LONGWALKABOUT

People can describe me in many ways.  Such as.  ‘That really nice girl’s husband.’  ‘Introvert.’ ‘The guy who occasionally runs the sound board at church.’  ‘The guy who needs a haircut.’  And, this Monday, in a stunning development, ‘the father of the two most well behaved children at the Mexican restaurant.’  I would like to thank our server for that compliment.  Also, I would like to apologize to him again for spilling my water all over the place.  Two words that have never been used to describe me, ‘City Person.‘

Over the last two days of my kid’s spring break we took the family to New York.  We visited two museums, Times Square, Central Park, multiple restaurants, and (according to my phone) walked around 11 miles.  At the end of our whirlwind tour, who was left standing and ready for more?  This guy.  Everyone else had tapped out.  They were ready to go home.  My eldest son was first.  Admittedly he is not a city person either.  I think he may have been done immediately after we saw the African mammals exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, which was the highlight of his trip.  And the first thing we did.  Then came my youngest.  He is up for anything most of the time.  Anything except for the naked statues in the European sculpture hall at the Met.  We explained to him that the nude statues were “no big deal.”  To which he responded, “It’s a big deal to my eyes!”  By the time we were done viewing the impressionist paintings (which he was actually stoked about) he was done.  We made our way  back to the hotel and to a restaurant just north of Times Square, where the waiters and waitresses sing.  It was at that restaurant when I realized I had won.  My endurance had taken the day.  I looked across the table at my wife and was astonished to come to the conclusion that she too was ready to call it a day.  So, while the waitress sang a tune from Annie, I signed the check and relished the fact that it wasn’t me who was checking the time and train schedules, wondering when we could leave.  Not this time.  I was ready to take the walk over to the Empire State Building.  Or maybe to show the kids Grand Central Terminal.  Or perhaps to join the Hare Krishnas for a rousing number in Penn Station.

My wife loves New York.  Several times a year she will visit with her best friend, spending the day seeing the sights and visiting hipster food spots.  She doesn’t even care if it’s summertime, when New York City smells like a giant urinal in search of an even gianter urinal cake.  For me to outlast her on a trip to the city is a big deal.  I feel like I have won some sort of championship belt.  I should probably be giving an awards acceptance speech.  “First and foremost I would like to thank the makers of Google Maps for helping me navigate the subway system. Secondly, a big thanks goes out to the guy who gave up his seat so we could all sit together on the NJ Transit train.  Last but not least, I would be remiss not to mention the genuine New York City subway rat that showed up during a lull in conversation, to the delight of all.  Until next time, God bless, and goodnight.”

 

 

I love live music.  I especially love shows in small clubs that are standing room only.  It’s hot and rowdy.  If the band is good, the crowd feeds off of them and they feed off of the crowd.  IF the band is GOOD.  But what if they’re horrible?  Well.  Then you’re just standing in a crowd of people being sonically abused.  This happens more often than not with the opening acts.  The headliner.  The band you actually came to see, is almost always worth the price of admission. Unfortunately, they make you sit through two to three bands that no one has heard of to get to what you came to hear.  Sure, you could skip the openers, but then you’d have to stand at the back of the crowd when your favorite band comes on stage.  If you want to be close enough to the stage to be in danger of getting sprayed with your favorite rock star’s sweat, then you’re gonna have to get there early and endure the opening acts.

I am one of  those people who gets there early.  When I was younger, I kind of liked being there for the whole experience.  Being in line for the door.  Being there when the first band went on stage.  Enjoying the build of anticipation for the band on the marquee.  I went to see Bowling For Soup at the TLA in Philadelphia last night, and I am noticing a change in myself.  I stood in line for the door.  I got a spot about four or five people deep from the stage.  I was there when the first band went on.  Instead of feeling anticipation, other things were running through my head.  Other things like.  “Will I be able to keep this amount of personal space around me the entire night.  I really hope so.  I don’t have any desire to be up against any of these people.”  “Ewww.  I hope that puddle I’m standing in is someone’s spilled drink and not something else.”  “Think I’ll check the score of the baseball game.”  “My left heel hurts something fierce.”  “I have not understood one word of what the lead singer of this band has screamed for the last 30 minutes.”  “I wish I was watching the baseball game.”  Then Bowling For Soup came on.  And they were great.  Really great.

