Really good ideas

“I have an idea.”

This phrase used to give me cold chills, until my daughter amended her catch phrase to, “I have a really good idea.” Now, I just have an overwhelming urge to curl up in a corner when I hear it.

Don't get me wrong. Her ideas are actually really good. The problem is her grip on reality is almost as shaky as mine. Neither of us sees the point in letting the Laws of Physics (most of which I would not have voted for anyway.) limit our flights of creativity. The main difference is, after forty plus years, I've learned which way to lean right before you light the fuse so you have a better chance of getting out of the blast range.

What has me afraid, very afraid, is that she is a good six years ahead of me.

Electricity and I have always had a... cautious relationship. It's not that we don't get along. We get along just fine, but it doesn't always keep up it's end of the bargain.

I remember our first run in. My dad had an old Lionel train set. Not the little things you buy now-a-days that are made out of plastic. No, they were made from steel and each car was at least a foot long and weighed pounds, not ounces. Every Christmas, I'd hassle my parents until they dug out the four boxes that held all the cars, tracks, buildings and trees. I'd carefully set the tracks up around the tree. You could tell these were made well before child welfare was established. The tracks connected via small, razor sharp shards of metal. I think the dried blood probably helped the electricity flow through the tracks faster.

Once the track was together, and the little houses and trees in place, it was time to connect the transformer to the track. Again, this was back when they made things to last. The transformer was a huge black box that was big enough to power a small third-world country. Every year, I'd plug it in and the lights in the house would dim for a second. I'd carefully line the wheels on the track. (Getting them lined up wasn't the hard part, levering the engine onto the tracks was.) We were then ready for the Christmas Tradition.

I'd turn the lever on the transformer, the lights would dim again and the engine would... do nothing. “It's still broken,” I'd proclaim and the second tradition would start, the Repacking.

But, I had the whole year to wonder why it was broken and how do you fix a transformer. One year I got the brilliant idea. If the transformer was broken, why not just take the transformer out of the equation. Stay with me, this makes sense, even now. The track needed electricity to run the engine. The transformer was blocking that. Take out the transformer, and voila! Working train. Now... What would effectively supply the electricity? Exactly, an old extension cord. All I had to do was cut one end off, bare the wires and my theory could be tested.

And I had the perfect tool to bare the wires. And they were custom made. See, I had a lamp by my bed as I was growing up, but the plug was right where I slept, so at night, the plug from the light would jab into my back. One day, I thought, if it was flat, no more poking. And, we had a replacement plug that was flat. It was perfect. Because my room was in the basement, there wasn't much light, so I needed to replace the plug quickly. I figured I could chop off a good five seconds by cutting the end off while it was still plugged in and keep the light until the very end.

You'd be surprised how easily steel melts. But, I now had a pair of pliers that were perfect for stripping wires and my career as an amateur electrician was off to a (literally) blazing start.

After cutting and baring the wires, I only paused a moment before attaching the bared wires to the track. Now was the moment of truth. I'd imagine Alexander Graham Bell felt the same trepidation as I did. (In case you are wondering, no, the train was not set up around the Christmas tree. I was young, not stupid. I'd set it on a ping pong table in the basement. The area was surrounded by thick concrete blocks and should be able to contain any unforeseen explosions.) As I plugged the cord into an outlet, I got my first view of how fast electricity travels. Sparks flew from the engine as it got the full jolt of energy that it'd been missing for years. The track became a mere idea as it hit a corner and continued in a straight line and became airborne for at least twenty feet.

How does this relate to my daughter? Well a few weeks ago, I heard her in her room, crying. I went up and found that all the lights upstairs were off. A fuse had blown and left her in the dark. Flipping the circuit breaker fixed the darkness and my wife and I consoled her until the sobs stopped.

A little later that night, I got another shout from upstairs. The cord on my daughter's lamp was frayed. As I looked it over, the “frayed” was more a cut. The cut was all too familiar. “Did you cut the wire?”

Her little shoulders trembled a bit as she nodded.

“Why?” I might have sounded a little more severe than I wanted, but in my defense, it's hard to sound parent-ally concerned when you are trying not to laugh.

“I thought it was a good idea.”

Everyone says that I am going to be in trouble when she reaches her teen years. Me, I think the world is going to be in trouble when we combine my years of knowing which way to jump and her really good ideas, especially after she has several years to fine tune them.

