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.
Monday, November 22, 2010
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.
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