When I was in college, my best friend and I would play racketball on the weekends. Neither of us was great, but we didn't let that impede how hard we played. I remember one weekend. It might have been the after-effects of alchohol, or maybe too much studying (yeah... I don't buy that either, but had to include it to protect what little reputation I have left. Also, when I become famouse and historians review these articles, lines like that may cast enough doubt on what I actually did...) but we were showing off our “kill shots” (the serves that cannot be returned. They require a great deal of skill, timing and power. Or in our case, luck) (yeah, there were girls working out in the gym too, but I highly doubt that crossed our mind.)
We both went for the racketball at the same time. I hit the ball and it was a beautiful shot. My best friend hit my thumb and it was also a beautiful shot.
That's the only sports injury that I can really remember. It's not even a good one, because it doesn't bother me on cold and rainy days.
I started thinking about this recently when I woke up one morning and my big toe was having issues. After work, those issues had grown into a full blow “I'm-never-walking-again-so-just-put-me-out-of-misery” tenderness...
This all happened at Thanksgiving and we were travelling to both sets of grandparents. That meant at least five hundred years of combined medical experience. The only problem when you combine that many years of folk-lorish medical knowledge amoung 5 people (my parents, my wife's parents and my wife's grandmother) the results are always elderly afflications. The suggestions as to the cause of my limp ranged from:
“Fallen arches.”
“Eh? What did he say?”
“You need to wear a truss.”
“Arthritis?”
“Eh? What did he say?”
“What happened to your foot?”
“I can't find my dentures.”
However, it was my own mother that showed a complete lack of compassion in a single email. She had the nerve to suggest it was gout. When I looked it up, I saw “it affects middle-aged men”. At 44, I am NOT middle-aged. Oh, there are days I feel old, but not middle-aged. The side effect to the email was my wife was off on a new witch hunt. Not only does middle-age cause gout, but apparently there's something about diet being important. By the day after Thanksgiving, I had a new diet planned out for me. (This is another affliction of middle-age, planned diet. The next step to old-age... one of those pill boxes with each day of the week)
Face with the horror of bran three times a day, I took my health into my own hands and went to the doctor and got x-rays. It turns out I was right and I'm not middle-aged. It was a stress facture. I guess, when I played dek hockey with my son's team, in addition to the bruised ankles and ego, I fracture my toe.
So, the past two weeks, my wife and I have been constantly warning our children and dogs not to jump on me and watch my toe. “Daddy hurt his toe,” is the common refrain.
“What did you do to your toe?” My daughter asked, concern lacing her voice.
“Put my cane back.”
“But it's my horsey.”
“No, I need it to walk.”
“Why?”
“I hurt my toe.”
“What did you do to your toe?”
“Put my cane back!”
“But it's my horsey.”...
What does this have to do with sport's injuries? Well, now I finally have an excuse for disappointing my children as well as people that irritate me. While, technically, it's not an “old sports injury”, my toe is old, dek hockey is both a sport and form of medieval combat, and a stress fracture is an injury.
When ever I need an excuse or that day after the huge snow storm, I can now cite my “old sports injury.”
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Practice
This spring, I got a terrifying email. “Dek Hockey practice”.
Oh, the email started off innocently enough (I'm paraphrasing. Reading the email still gives me panic attacks). “Parents, the kids have had a great season, since playoffs start on Saturday, we're going to have a practice Friday night to show them positions.
Let me explain dek hockey, if you are not familiar with the sport. It's hockey, with a ball. They play it in an enclosed area, like hockey, but instead of ice and skates, they have a ball, shoes, shin pads, elbow pads, gloves and a helmet. You may think it's enclosed to keep the ball in. That might be true, but the real reason is; when you give a group of 6-9 year olds wooden sticks, federal saftey laws require that they be separated from the public.
The email went on to lie that the parents would only stand in the positions. I'd just gotten over a severe case of a mutated Ebola-SARS-Swine-Avian flu attack. (I'm pretty sure that if I hadn't fought off this mutated virus, it would have swept across the world with devasting results.) I figured I owed it to my son to show up and support him. After all, it was only to show positions, help them figure out where they needed to play...
The first drill sounded simple. When the ball goes into the corner, the kids are supposed to pass it up the boards. (the main point being not to pass it in front of their goal...) The coach passed the ball into the corner, a kid ran after it, passed it up the boards to a waiting teammate. “Fathers you pressure the kids.”...
There are several things wrong with that sentence. The kids were armed with deadly weapons. We were outnumbered. The kids were armed with deadly weapons.
After several hundred trips into the corner, almost as many bruises on my shins and a growing desire to whack one of the little monsters, they called a break. Fathers against sons, in a game that would go down in history as one of the bloodiest battles. Up and down the dek we raced, sticks flying, parents crippled and kids laughing evily.
I've read enough medical journals (ok, my wife has nagged me enough about junk food and exercise) to know that seeing dark spots are not a good thing. When I started seeing double, it was time to sit down. (Ok, it wasn't so much a decision.) Two heart attacks and a stroke later, the “practice” was over and I was allowed to seek propper medical treatment.
This fall, when the email came, my wife finally found me, curled up in a ball whimpering.
“What's wrong?” I think there might have been some worry in her voice.
“Dek hockey practice...”
To my horror, my son was right behind his mother and sent up a cheer. My only hope of ignoring the email and explaining to my son how it hadn't been delivered was gone.
However... this time would be different. I was healthy, the Ebola-SARS-Swine-Avian flu had been completely wiped out.
“I'm going to beat you so bad.” my son started off with the trash talking on the way to the practice.
“Oh yeah? I'm going to bury you so deep they won't be able to dig you out.” I countered.
“That was good!” (He needs a little work on the whole trash talking.) “We'll, after we get home, I'm going to throw away your keys!” (Again, we're going to have to work on this.)
