The Best Christmas Period

(Ok... this is a rerun, but it fits with the season...)

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
We all were hiding, scared as a mouse
My son and daughter were barricaded behind the couch
As down the stairs, stomped Mommy, the grouch

My son's eyes were bright with fear
My daughter, the youngest, huddled near
We heard the dishes break in the kitchen
And the eerie noise of muttered bitchin

We shared a look and gathered our courage more
We knew the stakes, and had survived this before
The straws were drawn, I got the short hand
To get the Midol, across no man's land

My son heaved a sigh of relief, another Christmas he'd see
And in his best Tiny Tim voice, said, “Father, it twas nice knowing thee.”
My daughter, eyes wide as a saucer
Silently asked, if this too would happen to her

Apparently she saw the worst in my eyes
For without hesitation, she got up and switched sides
“Daddy's in the living room.”
She declared, sealing my doom

So, with my army cut in half
I feared I wouldn't be having the last laugh.
A poke on my arm, “I ate the last cashew.”
My son's lip quivered as he said “and I told her it was you.”
My frown must have deepened, my face a bright red
With a tear and cry, into the enemy's arms he fled.

Gathering my nerves, over the back, I looked, of our now flimsy settee
Both my children, the fruit of my loins, were standing there, pointing at me!
“I'm bloated and retaining water”, came the battle cry
“No dear, you're not and in those jeans, your butt looks fine,” I said, practicing my lie.

I ducked the frying pan, the pitcher and glass of ice water
Imagine my surprise when both my children re-armed her
Now, you may be thinking, there's another Christmas gone bad
But there's a silver lining to my Christmas ballad

When the dishes were gone and the blender retrieved from the roof
(When she's mad, she's got an arm like Babe Ruth)
We all gathered round the Christmas tree to sing
And roast marshmallows, which I remembered to bring.
As the snow blew in through the broken windows
We opened presents, wrapped with papers and bows
My wife sedated with IVs of Midol and chocolate
It was a Christmas, we would not soon forget

The Question

There comes a time in every kid's life when things change. They notice subtle differences. As parents, we've watched our children grow from little wrinkly things that constantly cry to little things that make us constantly cry. It's a joyous time, seeing them become miniature versions of us ( without the cynicism and scars.). But, even though we know it's coming, we dread the time when they get old enough and ask The Question. You know...The Question that leads to The Talk.

It happened with my son one evening. I'd just gotten home from work and was looking forward to relaxing. My son sat next to me. I waited for the “Let's play catch” or “Let's play a game on the Wii.” But he sat there quietly.

I tensed up waiting for the tickle attack, but even that didn't happen.

“Daddy,” I could tell this was going to be a difficult discussion from the tone of his voice.

“Yes, bud?” I was prepared for pretty much anything. He'd been on a what-if kick lately. So, I was ready with most of the professional quarterbacks and whether or not they could throw the ball to the moon.

“Why is President Obama so bad?”

This, I was not prepared for. The last presidential election was the first he remembered. (He was about 2 years-old for the previous one. Even though we lived close to the center of the political world at the time, I'm pretty sure the whole process didn't register with him. I know what you're thinking, at two he drooled and had the same bodily control as most politicians, so there's no reason for him not to remember that election.) Anyway, after the last presidential election, he was very proud that he knew who the new President was. So, I was a little concerned and quite unprepared for his question. I fell back on the best Parental Response. “Why do you ask that?” (That'll buy you a good five minutes while they try to figure out how to re-word questions like, “Why is the sky blue?” and “If I hit my sister with a bat because she's annoying, but she's not bleeding too much, how much trouble would I be in? Not that I did.”)

“Because, he is destroying the country.”

Usually, I vote the opposite of my mother-in-law (just because it's fun to piss her off.) But I haven't actively set out to irritate my children yet. So, I was pretty sure he didn't get that impression from me. “Who told you that?”

“A commercial on TV.”

“That's not really true.”

“You mean Mitt Romney's a liar?”

“Not really.”

“But he said he won't raise taxes and Barack Obama will. And we'll be out of money.”

“He's just saying that because he wants people to vote for him.”

“You mean he's going to raise taxes?”

For a minute, I thought about explaining global economics to my son. Then I remembered that he's doing math problems in school that make no sense to me. (For that matter, the last time I helped my daughter, who is in first grade, with her math, we BOTH got letters from the teacher. Luckily my wife gave me an excuse and I didn't have to go to detention. But I did have to promise to never help my daughter with math again.) There's also the fact to count above ten, I have to take off my shoes and socks and I was too comfortable to move right then.

