This could possibly be a reflection of my utter immaturity, but I have shown signs lately that I actually might be growing. I have spent 47 years barely registering a score on the Lipsching Scale of Maturity which rates maturity in humans from 1-30. According to Dr. Lipsching, ultimate mature is a 30 and infantile is a 1. Thus far I have lived my life at a 3, but maybe now I am finally hovering at a 7 – which is exponential growth for me but still represents an incredible lack of refinement.

How do I know I’m making strides?

We had visitors for the weekend. New friends with young kids, the kind of kids that run all over the place and make tons of noise. My kids are older now and don’t run unless they are being chased and even then, maybe not. More likely they would analyze the threat and play possum figuring potential death is better than exertion. They aren’t much for running. As for noise, mine make incoherent grunts and occasional complaints. But they are grown up noises, not high pitched squealing and constant chatter.

These kids made NOISE! The kind of noise that accompanies unadulterated fun. Constant buzzing noise that swept through our house and caught us all up in its whirlwind.

It was wonderful!

It has been a long time since we parented little ones. We’ve moved past that phase.

I classify parenthood into three phases, each builds on the other. You can’t jump into phase three without knowing and experiencing phases one and two. I suppose you can if you are thrust into it by adoption or marriage, but that would present numerous challenges. Likewise, once you move to a new phase you can’t go back. Again, you can if forced, but you might need a straightjacket or a fully stocked wet bar to get you through.

Phases of Parenthood According to Mark

Phase 1 – Cuteness, Poop, and Drool        BABY

Phase 2 – The Age of Destruction         TODDLER to PUBERTY

Phase 3 – The Age of Hormonal Dysfunction      TEENAGER to “THANK GOD THEY ARE OUT OF THE HOUSE!”

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We are in the last phase. It has its ups and downs. The house stays neater, but I sometimes miss the chaos of phase 2.

Enter our guests, or as I’ll call them, The Seattle Tsunami. This is where I think I am growing up because a few years ago if kids had come over and blown the roof off, I would have been tense. I would have gotten quiet and reserved as I tabulated the costs of their destruction like an insurance adjuster. I think I would have had to excuse myself several times while a cried over spilt milk.

Maybe it’s because I’m older, maybe it is because I have gotten a life lesson in what really matters, or maybe I’m preparing for the shake-them-up-and-send-them-home grandparenting years. Whatever it is, I had a ball! I loved every second of it and didn’t flinch. In fact, I joined right in. One time the two year old came upstairs holding a curtain rod like a javelin and rather than panic, I gave him instructions on proper technique. I wrestled, laughed, and played like I haven’t in a long time.

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This weekend, I came to the following conclusion:

I don’t own anything that can’t be repaired, repainted, or replaced.

Nothing! Experience is king. Enjoy, kids!

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Oh, and if you planned on Googling Lipsching and his theory, PPTHHPTHPFFTHPPPT!!!! Gotcha!

You can tell a great deal about a blogger by recurring themes in their writing. Obviously, Kylie is my most recurringest topic – followed closely by fabricated words and coffee. I’m not really a coffee snob, but I like my coffee bold and black. No frilly creams or flavors for me.

One of my favorite things to do is sit in a Starbucks and watch grown men order a Frappuccino like a giggly teenager.

“I’ll have a half-caf frap with soy, an extra shot, caramel drizzle, one-pump, no-whip…”

Don’t even get me started on macchiato, whatever that is.

I like to pound on the bar like a caveman and grunt, “Dark coffee!”

When they ask what size I give crazy eyes and hold my hands as wide apart as possible because it hurts to even say vinte…

A barista once she informed me that I could use their code by saying, “vinte bold, no air.”

Sorry cupcake, I’m a man.

All of this leads me to this morning when I realized I had run out of coffee.

Dear God, No!

A look out of the window to make sure a zombie apocalypse hadn’t happened overnight. A quick bed check told me that my wife and children were still here so the rapture hadn’t left me alone (I figure they are shoe-ins and I’m 50/50).

Oh, the horror!

But wait, I found a sample package of something called French Vanilla Almond Roast. Looks like coffee. Smells kinda like coffee. Most importantly, it is all we’ve got at 5 am.

So I brewed a pot. After two cups, I’m worried. First, I don’t like it one bit. It isn’t near bitter or harsh enough for my taste. With the vanilla flavor it resembles the taste of a stale cookie.

More importantly, I think I’m changing. I feel my masculinity being stripped away from me one swig at a time. I found myself discontent with my earthenware mug because it just isn’t pretty. I am usually very mellow in the morning, but I rolled between angry and weepy as I recounted each and every conversation I had yesterday and wondered what they truly meant by what they said.

SHIFT – Think man thoughts!

I began reading an article about my beloved Atlanta Falcons just to bring myself back. Focus on my big questions: Will they have a rushing attack? Will they be able to get pressure on the quarterback this year?

I can’t focus! I really just wanted to know if my butt looks big in these shorts, which is impossible to answer sitting down.

Am I experiencing some form of PMS or might I be ovulating?

This is madness! I quit turning circles in front of the mirror, dumped the rest of the coffee in the sink and committed to buying twenty bags of dark roast as soon as the store opened.

As God as my witness, I will never let this happen again.

And by the way, I wore the longest t-shirt I own to the store because my butt did kinda look big in those shorts…