Just call me Herb

After thirty years, there isn't a whole lot of the the 1980s that I remember... clearly. I do remember the Miracle on Ice and the U.S. Olympic hockey team. My best friend and I managed to get tickets to one of the exhibition games. It as a heady night of yelling obscenities with bad Russian accents. Reaganomics was in full force and the Cold War was hot. (For those of you old enough to understand that last sentence, think about how long it's been since you've heard Reaganomics and Cold War in the same sentence. Once the hot flashes have subsided, check the local nursing home for vacancies.)

Like most young boys, I identified with the players. Young athletes overcoming impossible odds. I didn't even know the coach's name was Herb Brooks.

After thirty years, I recently flashed back to this historic time. It was a crisp fall Saturday when destiny called. My son's dek hockey team needed a coach. His coaches were both going to be out of town. I remember the coach's last words to me and the team. “Just have fun guys. Winning isn't important and we have the rest of the season to catch up.” (I'd imagine the heads of the U.S. Hockey said the same thing to Herb.)

As the game time approached, I began to worry a little. I already knew our goalie was not going to be there, her father was one of the coaches, and our best scorer was not going to be there, his father was the other coach. Plus, one of our team had started the season with a broken arm. (I don't think having a cast up to your shoulder is a valid reason to let your teammates down. You still have a whole other arm, and the cast would ensure great form on a slapshot. I know Coach Herb would agree.) So, we were down to one line, a backup goalie and two substitutes.

On Game Day, we only had five players. This is when I knew how Herb felt. I was surrounded by a rag tag bunch of kids. Their eyes full of hope as they looked up at me. We were the underdogs on the world's stage (The bleachers were packed with four parents.).

This is where you measure your life. I knew the tremendous responsibility that rested on my shoulders. A loss today could traumatize these kids. A win and they would be heros for the rest of their lives. Yes... I knew how Herb felt.

“Coach, where am I going to play?”

I took a moment to survey the arena, gauging the subtle unevenness of the dek. Thousands of factors were analyzed in that split second as I made my decision. “You're going to play left wing.”

“Which side is left?”

So, my two-hundred page playbook might be a bit ambitious for this game. “Which hand do you write with?” He held up a gloved hand. After I turned him around so I had the right perspective, “You're on the side with the benches.”

“Which hand do I write with?”

“The one on the same side as the benches.”

To recap, we were down five players, I had three defense men, one forward, a new goalie and, at this point, I realized the benches were on the right hand side.

“Huddle up, guys.” I called as the refs came into the caged arena. (Now, I was starting to channel the Christians and the lions in the ancient coliseums.) (I also realized, for the first time, I was locked inside with them. In the past, see previous articles for detailed proof of how bloodthirsty these kids get, it had always been during practice.

“Are we gonna play, coach?” One of the kids asked. (Between the ages of seven and nine, all boys look the same. Especially when they are encased in shin pads, elbow pads, hockey gloves and white helmets. I understand why the goalies in professional hockey have the vividly painted masks. These are the same boys who's mothers were cheering for the wrong kid... and chances are, the wrong team.)

“Yes, we're gonna play.” I crouched, surround by my short and sparse rag tag team. I looked into their young eyes and knew exactly what Herb would say to these kids. “We are going to play. We are going to show those Russians what Americans are made of. I want you to go out there and play. You're not playing for yourselves, you're playing for the American Flag!”

“Dad?”

I knew this one was my son. At least I hoped it was, or I was going to have a lot of explaining to do to my wife. I pushed Herb back. They needed a rousing speech. Something to take out there and keep them going for the next thirty minutes. “Guys, we're here for one thing. We're here to have fun. Play hard and have fun. That's all I want today. Can you do that?”

Five kids said yes, a little unsure.

“Oh come on. You can do better. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Louder, I can't hear you!”

“YES, COACH!”

For the next thirty minutes, I yelled more than I ever had. And you know what? Those kids played hard. They ran for thirty minutes and played together. When I yelled, it was so they could hear me over their parents cheering.