How did I do this time? I made it through the practice on my feet. I even managed to play with a broken ankle. (I found out that the official dek hockey ball, while about the size of a baseball, is made out of rocks and probably pleutonium and spikes pop out right before it hits your ankle.) Did the parents win? Well, the coach was the kids' goalie and the team's regular goalie was ours. While the adults played their best, our goalie pretty much summed it up when he wanted the parents to shoot on him.
However, I did win the face off against my son at least once. I think that was because I went for the ball and he went for my ankles. So, while techinically I won the face off, he wasn't the one limping. “Old age and experience will beat youth and skill” might be true. But when youth comes armed with hockey sticks and a thirst for blood, old age doesn't stand a chance.
Oh, the email started off innocently enough (I'm paraphrasing. Reading the email still gives me panic attacks). “Parents, the kids have had a great season, since playoffs start on Saturday, we're going to have a practice Friday night to show them positions.
Let me explain dek hockey, if you are not familiar with the sport. It's hockey, with a ball. They play it in an enclosed area, like hockey, but instead of ice and skates, they have a ball, shoes, shin pads, elbow pads, gloves and a helmet. You may think it's enclosed to keep the ball in. That might be true, but the real reason is; when you give a group of 6-9 year olds wooden sticks, federal saftey laws require that they be separated from the public.
The email went on to lie that the parents would only stand in the positions. I'd just gotten over a severe case of a mutated Ebola-SARS-Swine-Avian flu attack. (I'm pretty sure that if I hadn't fought off this mutated virus, it would have swept across the world with devasting results.) I figured I owed it to my son to show up and support him. After all, it was only to show positions, help them figure out where they needed to play...
The first drill sounded simple. When the ball goes into the corner, the kids are supposed to pass it up the boards. (the main point being not to pass it in front of their goal...) The coach passed the ball into the corner, a kid ran after it, passed it up the boards to a waiting teammate. “Fathers you pressure the kids.”...
There are several things wrong with that sentence. The kids were armed with deadly weapons. We were outnumbered. The kids were armed with deadly weapons.
After several hundred trips into the corner, almost as many bruises on my shins and a growing desire to whack one of the little monsters, they called a break. Fathers against sons, in a game that would go down in history as one of the bloodiest battles. Up and down the dek we raced, sticks flying, parents crippled and kids laughing evily.
I've read enough medical journals (ok, my wife has nagged me enough about junk food and exercise) to know that seeing dark spots are not a good thing. When I started seeing double, it was time to sit down. (Ok, it wasn't so much a decision.) Two heart attacks and a stroke later, the “practice” was over and I was allowed to seek propper medical treatment.
This fall, when the email came, my wife finally found me, curled up in a ball whimpering.
“What's wrong?” I think there might have been some worry in her voice.
“Dek hockey practice...”
To my horror, my son was right behind his mother and sent up a cheer. My only hope of ignoring the email and explaining to my son how it hadn't been delivered was gone.
However... this time would be different. I was healthy, the Ebola-SARS-Swine-Avian flu had been completely wiped out.
“I'm going to beat you so bad.” my son started off with the trash talking on the way to the practice.
“Oh yeah? I'm going to bury you so deep they won't be able to dig you out.” I countered.
“That was good!” (He needs a little work on the whole trash talking.) “We'll, after we get home, I'm going to throw away your keys!” (Again, we're going to have to work on this.)
How did I do this time? I made it through the practice on my feet. I even managed to play with a broken ankle. (I found out that the official dek hockey ball, while about the size of a baseball, is made out of rocks and probably pleutonium and spikes pop out right before it hits your ankle.) Did the parents win? Well, the coach was the kids' goalie and the team's regular goalie was ours. While the adults played their best, our goalie pretty much summed it up when he wanted the parents to shoot on him.
However, I did win the face off against my son at least once. I think that was because I went for the ball and he went for my ankles. So, while techinically I won the face off, he wasn't the one limping. “Old age and experience will beat youth and skill” might be true. But when youth comes armed with hockey sticks and a thirst for blood, old age doesn't stand a chance.
Getting There and Back
“Can you print off directions to the airport?” I'm pretty much positive those were my wife's last words as she wandered off to bed. We were leaving for the airport at 4:00 am for a 6:45 am flight. The minivan was already packed with the suitcases. (the kids each had their own, plus one suitcase of food ((since we were going to the uncivilized U.S. Virgin Island of St. Croix, we had to take along enough food to last us a week in the wilds...)) a suitcase of toys ((As everyone knows, toys only exist in the U.S. Propper)) and our snorkeling gear. Our suitcase was still being filled with whatever had been forgotten.)
Before I fell asleep, I printed the plane tickets, hotel information and a map to the airport. It wasn't until we'd started off that I realized “Can you print off directions to the airport.” actually meant “and be sure to include the directions I followed a long time ago that included going down, I think, Interstate 70.... or maybe it was 79... but in any case I'm positive it wasn't the way you printed.”
Even with my bad directions, we made it to airport (at 4 am, there isn't a whole of traffic on the road and driving on two wheels around the corners tends to open the lane in front of you...)
Once we'd made it through security, we were off to the races. My wife asked which gate we needed to go to. When I traveled for work, gates actually had a meaning. They were a nice stroll between flights where you could stop for a beer or a coffee (depending on the time of day and how rough the previous flight was.). Sometime over the past several years, that has changed. I now know all airports only have two actual gates. The one you just arrived at and the one you have to drag two tired kids and their bags to. The distance between them is exactly inverse to how tired the kids are and how soon the next flight leaves.
At San Juan, my wife had the nerve to ask where the gate was. Our connecting flight left at 12:15, our flight, running a wee bit late, arrived at 12:15. The kids had been up since 3:30 a.m. And hadn't taken a nap. According to my calculations, the gate for our connecting flight was located, roughly, in Alaska.
To my surprise, we did make the connecting flight and arrived in St. Croix to start our vacation in the sun.
