Work

I found something this past week that I haven’t seen for many years. Apparently, 6 a.m. really does exist. I learned this during the past week when I started a new job.

Before all the professionals that read my blog get up in arms, let me give a little back-story. There was a time, many years ago, when I was working as a server administrator that I often got to work well before the sun rose. It was almost relaxing fixing the problems that had arisen during the night with no one around to demand attention or ask annoying questions.

Then we had children. My wife and I came up with a unique schedule that worked quite well for us. I’d take the night shift (When I got home from work until 2 a.m.) and she took from 2 a.m. on. There have been many times over the years that I’ve gone to work bleary-eyed and short on sleep. In my defense, I do my best work when I am light-headed. I think it has something to do with no sleep not inhibiting the creative process. (There have been times when this has also interfered with my self-editing. See the article below.)

But this time it’s different. My wife started a new job also. We not only have to figure out our schedule, but also make sure our kids see us and get to school on time. This past week, my mother-in-law came in to help us and was an amazing help. She made sure we didn’t have to worry about the kids getting where they needed while my wife and I adapted to the new schedule. (For the record, I can say nice things about my wife’s mother.) (Just don’t expect another nice comment for several months.)

So, this past week, I was rudely reacquainted with 6 a.m. I can honestly report that it is dark, cold and early. I looked, I really did, but in all candor, I couldn’t find anything positive about this time. Especially since we’d switched the schedules. My wife is leaving before the little monsters are up, stranding me alone to get them fed, dressed and ready for school.

I also found out how sadistic my children are. (Proving that they really are my wife’s children.) We made this change and it seemed like about 47 feet of snow fell over a two-week period. We’d known about my wife’s job and had made sure she had good snow tires on her minivan. Since most of my driving had been to Washington, DC and back, it hadn’t been a priority to get snow tires on my car. My new job caught us by surprise so there hasn’t been enough time to go and get tires that can actually handle western Pennsylvania weather.

Each morning, during the past week, has started with my son asking, “Do I have school today?” (It doesn’t help that apparently when the weather is going to be below a certain temperature, the schools here tell the students when there will be a two-hour delay. And my son listens when he hears that.) Problem is, if there’s a two hour delay, he still has to go to preschool where the bus picks him up. By the time they are dressed, and the car is warmed up and the snow has been cleared off, he has his sister wound up too so neither want to go to school.

I can’t blame them. After this past week, staying in a warm bed and sleeping does have a great appeal. Apparently, I wasn’t listening to what I said that first morning as I looked at the snow covering my car and the driveway. I may have muttered something about not going anywhere if I slid off the driveway.

So, each morning starts with the cheer of, “Let’s crash, daddy!” If they’ve had enough time to wake up, they’ll even give suggestion to help the odds of crashing. “Go faster.” “Hit the gas.” “Lookout for that tree.” and "Drive like mommy." As I back up the driveway, trying to stay in the tracks my wife made earlier, (This is harder than it sounds since the minivan is wider than my Prius, so we usually end up siding back and forth.) my daughter shows her confidence in me by covering her eyes and screaming. (I have to admit, there are times when I follow her example and we hit a perfect harmony)

So, how are we adapting to the new schedule? I’ve found that making their lunches, getting the coffee ready for the morning and putting their clothes out the night before saves me about 10 minutes. I tried to put them in their school clothes one night to save even more time. I could tell by the look my wife gave me that this was too much. (Next time, I’ll wait until she’s asleep before I try that.) 6 a.m. gives me time to have a slice of coffee, (This early, it has to be strong.) get dressed and ready. I think in three to four years, we’ll have adapted to the new schedule just fine.

New Arrivals

This weekend, we started a major house cleaning. No, my wife’s mother was not coming over for a visit (well, yes she was, but that’s a story for a whole other article). No, this cleaning was for two new members of our family. I don’t know if my memory has faded over the past three years, but I am almost positive that we did not clean up and straighten this much when our daughter was born.

You might be thinking that in our senile old age, we’d gone and done the unthinkable and my wife was expecting twins. No, from her reactions and cleaning frenzy, this was much worse. I knew she was serious when I was banished to my basement to… organize. Everything had to be off the floor and put away. No big deal. Then she said that includes almost three years of old manuscripts, computer parts and… (wait for it…) all the paperback books had to be on the shelves. The upside of this is I found my weight bench.