“Well, see, it's like this. They both want people to vote for them. They say what they think people want to hear.”

“Barack Obama does that too?”

“Yes. It's all part of running for election.”

“We have to choose between two liars?”

“Well... They aren't really lies. They are campaigning.”

He gave a look that only a kid presented with adult logic can get. “So, we have to choose between two liars. That's stupid.”

“Let's play a game on the Wii,” I suggested.

“OK, but it's still stupid.”

“I know, Go talk to your Grandma. She was alive when they signed the Declaration of Independence. She can explain it.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” If the President can campaign, so can I.

Herb III

“I'm going to play goalie tonight,” my daughter said as I carried all the pads onto the dek.

Yes, I do not learn very quickly. While I did survive multiple games of being locked inside a large cage with rabid, armed and armored children in the spring, I decided to push my luck. (In case your memory is as bad as mine, or, on the very slight chance, you have not read my blog, let me refresh your memory on the “sport” known as dek hockey. Take a group of kids that have no concept of mortality and mind numbing pain (The mind numbing pain was when their sticks hit my shin, hand, foot, head...), cover them with shin pads, elbow pads, thick gloves and a helmet. Now, add wooden sticks (that could very well be sharpened and should be declared weapons of at least local mass destruction.). Because of local zoning and for safety reasons, you have to put them in an enclosed area with a fence at least fifteen feet high. In itself, this isn't too bad. But some idiot came up with the bright idea that adults need to be added and they do not give the adults any safety gear, not even tasers.(“They” say it's to coach, but I think it's so there's fresh prey for the little hooligans.) Last spring, my son and daughter both asked me to coach their teams. This season, my daughter moved up from the we'll-teach-them-the-basics-of stick-handeling-and-passing, AKA “Throw in raw meat and run and hide” league to the real league and they both wanted me to coach the team.

After most of the season, my daughter had gone from turning pirouettes in the middle of the dek and sometimes having a general idea of where the ball was on the dek (usually the side opposite of where she was looking) to wanting to play goalie. It was the last game of the season and we had third place locked up.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Without another word, she started taking off her shin pads so she could put the goalie pads on. If you've seen professional hockey, you've seen the pads they wear. Well, they wear the same pads for dek hockey. I don't mean the same pads metaphorically. They are The Same Pads. But, my daughter is about ¼ the size of a professional hockey goalie.

“I can't walk,” she said from behind the pads.

I carried her over to the goal and gave her the basic lecture. “Keep your pads together. Square up on the ball. Keep your stick in front of you.”

“I dropped my stick.”

I picked it up and put it in the general area of her palm. The problem was she had the blocker pad on her right hand. There were two things wrong with this. First, she's a lefty and as everyone know, the catcher pad goes on your primary hand. (Although, at this age and size, the goalie is pretty much a mound of pads with a helmet on top. (Sometimes there is actually a head inside the helmet.)) The other problem was I had no idea where her actual hand was.

“I dropped my stick again.”

I picked it up again. “Ok, just keep your eye on the ball and have fun.” Then some of the kids got ready to warm her up with practice shots.

I'm sure you've seen the drills in professional hockey where the players line up and each one shoots on the goalie. The shots are organized and everyone goes in order. Well, with six to nine year-olds, this is everyone shooting at the same time. Luckily, my daughter dropped her stick and was currently stuck on the dek. Every time she got a grip, she needed two hands to push herself up, so she dropped the stick again. Then she'd grab the stick and fall over and start the process all over.

After a few minutes, I checked again and we both agreed, maybe she wasn't quite ready to play goalie. So, we got her out of the pads and the other goalie padded up just in time for the game to start.

Since we couldn't get second place or lose third place with this game, I told the kids we were going to have fun. I wanted them to relax and spend the next hour running as hard as they could. After the first period, our goalie said he wanted a break. My daughter chirped up that she was ready to play goalie now.

There's a three minute break between periods in dek hockey. During the season, I'd gotten the pattern down. We had three kids that could play goal and we usually switched goalies. My system was, get the current goalie to lie down while I called the kids around to give them The Speech. While I undid the seventy or eighty clips that keep the pads in the general area of the goalie:

• I went over what the kids were doing right and what we needed to work on the next period
• Called the kids back into the circle
• Repeated what they were doing right and what we needed to work on now that all the kids were gathered around.