After a week of “island time” there's a slight chance we cut it a wee bit close getting back to the airport. The U.S. Air person that checked us in was very clear (I think if she hadn't spent 15 minutes stressing how late we were and how we would probably not make it through customs, we wouldn't have had to run so fast.) that the plane was on the verge of leaving and customs alone would take a minimum of two weeks.
So, we each grabbed a kid and bags and ran. After a harrowing 10 minute race through customs, security, another bag check, a game of scrabble (just checking to see if you are paying attention) we made it to the gate on St. Croix. My wife and kids were cleared and I got the dreaded “Do you mind if we check your carry on?” from the security guard. I waved a tearful goodbye to my family and wondered if I could somehow make another flight, this week. After my carry on was swabbed (it didn't even get a drink first.) I raced to the gate (ok. It was just around the corner and my family was always visible. But it sounded much more dramatic.)
“Our plane hasn't arrived yet.” You'd be surprised at just how clearly the swear words came out as my wife greeted me.
In San Juan, my wife asked which gate again. I muttered “Alaska,” and hoisted my daughter up on my shoulders. We arrived at gate 4 and had to get to gate 8. A mere 4 gates, you might be thinking, but you forget the letter. We arrived in concourse D and had to get to gate Epsilon. (I'm pretty sure we wandered through the entire Russian alphabet before we hit Latin.)
After quite a few hours, several hundred miles of airport terminals, we made it back to Pennsylvania and to the minivan. In all, there were only a few melt-downs, but the kids ignored them. The only question as I left the airport was, “Why was everyone driving on the wrong side of the road?”
Before I fell asleep, I printed the plane tickets, hotel information and a map to the airport. It wasn't until we'd started off that I realized “Can you print off directions to the airport.” actually meant “and be sure to include the directions I followed a long time ago that included going down, I think, Interstate 70.... or maybe it was 79... but in any case I'm positive it wasn't the way you printed.”
Even with my bad directions, we made it to airport (at 4 am, there isn't a whole of traffic on the road and driving on two wheels around the corners tends to open the lane in front of you...)
Once we'd made it through security, we were off to the races. My wife asked which gate we needed to go to. When I traveled for work, gates actually had a meaning. They were a nice stroll between flights where you could stop for a beer or a coffee (depending on the time of day and how rough the previous flight was.). Sometime over the past several years, that has changed. I now know all airports only have two actual gates. The one you just arrived at and the one you have to drag two tired kids and their bags to. The distance between them is exactly inverse to how tired the kids are and how soon the next flight leaves.
At San Juan, my wife had the nerve to ask where the gate was. Our connecting flight left at 12:15, our flight, running a wee bit late, arrived at 12:15. The kids had been up since 3:30 a.m. And hadn't taken a nap. According to my calculations, the gate for our connecting flight was located, roughly, in Alaska.
To my surprise, we did make the connecting flight and arrived in St. Croix to start our vacation in the sun.
After a week of “island time” there's a slight chance we cut it a wee bit close getting back to the airport. The U.S. Air person that checked us in was very clear (I think if she hadn't spent 15 minutes stressing how late we were and how we would probably not make it through customs, we wouldn't have had to run so fast.) that the plane was on the verge of leaving and customs alone would take a minimum of two weeks.
So, we each grabbed a kid and bags and ran. After a harrowing 10 minute race through customs, security, another bag check, a game of scrabble (just checking to see if you are paying attention) we made it to the gate on St. Croix. My wife and kids were cleared and I got the dreaded “Do you mind if we check your carry on?” from the security guard. I waved a tearful goodbye to my family and wondered if I could somehow make another flight, this week. After my carry on was swabbed (it didn't even get a drink first.) I raced to the gate (ok. It was just around the corner and my family was always visible. But it sounded much more dramatic.)
“Our plane hasn't arrived yet.” You'd be surprised at just how clearly the swear words came out as my wife greeted me.
In San Juan, my wife asked which gate again. I muttered “Alaska,” and hoisted my daughter up on my shoulders. We arrived at gate 4 and had to get to gate 8. A mere 4 gates, you might be thinking, but you forget the letter. We arrived in concourse D and had to get to gate Epsilon. (I'm pretty sure we wandered through the entire Russian alphabet before we hit Latin.)
After quite a few hours, several hundred miles of airport terminals, we made it back to Pennsylvania and to the minivan. In all, there were only a few melt-downs, but the kids ignored them. The only question as I left the airport was, “Why was everyone driving on the wrong side of the road?”
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Pot Holes
“Drive faster!” My daughter called from the back of the jeep.
“I can't. Your mommy will scream again.”
“Drive faster!!” both kids called from the back of the jeep.
We'd spent the afternoon in St. Croix playing in the surf at Cayne Bay. The hurricane had recently passed and left, in my son's words, “some sweet waves, baby.” Those were the waves we saw as we pulled up to the beach. The plan was to snorkel and do a little body surfing. Keep in mind, body surfing for my eight-year old son and five-year old daughter was mainly laying right where the last wave crashed and rolling in the surf. At least that was what they loved the day before when the waves “gently” lapped along the shore.
I took a look at the surf and realized the likelyhood of snorkeling today was nil. Oh, the kids would have both been up for it. However, four to five foot waves crashing where we'd be snorkeling was more than I was ready for.
So, we went to check out the surf. When the first wave hit my daughter and carried her 20 feet back up the shore, then dragged her back out to the open ocean, with only my shins finally stopping her, I thought it was a little rough... “You ok?” I asked, hoping to fix any problems before her mother came to rescue her.
For a second, the concusion blurred her eyes, then the dialation went away. “More!” and she was off to fight the waves with her brother.