My son has always played defense. He's good at getting in front of the goalie and keeping the ball clear. He's always liked that position (probably because he doesn't have to run nearly as much as the forwards.). But this game, I needed another forward. After a few minutes of grumbling, my son moved up to right wing. Our game plan was simple. Defense: shoot the ball out as hard as possible when on defense. When on offense, shoot it back at the net. Forwards: shoot the ball out as hard as possible when on defense. When on offense, someone in front of the net and everyone shoot it at the net.

The game was tied up at 1-1. Our game plan was working well. Halfway through the first period everyone (if you've ever tried to get parents on the same page when their kids are playing, you know how momentous this was) yelled, “Up the boards!” when the ball was in our end and “At the net!” when we were on offense.

I had just lost my voice for the second time. “Go to the net!” I squeaked at my son. I don't know if he heard me. “Two hands on your stick!” I'm pretty sure only near-by dogs heard me that time. One of his teammates passed the ball...at the net. My son was in position. And had two hands on his stick. And his stick was down. “Shoot!” Even I couldn't hear myself when I yelled now.

Herb might have won the Olympics against overwhelming odds. But I coached my son to his first dek hockey goal. I know Herb was proud when they won the gold medal. But it couldn't compare to how I felt as my son ran down the dek, jumping up and down, his stick high in the air.

We won the game 5-1. So, yeah, me and Herb, we've both been there.

Hand signals

“Ok, little dude, what's the sign for 'ok'?”

I was pretty sure the guide wasn't talking to me. My son squinted up and made the universal “OK” sign with his index finger and thumb. He even placed it on his chest like we'd taught him.

“Good job, dude. Up?”

He gave a thumbs up, then a thumbs down before the guide finished asking about the sign to go down.

This was all in preparation for our first snuba dive. My son still has a few years before he can get certified to scuba dive and is just old enough to snuba. With twenty feet being the deepest you can go, we thought this would be perfect.

I knew he was excited the night before because he was quiet. So, being his dive partner for the snuba, we had a little talk.

“Daddy, what if we sit on a crab?”

“We won't.”

“What about a stingray? You said we might sit in the sand.”

“I'll look before we sit and make sure there are no stingrays or crabs, ok?”

That got a solemn nod.

“What are you looking forward to seeing the most?”

“A trumpet fish.” This had been high on his list for the past three days. His mother and sister had seen one and he missed it. Now, it was a burning need. Whenever anything long was under the water, “Is that a trumpet fish?”

“No, that's a piece of seaweed.”

So, I told him we would look for one. I was a little nervous because I had not seen one yet either. I wasn't going to tell my wife, who had seen, according to her count, thousands of trumpet fish (From her reported sightings, only trumpet fish lived in the waters off Saint Croix.), that she might be confusing trumpet fish with seaweeds...

We got to Cane Bay a few minutes early and both kids raced to the waves in order to conserve his energy for the snuba dive. When the guide was ready, my son and I grabbed our masks and fins and sat down for the pre-dive briefing.

I know I've given him several lectures and he has never listened as intently as his did for those twenty minutes. We learned about the hand signs, clearing your ears and breathing. “What's the most important thing to remember?” the guide asked.

I didn't know there was going to be a pop quiz. Apparently, neither did the other two adults. We all hemmed and hawed for a moment before my son pipped up, “Always breathe.” I was going to go with keep clearing your ears.

“Good job, little dude.” the guide said.

One of the hand signs we learned was, if the guide had to go up and check on someone or something, he would make the “safe” sign from baseball, then make a hachette sign of the direction we were supposed to keep going.

With the briefing done, we entered the water. I remember my first time breathing from a regulator underwater and figured it would take several minutes for my son to get used to it. He put the regulator in his mouth and plopped his face underwater... and stayed there, bubbles coming up perfectly.

With fins on, masks and regulators, we started our first snuba dive. We made it out to about ten feet deep and came to large frond under water. I wanted him to see it up close, so, we dove towards it. Then, I saw a fish among the branches and pointed it out. My son saw his first ever trumpet fish. (I still don't think the entire fish population here is trumpet fish like my wife does...)

During the dive, he saw the trumpet fish, three squid and every other fish he'd seen while snorkeling. But now, he was able to see them close and take his time. His first complete sentence when we got back to the beach was, “Can we go again tomorrow?”

Afterward, we snorkeled out over the reefs we'd just snuba-ed. The first time I saw his hand hatchet-chop in front of my mask, I thought he was just swimming. A second later, his little hand was right in front of my mask, his thumb pointing up in, what can only be described as, an Hitlerian fashion. I lifted my head and was greeted with a hatchet chop towards the beach. “That way.”

