family - OldeDominionDad

November 13, 2025November 13, 2025

The Mountain Hike of Doom! It’s A Trap!

There’s a special kind of confidence you feel when you’re young parents. The kind that makes you believe you can do absolutely anything, even when every sign in the universe is flashing “You’re not built for this, turn back now, before its to late!” That was us the day we decided to tackle Apple Orchard Falls in Roanoke, Virginia.

We had read—somewhere, from someone we clearly should never trust again, likely a blog post—that this was a “family-friendly” hike. Three miles. Easy. Scenic. Great for kids. With a 200ft. water fall at the end to reward you for your efforts.

Looking back, I think the person who wrote that review either A) has no children, B) has legs made of titanium, or C) is deeply evil and enjoys watching families suffer.

When we started, the trail was lovely. Paved. Gentle. Birds singing. Trees swaying. The Appalachian Mountains whispering sweet sweet encouragement. I was wearing flip-flops, because obviously this was going to be a walk in the park.

Oh, how wrong we were.

Logan, our oldest, was three at the time—full of energy and absolutely no stamina. Kara couldn’t walk yet. And in a poetic twist, the rest of us would soon join her in that condition.

About a quarter mile in, the trail stopped pretending it was friendly and revealed its true form: a steep, rocky, Appalachian torture chamber. One moment we were strolling. The next moment we were basically clinging to a rock face like confused, underprepared mountain goats, while chords of dueling banjos drifted over the wind.

I remember thinking, “Huh. Maybe flip-flops weren’t the right footwear.” But at that point the only way out was through, and pride is a powerful thing. So I kept going, slapping my bargain-bin sandals against rock like I was auditioning for a survival show.

Then Logan stopped. And not like a normal “I’m tired” stop. He turned into a full-on statue. Sat down on the trail, folded his arms, and decided that his journey was over. Absolutely refused to move another inch. A three-year-old weighs approximately twelve thousand pounds when they don’t want to be carried, and as I stared at him, I briefly—just for a second—considered leaving him there to be raised by chipmunks.

Before I got too far into that plan, Jo—my fearless, dramatic, and always sacrificial wife—stepped in to help. And by “help,” I mean she attempted to maneuver herself and Logan down a rocky section and performed the most spectacular, heroic fall I have ever seen. She twisted, turned, threw her weight so Logan didn’t roll off the mountain, and in the process, she broke her knee.

At least for the purpose of this story she broke her knee. In real life, she hurt it so badly she eventually needed surgery, so you should feel about 12% sad for her. The other 88% is reserved for “What were we thinking?”

That was the moment the mountain made it clear: we were not going to see any falls. We weren’t even going to see anything falling except us. We were done. The dream died right there next to a mossy boulder and a very confused toddler.

Turning around felt like admitting defeat—and it absolutely was. But when your wife is injured, your toddlers are staging a sit-in, your infant is along for the ride, and your footwear has the structural integrity of wet noodles, pride becomes optional.

The walk back to the van took roughly three eternities. Every rock mocked me. Every incline felt personal. At one point, I’m pretty sure the mountain whispered, “Should’ve worn shoes, buddy.” Between my wives shattered knees, Slayden on my back, Logan on my shoulders, diaper bulging to the point of pending nuclear explosion, and kara in my arms, the shoes were the 5th worry on my list.

By the time we finally stumbled back to the van—bloody, bruised, limping, and spiritually broken—we didn’t celebrate. We didn’t talk. We just sat there, breathing like we’d escaped a prison break. I searched for the nearest McDonalds, we deserved a coke, and a burger… and a lot more than McDonald’s could sell us. Jo googled, nearest ER.

We left a lot on that trail. Some of our innocence. The last of our pride. And, a chunk of Jo’s knee.

The mountain won that day. And I’m completely fine letting it keep the title.

hope today is a FLAT one!

-austininva

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June 30, 2025June 30, 2025

My Little Toothbrush Tyrant

There is a clear hierarchy established within our household. The order of authority and roles is as follows:

Me and Jo
Moira
The dog (Which one, depending on the day.)
Probably Slayden
Kara if she hasn’t tattled
Logan when he’s not hiding snacks
The vacuum

Around bedtime, however, the list becomes chaotic, and it turns into a free-for-all. Everyone scatters with an agenda that must be completed before sleep is possible. It’s never the agenda I have planned, though. Moira may be the worst; she has reached the age where she thinks she knows best. Two years old. This night, Moira’s agenda revolved around teeth. You see, Moira believes—no, knows—that bedtime is when she becomes the family dentist.

It started simply. I was teaching her that we brush our teeth before bedtime, you know, normal life. She let me brush her teeth, spit a tiny amount into the sink, and we wiped her mouth. “All done,” I said, not knowing how I had just set the stage for future torments. She grabbed a toothbrush and said, “Dada, open mouth.”

I thought it was cute.
It was not cute.

