Thirty-Something Speaks
What really makes a man?
Editor's note:This column being repeated due to popular

Mike Maddock

demand.

What makes a man a man? Is it commitment to family? Is it an extraordinary work ethic or success in business? Or is it a variety of strange smells and lots of inappropriate scratching? Is it the ability to belch the entire alphabet or produce low- rumbling, room clearing noises at the pull of a finger? Or is it courage, strength, and the protection of loved ones?

I ask these questions, because I had a setback this past weekend. A setback that forced me once again to look inward and evaluate my role in the family hierarchy.

Just when I thought I was clearly the man of the house, life threw me a little curve ball. Instead of hitting it out of the park or even leaning into it and taking one for the team, I dove out of the batter's box like a prepubescent bookworm staring at the seams of a Curt Schilling fast ball.

That day last weekend started innocently enough. My three kids were playing while I watched to make sure my 23- month- old son wasn't attempting any swan dives off the slide in our backyard. Then my oldest daughter noticed a lizard crawling near her sand castle, which she promptly caught in one of her buckets. She grabbed her little sister and they proceeded to play with the lizard like it was a Basset Hound puppy. My son joined in, although he seemed more interested in bashing the poor creature over the head with his plastic golf clubs.

I was quite impressed my pristine little, hair bow wearing daughters were getting so friendly with this poor little lizard that I ran inside to get my camera and brought my wife out with me to have a look.

I snapped pictures, recording this day for our family history, and my daughters obliged posing and holding the hapless lizard up to view like some Lake Murray fishermen who had landed a 200 pound catfish.

Apparently though, while I was soaking up the moment and basking in the glow of my proud children, my wife snuck up behind us bearing a small, plastic, but very realistic toy, tyrannosaurus rex. As my children and I huddled close together admiring the lizard and using up a roll of film, my wife thrust the dinosaur between us and yelled, "ROAR!!! Look out! It's the lizard's mother!"

I am ashamed to admit the only little girl screaming was me. At the sight of the plastic toy with (and I say this in all honesty once again) amazingly realistic features and the sound of my wife's accompanying roar, I threw my camera in the grass, sprang several feet off the ground covering my face like I was about to take a punch from Mike Tyson.

When my wife stopped crying from laughter, she pointed out that not only was I the only one emitting less than masculine screams, but I had practically flattened my son trying to flee from the tiny T- Rex. In one quick and incredibly unfortunate instant, my wife had transformed me from Ward Cleaver to George Costanza.

This was not one of my prouder moments. I've been less embarrassed toting giant boxes of super- maxies to the drug store counter. But all I could do was get back up, laugh a little with my wife, and chunk that stinking T- Rex several hundred feet into the woods.

Luckily, my children were paying more attention to the lizard than the shrieks and back- peddling of their old man so I may not have lost too much respect in their eyes. Some day I'll get that ounce of respect back, and I'll get their mother back too. My manliness will not be sacrificed for her entertainment and pay back is hell. I just hope that T- Rex stays deep in the woods.