For the next twenty minutes, whenever I stopped or turned to follow a fish, he hand chopped in front of my face to make sure I kept on track.

Now, I've got my wife keeping on track above the water, my daughter supplying a free soundtrack under water and my son making sure I know exactly how to get back to the shore so it can all be repeated. I am going to enjoy going back to work after this vacation.

Cubs

When I was a kid, I used to watch those wildlife shows... The ones where they'd show a family of lions or something with new borns. The babies would be climbing on the father, biting his ears and making a general nuisance of themselves while he was trying to sleep. The narrator would say something like this wasn't just play, the babies were learning how to hunt through this aggressive play. After a few minutes, the father would open one eye, and the babies would continue. Eventually, he would give the babies a good swat and they'd tumble away and go rough house with each other, just long enough for the father to get comfortable and then be back.

A part of me was always surprised at that. Until this week.

We were snorkeling, all four of us. Again, my daughter was snorkeling with me. (Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoy the constant soundtrack I now have with every snorkel. (“I love fishes” sung three thousand times can be very catchy, even if it is grammatically inaccurate.) My daughter is able to practice her ballet dancing, sing, point out fish, and generally go in the opposite direction I am trying to swim at the same time. So, every trip with her in an adventure.) We all headed for the small artificial reef to look for the lobsters she and I had seen the evening before.

“Look daddy, I'm dancing.”

“You can't dance in the water.” That was her brother, the realist.

“Yes I can.” To her credit, she did prove she could. The only problem was I was still trying to get my second fin on. (Recapping here... Holding a bobbing five-year old from being washed out to sea, trying to balance on one leg (with a flipper already on) and get the second flipper on and not pull all my middle-aged muscles (yes, I've finally admitted it, but I do not have gout!) is not the best way to start a morning.)

“Sit still!” Maybe I growled it louder than I intended. I'm pretty sure I caught my wife smirking (I'm pretty sure it was a full-blown smirk if I could see it through a scuba mask.).

“I lost my fin.” Actually it came out more as “I wost by bin.” (When she's snorkeling, she can enunciate clearly with her snorkel in her mouth. Any other time, like when I'm half-off balance, she's impossible to understand.

“Where is it?”

“I don't know.”

I caught a glimpse of blue a few feet away. Keeping one hand on her, my fins and mask in my other hand, I lunged and grabbed it (spontaneous evolution, look it up.) before the next wave pushed it further away.

This time both fins were strapped tighter. Rather than chance anything else coming off, I pushed off with one fin and started towing her to the reef. (Towing is an understatement. My wife took my daughter out one snorkel. I'm not sure how it happened. I had to go back up on the beach and get my stuff, and amazingly, that took much much much longer than I expected. After they were done, my daughter and son were fighting the waves and each other, as usual, and my wife was panting on the beach. “Your... daughter... is... heavy. Did you... know that?” “Really? I hadn't noticed.” I don't think she caught the sarcasm.) Halfway to the reef, I put the other fin on and got a better grip.

“Where are the lobsters?” My wife asked as we approached the reef. Now, she's been diving for over fifteen years. One of our hobbies while we dive is to learn the behavior of what we're watching. So, I have no idea what possessed her to lead our two impressionable children to think that the lobsters, which we'd never seen there, and this is not a big reef, would still be there.

This is about the same time my daughter swam right in front of me. I know because of the two blue fins that hit me in the face. (At least they were still both on her feet.)

“Under the water.” I probably muttered.

Both kids proceeded to dive in search of the lobsters. My son dives very well and was able to make it down the ten feet and look inside the old tires that make up the artificial reef. My daughter's version of diving is... describable. It's a several step process. First, her head goes straight down. (From everything I've read, this is the normal process for diving.) Almost at the same time, her butt goes up (think of a dolphin breaching). So, this would be great. However, she does both so well that she doesn't stop and this is where it gets interesting. Her head ends up too close to her knees, but since her butt's already in full dive mode, her knees, much to her head's frustration, disappear. Now, the only way for her head to catch up to her knees is to take a shortcut by spinning 180 degrees. This usually works for a second, before another 180 degree turn in the opposite direction is needed. While all this is happening underwater, her flippers are flailing around above the water. Anyone within five feet is sure to get kicked in the face at least once per dive. The final part of the dive is the snorkel clearing. By now, it's completely filled with sea water. (But somehow, none of the water is in her mouth. One theory is she does not stop talking/singing during the diving, but no one has had to courage to get close enough to verify this.) Clearing the snorkel involves a quick scamper up my back, and a few minutes of readjusting. Then back into the water for another dive.