When we told our family and friends of our plan, the reactions were varied. “Wow,” was the most sedate. “Are you crazy? That’s asinine!” was probably the most common (I’m paraphrasing since this is a family targeted blog.). We were cleaning and picking up to make sure the house (ok, mainly the kids’ toys) was ready for two dogs.

When our thirteen-year old miniature schnauzer died before Thanksgiving, my wife began the search for a new pet. My son took Pepper’s death hard, but we’d been preparing him for it and he knew his dog went to a better place. A few weeks later, he began talking about another dog. He even had the name picked out… Pepper II. The one after that would be Pepper III. (He got up to Pepper XIII)

We always planned to replace Pepper. Our kids loved him and enjoyed playing with him. He was my daughter’s shadow. (Especially after she’d eaten. When she switched to solid foods and began feeding herself, he gained enough weight to develop a waddle.) With the changes coming in the new year, we knew they were going to need playmates to keep up with them.

So, my wife went through the local rescue shelters. She found a fluffy white breed, called a bichon, and fell in love with it. I had two criteria and this breed met both. It had to fit through our dog door and I didn’t have to shave it. White was an added bonus. I’d be able to easily see it in the middle of the night right after I tripped over it.

Then she stumbled across two dogs that had been rescued. Stripe and his mother Honey. They’d both been rescued and were looking for a home. Hey were both house trained and used to children.

How did we go from one dog to two? (We heard that question from everyone. Why two?) Just after Christmas, we found out that we’d both be starting new jobs (This will be a whole other article.) and the dog would be home alone during the day. So two dogs made sense to us so they wouldn’t be lonely. Stripe and Honey were perfect for this. They’d been together for two years and Honey didn’t walk around babbling and drooling. (I’m hoping my wife will pick up some tips from Honey on how to stay sane with young children.)

When my son saw their pictures on the web page, they immediately had a home. We called and arranged the pick up. We managed to get my son to take off his coat and come back in the house since we couldn’t pick them up until the following day.

It’s been a week and both Stripe and Honey are acclimating well to their new home. There was a little confusion the first night. My daughter wanted Honey to sleep with her and my son wanted Stripe to sleep with him. With all of her stuffed animals and dolls, there’s barely enough room in her bed for my daughter, let alone a dog. Of course the dogs had their own agenda and spent most of the night exploring inside and outside.

My careful planning with the bichon was out the window, however. Honey is a German Shepard and Stripe is a Labrador/Shepard mix. Even though they are “medium” size dogs and the dog door is for medium dogs, Honey barely fit through. Each time she went out during that first night, I had to make sure she could get back in. I got a new dog door first thing in the morning and by mid-afternoon, had finished my third trip to Lowes and had it installed.

Stripe got his name from the line of white fur on his chest and stomach. Every other part of him is coal black. I mention this because we did have one escape. Stripe stayed close to the house and raced around exploring. It would have been much less nerve-wracking if he’d made his escape during the daylight. But he did it in the evening. It was just like a horror movie. I’d see a blur streak past out of the corner of my eye. When I looked, there was nothing but blackness. My two kids standing on the porch screaming did an adequate job of filling in for the mutilated teenage girls.

Fire Truck

“Fire truck! Daddy, I see a fire truck!” This is what my daughter cried out on Halloween this year as we sat on the side of the road. We were taking a break from collecting loot and candy. No, there wasn’t a fire. The local volunteer fire department drives through our neighborhood (and others) every Halloween and Christmas. My son loves fire trucks and has spent hours and hours educating his sister on the subtleties of the different kinds. She knows a fire truck when she sees one and made sure everyone within earshot knew it was coming.

When my son started speaking, he had a problem with the letter L. Pillow was pronounced “Piwwow.” We weren’t concerned. (There were many times in college when I had a hard time pronouncing almost all the letters. This only tended to happen on the weekends, so I wasn’t that worried about it.) But we did work with him. We made a list of words that started and had the letter L in them. We’d carefully pronounce them. He could hear the difference, but couldn’t quite get his mouth around that one letter. When he learned his letters and started reading, he saw what the letter L looked like. That helped. Now, when we wrote the words with the L’s in them, he saw where it was in the word. Pillow went from “Piwwow” to “Pillllow.” (He was dedicated and persistent)

Now, since my son had the problems with the letter L and the TH, you might think I’d expect the same from my daughter when she started talking. But, she’s lead me down that same path many times. My son was a picky eater; my daughter ate anything that she could catch. My son was a loud sleeper; my daughter never made a peep. My son is surprisingly (considering his mother) agile and coordinated; I don’t think there’s an obstacle my daughter hasn’t first tried to go through.

