatever, she doesn't act fazed at all. If she cries, you know she's REALLY hurt. But the crying is very brief. The kid can tolerate pain! She wiped out on the front porch a week or so ago and went elbow first into the concrete. Took a big chunk of skin off her elbow. She cried. For about 15 seconds. And then it was back to business as usual. That night, we thought it would be prudent to clean the scrape out with some hydrogen peroxide--the stuff that bubbles up like crazy when it meets dirt and germs, and the stuff that burns like crazy as it disinfects. We were prepared for June to come out of her skin when we poured it on her skinned elbow. June just looked in wonderment at the bubbles forming on her elbow. Didn't even flinch. After the bubbles subsided, we poured a second dose on. Same reaction, except she shot us a quick look like, "Is that all you got? That's the best you can do?" She may have a future as a cage fighter.

Unlike Olivia, who bounces out of bed in the morning, eager to tackle the world, June is an absolute grouch in the morning. Try to kiss her, and she jerks her head away with a disgusted grunt. She wants her bottle of milk, her blueberry waffle, and her cartoons for about an hour. Don't talk to her. Don't touch her. Don't get in the way of the TV. After about an hour, though, she snaps out of it, and she's a happy little girl.

June eats what we eat, for the most part, except that she's allergic to a number of things, most notably milk and eggs. So she drinks soy milk, eats soy yogurt, and we watch the ingredients on anything else we give her to eat. She absolutely loves fruit. The aforementioned gluten-free blueberry waffles are another favorite. Meats are fine. Vegetables are fine. Finding gluten-free margarine isn't difficult. We've found a couple different kinds of bread that don't contain milk or eggs. We've figured out how to make muffins with Sprite instead of milk and eggs. We've learned that french fries at Wendy's do not contain milk, but McDonald's fries do. So there really isn't much she misses out on. We just have to watch what she eats, make some minor changes in what and where we eat, and she's fine.

So that's the latest with the girls. With Olivia in the Terrible Threes and June in the Terrible Twos, we have our moments when the Mrs. or I have to walk away and take a breather for a minute. But for the most part, Olivia and June are really good kids. They're both smart, funny, cute, and healthy. You can't ask for anything more.

A Night with the Police

I did a civilian ride-along with the Hendricks County Sheriff's Department last night. I have a friend who is a sheriff deputy there, and when I have the opportunity, I like to ride along with him for a shift. I often do this when my wife and kids are out of town, as they are this weekend, because my friend works 6:00pm to 6:00am, so it takes a little bit of sleep preparation and recovery time for me to ride with him. I imagine a lot of guys hit the bars and strip clubs when their wives are out of town. I ride with the police. I'm quite the party animal, aren't I? At least the Mrs. can rest assured that I'm not out getting into trouble while she's gone.

I've always been a big fan of the police, ever since I was a kid in Cub Scouts, and we toured the local police department in the small town in which I grew up. Those police officers looked so majestic, proud, good, like superheroes in their crisp blue uniforms, their shiny badges and pins, and their polished leather belts and shoes. They drove cool cars with lights and sirens, and they rushed to help people wherever there was a need, not thinking twice about risking their own safety. When they'd drive past my house, they'd wave to me like I was someone special to them, a little "Hey, we're here if you need us" wave. As a young boy, it was not hard for me to liken them to my favorite comic book superhero, Batman. And when Batman took the time to wave to me, that was pretty darn cool.

As an adult, I worked in a Municipal Court in Texas for a few years, which was housed in the same building as the city's police department. Through the nature of my job and our shared facility, I was around police officers all day at work. I made some really good friends there. I completed that department's Citizen Police Academy--a multi-week education for civilians about what it's like to be a police officer--and I did a number of civilian ride-alongs with that department.

When I moved to Indiana, I wasted no time riding along with the Indianapolis Police Department several times. I've ridden with a small town police officer. And I've ridden with my friend at the Hendricks County Sheriff's Department more times than I can count.

It has always bothered me when people bad-mouth the police. Granted, there are some bad apples in the profession, but name one single profession where there aren't bad apples. My profession is no exception. But I have found the police to be uniquely misunderstood, feared, loathed, and unappreciated by the general public. If a person is the object of the police's attention, the police arrived with too many officers, used excessive force, and violated their civil rights. If that same person wants the police to protect a loved one, the police took forever to get there, they were callous to the victim's needs, and they were too lazy to do anything about catching the bad guy. It's a no-win situation for the police.