After about ten minutes of blue and yellow flippers (my son) zipping around me and kicking me in the face and body, I remembered the father lion and his cubs. In case you are wondering, no I didn't swat them... barely.

Stripes

“Daddy, I'm going to put sunscreen on your back. Very carefully.”

In the Caribbean, sunscreen is a must, especially if you are visiting from Pennsylvania. If you are not sure, Pennsylvania is not known for it's beaches. Where we're from, it's more known for not-being-flat-at-all (That doesn't really have anything to do with this article, but if you've been following me (all three of you) you know that doesn't bother me overly much.). I figured my daughter would be perfect for this job. Messy and a lot were the two primary concerns I had. And... my daughter is nothing if not messy.

“Put it in my hand, Daddy.” She cupped her little hand and waited for the sunscreen. I squeezed out a large amount. “I'm going to use one finger. That's important.”

At five-years old, I think she's been talking for at least fifteen years. Let me rephrase that... Since she grasped the mechanics of speaking, she has not stopped... ever. Even my wife's mother has commented on it. (Never mind that is the pot calling the kettle black.)

So, we had a nice conversation (monologue) while she carefully put the sunscreen on my back. I have no idea what we talked about, but that wasn't important. She did the back of my legs, again, very carefully.

Once we were all sun-screened, we were off for more fun in the sun.

I learned a long time ago that when you are snorkeling, you need to have at least one very good friend. Anyone can put sunscreen on their arms and legs, but it takes a very talented person to completely cover their own back with sunscreen. When you are snorkeling, your back, it's safe to say, is always in the sun. I learned this shortly after I was married. My wife and I took a vacation to Florida to go scuba diving. We'd just gotten our certification and were anxious to try it out. We even worked in visit to her aunt and uncle who had a boat. They took us snorkeling for sea shells the day before our first dive.

Being originally from north-eastern Ohio, I was not that familiar with the “sun”. I knew it existed, and had even seen it a couple of times. But as far as “tanning” and “sunburn”, those were foreign concepts to a simple farm boy.

I ended up with a fourth degree sunburn on my back. My wife still claims it wasn't that bad, but she's still won't admit it was all her fault. (She did show enough concern to get Solarcane and spray it on my back. It must have provided some relief after I passed out from the initial scream.) So, the next morning, I'm sure my back was covered in open blisters, we walked out to the boat with all our gear. Part of this gear included wet suits.

If you've never worn a wet suit, I think the scientific way it works is it keeps a layer of water next to your skin and that gets warmed from your body heat. So your core temperature doesn't drop quickly. In order for this to work, the wet suit has to be tight. (I think the real way it works is you get so over heated forcing your body into a rubber suit, in the blazing sun of Florida, that when you get in the cooler water, you go into shock and don't realize how cold you are.)

In all honesty, getting into the wetsuit for that first dive was not bad. The boat was fairly steady in the water and it wasn't crowded. The pain started when I pulled the zipper up the back of the wetsuit. I'm pretty sure dolphins and whales miles away perked up as I whimpered. Even that wasn't too bad.

No, the real pain was when I put on the scuba tank and stood up. Forty pounds of metal bouncing on a fourth degree (yeah, I know there is no fourth degree, but it's my story.) sunburn gives new meaning to “discomfort.” Luckily, it was only a few steps to fall into the salt water.

What does this have to do with my daughter putting sunscreen on my back? Well, after a day of snorkeling, we returned to the resort. It was a little later that I noticed parts of my back were tender. When I checked in a mirror, I noticed that there were definitely lines of non-sunburn. Among those few lines of non-sunburn were great patches of bright red. I have to admit, you could easily see the care that was taken with each stroke of sun screen. I'm sure that Salvadore Dali would have been impressed with her child-prodigy-ness. I've heard the phrase that artists suffer for their craft, but this is the first time I've heard of the canvas suffering.