Once the pads were off, the next goalie dropped down into the pads and I:

• Reversed the seventy to eighty snaps.
• Made sure the kids were all ok.
• Figure out who was going to be playing starting the next period
• Realized that instead of fastening the clips around the boy's legs, I'd actually fastened the pads to each other (Think about tying someone's shoes together.)
• Remind myself that I was not supposed to swear around the kids
• Redo the clasps
• Get the shoulder pads on and the goalie jersey (This is not a cosmetic. The jersey is only thing that holds the shoulder pads above the kid's waist.)

By this time, four minutes of the three minute break have gone by. We do our cheer and the next period starts.

I spent a few seconds thinking about the wisdom of this decision. I called the kids into a tight huddle.

“Ok guys, we have a new goalie. Can you protect her?”

“yes.”

“You can do better than that!”

“Yes!” eight little voices yelled loud enough for a couple of parents in the stands to look over.

My routine had been fine tuned over countless weeks. But, I had not taken into account my daughter.

“Where's my stick?”

“Let's get your pads on first. Drop down.”

“Am I going to get to wear the jersey?”

“Yes. Let's get your pads on first. Drop down.”

“And the shoulder pads?”

“Yes. Let's get your pads on first. Drop down.” She has the cutest laugh when the vein in my forehead throbs.

Five minutes later, the shin pads were on her. The other team was lined up.

“Coach, can I play center?”

“I want to play defense.”

“Dad, can I play defense too?” That was my son.

“Everyone plays the same positions they were when the period ended. Ok, stand up.” That was to my daughter.

“I can't”

I picked her up and set her on what I think were her feet. Then pulled the shoulder pads over her head and the yellow jersey. “Where's your helmet?” Not that there was much room for it.

“I dropped my stick.”

We were already seven minutes into the the three minute break. The jersey made a very nice dress on her. She held up her hands. At least I think she did, the sleeves of the jersey covering her “moved”. I put the gloves on her “hands.” and snapped on her helmet.

“I dropped my stick again. We both bent down and I found out that the helmet beats skull.

“Mommy said we're not allowed to say that word anymore.”

She was finally ready and we had a thirty foot walk to the goal. Thirty feet for me to pass on all my knowledge to my only daughter. Thirty feet to tell her everything she needed to know so that she could be The Goalie. Thirty feet of me saying goodbye to my little girl and turning her over to the hard, cruel world. (She might have been ready for this, but I wasn't.)

“Daddy, I can't walk.”

Thirty feet for me to carry her.

“Ok. Keep your pads together, square up on the ball.”

“I dropped my stick.”

I put it back in the area of her hand. “What's the most important thing?”

 

“Have fun,” came from the mass of pads.

A couple of seasons ago, I was able to coach my son when he scored his first goal. I lost my voice in that game. My daughter stood in the goal like I'd shown her. I yelled encouragement to her. When she made her first block, I lost my voice. Over the season, all the parents had learned what to yell to help the kids. Between my yelling and the parents, our games were never quiet.

When the other team had a break away, everyone stopped and you could hear a pin drop as everyone held their breath. I watch the kid charging down on my daughter as the stands went silent. When she blocked the shot, EVERYONE exploded. That was when I lost my voice for the rest of the game.

Cartoons

“Do not hit your brother with wood!”

Right off the bat, there are a couple things wrong with that statement.

Firstly, my wife knows that there is way more than just a piece of wood in the basement. By now, she should know not to limit my daughter's options. There's a doll house, a suitcase, motor cylce helmet and a large screen TV. All of those should have been included in the warning.

Normally, my wife saying something like this to our daughter would have gotten me moving, or at least starting to call 911. But, after a weekend of cats and chinchillas, I was in the midst of a Benadryl induced coma.

When I was growing up, we watched wholesome shows like Tom and Jerry and The Roadrunner. I know for a fact my mother never shouted at me not to hit my brother with wood. (She'd probably say something unrealistic like there was never enough delay for her to shout the warning. But since neither my brother nor I spent that much time in the emergency room, she obviously has a faulty memory.)

“I said not to HIT your brother with wood.”

There was defensive mumbling from the basement.

“I don't care who started it. Do Not Hit Your Brother With Wood!”

I have to admit, it was hard to hear my wife over the giggling. (Apparently, Benadryl gives me the giggles.)