I've learned a couple of things on this vacation. When it comes to water, both of my kids are insane. (My son and I snorkel together and my wife and daughter snorkel together. It is a sexist thing. Snorkeling is the perfect water sport for my daughter. She can look at things, constantly move and, most importantly, constantly talk. When my son and I snorkel near them, we can hear their constant chatter. “Is that a parrot fish? I see a parrot fish. Yes, mom, it's a parrot fish. No, that's a parrot fish...” (She has a thing for parrot fish))
I also learned that when you put dishwashing soap (the kind used in the sink, NOT the kind used in a dishwasher) in a dishwasher, there's a limit to how much you should put in. Otherwise, you get a kitchen full of bubbles. (In order to protect her reputation, I'm not going to say who actually did that. However, my son, daughter and I all had a good laugh.)
I've also learned that there is good reason for driving on the wrong side of the road here. Since this is an island, space is at a premium and they've saved quite a bit on the roads. Most of the roads are wide enough for two cars to pass, as long there are only two coats of paint. When I picked up the rental jeep, I was surprised to get the only car in the world that had more dents than my wife's minivan. (By the time we got done with the inspection, you couldn't actually see the car). I figured the dents and stuff were from off-roading. Now I know better. The way you drive here is simple. If the brush on the left-hand side of the road is not smacking the car, you are too far over. (My wife would be a natural driving here. She also uses the drive by touch philosphy.)
I also learned that when you go around a corner on the island (I could add sharp, blind, pot-hole filled, overgrown and flooded corner, but that's every corner here.) and your wife is in the passenger seat, and she's tired and not paying attention and she looks up at the wrong second AND she sees a car right in front of her on the “wrong” side of the road, she will scream.
“I can't drive any faster we'll hit the potholes.”
“Drive faster and you'll fly over them.” In the rear view mirror, I saw my daughter's hand gacefully float as she demonstrated the physics of her version of driving.
“But mommy will scream again.” I pointed out.
“YAY!” At least the kids have adapted to island life...
“I can't. Your mommy will scream again.”
“Drive faster!!” both kids called from the back of the jeep.
We'd spent the afternoon in St. Croix playing in the surf at Cayne Bay. The hurricane had recently passed and left, in my son's words, “some sweet waves, baby.” Those were the waves we saw as we pulled up to the beach. The plan was to snorkel and do a little body surfing. Keep in mind, body surfing for my eight-year old son and five-year old daughter was mainly laying right where the last wave crashed and rolling in the surf. At least that was what they loved the day before when the waves “gently” lapped along the shore.
I took a look at the surf and realized the likelyhood of snorkeling today was nil. Oh, the kids would have both been up for it. However, four to five foot waves crashing where we'd be snorkeling was more than I was ready for.
So, we went to check out the surf. When the first wave hit my daughter and carried her 20 feet back up the shore, then dragged her back out to the open ocean, with only my shins finally stopping her, I thought it was a little rough... “You ok?” I asked, hoping to fix any problems before her mother came to rescue her.
For a second, the concusion blurred her eyes, then the dialation went away. “More!” and she was off to fight the waves with her brother.
I've learned a couple of things on this vacation. When it comes to water, both of my kids are insane. (My son and I snorkel together and my wife and daughter snorkel together. It is a sexist thing. Snorkeling is the perfect water sport for my daughter. She can look at things, constantly move and, most importantly, constantly talk. When my son and I snorkel near them, we can hear their constant chatter. “Is that a parrot fish? I see a parrot fish. Yes, mom, it's a parrot fish. No, that's a parrot fish...” (She has a thing for parrot fish))
I also learned that when you put dishwashing soap (the kind used in the sink, NOT the kind used in a dishwasher) in a dishwasher, there's a limit to how much you should put in. Otherwise, you get a kitchen full of bubbles. (In order to protect her reputation, I'm not going to say who actually did that. However, my son, daughter and I all had a good laugh.)
I've also learned that there is good reason for driving on the wrong side of the road here. Since this is an island, space is at a premium and they've saved quite a bit on the roads. Most of the roads are wide enough for two cars to pass, as long there are only two coats of paint. When I picked up the rental jeep, I was surprised to get the only car in the world that had more dents than my wife's minivan. (By the time we got done with the inspection, you couldn't actually see the car). I figured the dents and stuff were from off-roading. Now I know better. The way you drive here is simple. If the brush on the left-hand side of the road is not smacking the car, you are too far over. (My wife would be a natural driving here. She also uses the drive by touch philosphy.)
I also learned that when you go around a corner on the island (I could add sharp, blind, pot-hole filled, overgrown and flooded corner, but that's every corner here.) and your wife is in the passenger seat, and she's tired and not paying attention and she looks up at the wrong second AND she sees a car right in front of her on the “wrong” side of the road, she will scream.
“I can't drive any faster we'll hit the potholes.”
“Drive faster and you'll fly over them.” In the rear view mirror, I saw my daughter's hand gacefully float as she demonstrated the physics of her version of driving.
“But mommy will scream again.” I pointed out.
“YAY!” At least the kids have adapted to island life...
Vacation
It's been so long since we've gone on a real vacation, that I had some serious concerns as we began our trip. After this summer, we'd (my wife) decided that taking the kids south would be a good idea as winter threatened our western Pennsylvania area. We (my wife) spent countless hour searching for the best prices, snorkeling and family friendly place. We (my wife) carefully planned the itinerary and booked the flights.
After all this preparation, we were definitely ready for the trip to St. Croix. It was still in the United States, so we didn't need to find our passports. As we were driving the rental jeep, my wife pointed to the price for gas and mentioned it wasn't that expensive. I agreed and added as long as it wasn't in liters. This prompted a rather long lecture that gas prices were regulated. (being a wise husband, I just nodded and did not point out that I was pretty sure which side of the road you drove on was regulated too. Nor did I add that in Canada, which is much closer to us, they drive on the correct side of the road but use liters. In case you are wondering, there are 3.8 liters in a gallon. I learned this in public restrooms where they proudly proclaim how much water is used in every flush. That is the only place I've ever seen the metric system used. You can draw your own conclusion about how effective it is.)
But I digress...