So, while my wife did her thing, (reading, researching, talking to other parents and generally learning all the options) I knew my daughter would pretty much wake up one day and be completely fluent in English and probably a few other languages. This time, she was not going to fool me.

My son was on the job. Many were the times we’d be driving and I’d hear, “Now, say one.” A moment later, a little voice would chirp, “One.” They worked up to ten in no time. So, with her brother taking care of her vocabulary and counting, I knew my daughter was in good hands. In no time at all, she had one to five down. She even knew those numbers backwards. I found that one out, and also learned that with a five-year old and two and half-year old, you need to pay attention, the hard way. I made the mistake of lying on the floor one fall day to watch a football game. I was aware of the counting down, and didn’t pay it much attention until she landed on my back after what felt like a perfect double flip from the sofa. The giggling from the two of them almost drown out my cry of agony. Now, my back spasms whenever I hear either of them counting backwards from five.

What does this have to do with, “Fire truck! Daddy, I see a fire truck!”? Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t know if my son decided that my daughter didn’t really need to have TR in her list of mastered sounds, or if she decided to once again do the exact opposite of what I’d expected. While she’d mastered the important words, like “please” “more” “no” and “I don’t want to take a nap right now because I am not tired and I really know that you want me to take a nap so you can take one too.”, she couldn’t make the TR sound.

You’d be surprised how many words don’t have TR in them. This would probably explain why I didn’t know this until Halloween night. So, while we were sitting in a neighbor’s yard, my kids both dressed as Spiderman (she found her brother’s old Spiderman costume and claimed it as hers. Clifford and Elmo were both discarded as she proclaimed she was going to be Spiderman, like her brother!). Our neighbors walked by and we’d exchange hellos, the kids talking about which houses had the best candy.

When the fire truck, lights flashing, started down the road. My daughter stood and pointed and for the first time, I found out that she couldn’t pronounce TR. When a three-year old can’t say TR, you might be wondering just what does she use to replace those two letters? Well, my daughter proudly proclaimed that a “Fire f__k” was coming down the street. Somehow, I don’t think the people at Marvel Comics would have approved of her Spiderman impersonation.

Imagination

Lately, my daughter has developed a terrible affliction. She’ll be walking across the room and suddenly stop and look at me. “I stuck,” she’ll declare. Both hands will reach out for me, a desperate look in her eyes. “Pull me,” she’ll plead when I take her hands. Somehow, her foot will become unstuck. (I don’t know why, but it is always her left foot. I know it’s serious because she does this even when it’s not time for bed or some odious chore.) She’ll look back and in her best three-year old disgusted voice say, “There mud there.”

I find this interesting for several reasons. A: I’m pretty sure we don’t have patches of mud throughout the house. Second: I know I didn’t have that active an imagination when I was her age. Up until five, I lived in the inner city of Akron. My fondest memory is the neighborhood bully, on his tricycle, chasing me to kindergarten. I’m not sure, but everyone calling him Pukie might have led to his anger issues. On those lazy summer afternoons when we played with our friends, the game of choice was “whip your mamma.” (The “it” person had a stick or branch. If you were on the ground, you were fair game. That’s how I learned to climb trees. Face it, when a five-year old, tricycle-riding bully terrorizes the neighborhood, chances are, a tea party is not going to be the game of choice.)

But now, my kids amaze me with their creativity. I’m pretty sure the creativity doesn’t come from just the six-year old. Any unclaimed chair, box, crate or container is destined to become part of their newest train. (I think the last one started in the dining room, went through the living room and stretched to our family room. The length is important because, this time, they managed to block the front door, the stairs to the second floor, three doorways and a bathroom.)

The length also allowed them to seat almost all of my daughter’s dolls and stuffed animals. I know this because when it was bedtime, my daughter’s bed was empty. Usually I can barely see her peeking out from under the dolls and stuffed animals. (Yes, both grandmothers miss my subtle hints. “It’s a good thing we already have every stuffed animal ever made. I wouldn’t want either kid to feel underprivileged.” For some reason, they always come home with more fluffy lumps of animal-like dolls.)