I'd forgotten one key factor... My daughter has the attention span that can only be measured in nano seconds. I'm sure this will end up being my fault, somewhere down the road. But at least she hasn't learned the finer skills of marketing so I don't have to worry about walking down the beach as a mobile advertisement... That'll be next year.

Sleeping

“Hurry up, Daddy, she's sleeping weird again,” my son yelled in an almost whisper as he came running onto the porch.

See, last year, we went on vacation to Saint Croix. Both kids had realized they were born with an set of gills. They spent the first day of their vacation in the water, or marginally below the surf, depending on the size of the wave. That first night, both kids didn't just fall alseep, they crashed big time. My daughter managed a joint-dislocating sprawl that had to be immortalized digitally. The next morning, I got a one (of many) lectures from her on how I was not supposed to take pictures when she was sleeping. (Of course that only made me take more).

This time, after getting up at 3 am, flying around the world four and a half times, keeping track of her brother and her mother and a quick dip in the ocean, my daughter was more than ready to go to bed early. As I do every night, I checked on her after a couple of hours and was not surprised that she was sleeping across the bed (Up and down don't really have a serious meaning for her) her arms flailed out. Obviously, with full understanding of the coming lecture, I had to take her picture.

The next morning, she was thrilled with her picture. I was ordered to take a picture every night so she could see how funny she was. (Yes, she's a bit of an actress/drama queen. She gets that from her mother)

Well... After three days of snorkeling, fighting waves, playing the sand and turning into native islanders, both kids went beyond exhausted and fell asleep and did not move last night. When my daughter asked to see her picture, I explained they were both too boring and needed to step up their game tonight.

That's why my son was so happy that his sister was sleeping weird.

We started the day fairly quietly. A trip to Cane Bay, snorkeling, playing in the water and the sand. A lunch thrown in for when everyone got hungry. It sounded like a perfect plan. We got to the bay and immediately, both kids perked up. WAVES. Last year, Cane Bay had the “sweetest waves, baby” according to my son. This was right after a hurricane passed by and the waves were tall (and solid. Apparently, when a wave starts that far away, it picks up sand and these were very reluctant to let that sand go until they hit me.)

Both kids raced to the water and began the age old battle of kid against element. While they were engaged in their warfare against the evil waves, my wife decided to snorkel out and see how the visibility was. About the time she got beyond the initial breakers, both kids decided they were ready to snorkel too. Somehow, I got to take my daughter. I loaded her up with her snorkel vest (and blew it up, in case you are wondering.) put her fins on her and tightened them up and got her mask and snorkel arranged. Then, holding on to her, so the current wouldn't drag her to another island, I managed to get my fins (in case you have never tried, getting fins on, holding a five-year who thinks she can swim as fast as a fish, but hasn't quit grasped that keeping the snorkel in your mouth helps the whole breathing underwater thing, keeping your balance as waves pummel you and the current drags you down the beach is a challenging endeavor. Adding in your wife laughing definitely does not improve the situation.) and my mask on.

One final check to make sure she was ready and my daughter and I started out for the reefs. This was accomplished by my daughter spinning around in circles to look at the fish, the rocks, the sand-pretty much anything that moved, while I pulled her along through the waves and current. After what felt like three hours of towing an anchor (I'm going to rent my daughter out to the American Olympic swimming team, or whichever country offers the most money, to improve their conditioning.) we made it past all the waves and over the reefs. My daughter was still spinning, but now she was adding in her own commentary (in all likelihood, the commentary never stopped, I just couldn't hear it while I was having the embolism and towing her to the calm water.)

So, to recap:

Getting Daughter ready to snorkel-10 minutes.
Getting my stuff on while holding daughter-2 minutes and several pulled muscles
Getting daughter past waves and current to see reef-10 minutes and embolism (but great cardio)
Daughter getting cold and wanting to go back to the beach-1 minute.

We finished the day with hermit crab races. Apparently it is a huge weekly event for the kids (and the adults that have spent the day drinking). Each “kid” picked a crab, named it and got their parent or non-drunk friend to hand over two dollars. The crabs were all put into a five-gallon bucket and after all the bars sponsoring the event were named, the bucket was turned over and the crabs ran for safety. Unfortunately for the crabs, they were surrounded by kids who'd spent the entire day in the water and adults who'd spent the past two hours, in a bar, waiting for the crab races to start. The only safe place was the center of the circle. My daughter's crab knew this and didn't move. The rest of the crabs were not as smart and headed for danger.