Many people don't even know how to act around a police officer. It doesn't matter what state it is or what size of department it is, police officers are just regular people. My favorite part of riding with my friend is watching all the deputies interact. They're just regular guys. They have bills to pay, just like the rest of us. They have families, just like the rest of us. They have parenting issues, just like the rest of us. Their cars break down, their homes need maintenance, they plan vacations, they get together with friends for barbecues, they're concerned about their financial futures, they get sick, they go to church, and they're involved in all sorts of activities outside of their jobs, just like the rest of us. They talk about their work with each other, just like the rest of us do. They gripe about things they don't like about their jobs, just like the rest of us. The difference between them and most of the rest of us, though, is that they mobilize instantaneously and are willing to risk life and limb to protect people they don't even know. They get yelled at, spit at, swung at, and in the worst of circumstances, shot at by the very people they have sworn to protect. Every little thing they do at work is scrutinized, not only by their employer, but by the general public. Imagine if you made a mistake at work, and it was broadcast on the evening news for everyone to see. Imagine if something went wrong, but you DIDN'T make a mistake, and yet it was STILL broadcast on the evening news for everyone to see, and everyone simply ASSUMED that you made a mistake. To illustrate my point, read this recent article, including the comments posted at the bottom by readers.

I highly recommend a civilian ride-along or two for some of those readers, so they can attain a better understanding of what police officers do.

One might think that every shift is like an episode of COPS. Couldn't be farther from the truth. Here's how my ride-along went.

My friend is a sergeant and a shift supervisor, so we spent our first hour at the Sheriff's Department while he trained another deputy on a new computer system they're using to write their reports. He also proof-read an accident report being prepared by a lieutenant as a result of a deputy being injured a few days ago in a crash. We finally got into my friend's police cruiser, which has enough electronic equipment in it to put Radio Shack to shame. Cameras, computers, radar equipment, controls to the infinite number of lights on the car, and on and on. I can only imagine how much training was necessary to educate all the deputies on how to use all of this stuff, plus all the stuff that is attached to their 30-pound duty belts, plus all of the weapons that are in their cars. My friend's entire--and I mean ENTIRE--back seat is filled with books, forms, police tape, reflective stuff, stuff to stop speeding cars, rain gear, cold gear, department issued hats, cameras, and who knows what else. His trunk is equally full. The front passenger seat, where I sat, was like being in the Apollo 13 capsule, with what little room is left from all the electronic equipment. I was a Boy Scout, but police officers take the "be prepared" motto to a whole new level. And it's out of necessity. One thing that struck me when I looked at photos of the injured deputy's cruiser from a few days ago was how much crap must have been flying around in that car--and, I assume, hitting the deputy--when he crashed. Another thought I had was that if we wrecked, my head was going right into the video camera screen that is mounted on my side of the car, even with my seatbelt on. But by the end of the shift, my friend had used every single piece of electronic equipment in the front of the car, as well as some of the forms and equipment in the back seat.

So after we left the station, we joined a few other units in responding to a citizen's call about a possible party involving underaged drinking. When we arrived, there had to have been 50 kids in this house. They were like clowns in a Volkswagen, as the police herded them all outside and gave them breath tests. Many of them were wearing clothing that identified them as middle schoolers. And let me tell you, when I was in the 8th grade, the girls didn't dress like they do now. I'm pretty sure some of my hair turned grey right then and there as I envisioned what my life is going to be like when my Olivia and June get to that age.

Incidentally, none of the kids were drinking. But there were no parents home, either. That situation was rectified by a phone call from a deputy to one of the parents.

Our next stop was to serve some legal paperwork on a local homeowner. The bank is foreclosing on his house. That sucked. My friend listened as the homeowner expressed his frustration and desperation with the situation. None of it was directed at my friend, but this is the kind of thing he has to do more and more often in today's economy.

Throughout the night, we responded to a variety of things. One neighbor called the police on another neighbor because they were lighting firecrackers while having a bonfire in their back yard. People called the police because kids were doorbell-ditching them late at night. Naturally, the perpetrators were nowhere to be found when we arrived. Someone called the police because a car occupied by a couple teenaged boys was driving slowly down the street without lights on, and then was parked for awhile with the boys still inside. Naturally, the vehicle was gone when we arrived, the boys likely having picked up their female friends who had sneaked out the house, my friend surmised. Again, my hair greyed at the thought of having to deal with this in the future with Olivia and June.

We got called to another house with a loud party involving young girls. (I was considering enrolling my daughters in a nunnery at this point.) But in this case, a parent was home, and she had brought the hammer down on her daughter's birthday party before we got there. Peace had already been restored.