Back to the bedtime. There’s PJ (her first doll that is still almost bigger than her), Baby (I don’t know why she picked that name either.), Pink Pony (the newest member of the collection, this time from my wife.) (She doesn’t listen to me either.) and Purple Monkey (Ok, this one is actually pretty cool. It has long arms with Velcro on the hands.). These were her usual companions when it came time for bed. This night, when she was sick, she looked up at me, her friends adding support and whispered, “Kayla. I need Kayla.”

She and her brother had raided every single doll and animal from both their rooms. I was vaguely aware that there was a doll called Kayla. (I think that is one of the babies at her preschool.) But, I’d given it my fatherly attention and had absolutely no idea which one it was. But, from the look in her eyes, I knew she and, more importantly, I would get no sleep until Kayla had been found.

So, it was back downstairs to the train. I grabbed two dolls that looked familiar, reasoning that if I recognized them, that meant she’d carried them around enough for me to notice and there was a good chance one was Kayla. “That not Kayla.” I was told as I put the first down. Well, it was a fifty/fifty shot. I honestly didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to get it right the first time. “That not Kayla!” she announced at the second. I kept the mumbling under my breath and censored (see the article on self-editing) and headed back to the train. This time, I brought up as many dolls as I could carry.

Each shake of her head sent my hopes plummeting further. I was getting tired of going up and down the stairs. However, when her eyes lit up and she reached with a shout of, “Kayla!” I breathed a sigh of relief. “Tank you, daddy, for saving Kayla.” She smiled and snuggled up with her dolls and animals. I dumped the remaining armload of unnamed dolls on the foot of her bed and beat a hasty retreat.

With the rampant imagination, you’d think I’d be right at home. But… I’m not allowed to play. Thinking I’d turn the tables and get her to pull me along, one day I stopped and told her I was stuck. I got a very stern look and, “Daddy, there no mud there.” She didn’t even look back as she wandered off to torment her brother. (The tormenting she gets from me. The driving me crazy she gets from her mother.)

FAQS

If you’ve read my articles, and enjoyed them, thanks. (If you didn’t enjoy them, then email the link to your friends so they can be angry too.)

A couple of questions have come up that I think need answered. (Keep reading, I’m my usual irreverent self when I answer questions, especially when I make them up.) If you have any questions, let me know at cord0111@yahoo.com. Comments are always appreciated too.

What does your wife think of her starring appearances? (Ok. I paraphrased that one. It was more like; “How come she hasn’t killed you yet?”)

Truth is, she likes being the center of attention and, so far, has been my biggest fan. She even edits and makes sure I’m using the English language good. When she’s reading and spits out her coffee, I know it’s ready to be posted. (It does take its toll on the laptop though.)

Won’t your children be mortified when they get older?

Yes, see the revenge part below. Since they take after my wife and enjoy any and all attention, I think they will forgive me…

Is there a reason you started the blog?

Yes. I’m trying to get a “platform”. This is what the publishing industry calls it when you have a following that can be counted on to buy your book when it comes out. My book, Surviving Childhood and Raising Special Needs Parents, is pretty much the same as my blog. Ask any new parent, that first time they trust their bundle of joy to a complete stranger long enough to escape into the world of adult conversation, and they will maybe admit they are terrified. Oh, they've read the Dr. Sears books and the "Raising your darling spawn." de jour self-help book and can probably quote all the right answers. But deep down, there's the "am I doing this right" syndrome all parents suffer through. Just what is the proper response when your 18-month old son names his wee-wee god? If your toddler likes strawberries dipped in mustard, does that mean she won't get into a good college? Should you be jealous if your son is better at picking up girls than you ever were?

In just over six years, my children have matured me decades, but I am younger than I was before they were born. My book and blog validate and embrace children, family and humor.

So, if you know of anyone with a sense humor or children that have a tendency to drive them crazy, pass along my blog so they can join in the laughter.

Ok, but what’s the real reason for the blog?

Revenge would probably be the main reason. When my kids bring home their first boy/girlfriends, I’m planning on having a long talk with their new friends. (Yes, I have pictures to back up the stories.) Also, when my kids reach that level of insanity and decide to have their own children, I want them to know what they having coming. (Karma can be a sweet revenge.)

Another reason is for the police. When my wife does snap and kill me, (see the article on self-editing), she’s going to need to get out of jail quickly to take the kids to school. I figure the blog will be all the evidence that is needed to prove it was a justifiable homicide.

I have a friend/son/daughter with young children and think they would enjoy reading about your adventures. Can I send them a link?