It may be just a sign of me getting older.  But I prefer to think of it as a sign of me getting wiser. Why should we as a populous be subjected to awful music just to get to the music that we really like?  I see no good reason.  I also see one obvious solution.  Put my wife in charge of picking opening bands for everyone.  I bet you thought I was going to say, put me in charge. Nope.  As someone who admittedly loves the Britney Spears song Criminal, I am painfully aware of my limitations when it comes to critiquing music.  My wife on the other hand, would cut through opening acts with the glorious bluntness of Simon Cowell, but with no British accent to make the doses of reality sound better.  I would hope to be able to sit next to her and be her Randy Jackson while she judged them.

Wife:  “I hope you have a fall back career because I’ve heard more melodious sounds from the zombies on The Walking Dead.  And this is coming from someone who can’t stand The Walking Dead.”

Me:  “Yo dog, she’s right, music may not be your thing.  And, she really does hate The Walking Dead.  I mean, if I’m watching it when she comes in the room, I’m subjected to a five minute rant about how it has no redeeming qualities.  Thanks for auditioning.”

Problem solved.  The world would be a better place.

And my left heel is still hurting something fierce.

 

Spring officially starts today in many countries in the northern hemisphere.  I’m looking at a low of 17 degrees on Wednesday night.  That doesn’t seem very springy.  In fact, I don’t start feeling like going outside until roughly June 8.  Give or take a few days and degrees.  This made me wonder, just who gets to decide when spring starts?

Today is the vernal equinox.  That means the sun passes directly over the equator.  At some point in history somebody decided that we might as well go ahead and call the vernal equinox, “THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING.”  Who made this decision?  Well, it appears that the early pagans had something to do with it.  Those nutty pagans.  They were really into astronomy.  I guess that no one else had a problem with this decision throughout history.  Everyone was too busy shivering to argue about it.  Until meteorologists came along.  Meteorologists just had to be special.  So, they decided that they would have their own spring start date.  For them, the first day of spring is the day after the coldest 90 days of the year.  I bet you didn’t know that, huh. You didn’t know that because nobody pays attention to meteorologists.  How can we trust them with determining the start of a whole season if we can’t trust them with snowfall totals? Some other groups of people also decided not to play along with the pagans.  For instance, the Swedish meteorologists consider the first day of spring to be when they have had one week of temperatures above zero degrees.  In Ireland, February 1 is considered the start of spring.  I think they’re just being belligerent.

No matter what specific date marks the start of spring for you, most everyone around the world views it as an event to be celebrated.  The Poles make a doll that represents winter, andddddddddd, then they drown it in a river.  In Switzerland they take a snowman, annnnnddddddd, they burn it at the stake.  In Puerto Rico, people put on flip flops and roast a pig.  (They do this pretty much every Monday, though, so I’m not sure they’re actually celebrating anything.)  In Bosnia they have a scrambled egg festival.  I have to cut in right there and tell you that this is my personal favorite spring festival.  In the Netherlands they have a huge flower parade.  The Japanese visit the graves of their ancestors and have family get togethers.  The Water Festival in Thailand, Holi in India, The Cooper’s Hill Cheese Roll in England.  There are many others.  What seems pretty clear to me, is that winter is loathed around the world.  It so happens that this year the first day of spring coincides with World Storytelling Day.  Here at longwalkabout.com I’m celebrating both.

My eldest son has reached the age where a good number of his friends have cell phones.  So from time to time he comes home and asks, “Dad why can’t I have a phone?”  I grab him by the shoulders, look him straight in the eyes, and with my best Father Knows Best voice I say, “Son, because your parents are cheap.”  He responds with pleas for me to be serious.  To which I respond in an even more somber voice, “Son, I’m being deadly serious.”