She jabbed me deep in the tonsils, as though she was desperately trying to clear a stubborn drain. Not just any drain, but one from the 1920s, long forgotten and choked with tangled roots and a century’s worth of grimy buildup. Toothpaste bubbled and foamed uncontrollably in my mouth. My gag reflex surged wildly, threatening to overwhelm me. It felt as if my very soul was being scrubbed clean and forcibly pulled from my body. Then, almost as suddenly and abruptly as it had begun, I was instructed to spit. She calmly wiped the corners of my mouth with a gentle cloth and, with a contented smile, happily went to bed.

Now it has become a nightly routine that we both follow without fail. Every single night, I carefully brush her teeth, making sure to be thorough and gentle. Then, without missing a beat, she takes over and brushes mine. But she does it with an intense vigor, almost violently, wielding the toothbrush with the same strict authority and urgency as a TSA agent working during a high-stakes red alert situation.

The older kids observe this strange ritual with a mixture of quiet horror and disbelief. Kara, feeling uneasy, asked if she could “just floss instead” to avoid the unsettling process altogether. Logan, ever the helpful one, quickly chimed in with a practical suggestion, “You should wear a mouth guard,” trying to offer a solution. Slayden, curious and wanting to join in, made an attempt to get involved once, but was immediately met with a fierce, intimidating stare from the princess, effectively shutting him down.

Jo just sighs deeply whenever I start to complain and then calmly reminds me, “Well, you did let her start it in the first place.”

And she’s right. I did.

So now I end every night being waterboarded by a toddler with Paw Patrol toothpaste and a look in her eyes that says, “I know your dental history, peasant. Don’t forget to floss.” For someone who doesn’t even have a full set of teeth yet, she is quite adamant about tooth brushing!

Hope today’s a good one
– austininva

June 25, 2025

How to Lose Archery Privileges in 3 Seconds

by austininva

What boy, at some time in his life, doesn’t dream of being Robin Hood?

I did—on an almost daily basis—from ages 13 to 15. That dream became a near-reality one glorious Christmas morning when my loving parents gifted me a real compound bow and a dozen arrows to go with it.

At that point, I may as well have been Hood incarnate.

My band of merry men (usually my younger brother, occasionally accompanied by a maid or two—“maids” being sisters who had nothing better to do than indulge in Robin Hood or other historical time-period games) was loosely assembled and fiercely loyal.

All young boys dream of these things, sure. But I was special.
I had the bow.
I had a leather pouch.
I had semi-devoted followers.
And, perhaps most importantly—I had a backyard.

Those three ingredients, when combined, formed the perfect childhood stew.

Until the day I had an idea.
(And let’s be clear: ideas tend to end horribly for me.)

My parents had gone out for the day, leaving the house—and the well-being of my younger siblings—under my capable command. For I was a responsible 16-year-old lad, and therefore completely trustworthy.

Schoolwork was finished. PBS had nothing but boring reruns. So, we headed outside to enjoy a beautiful spring day in Norfolk.

I don’t remember all the details of our outdoor escapades that afternoon. But I do vividly recall having a flash of inspiration:
“Let’s shoot my youngest sister with the airsoft gun.”

Off we all ran into the house to gather our weapons.

But somewhere in the mad dash, that idea mutated.
“What if… we shot her with the bow?”

Now, I know what you’re thinking:
“Bows are dangerous and lethal, you moron.”
And we were thinking the same thing. So, naturally, we took steps to make it safe.

Step one: a pillow, to absorb impact.
Step two: a wooden dowel—because without a sharp arrowhead, it obviously couldn’t do any damage.
(For legal reasons, I must disclose that our definition of “logic” was still developing.)

We tied the pillow to her head. We carefully selected the smoothest dowel. She was even offered one last chance to opt out of this brilliant experiment.

Her muffled “MHMMHMHMMM!” and frantic arm flailing were interpreted, in the spirit of youth, as enthusiastic consent.

So I pulled back the bowstring—only halfway, of course, to minimize injury—and released.

Thwip.
The dowel bounced harmlessly off the pillow! Success!
All was wonderful!

…until my sister collapsed like a brick.

Turns out, a single couch pillow isn’t quite enough to blunt a wooden dowel fired from even a half-pulled compound bow at point-blank range.

As I stood in horror, trying to comprehend what had just happened, I heard the most damning words possible drift in from downstairs:

“Hey! Can someone come help unload the van?”

My sisters vanished like ninjas.
The shot sister, red mark blooming on her forehead like a Hindu bindi, sprinted downstairs shouting accusations.

I was summoned shortly after.

My parents—possibly less understanding than I had anticipated—were not convinced by my detailed explanation of the safety measures we’d taken. Apparently, the pillow plan lacked scientific rigor.

Robin Hood was forcibly disarmed.
The sheriff (aka Dad) had zero regard for my interpretation of the 2nd Amendment.

In the end, no one died. No permanent damage was done (to my sister, anyway). Just another unforgettable chapter in the epic saga of my childhood.

Hope today’s a good one!
—austininva