“I'll never win a crab race.” my daughter lamented from my shoulders as I carried her to our rental car after all the prizes had been given out.

“I saw your crab (let's be honest, out of a couple hundred hermit crabs, all piled in a heap, there is no way I was going to be able to see one crab, but this is an allowable parental lie. “No, I didn't eat the last of the Doritos, your brother did.” is not, according to my wife.) and he tried his best.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to win a crab race,” I could feel her shoulders slump under the burden of defeat. I had no idea that her only goal in life had been to become a champion hermit crab racer, and how she had been dealt a serious blow to that dream.

“Did you have fun?”

“Yeah, but I didn't win.”

“Want to try again next week.”

I felt her perk up a bit. “Yes! I will win next week, I just have to keep trying.”

Another recap:

Day of snorkeling-Daddy mild embolism
Hermit crab races-Daddy second mild embolism carrying daughter to car.

After years of parenthood, I was sure both kids would step up their game sleeping tonight. The only problem was I had to make sure all the cameras were hidden before I went to sleep...

Rocks

“No daddy, throw the small rocks.” Normally, you'd expect this sort of comment during something like skipping stones, not while playing freeze tag. (more on this later.)

We took our kids on their first real camping trip. A real weekend of roughing it in the wild... Us against nature... The real Swiss Family Robinson.

The trip had been planned for a few weeks, we were going to hit the wide open road right after work. Just the four of us for a weekend away.

But, there was a forecast of a thunderstorm and our five-year daughter thought it might be a good idea to postpone her first ever, real life camping trip one day until the storms had passed. So, our trip into the great unknown was delayed while Mother Nature got her act together.

Finally, Saturday arrived and no hint of the dreaded thunderstorms to ruin our trip. I hooked the pop-up trailer to the back of the SUV, loaded the pillow pets into the back and the cooler, then we took off for our one night of roughing it.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the camp ground and found our assigned spot. Two hours after that, (camping really is an educational experience. My kids' vocabularies had increased by several dozen new words and expressions.) I'd maneuvered the pop-up camper back onto the state-park mandated concrete slab. (The person that invented physics needs a good swift kick in the shin. Don't get me wrong, I did the high school physics and even had a degree in parental physics. (I was actually ready when my daughter asked, “Daddy, why is the sky blue.”

I told her all about vectors and light waves and infra red and even drew out the science of it.

When I was done, she gave me a long look, “For really, Daddy, why is the sky blue?”

“God used up all the green on the trees and only had blue left.” She gave me a quick nod as if to say, you shoulda stuck with the truth from the start.)

When I turn right going forward, the camper goes right. There is no logical reason why that same thing should not be true in reverse. ) I can still remember bits and pieces of the process.

“Daddy, is the tire s'posed to be in the fire pit?”

“Daddy, how come the camper is beside us?”

“Daddy, mommy said we can't use that word.”

“Or that word.”

With our home away from home finally parked within a reasonable definition of “on” the concrete slab, we jumped out and began the process of “camping”. Two mild strokes later, I'd learned that “pop-up” was code for turn the crank several hundred times while nothing happens.

But, my family was waiting. I knew how the settlers felt when they set out on the great expansions westward. Soulful eyes were staring and it'd been at least an hour since they'd eaten, so they were wondering if they were going to starve or, even worse, freeze to death in the cold, merciless night. My pioneering instincts kicked in. Within a matter of hours, the camper was up, the electricity plugged in, the gas turned on, the fridge started and the oven started. Just like our ancient ancestors overcame impossible odds, it looked like we were going to survive our first night out in the wild.

Where do rocks and freeze tag come in? After everything was set up, my son wanted to play freeze tag, with his rules. Timeouts were called often and based had a tendency to change for without warning. As he gleefully ran up the hill towards another base, I picked up a large rock. (In my defense, in western Pennsylvania all you can pick up are rocks, and I did look for a small one)

That's when my daughter channeled my wife. “No.” It wasn't even shouted. Both my son and I stopped and looked at my wife, then at my daughter. Since her hands were on her little hips, we knew we were in trouble. That's when the lecture started.

