If I were a compass maker, I think I’d suck at it.  A compass maker is skilled at crafting a tool so useful that no matter where you are or how turned around you might be, whether you’re in dire straits or living the good life, his compass will always tell you which way to go.  So far I don’t feel like I’ve done much to provide my kids with their own magnetic north, their own compass that can help guide them through the good and bad times, pointing them in the direction of a happy, full life.  And I’m a little pissed at myself because of it.

Maybe you have a family compass, a set of explicit or maybe unspoken, understood truths you were taught by your family of it’s beliefs about how to be successful in life, love, parenting and the pursuit of a good salary.  I never received one of those, and I really wish I had (or if I did, I wasn’t paying attention and tossed it in the trash).  Sure, I have some random lessons from my childhood coursing through my hippocampus, like “Do whatever you want; just don’t get her pregnant” and “It’s polite to send thank you cards when you receive a gift.”  But there was never a generations-tested, organized, instruction manual for life.  There was never a valuable tidbit like “If you can’t avoid getting into a fight, then throw the fist punch and throw it as hard as you can.” (I think that one was from Life’s Little Instruction Book.)

I want that to change.  I want to give my kids a life compass.  A Clay compass.  I want there to be an identity attached to sharing Clay DNA. (Like when the going gets tough, the Clays get going.)  I want that compass to be like a Magic 8 ball with a million-sided answer cube inside that when they shake it and ask a question about how to manage some aspect of their life, they get loving,  helpful advice.  (That’s right: a Magic Clay 8-Ball Compass.)

Do you have a family compass, or some life lessons your parents taught you that have stuck with you and helped you at some point in your life?  Will you share them?

Uh, can I borrow them?

Shedd Aquarium in Chicago is a “no flash” aquarium. That is to say, they prefer you don’t use a flash when taking photographs, so as not to blind the marine life. With that as my excuse, below you’ll see some of the spectacular photography we captured during our visit:

This is a scuba diver feeding the fish, sharks and turtles while answering questions about the life in that tank.

This is a small, orange swimmy thing.

This is Diane, Agalia and one of DJ’s hands. Serious. (For those of you playing along with Photoshop, choose image > adjustments > auto levels - you’ll see.)

Thankfully, a few pictures did turn out. Mr. Ray says hello.

So does Ramon and his gang.

At this exact moment I’m looking at the list of post drafts I have for this blog. It’s the narrow white band appearing just below the warning that a new version of Wordpress is now available, and it’s telling me this:

Your Drafts: My Apologies To Loreli, Pressure. Pushing Down On You. Pushing Down On Me., NPR: Not The Devil, and 28 more.

That’s 31 drafts. And as I look at each one of them, I realize that some or all of almost every single one was filched in some way. “My Apologies To Loreli?” I was reading some gay blog and found myself so drawn into Erika’s orchestrated flashbacks that I thought it’d be fun for me to recount some of the things from my past, too. Filched.

“NPR: Not The Devil?” Saw the NPR logo on Erika’s site, too, and it reminded me of some things my father told me and some surprising discoveries I made about NPR when I started listening. Filched. kinda.

“Pressure et al?” I was reading Nutmeg’s post about not having any rounds left to fire in her blog, and it stirred some thoughts in me that I wanted to get out there. Kinda filched.

Maybe that’s just it, I’m a filcher and the sum total of my contribution to the blogosphere will be to take everyone else’s ideas, scratch out the identifying marks, slap a Family Clay sticker on them and shove ‘em out onto the showblog floor.

Before I became a father, I didn’t know:

1. Racing on foot (while whooping) at breakneck speeds across an elegantly appointed, spacious lobby of a four star hotel, then turning and racing back to where we started could be one of the most fun parts of a family trip.
2. The excitement inherent in the brains of small children when on a family trip to new and exciting places means mom and dad probably won’t be getting any sleep on said trip.
3. Playing peek-a-boo and squealing when found is hilarious when you’re 11 months old. Especially at midnight.
4. Being an unwilling contestant in a game of peek-a-boo with an eleven month old at midnight makes me hum the dandelion song a little.  (”Momma had a baby….”)
5. Checking to see if we can get a good rate on a room with a divider for our next trip is a good idea.
6. For children under four, the ancillary parts of a family trip are the most important parts of the trip.
7. Unfamiliar parents of other small children are some of the nicest, most helpful people in the world.
8. It’s fun to eavesdrop on other families with small children. Especially at meal time.
9. A dolphin show that doesn’t include dolphins dancing while wearing top hats and swinging walking sticks isn’t really a show. I thought jumping out of the water was enough. I was wrong.
10. Car trips that include zero fuel/food stops and peeing in a bottle to save time will never happen again for me.
11. Car trips that include stopping twice at the same rest area (without ever leaving the parking lot in between stops) for bathroom breaks may happen often for me.
12. Car trips take twice as long as they used to.
13. 8 consecutive hours of Strawberry Shortcake music can cause insanity.

Sometimes I just don’t know what to do with DJ. He tells me he wants more food, then turns it down when I offer it, screaming the whole time. He tears books off the shelf and casts them about like he’s playing indoor frisbee golf. He turns the dishwasher on whenever he’s near it, then gives us a snarky look as if to say “That’s right, beeyotch. I own da place now.”

There are times when I just can’t take it anymore and I need to get his attention and settle him down, no matter the method. No matter how little truth or accuracy are employed in getting that attention. So long as I get his attention. Today was one of those times.

My line here (camera truncated it) is “Son? You’re adopted.”

Editor’s Note:  I thought Vimeo was going to be a nifty alternative to YouTube.  However, after uploading this video, it took 100 minutes to process, and now it appears it’ll only play the first 2 seconds of the clip, sans sound.  My next videos will be hosted elsewhere.  My apology to my reader readers.