Now, you may be wondering what awful TV show they were watching? What terrible cartoon was subverting their natural brother/sister love and turning them into such ruffians?

After several years of having Netflix, my wife had finally joined the new-fangle fad of streaming video. She was so proud of her discovery of how they had “hours” of movies and shows the kids would love. (My son had already found all the videos from my youth. Nothing quite beats macaroni and cheese and Koolade on a rainy Saturday with Voltron. We'd spent many car trips singing the theme songs to Spiderman (Yes, I googled it.) and Scooby Doo (The real Scooby Doo, not the water-down rehash out now.))

I learned a lesson with Netflix and movies. My son loved the first Transformers movie. When I saw that Netflix had, what I thought was, a prequel to the Transforms, my son and I sat down for a night of popcorn and wholesome mechanical violence. After the first five minutes of the movie, my son was white and curled up in a ball under a pillow and I was morally scared. After that, I check to make sure the program is kid-friendly.

So... back to the question, what horrible show had my children stumbled on? With the amount of Benadryl coursing through my system, I figured it would be a medical experiment to see if I was as susceptible to the obvious subliminal messages as them. I made my way down the stairs (this is harder than it sounds, especially when the stairs were warped (last I remembered they were straight) and kept changing their angle. (Benadryl, apparently, also distorts my spacial perceptions.))

All I can say is after watching ten minutes of the new My Little Pony, I hate Rainbow Daze and can totally sympathize with my daughter for wanting to hit something. We've since watched every episode and I know all the pony's names. That information has replaced important memories I will never get back. At least I still remember peaceful, quality TV like Tom and Jerry.

Surviving Childhood and Raising Special Needs Parents

Surviving Childhood and Raising Special Needs Parents is available on amzaon.com at
http://www.amazon.com/Surviving-Childhood-Raising-Special-ebook/dp/B007B2WEL8

This is the book at started this blog, check it out and, of course, feel free to buy it.

Independence Day Rush

When you have four adults and two kids in a medium size car, they all scream with a different pitch when you turn into oncoming traffic. It didn't help a whole lot that almost everyone in St. Croix drives on the incorrect side of the road. The rental car even has a helpful decal reminding you (I'm sure the original idea of placing a red decal in the upper left corner of the front windshield with “Drive Left” was a good idea at first. Then some bureaucrat got a hold of the idea and the decal grew larger until it obscures most of the field of vision. But damn it, you now know which side of the road to drive on.)

We were going to the 4^th of July fireworks for the island. Everyone on the island was also going there. I know because the only four-lane road was backed up for a whole five minutes. (This might not sound bad, but when two kids and two adults (none of whom can carry a tune when it's dark) decide to pass the time singing the Twelve Days of Christmas, any back up is interminable.)

The fireworks were at the Frederiksted Pier at 8 pm. We decided to leave our place on the other side of the island at 7. (This doesn't mean we actually left. This means I had the kids in the car and my wife and her parents were beginning the process of getting ready to go. The kids and I had time for a nap and a game of monopoly while we waited in the car.)

While we waited, the kids and I bonded as a family.

“The fireworks are tonight?” my daughter asked.

“Yes,” I answered

“Do they start when it's dark?” my son asked

“Yes,” I answered

“We can come back and see them next year, can't we?” my daughter asked

“We'll get there in time. Dad drives fast,” my son answered.

“But grandpa and grandma will scream like mommy if he does,” my daughter pointed out. (In all fairness, there had only been one episode of screaming so far. It was the first day and we were going to cane bay. I knew everyone drove on the left side of the road. It's just that at a 5-way intersection, it can be difficult to figure out which left lane is the right left lane. I would have been all right if the scream hadn't distracted me. I ended up making a perfect five point turn and was impressed with the handling of the rental car. I'm pretty sure the ten or so drivers I cut off were also impressed.)

“No one's going to scream,” I was still a bit sensitive.

“Can I ride in the front? I get car sick now.”

“No,” I told my son. “Grandpa is going to ride in the front.”

“Why does he get to ride in the front?”

“Really old people get to ride in the front,” I answered.

That got them to talking about who was the oldest until were heard the grandparents coming down the steps. Ten minutes later, we were off across the island. One Christmas carol and a wrong turn later, were were almost there.

One of the nice things of driving in St. Croix, aside from the quick reflexes of the of the drivers, is they are very polite drivers. Often times, they will stop in the middle of a busy highway and let people turning right in. (For normal (Yes, I know this is not geographically correct.) driving, that'd be the same as stopping on the interstate to let someone from the left turn and merge into traffic.) As we came to the intersection, a polite driver was doing just that.