“Daddy, you can't throw big rocks. You have to throw the small ones. We have delicate skin. Adults don't, but kids do.” She started to scoop up a couple of small rocks.

Luckily, I managed to get to her before she could demonstrate her theory. It's a good thing that she wasn't part of the original settlers... If she had been, the west coast would have a lot less people. But, the survivors probable would have gotten there much faster.

Alan's a Bastard

My daughter graduated from pre-K the other day. This was special. It wasn't the pre-K pre-graduation, that was last year. And it wasn't the preschool graduation, that was the year before. No, this was her last graduation before she enters the cold cruel world of public education.

This is important because I made a promise to her last year. While my son and daughter are related (I know they are mine, but my wife refuses to take a DNA test.) and do the normal teasing and fighting, for siblings, they get along remarkably well. (Every day I pray that this ends before they become teenagers. My wife and I might stand a chance if we can keep them separated, but if they join forces in their evil-teenage-angsty years, we're doomed.)

The whole graduation thing is important because apparently, when I promised my daughter that she could have a bunk bed too, my wife took that to be a real promise. From the exasperated sigh when I asked, “You bought a what?” I even had some kind of input into the decision.

I wasn't overly worried. It wasn't that long ago that I survived assembling my son's bunk bed. And I had both kids helping me. I thought it was be a cool surprise for our new graduate to come home from her last day of school to see her big-girl bed.

Like my son's bunk bed, it came with all the tools, bolts and directions. This entire bed, all 4 million pieces was supposed to be put together with one alan wrench and four pages of directions.

I honestly don't know if Alan started out as a bastard. I'd imagine it started innocently enough...

“Alan, we need you to invent a tool that can be used to put together furniture.”

“It's called a hammer and nails,” I'd imagine he said before returning to whatever project he was working on.

“No, that's too permanent. We want something that can be taken apart easily. Something that the buyers can put together themselves. We'll sell the kits cheaper.”

“Who came up with that insane idea? When you figure medical expenses it would be much cheaper to pay for a qualified person to assemble it.”

“Market research. Wives hate their husbands. Trust us, this theory will be proven out in the years to come,” the evil corporation probably said.

“A screw driver then.”

I imagine these shadow figures shook their heads slowly. They knew they had Alan now. “Too easy. We want the man to feel a sense of accomplishment when it is assembled.”

“At lease give them a chance.” There was probably a hint of desperation in his voice as he felt his soul being sucked out.

“We'll name it after you.”

And Alan's soul was lost.

Later, after fully embracing his betrayal of the human race, I can see him unveiling the tool. “Now, you promised to name it after me. You'll keep your word, you have to.” There was probably a tremor in his hands and voice.

I'd imagine all the evil races in the universe had assembled for the unveiling. Breaths (or whatever passes for that in the aliens) were held as the drums rolled and disco lights flashed. There was probably a little hiss of disappointment at the initial unveil.

“We are not impressed.”

But Alan, being an evil engineer, was ready for this. He knew that simplicity was the key. This is where his true bastardness is revealed.

“The directions for anything are only 4 pages.” He would have held up the assembly manual, with the large pictures, clearly labeled.

“We are not impressed and we are not happy.” By now, the assembled beings would be rustling in irritation. “This is too easy.”

Alan had them right where he wanted them. “The pictures are all the same, not matter the product.”

“Ooooooo.” This was pure genius. “No man will admit he cannot put something together that only has four pages of directions.”

Alan basked in the admiration.

“And your tool? The Alan Wrench?” Now they were eager. What pure evil would be unveiled?

“One tool to put it together,” he would have said as he lifted it high. (The only thing missing was something croaking, “My Precious! (This all happened before the movies came out.))

“But the shape? Why the long part. That will be too easy to turn, won't it?”

An evil smile probably creased his face as he nodded. “It will fit into the bolts perfectly, and the bolts will turn easily. Too easily. As soon as they get on a roll, it will fall out. And by the time it is halfway assembled, the end will be rounded and useless.”

“And they will have to hold the short end? Ooooooo.”

Yes, this is what my wife subjected me to. I'm sure the balance of evil in the universe was irrevocably skewed by her purchase. My daughter's graduation day was on it's way to being ruined.

But, Alan didn't take into account two much greater engineers... Vise and his grips and Duct and his tape...