In all honesty, though, occasionally it would be helpful for him to have his own phone.  I could go on an archeological dig and unearth an old Nokia 3310 to give him for his birthday.  “Happy Birthday Son!”  But I really doubt he would find it as hilarious as I would.  The dilemma is that phones are no longer just phones.  So, I am stuck with giving one of my old smartphones to a boy about to enter his teenage years.  To me that seems just about as smart as the teachers at Hogwarts giving all of those kids magic wands.  I really question the wisdom in that.  “Hey kids, no glass of wine until you are 21, but here’s a wand that you can use to cast a myriad of spells that could end all of your classmate’s lives.  Have at it.  Don’t be late for deadly witch basketball practice at three.”  We see how that ended up.  Lots of dead people and the destruction of half of their school.  Smartphones put a pandora’s box of information literally at your fingertips.  I’m not sure if you all know this, but the internet is full of nefarious stuff.  I’m not just talking about those millions of cat videos.  As if cats weren’t disturbing enough.  Not to mention the fact that he will be able to instantly communicate with his friends through text, picture, and video.  That seems like a recipe for trouble as well.  (As a side note.  I have decided that my least favorite feature on my phone,,,, is the actual phone.  I would prefer people not be able to get ahold of me.  It interrupts my constant scrolling of Twitter.)

What is a parent to do?  Well, I have decided that I am going to be craftier than a Russian hacker.  His phone is going to be loaded with more spyware than John Podesta’s ever was. Not only will I be able know where he goes on the internet, I will be able to know where he physically goes.  Then, every morning, I’ll give him the old, ‘I’m watching you’, signal.  To which he will probably roll his eyes.

He is a good kid.  It’s my job as a parent to help him stay that way.  If I have to give him a smartphone that has so many locks on it that it’s basically a Nokia, so be it.

 

I was at the grocery store the other day.  For the second time.  I had been there earlier in the day and couldn’t think of anything I needed.  Then, later in the day, I did think of something.  No!  I don’t need to write a list, thank you very much.  I just need to think of everything I need on my first trip.  I’ll get the hang of it.  Besides, if I hadn’t gone back, I might not have noticed the stack of Duraflame artificial fireplace logs and the remarkable marketing photo on the side of their boxes.

It was worth stopping and pondering.  My mind went in several different directions, all of them odd.  Thus, making this one of the best marketing photos ever,,,,,,,,,,,,,, in my opinion.

The product is a fireplace log.  But if you look at those people on the side of the box, they’re telling you it is so much more than that.  The expressions on their faces tell you that they are more than pleased with these logs.  These logs are the best purchase that have ever made. They are happier at this moment, sitting by the fireplace, than at any other moment in their lives.  This moment is better than their wedding day, better than the birth of their children, better than that promotion they got last week.  In fact, they may just skip work tomorrow and sit by the fireplace.  These logs are that good.

The picture also made me a little wary, though.  It crossed my mind that this is what cult members look like.  Had the scientists at the artificial log company included some kind of hallucinogen in the log-making process?  Something that gets released into the air when the product is burned?  Something that makes you receptive to the idea of buying more fireplace logs, and, I don’t know, joining Scientology?  Cause if you look at these two closely, they look a little high.

Then I read the text under the picture, and I realized, those crazy scientists are marketing this as an aphrodisiac.  That look on their faces is anticipation.  Tonight’s the night.  We’re gonna break out the bear skin rug, lay it right here in front of the fireplace, and be fruitful and multiply. This Valentines Day, we’ve all got an extra purchase to make, guys.  “Hi honey, happy Valentines Day.  I brought chocolates, roses, and fireplace logs.”  WINK WINK.

I haven’t stopped to notice the marketing on any product since the last time I bought tater tots. And that’s just because I love tater tots, not because the marketing was anything special.  It was actually just a picture of tater tots.  That’s really all you need to sell them.  So the fact that Duraflame stopped me in my tracks is a testament to there marketing genius.  Or to my odd thought process.  You decide.

My youngest son is picky.  Let me explain how picky.  When we were at Disneyworld when he was four, he made up a chant.  “I like pizza, I like macaronis, I like trees (broccoli), and I LIKE CHICKEN.”  Since that time, we have eliminated two items from that list without adding any new ones.

Last Thursday morning he woke up at four a.m. complaining of an earache.  I gave him some Tylenol, sent him back to bed, and then, two hours later when he woke up feeling okay, I made the mistake of sending him to school.  From what I gathered from witnesses on scene, he basically wreaked havoc for two hours.  I went to pick him up and offered my sincerest apologies.  Turns out he had an ear infection.  The doctor prescribed antibiotics.