My wife and I had both been working too many hours lately. My daughter's comment to my wife that daddy always works on vacation pretty much proved that point. So, I was concerned, would I be able to put aside work? How would I know when the vacation started? Before kids, when we went on scuba diving trips, the vacation started on the first dive. True, were were going to be snorkeling, but I'm pretty sure taking a five-year on her first real snorkeling trip is not considered a vacation for the parent responsible.
Well, this morning when I got up, I knew vacation had started. My daughter was sitting on the ceramic floor, a bowl of cereal on one side, a cup of yogurt on the other. She'd perched herself on a pillow and was watching a cartoon while patiently waiting for the rest of her clan to get moving. And, she was all ready for the water. She had her pink swimming goggles on. And nothing else. That sight, her blonde hair sticking out from the goggle straps (My daughter, if you haven't gathered from the other articles is rather un-subtle. It doesn't matter how tight the goggles were, she wanted them on, and they were going to go on.) food within easy reach and her general contentment with the world told me we were on island time.
“Wow...” I never knew how awe sounded under water until my son saw his first blue tang. It'd taken a few tries to get used to the salt water and surf. Once that was sorted out, we followed the directions the dive shop gave us to the reef. (“Out there...”) “Did you see that?” my son asked as we treaded water. (He treaded, I stood with the tip of a flipper on the bottom and kept his head above the waves.)
“Ready to see more?”
“You bet!” and he was off.
The next twenty minutes were exclamations and pointing as different colored fish swam under us. Afterwards, we continued a tradition that my wife and I had done since we started scuba diving. We went through the fish identification and found what we'd seen and wrote the date next to each fish.
After all this preparation, we were definitely ready for the trip to St. Croix. It was still in the United States, so we didn't need to find our passports. As we were driving the rental jeep, my wife pointed to the price for gas and mentioned it wasn't that expensive. I agreed and added as long as it wasn't in liters. This prompted a rather long lecture that gas prices were regulated. (being a wise husband, I just nodded and did not point out that I was pretty sure which side of the road you drove on was regulated too. Nor did I add that in Canada, which is much closer to us, they drive on the correct side of the road but use liters. In case you are wondering, there are 3.8 liters in a gallon. I learned this in public restrooms where they proudly proclaim how much water is used in every flush. That is the only place I've ever seen the metric system used. You can draw your own conclusion about how effective it is.)
But I digress...
My wife and I had both been working too many hours lately. My daughter's comment to my wife that daddy always works on vacation pretty much proved that point. So, I was concerned, would I be able to put aside work? How would I know when the vacation started? Before kids, when we went on scuba diving trips, the vacation started on the first dive. True, were were going to be snorkeling, but I'm pretty sure taking a five-year on her first real snorkeling trip is not considered a vacation for the parent responsible.
Well, this morning when I got up, I knew vacation had started. My daughter was sitting on the ceramic floor, a bowl of cereal on one side, a cup of yogurt on the other. She'd perched herself on a pillow and was watching a cartoon while patiently waiting for the rest of her clan to get moving. And, she was all ready for the water. She had her pink swimming goggles on. And nothing else. That sight, her blonde hair sticking out from the goggle straps (My daughter, if you haven't gathered from the other articles is rather un-subtle. It doesn't matter how tight the goggles were, she wanted them on, and they were going to go on.) food within easy reach and her general contentment with the world told me we were on island time.
“Wow...” I never knew how awe sounded under water until my son saw his first blue tang. It'd taken a few tries to get used to the salt water and surf. Once that was sorted out, we followed the directions the dive shop gave us to the reef. (“Out there...”) “Did you see that?” my son asked as we treaded water. (He treaded, I stood with the tip of a flipper on the bottom and kept his head above the waves.)
“Ready to see more?”
“You bet!” and he was off.
The next twenty minutes were exclamations and pointing as different colored fish swam under us. Afterwards, we continued a tradition that my wife and I had done since we started scuba diving. We went through the fish identification and found what we'd seen and wrote the date next to each fish.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Some Assembly Required
“They say it should only take a day to put together.” Those were my wife's words after she returned with the bunk bed.
There are two things wrong with that sentence. Who are they? And what kind of sadistic engineer would design something that would take an entire day to assemble? What kind of mother would torture her eight year-old son with a brand new bunk bed when there was no chance it would be ready that day? (I have a feeling this will weigh heavily against her when it comes time to put her into a home. I'll already be in a home from sled riding, bunk bed building and falling down stairs.)
So, three large boxes were in the back of her minivan. My son had somehow cracked the code, “Your son's bunk b. is here.” After working to three AM, all I wanted was coffee. Somehow, my mumbled growl was interpreted as, “Of course, dear, I'll happily lug all three boxes up two flights of stairs and get started right away putting it together. Why don't you leave our two spawn here to help me while you go shopping in peace.”
“I want a bunk bed for MY birthday.” My daughter, almost-five-years-old-going-on-30, has no business being able to pack that much persecuted guilt in such a short sentence. Her lower lip quivered with just the right amount of emotion. A tear even threatened to slide down her cheek.
Luckily, I'd had enough coffee so my answer was censured into another mumble.
“Is the box heavy, dad?” My son asked that as I inched the first box up the steps.
“No, my back usually makes these popping sounds.”
Apparently, my sarcasm was lost on him as he suggested I use my legs more.
Once I had the two main boxes up to his room, my two helpers were all ready for me to start. We did the normal safety lecture. “No touching the sharp tools. Be careful with the heavy pieces. If you don't understand the word(s) daddy yells, don't tell mom. If you do understand the word(s) daddy yells, make sure she knows you didn't learned them from me.” I got two sets of grave nods that they understood the rules and would obey them to the best of their ability, or until they forgot, whichever came first.