The screams from the backseat were my first clue that something was amiss. First of all, they were all in tune. Then I saw the car coming at us from the blind spot on my right. (My father-in-law, while old, is not yet transparent.) I slammed on my brakes and the other car slammed on his. There was a brief moment of residual screaming. Once everyone was stopped, I again showed how responsive the rental car was took off (this time minus the perfect 5-point turn.).

“Daddy, you scared the life out of me!” My daughter gasped from the back seat. “Don't ever do that again!”

“I wanted to make sure everyone was awake for the fireworks,” I explained.

Sure enough it, worked. For the rest of the trip there, every time a car was spotted on the road, everyone gasped in fear. They were awake, alert and paranoid. And too scared to sing. Mission accomplished.

ROAR!!

“When I'm scared, I breathe like this.” My daughter took three huge gasps and I'm pretty sure she almost split the seams of her wetsuit.

“Remember, if you are scared, take deep breaths. We're not in any rush and we're going to take it very slow.”

We were walking along the beach to the stairs in front of the artificial reef and it was a little after 8 PM. Since we were so far east, it was already dark. We were going on her first night snorkel.

“I'm just a little scared,” she confided and took three more huge gasps.

“Are you sure you want to go? We can go tomorrow night.”

Since her brother had gone the night before and told her about all the cool things he'd seen, I knew there was no chance she was going to let me off the hook tonight.

“I'll be ok, daddy.”

We'd snorkeled the artificial reef earlier in the day so she was familiar the the area. It was only a short swim of about 100 yards.

We sat on the steps and had a pre-dive briefing.

“We're going to sit on the steps and put the masks on.”

A quick nod.

“Then put on our fins.”

Another nod.

“Then we'll turn on the lights. When you're ready, we'll just lean forward and kick out. We're going to go nice and slow. I'll hold your hand the whole time. If you get scared, you can climb on my back and rest. Then we'll keep going. If you get scared, we can always come back in.” This got me a quick kiss on my cheek. (I used this same lecture for my son, father-in-law, brother-in-law and sister-in-law, except none of them gave me a kiss. I don't think they were really listening.)

Halfway out, I felt a hand on my back and a quick scramble next to me. “Daddy!” My daughter, using her normal perfect timing had waited until I'd breathed out before her scramble. Before I could get a breath I was under water while my daughter was comfortably sitting on my back.

“I lost my fin!” I heard as I came up for air. Tears were streaming down her face under her mask. We took a few moments to calm down, then I looked under the water while she held on to my back. That's when I realized the meaning of futility. At night, underwater is the definition of black. The dive light makes a nice bright beam, but that beam is not wide. The futility was looking for a dark blue fin in black water with a sobbing seven-year old riding on your back as waves bounce you up and down.

“It's ok. We'll get you more fins tomorrow.”

“Fin,” several words that could not be translated from snorkeleze. “Lost!”

A few minutes of treading water (I was treading, she was graciously letting me hold her above the waves.) and she decided she was ready to continue. (Sound is strange when you're in the water. High pitched sounds carry farther and seem amplified. I know this because, “Fin” and “Lost” along with soft sobs accompanied us the rest of the way to the artificial reef.

As we came over the tires and she saw her first lion fish, her lack of one fin vanished. She did her normal kick, twist and sideways spin. (My daughter took to water almost as soon as she was born. She has a unique way of moving through the water. All four limbs move at the same time (But none of them seem to know what the other is doing, or care for that matter). This causes a corkscrew motion through the water that is remarkable effective. Think of an octopus that suddenly realizes that it has twice as many legs as it should and hasn't quite figured out why or what to do with the extra limbs.) “ROAR!” she yelled as she looked down. (The lion fish was 10 feet below us. Both it and my daughter were safe from each other.) a couple of feet further and she saw her first octopus. (Just like the lion fish, the octopus had it's own sound. For the life of me, I have no idea what it was, I just know it was loud.)

Two lion fish, two octopi, several lobsters and a dozen string rays later, I had the pattern down and was able to gasp a deep breath before she climbed on my back. She lifted her head and said she'd seen all that her brother had and was ready to go in.

“Awesome!” was the first unsnorkeled word she said as we sat on the steps.

“Did you see the lion fish?”

“ROAR!”