Like I said in the first sentence way up at the top, my son is picky.  He hates the bubble gum taste of liquid antibiotics.  It was lunchtime when we got home.  I made him a grilled cheese.  (By the way, I make an awesome grilled cheese.  He might eat half of it. Picky!)  Then I made a horrible mistake.  Since he hated the taste of the medicine, I decided to make it taste better.  I poured a half cup of grape juice and added the medicine.  Turns out, he hated that EVEN more.  Now we were stuck with a dose in juice.  So as not to waste it, I engaged in a epic battle of wills for the better part of an hour,,,,, with a seven year old.  It was brutal.  There was yelling, crying, and coercing.  And that was just me.  Eventually he took it, but the battle nearly cost me my sanity.  I have never before felt like joining one of those Tibetan monasteries.  After that, it seemed like a preferable way to live.  Sitting there on the couch next to my son, who was now contentedly watching TV, my mind started to wander.

There I stood at the large ornamental doors of a mountaintop monastery.  I used the extra large door knocker.  The door was answered by a small monk of indeterminate age.

“Hi, my name is Marc, and I’m interested in joining your religion, support group, cult, or whatever it is you do here.”

“Do you seek enlightenment?”

“I mostly seek to not have to medicate a resistant seven year old again.  Ever.”

“We can offer you time for peace and meditation.”

“That sounds remarkably similar to the hour of TV I get to watch after the kids go to bed.”

“We have no TV here.”

“Oh, I’m not too worried about that.  As long as there are no seven year olds with ear infections.  Also, I hope you have a good cook.”

“There are no children here.  The last one of us to be sick was brother Balmohan, but that was twenty five years ago when he turned eighty.  He was able to cure himself with the power of his mind.  Our meditation keeps us remarkably healthy.  And yes, our cook is good.”

“Sounds great.  I’m in.  What’s the WIFI password?”

The car was in the middle of the grass median of a four lane highway.  It was upside down.  That was the first clue that something was wrong.  Some good citizen had called 911.  In those days, sometimes when you called 911, you got me.  Scary, right.  This guy didn’t just get me.  Our ambulance rolled up along with fire and rescue trucks and paramedics.  My partner and I jumped out, grabbed a few things and headed to the car.  I was the first one there.

It was the end of a 12 hour overnight shift.  This had been an unusually busy shift at our small rescue squad.  We had just gone paid, so every call we got meant another fat twenty dollars in my pocket.  Chaching.  Most nights I spent there were boring.  We watched TV and eventually fell asleep on the couches at the station.  That night though, we had already been on five calls.  Backing up the fire department at an alarm call, several other nonsense calls, and a motorcycle accident on the highway that they had to bring a helicopter in for.  (Standing in the middle of a closed down highway while a chopper lands on it is an experience)

Now I was standing in the median of that same highway staring at the open drivers side window of an upturned sedan.  This was the first time I had been the initial responder to a call like this.  Sticking out of the window was an arm.  Usually you can follow an arm to a person.  Fingers lead to hands lead to forearms lead to upper arms lead to shoulders and on to a torso.  My eyes scanned this arm from fingers to hand to forearm to some tendons and nerves that barely held it to the person in the car.  I dropped to my knees trying to avoid a surprisingly small amount of blood so I could get a better look.  There, hanging upside down in the seat was a fully conscious guy staring right back at me.  It was totally surreal.  I blurted out a couple of questions to try to judge his level of consciousness and if there were any other injuries.  The medics came up behind me and basically said, “No time for this, we gotta go.”  It happened so fast.  The belt was cut.  The guy was extricated from the car.  We were in the ambulance.  All the while, the guy was completely aware of what was going on.  I remember him having a conversation with the paramedic on the way to the hospital about the likelihood of his arm being saved.  His body was in shock, but his mind was functioning quite well.  We are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Ninety nine percent of my time as an EMT was mundane.  As an acquaintance of mine used to say, “Hours of boredom interrupted by moments of horror.”  But this experience was formative.  What did I learn from it?

• Life is unpredictable.
• If you get tired while you’re driving, it’s better to pull over for a nap than to wake up from a nap in the median.
• Got something you want to do?  Don’t wait.  I mean, what if this guy always wanted to enter an arm wrestling competition?
• Unless your health or loved ones are threatened, life is seriously ALL SMALL STUFF.  Laugh at it all the time.  Be happy.  Most problems are hilarious when you look back at them three months later anyway.  Might as well laugh at them while they’re happening.  It is a parade of absurdity.  And if you don’t agree, then tell me why Vin Diesel just confirmed that there will be a Fast and Furious 8, 9, and 10.  Absurd.