Now, at five and eight, my kids have normal attention spans (3 minutes, unless a cartoon character is being splattered, then its measured in hours.), so I figured my next step would buy me at least another cup of coffee. “Let's find the directions.” Anything that required 2 boxes that could easily hold a small car, had to require a serious collection of tools. The directions were quickly located. I knew it was going to be a long afternoon when I saw that the directions were only a few pages long. My daughter proudly displayed the bags of bolts and screws.
“Now we're cooking,” my son rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist.
“I still need to get all the tools together to build it,” I reminded him. I might even be able to squeeze a nap out of that. There was space under the workbench and a box of nails that would work as a pillow in a pinch.
“These tools?” My son held up one of the packages. There was wrench and two allen wrenches.
“I'm sure we'll need more tools.” All right, there might have been a hint of desperation in my voice.
“No. It says this is all you need,” he said as he read the directions spread out on the floor in front of him.
When I was growing up, there were certain things you count on public education for. (Besides ending a sentence with a preposition.) We didn't know geography, math was iffy and I'm pretty sure reading was frowned upon. Starting on Monday, I am putting him in a private school.
In fairly short order, including three words they had better never use around their mother (For the direction makers out there, when it's vitally important which side goes down on the first piece, but that vitality won't be apparent until several hundred bolts later, you might want to STRESS that.) the bunk bed was together and in place. One hernia later, his mattress (His mother had decided that he needed a special mattress a year or two ago. I think it was made with lead.) was up on the top bunk and all was ready.
He and his sister made several trips up and down the ladder and pronounced my work satisfactory. (In case you are wondering, I was fully aware that the one day to put together comment was an outright manipulation. But it makes her feel like she's helping...)
That night, we read his stories in the lower bunk. The interesting thing is, after lugging the boxes up to his room and lifting his mattress up, my back was in the perfect permanent curve to get into the top bunk, I just didn't think I'd be able to move once there. After finishing his books, my son, the fruit of my loins, climbed to his top bunk, gather his pillows and blankets and dropped them over the edge. While I watched, he climbed back down.
“What are you doing?” I finally asked as he picked up his pillows.
“I'm going to sleep down here.”
“You're not going to sleep on the top bunk?”
“I'll sleep on the top bunk on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
While I'm pretty sure public education gave me some ideas on how to drive my parents crazy, I know they didn't teach Rationalizing Logic until I was at least in junior high school.
There are two things wrong with that sentence. Who are they? And what kind of sadistic engineer would design something that would take an entire day to assemble? What kind of mother would torture her eight year-old son with a brand new bunk bed when there was no chance it would be ready that day? (I have a feeling this will weigh heavily against her when it comes time to put her into a home. I'll already be in a home from sled riding, bunk bed building and falling down stairs.)
So, three large boxes were in the back of her minivan. My son had somehow cracked the code, “Your son's bunk b. is here.” After working to three AM, all I wanted was coffee. Somehow, my mumbled growl was interpreted as, “Of course, dear, I'll happily lug all three boxes up two flights of stairs and get started right away putting it together. Why don't you leave our two spawn here to help me while you go shopping in peace.”
“I want a bunk bed for MY birthday.” My daughter, almost-five-years-old-going-on-30, has no business being able to pack that much persecuted guilt in such a short sentence. Her lower lip quivered with just the right amount of emotion. A tear even threatened to slide down her cheek.
Luckily, I'd had enough coffee so my answer was censured into another mumble.
“Is the box heavy, dad?” My son asked that as I inched the first box up the steps.
“No, my back usually makes these popping sounds.”
Apparently, my sarcasm was lost on him as he suggested I use my legs more.
Once I had the two main boxes up to his room, my two helpers were all ready for me to start. We did the normal safety lecture. “No touching the sharp tools. Be careful with the heavy pieces. If you don't understand the word(s) daddy yells, don't tell mom. If you do understand the word(s) daddy yells, make sure she knows you didn't learned them from me.” I got two sets of grave nods that they understood the rules and would obey them to the best of their ability, or until they forgot, whichever came first.
Now, at five and eight, my kids have normal attention spans (3 minutes, unless a cartoon character is being splattered, then its measured in hours.), so I figured my next step would buy me at least another cup of coffee. “Let's find the directions.” Anything that required 2 boxes that could easily hold a small car, had to require a serious collection of tools. The directions were quickly located. I knew it was going to be a long afternoon when I saw that the directions were only a few pages long. My daughter proudly displayed the bags of bolts and screws.
“Now we're cooking,” my son rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist.
“I still need to get all the tools together to build it,” I reminded him. I might even be able to squeeze a nap out of that. There was space under the workbench and a box of nails that would work as a pillow in a pinch.
“These tools?” My son held up one of the packages. There was wrench and two allen wrenches.
“I'm sure we'll need more tools.” All right, there might have been a hint of desperation in my voice.
“No. It says this is all you need,” he said as he read the directions spread out on the floor in front of him.
When I was growing up, there were certain things you count on public education for. (Besides ending a sentence with a preposition.) We didn't know geography, math was iffy and I'm pretty sure reading was frowned upon. Starting on Monday, I am putting him in a private school.
In fairly short order, including three words they had better never use around their mother (For the direction makers out there, when it's vitally important which side goes down on the first piece, but that vitality won't be apparent until several hundred bolts later, you might want to STRESS that.) the bunk bed was together and in place. One hernia later, his mattress (His mother had decided that he needed a special mattress a year or two ago. I think it was made with lead.) was up on the top bunk and all was ready.
He and his sister made several trips up and down the ladder and pronounced my work satisfactory. (In case you are wondering, I was fully aware that the one day to put together comment was an outright manipulation. But it makes her feel like she's helping...)
That night, we read his stories in the lower bunk. The interesting thing is, after lugging the boxes up to his room and lifting his mattress up, my back was in the perfect permanent curve to get into the top bunk, I just didn't think I'd be able to move once there. After finishing his books, my son, the fruit of my loins, climbed to his top bunk, gather his pillows and blankets and dropped them over the edge. While I watched, he climbed back down.
“What are you doing?” I finally asked as he picked up his pillows.