At around 1:30am, we responded to a 911 hang-up. Someone had called 911, hung up before speaking to the operator, and then failed to answer the phone when the 911 operator tried calling back. So we and another deputy rushed to the residence. After initially acting like it was a complete mystery to him how that could have happened, the twenty-something-year-old resident admitted that he had accidentally dialed 911 and was too scared to answer the phone when Dispatch called him back. So instead, his actions brought two deputies rushing to his house in the middle of the night, having no idea what could be going on inside the residence.

(In case you're wondering, the proper thing to do if you accidentally call 911 is to stay on the line and tell the operator you made a mistake. And that will be the end of it.)

We got behind a neat old car at one point in the evening, and we couldn't determine what kind of car it was (looked to us like it was a 60's model Ford, but we couldn't be sure), so my friend ran the license plate, expecting to learn the year and make of the car to answer our question. Except that the license plate came back to a 2002 Mitsubishi. So we stopped him. He admitted he had had a couple of beers earlier in the evening, so my friend gave him some field sobriety tests, which he passed with flying colors. He was not impaired. His drivers license was suspended, though, so he got a ticket for that, and he had to park his car (it was a Ford Fairlane, by the way) and call someone to come get him.

We met up with another deputy and chatted with him for awhile, and he told us about a vehicle he had stopped for doing 40 mph. On the interstate. In the passing lane. It was a 75-year-old drunk driver. And this wasn't her first arrest for drunk driving. That deputy had at least an hour's worth of paperwork to do involving that arrest, plus what was likely a couple hours worth of paperwork to do on a crash he had worked earlier in the evening. He asked my friend for permission to spend the rest of the evening back at the department to finish his paperwork.

We patrolled several neighborhoods, driving through each subdivision with our windows rolled down so we could see and hear anything strange going on. It was a quiet night in that area of the county.

We cruised past the house again where all the kids had been earlier in the evening. There were still several kids out on the front porch, but they weren't doing anything wrong, and they noticed us as we slowly rolled by. Which, of course, is exactly why we drove by. We didn't want them to think we had forgotten about them.

Then we were on our way to assist a deputy in responding to a call about a car in a ditch (driver turned out to be drunk) when we got a call to assist another deputy on a traffic stop. When we arrived, two other units were there, too: a State Trooper and a local town police officer. The deputy had been conducting a traffic stop when he was nearly run over by a passing vehicle. He got the second vehicle stopped, and the driver was more than three times the legal limit for alcohol. The passenger in the car was so intoxicated that he could barely speak or stand. The driver was yelling expletives at the top of his voice as he was being handcuffed, brow-beating himself for being so stupid as to drive, when he had just gotten out of jail, and he was planning to see his kids the next day. We never really could figure out much of what his passenger was trying to say. The driver went to jail for drunk driving, and the passenger got a ride home in a police car. We parked the car in a church parking lot across the street for the driver to retrieve when he gets out of jail. A nice gesture, I thought, since had this happened in Indianapolis, the passenger would have gone to jail for Public Intoxication, and the car would have been towed. When we got back in our car, we looked up the driver's criminal history on my friend's computer. He had a drunk driving arrest a year ago. This one is going to be a felony.

I had mentioned to my friend earlier in the night that it absolutely baffles me how people can drive into a police car during a traffic stop, like I see happening with regularity on TV and read about in the newspaper. The lights on my friend's car are plentiful and amazingly bright. As we'd assist other units, I could see their overheads at least a half-mile before we got there. So how could people miss those lights and drive into the back of a police car on the side of the road? "They're like moths to a flame," my friend informed me. Amazing.

And let me tell you, when you get four police cars, with all their lights on, as it was with this drunk driver, it is downright blinding. I don't know how those officers can see what the heck they're doing. I guess they're used to it, but I found all the flashing red and blue lights, combined with all the spotlights, to be quite disorienting. Which is probably the point, allowing the officer a kind of home-field advantage over someone who may want to get violent with him or her.

We drove through a few more neighborhoods, business areas, and construction sites before calling at a night. As my friend was taking me home, I commented that this had been a pretty active night. He looked puzzled and asked, "Really? Why do you say that?" I mentioned all the underaged parties, the 911 hang-up, doing the field sobriety test on the driver of the Fairlane, at least four drunk drivers that I knew of that were arrested during that shift, all the minor calls that we responded to, plus countless other such calls that other units had responded to. I was surprised by how busy the deputies were, even for it being a Friday night. My friend assured me that this had actually been a pretty slow night. But it had ended well. All the deputies went home safe to their families, and a handful of drunk drivers were taken off the streets before they hurt anyone. The deputies responded to every call that John Q. Public made, and they did some proactive patrolling to make sure you and I can sleep safely at night.

So I will continue to teach Olivia and June that the police are our friends, and that they help people. Because I know from repeated first-hand experience across several departments in different parts of the country that that's exactly who they are and what they do.