In my experience, roughly between the ages of three and seven, kids have delightfully little filter.  Whatever is happening in their little brains comes immediately out of their mouths.  It does not pass GO.  It does not collect two hundred dollars.  It is not subject to any Inside Out style pre-comment check that experience will later provide.  Often this has awesome results.  Don’t ever as a four year old a question that you don’t want an honest answer to.  “How do these shorts look, son?”  “They make you look like Sponge Bob, dad.”

When my wife and I were preparing for the birth of our second child we decided to take his older brother, who was four at the time, to a class they were having at the hospital for kids expecting a new sibling.  There were about ten other parents in attendance with their own kids, all roughly the same age as my son.  After a short introduction to the class, time came for us to go around the room and tell a little about ourselves.  The mother and her son to our right told us where they were from and that they had Japanese heritage.

Here I will stop and give two pieces of relevant backstory.  My little guy had just spent some time with grandma and grandpa. While at their house, he got to sit with grandpa and watch World War 2 programs on the History Channel.  (Much to mommy’s chagrin).  War being a difficult concept for a four year old, things just got boiled down to good guys and bad guys.  Also around the same time, for some reason or another (and most likely by his father), he had been introduced to the semi-obscure 80’s song Turning Japanese, by the The Vapors.  You may begin to see a dilemma taking shape.

While my oldest child has never been accused of being constantly aware of everything going on around him, in fact quite the opposite, he heard the word Japanese loud and clear.  He slowly turned to us with a smile of recognition on his face, while my wife and I slowly turned to him with wide eyed expectation of the worst.  It could go one of two ways.  Either we were going to get a loud, “Hey dad, weren’t they the bad guys in World War 2?”  Ooooorrrrr.  We were going to be treated to an impromptu rendition of “Turning Japanese, I think I’m turning Japanese, I really think so.”  Pick your poison.  Instead, he pulled a head fake on us.  He just sat there and smiled. The class proceeded.  About ten minutes later, the teacher handed out pictures for the kids to color.  My guy grabbed his crayons, got settled in, started to color,,,,,,,, and sing Turning Japanese.  To which I responded, and I quote, “Badadaddipopipp  aaaahhhhh ssshshshhhh, why don’t you use you red crayon and not sing.”  No one else seemed to notice.  Seven years later, I have no idea what was taught in that class, but I remember that my son knew the chorus of that song quite well.

After a needed break for Christmas, I emerged from an egg nog induced coma, managed to fight my way out of a pile of discarded wrapping paper, trip over three different gifts that the kids haven’t even played with yet, and grab three cookies on the way to the computer.  Why? Because I have important New Year’s Eve knowledge to share.

New Year’s is a ridiculous holiday.  It’s mostly an excuse for people to stay up late and watch generic pop musicians lip sync while Ryan Seacrest does a bad Dick Clark impression.  Then, at midnight, a giant crystal ball, that everyone swears is brand new and designed especially for this year, but looks suspiciously like the ball from the past five years with a 2017 glued to it, descends slowly down a flag pole towards the most anticlimactic moment of Sunday, January 1st.  Then, after Jenny McCarthy is finished kissing people in Times Square, Mr. Seacrest asks people what their New Year’s resolutions are.

Here is where everyone makes a their first horrible mistake of the year.  They vow that they are going to quit doing something, or to make more money, save more money, or to be more healthy.  And you know what?  8% of people achieve their goal.  8%.  Know why?  Because midnight on December 31st is no different from midnight on May 13th.  Except for the fact that in May, the weather is better and we’ll be right in the middle of the Stanley Cup Playoffs.  There is nothing magic about New Year’s.  If you’re going to make a major life improvement, you have to choose to do it every day.  If you do insist on making resolutions and you don’t want to be one of the 92%, how about picking something you enjoyed last year and vowing to do more of it.  Here are some examples.

• Enjoy spending time with family?   Resolve to do it more often.
• Enjoy going to the movies?  Go more often.  Can’t afford to go more often? No problem.  Go to an early showing and then sneak into another movie after the first.
• Enjoy crystal meth?  You really should get some help with that.
• Enjoy reading?  Go to the library more often.  Or find a thrift shop with a really good book section.
• Enjoy pigs feet?  EWW.

Or you could identify some things that you really hated last year and vow to avoid them.