“I'm going to sleep down here.”
“You're not going to sleep on the top bunk?”
“I'll sleep on the top bunk on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
While I'm pretty sure public education gave me some ideas on how to drive my parents crazy, I know they didn't teach Rationalizing Logic until I was at least in junior high school.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Amnesia
My daughter is crazy.
I guess I should qualify that statement: Either my daughter is crazy or I've completely blanked out her baby-hood and my wife is way more relaxed that I ever suspected.
This realization came at the end our vacation. We'd spent the day at a beach on Lake Erie (yeah, I was surprised too.) snorkeling and playing in the sand. This summer, both our kids became amphibians. My daughter, never to let her brother out-do her has been trying to keep up with him. This has caused no end of gasps and frantic dives across the neighborhood pool as she simply dropped out of the Wal-Mart inner tube. She has her own swimming stroke, which can best be described as a cross between a graceful mermaid gliding effortlessly through the water, a semi-truck hell bent on reaching it's destination and an octopus that has suddenly realized it has 6 more arms than normal creatures and hasn't quite figured out how to make them all work together. Oh yeah, and she spirals while she swims.
We'd tried all week to find a good place to snorkel. My son kept asking and even when the only place we could find was the normal Ohio Lake Erie murky water, he loved it. My daughter proclaimed, “I ta tish!” (I saw fish, if you don't speak snorkel.) She also saw a mermaid, forever silencing all the anti-mermaid critics. (The fact that we were standing in three feet of water and I couldn't see my hand as soon as it was under water shows just how deep the anti-mermaid conspiracy runs)
Well the last day of vacation, we found The Beach. The water was crystal clear, for Ohio. Visibility was an astounding ten feet. Both kids finally really Saw. Our quick stop to check it out turned into several hours and my son dragging first me then my wife out to swim over the coral reef. (To a seven year-old on his first real snorkel, a bunch of seaweed (or whatever it's called in Lake Erie) looks like a coral reef.)
We finally pried them out of the water and de-sanded them and went for a late lunch. As we were eating, my son listed his favorite things from the vacation in order. Between bites, my daughter chimed in also. This isn't what convinced me she is crazy, also though it does support the conclusion. (When she is eating, she is single-minded, just check out the last article.) No, what convinced me was when I checked to see if she was listening. Her consistent “Yes,” to every question lead me to believe she was already asleep and it just hadn't reached her mouth yet. So, I added, “I really liked when we went sky diving.”
The got a little pause as she looked up with a disgusted look on her little face. “We didn't go skydiving this week, daddy,” she said in her daddy-you-are-a-moron-but-I-still-love-you-and-hope-I-didn’t-get-too-many-of-your-genes tone of voice.
Well, at least she was still awake. Then she patted my arm and said, “When I was a baby, we went sky diving. You and me.”
“We did?”
A simple nod put the matter to rest in her eyes.
“What else did we do when you were a baby, that I've forgotten?” (Trust me, I can spin a pretty good yarn, but nothing compared to what she pulled out next...)
“We climbed the Rocky Mountains.”
“Oh?”
Another nod as she dipped a french fry in her ketchup, also known as dippy. (My daughter is the queen of dipping. It doesn't matter what she's eating as long as there's something to dip it in.)
Then she pointed to the tartar sauce for her fish and explained, “This is called 'pretend sand' in Africa.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, not all dippy is pretend sand in Africa.”
“What's not?”
“Ketchup.”
“What about salsa?”
“That's pretend sand.”
“French fries?”
“Gorsh.” The amazing thing, she didn't even pause...
“How about fish?”
“Neenee.”
“And how do you know African?”
Another pat on my shoulder, between bites of gorsh. “When I was a baby, we went there, you and me, daddy.”
Everyone has warned me that when my daughter mutates into a teenager, I am in trouble. They go on and on about how I won't understand her or be able to talk to her. Until this past week, I'd put their comments down to exaggeration. Now, I'm not so sure. On the one hand, she's already speaking a language I don't. On the other hand, apparently I'm a pretty cool dad cause I've already taken her skydiving and mountain climbing and to Africa. (I was afraid to ask why we went to Africa with my wife sitting. After all, she's obviously laid enough back to let me do all these things, but I don't want to push the limits until I've been fully briefed by my daughter on all our antics.)
I guess I should qualify that statement: Either my daughter is crazy or I've completely blanked out her baby-hood and my wife is way more relaxed that I ever suspected.
This realization came at the end our vacation. We'd spent the day at a beach on Lake Erie (yeah, I was surprised too.) snorkeling and playing in the sand. This summer, both our kids became amphibians. My daughter, never to let her brother out-do her has been trying to keep up with him. This has caused no end of gasps and frantic dives across the neighborhood pool as she simply dropped out of the Wal-Mart inner tube. She has her own swimming stroke, which can best be described as a cross between a graceful mermaid gliding effortlessly through the water, a semi-truck hell bent on reaching it's destination and an octopus that has suddenly realized it has 6 more arms than normal creatures and hasn't quite figured out how to make them all work together. Oh yeah, and she spirals while she swims.
We'd tried all week to find a good place to snorkel. My son kept asking and even when the only place we could find was the normal Ohio Lake Erie murky water, he loved it. My daughter proclaimed, “I ta tish!” (I saw fish, if you don't speak snorkel.) She also saw a mermaid, forever silencing all the anti-mermaid critics. (The fact that we were standing in three feet of water and I couldn't see my hand as soon as it was under water shows just how deep the anti-mermaid conspiracy runs)
Well the last day of vacation, we found The Beach. The water was crystal clear, for Ohio. Visibility was an astounding ten feet. Both kids finally really Saw. Our quick stop to check it out turned into several hours and my son dragging first me then my wife out to swim over the coral reef. (To a seven year-old on his first real snorkel, a bunch of seaweed (or whatever it's called in Lake Erie) looks like a coral reef.)