Did you miss the part about needing a lot of readers? By all means, tell your friends/relatives/strangers you meet on the street/people you hate. The more the merrier!

Are the stories true?

They are truish. The story about the Marine is true though. And for the record, the poem is pretty much all made up. However, my kids have sold me out to their mother many times. (Hence the revenge.) I am keeping their names out to protect them.

Are the articles taken from your book?

No, these are unique. So when Surviving Childhood and Raising Special Needs Parents does hit the bookstores, there won’t be any repeats from the blog. Of course, if I need more material or get writer’s block for the next book, I might take these articles. I’m sure I’ll figure out a reason to rationalize it.

Where do you get your ideas?

A six-year old and three-year old that have way too many of my genes (or the Fed-Ex guy’s) and a supporting wife give me all the material I can hope for. Each dent in my wife’s minivan tells it’s own story. And if I’m lucky enough that my son was in the minivan when the dent happened…

How often will you post?

Well, between working, two kids and writing, probably not as often as I like. (It’s a kinda guilty pleasure writing these articles.) My goal is at least once a week. If you want to be notified when I post a new article, use the link to the left to follow the blog. I’m pretty sure it’ll notify you when the muse hits me and I make it though my wife’s editing regime.

Self-Editing

When does our ability to self-edit fail? I don’t mean going back through an email or re-reading the instant message before you send it to make sure you’ve gotten all the you’re, your, its and it’s correct. No, I’m talking about the time lag between when the words come to mind and they pass your lips.

Like everything from gray hair to my sore knees, I blamed my children when I noticed that my self-editor wasn’t always working at full speed. It was only logical. I’d seen my parents and my wife’s parents lose theirs. Granted, my wife was not nearly the angel and child prodigy I was, so it was only logical that her parents would lose theirs. I blame my brother for my parents losing theirs.

But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I realize that this one time, maybe my children aren’t to blame. The first time I remember noticing it was long before we had children. We still lived in Washington, DC and I was an instructor at one of the leading technical training centers there. It was also a government contracting company. (Every business in DC seems to be a government contractor.) Because we did a lot of work with the CIA and NSA and I specialized in security, many military people came through my classes.

Now, over the years, I’ve worked with a lot of Marines. I don’t think I’ve met one that didn’t impress me. The ones that came through my training were, to a man, young, intelligent and driven.

The first time I remember my self-editor not working was during a class that had two Marines in addition to other corporate clients. It was towards the end of lunch and the students were starting to return. Being a professional, I’d reloaded my coffee and played minesweeper during lunch. (I do my best work when I am overloaded on coffee and lightheaded.) (Minesweeper isn’t just a game. It’s a Tao. I’ve often used it to predict events. The first time my wife went for an important job interview, I stayed up most of the night working. The first goal was winning on the advanced level under a certain time. If I did that, the interview would go well. Then I had to win twice in a row, and she would be considered for the job. When I won three times in a row, under a certain time limit, she would get the job offer. The next day, when she came home with the job, she didn’t seem too impressed when I told her how I got her the job.)

As the students returned, one of the Marines asked a question about something we’d covered before lunch. It was a really good question and something we were going to cover that afternoon. I remember the words forming. Saw each and everyone. For. Marine. Question. Good. That’s. A. Very. A. I think my body knew something was wrong because the fight or flight response was triggered when the adrenaline kicked in.

“For a Marine, that’s a very good question.”

Now, I need to explain that there was nothing prejudice or anti-military in my response. We’d spent the past week joking and everyone in the class had a good sense of humor. In fact, when another student said, in amazement, “I didn’t know Lotus Notes did that,” about a security feature, this Marine said, “That’s because you don’t need to know.”

There were two possible responses. Since I’m still alive, he obviously didn’t take the first. He laughed and we spent the afternoon working on his question.

So, I can’t blame my kids for my self-editing feature not working. Now that I think about it, they’ve helped strengthen it. Rather than use the first four-letter word that immediately springs to mind when I see my daughter unscrew her sippy-cup and pour the contents on the carpet I just finished cleaning, my brain catches them and substitutes a string of incoherent sounds.

I know I am more aware of the words, especially when my son started the nightly Daddy, what does this word mean game. To which, I’ve added the second part, Where did you hear that word? So far, we haven’t hit any of George Carlin’s words. The problem is, I know my kids are plotting to see which one will be the first to get daddy to teach them those words. Until then, here’s hoping my self-editor doesn’t overheat.