• Hate flossing?  You’re in luck.  Word on the street is that it’s a racket anyway.  (I am in no way qualified to give dental advice.)
• Hate cold weather?  Resolve to take a trip to a warm destination.
• Hate crystal meth?  Good for you!
• Hate pop music?  Download the Overdrive app for your phone, get a library card, and listen to some audiobooks.
• Hate lima beans?  Easy.  Stay away from lima beans.
• Hate Mexican food?  You are a foolish, foolish, foolish person.

You may say, “Marc, what are your resolutions?”  First of all, it’s very sweet of you to ask.  But I thought I made it clear that New Years Eve is more of a sham than Valentine’s Day.  However, if you’re going to force me to come up with some, here they are.

• I resolve to keep avoiding Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and The Who.
• I resolve to keep buying my kids books in ridiculous numbers.
• I resolve to finish a whole onion ring tower at Red Robin.  BY MYSELF.
• I resolve to go backpacking.
• I resolve to watch the 24 reboot and give you my honest opinion.
• I resolve to take several naps.

Chance of success?  100% —  Happy New Year!

LINKS

• If you must, Fodors tells you the top 20 places to celebrate New Years Eve.
• Because January is bitter, and cold, and dark, and makes you not want to leave your house.  Here’s everything that will be new on Netflix next month.
• Everyone in my generation lost an icon this week.  Here’s Carrie Fisher roasting George Lucas in 2005.  Farewell.
• If you want serious resolution advice, here you go.

When I had kids I looked forward to the sage child rearing advice that I would get from past generations.  Most of that advice ended up being, “Geez, I can’t quite remember what we used to do.  You’ll figure it out.”  While this was a bit disappointing, it ended up being fine, because as you quickly learn, nothing is more annoying than other people telling you how to parent.  You truly will figure it out.  That being said, here are some of the things that I learned throughout the first decade plus of my parenting experience.

1. Swaddling is the ticket.  You want your newborn to sleep like, I don’t know, a baby?  Swaddle them.  It’s like a straight jacket for babies.  They can’t move, so eventually they get tired of trying and they decide they might as well sleep.  I did this with both of my boys.  When my oldest was little he would always manage to get one arm out of the wrap. I would sneak up to the crib hoping he would still be asleep, peak over the railing, and there he’d be, looking up smugly with one arm stretched upward like Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club, in complete defiance of swaddling protocol.
2. It is never too early to introduce your kids to classical music.  Bon Jovi, Motley Crue, Van Halen (Hagar not Roth), anything fun.  C’mon, you don’t want your kid listening to depressing music.  Next thing you know they’re dressing in black, reading Sylvia Plath, watching foreign films, and be telling you that the whole family needs to go to therapy together.  All because they’ve never heard Livin’ On A Prayer.
3. Introduce your child to Christianity.  Yes, Christianity.  Human beings are designed to believe.  If you don’t give them something truly positive to believe in, it is guaranteed that they will latch on to something else, and that will become their religion.  Money, a political ideology, Pokemon Go, NASCAR, UFO’s, conspiracy theories about fluoride in the drinking water.  Oh, they’ll find a religion. Might as well make it the one that built the entire western world.
4. Let the kid get dirty.  You know which kids never get sick?  The ones who have pets and play outside.  If your 2 year old is riding around the back yard on a black lab, he will A- not be as susceptible to allergies, and B- not have to go to the doctor’s office much.  All bets are off on the doctor’s office thing if that black lab sees a squirrel though.
5. Keep in mind that if you leave your kid alone with grandpa their’s no telling what they’ll be watching on TV when you return.  You come back to get junior, and he’s sitting there with grandpa, watching World War 2 footage.  While this is really educational, it is also heavy subject matter for a four year old.  Thanks dad.  : )

There you have it.  Superfluous words of wisdom for future and current parents.  If this was of no help to you, I’m sorry.  But trust me, YOU’LL FIGURE IT OUT.

PARENTING LINKS

• A list of 50 movies for kids to see before they are 12, from Common Sense Media.
• Want to watch movies with your kids but worry about the content?  Try VidAngel.
• My kids would bankrupt me if I paid full price for all the books they read.  Luckily I have a thrift store near me with a great book department.  If you don’t have one of those, try this site.
• A cool list of outdoor adventures every kid should have.