We finally pried them out of the water and de-sanded them and went for a late lunch. As we were eating, my son listed his favorite things from the vacation in order. Between bites, my daughter chimed in also. This isn't what convinced me she is crazy, also though it does support the conclusion. (When she is eating, she is single-minded, just check out the last article.) No, what convinced me was when I checked to see if she was listening. Her consistent “Yes,” to every question lead me to believe she was already asleep and it just hadn't reached her mouth yet. So, I added, “I really liked when we went sky diving.”
The got a little pause as she looked up with a disgusted look on her little face. “We didn't go skydiving this week, daddy,” she said in her daddy-you-are-a-moron-but-I-still-love-you-and-hope-I-didn’t-get-too-many-of-your-genes tone of voice.
Well, at least she was still awake. Then she patted my arm and said, “When I was a baby, we went sky diving. You and me.”
“We did?”
A simple nod put the matter to rest in her eyes.
“What else did we do when you were a baby, that I've forgotten?” (Trust me, I can spin a pretty good yarn, but nothing compared to what she pulled out next...)
“We climbed the Rocky Mountains.”
“Oh?”
Another nod as she dipped a french fry in her ketchup, also known as dippy. (My daughter is the queen of dipping. It doesn't matter what she's eating as long as there's something to dip it in.)
Then she pointed to the tartar sauce for her fish and explained, “This is called 'pretend sand' in Africa.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, not all dippy is pretend sand in Africa.”
“What's not?”
“Ketchup.”
“What about salsa?”
“That's pretend sand.”
“French fries?”
“Gorsh.” The amazing thing, she didn't even pause...
“How about fish?”
“Neenee.”
“And how do you know African?”
Another pat on my shoulder, between bites of gorsh. “When I was a baby, we went there, you and me, daddy.”
Everyone has warned me that when my daughter mutates into a teenager, I am in trouble. They go on and on about how I won't understand her or be able to talk to her. Until this past week, I'd put their comments down to exaggeration. Now, I'm not so sure. On the one hand, she's already speaking a language I don't. On the other hand, apparently I'm a pretty cool dad cause I've already taken her skydiving and mountain climbing and to Africa. (I was afraid to ask why we went to Africa with my wife sitting. After all, she's obviously laid enough back to let me do all these things, but I don't want to push the limits until I've been fully briefed by my daughter on all our antics.)
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Try it, you'll like it.
“You have to try it before you say you don't like it!” The warning was delivered rather sternly, and I have to admit there was a definite undertone of disappointment.
I'm sure many parents have issued that warning around the dinner table or out at a restaurant. There is an age range that is naturally hesitant to experiment with new foods and flavors. And while we know that if they will only try the flavor, they will be surprised at how much they like it. It's just getting them over that initial hump.
My son has been a picky eat for as long as I've known him, which I guess would be his whole life. I don't know how many meals have started and begun and had that phrase thrown in many times. It's usually seasoned with additions like, you liked it when we had it last week. Or, it's just like something else he likes. You'd think after 7 years, I'd have learned, but hope springs eternal in the blonde. (Or maybe it's parental senility.)
My daughter, on the other hand, will try anything once. Twice if enough people run away in disgust.
Back when we lived in Virginia, my son and I had two dining traditions. Every Friday we had lunch at Wendy's. Before he had teeth, we bonded while he gummed broken up french fries. With teeth, we graduated to chicken strips. (He didn't like the coating, so I peeled the fried layer off while he stole my french fries. He also flirted with the old ladies that came in. Every now and then I'd look up to see how many of my fries he'd stolen. When I glanced up, a silver-haired lady across the room was waving and called out, “Did you teach him that?” I looked at the fruit of my loins and wondered just what he'd done. After all, many was the night we'd both have a bottle while watching South Park. He met my concerned look with a smile and innocent eyes. My confused look in answer to her question prompted her to explain, “He's been making eyes at me since he sat down.” Yes, he's a chip off the old block. He's even found the elusive reset button on a girl. At a street fair, he was dancing with a girl a few years older than him. She apparently finished dancing before him. Whatever distracted her, she stopped and turned around. My son, either brave or foolish, used both index fingers and poked her in the sides. While all the men in our group winced at the expected slap, his target turned around and started dancing again.)
The other tradition was Mac and Cheese, koolade and a pickle. There was something about that on a hard weekend that was perfect. We'd sit at the kitchen table, each with our bowl and plan our adventures for the rest of the day,
This past weekend, I figured that pickles might be a little too tame for my daughter, but they were within easy reach when she wanted lunch. She gave me a doubtful look when she saw the dill pickle next to her strawberry sandwich. “You have to try it before you say you don't like it.” Five minutes later she stood before me with her empty plate. “More.”
I reached for the bread and heard, “No! More Pickle!” My raised eyebrow drew forth a reluctant, “Please.”
After the third pickle, I told her she needed to wait a little bit, to make sure her stomach was ok. (Truth is, I didn't want her to eat all my pickles. While I love my children quite a bit, there are limits.)
A few hours later, I was splitting the tree that had fallen over in our driveway when I heard an evil, triumphant laugh. My daughter was standing on the porch, a pickle in each fist. “Mommy gave me pickles!”
So, my son likes pickles and so does my daughter. You're probably wondering, so, what did they have to try? Strawberry jelly and pickles pretty much pushes any envelope.
Cheese fondue. In fact, to hear my daughter tell it, cheese fondue and dill pickles is probably the best combination ever made. In fact, it was so good, that she wanted to add the pickles to the pot. My wife's growl gave her a little pause.
“But Mommy, it's good. Try it.”
“I don't want to try it.”
“You should try it.” My daughter even put a pickle on her plate.
“No.”
“You have to try it before you say you don't like it!”
When your kids use your own logic on you, it can be funny. When they use your own logic and they are right, it is annoying. (My daughter, ever the optimist, is sure my wife will be out of the “never try a new food” phase soon.)
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