"Did you see the octopus turn red?”

“Was he mad cause cause you touched him?” (I'd dove down to see if he would swim away. (I'm guessing it was a he because it wasn't smart enough to hide when two huge aliens swam over it. And since my daughter was still roaring to call the other lion fish, we definitely did not sneak up on it.)

“Yes. Did you have fun?”

I got a salty kiss on my cheek. “Yes, daddy.”

That more than made up for each mouthful of seawater I swallowed each time she climbed up on my back.

Everything but Snorkeling

“It's still early... Go back to sleep for a little while.” When you wake up and there's a six-year old, gap-toothed blond smiling down at you, this is pretty much the only acceptable response at 6:15 AM.

“Hellooooooo,” she's worked out just the right amount of sarcasm to put into that one word. “You promised to take me snorkeling this morning.”

She was right and I remembered the promise as soon as I had opened my eyes. But hope springs eternal. “It's still early, the fish aren't awake.”

“I am. You promised.”

“Ok, go put your swimsuit on. I'll be ready in a minute.” This got me a few seconds to wake up.

We'd made our annual pilgrimage to St Croix. My early wake up call was because her promised night snorkel had been canceled due to rough waves. According to her (See, daddy, they aren't taller than me. I'll just swim really fast) this was a gross miscarriage of justice. So, we rescheduled for first thing in the morning.

My daughter and I have a similar approach to the morning. While she wakes up cheerful and full of energy and I just wake up... we are both ready to go as soon as we're up. My wife needs breakfast, three cups of coffee and a demilitarized zone for a couple of hours.. So, we were swim suited, and I grabbed the fins and snorkels. Then went back in for towels.

“Helloooooooo. I need my wet suit.”

That was another trip back in and we were finally ready to go. On the way to the beach, we had to pick a piece of grass, because she is now a farmer (I have no idea when this happened, but apparently all farmers chew a piece of grass.), we talked to three hermit crabs and told them which way to the ocean (because they were so short, they obviously had no idea which way to go.) and my daughter found The Cutest Snails. (She wanted to take them home for pets.) We were finally ready to snorkel. Her fins were strapped securely to her feet and her mask was on. We kicked off to swim the 100 yards to the artificial reef. My daughter was right, if she swam really fast, she skipped right over the waves. That meant I either had to pull her fast or she would climb on my back and kick me to swim faster. (In truth, it was more like 90 yards because I could just see the tires coming into view when she pulled up.)

“I have a rash on my arm,” came out more as, “I ave a ash on y rm.” as waves kept bouncing her up and down.

“Do you want to go back?”

“Es. It urts bad!”

Swimming in with the waves was much easier. You just wait until they crest and kick. We made it back in record time because of the medical emergency. As we sat on the steps and peeled down her wet suit, she bravely showed me the two spots on her arm. I don't think we'll have to amputate.

“Where are the snails? I told them we'd be back.”

On the way back to the room, we gathered more grass to chew on, saw a couple more hermit crabs and stopped to pet a dog.

Once in the room, we took care of her mortal wounds and settled her down to a breakfast of cheetos, tortilla chips and salsa and an apple.

I made a mistake and changed out of my wet swim suit and came back to a very very indignant girl.

“Where's my tooth!”

“In your mouth?”

“No, the one I lost yesterday! I looked under my pillow and the tooth fairy didn't come. Mommy didn't put it under my pillow!”

(Truth be told, I did remember she lost another tooth. But she's lost close to 300 of them over the past couple of months they all blur together.) “Let me check,” I also checked and had a couple of dollars in my pocket. Now, I knew my daughter had done a thorough check. Just putting the money under her pillow would never work. “Did you check under the sheet?”

“Helloooooo, the tooth fairy puts money under your pillow!”

“Helloooooo, (two can play at this game) this not your normal bed. Maybe the tooth fairy was confused?”

“Oh...”

Sure enough, tucked just under the corner of the bottom sheet was her money from the tooth fairy.

“Yeah! Now I can pay mommy back!”

“What do you have to pay mommy back for?” If there was a chance, I wanted in on that action.

“When I accidentally make a mess.”

With my daughter, it's more accidentally not make a mess, so I knew my wife was going to come into a large amount of money soon.

I checked my watch and we'd already had a full morning and it wasn't even 7:15. Welcome to paradise.  At least I'll get an early start on my sun burn...

Tree House II

Mountains are made out of rock and we live on the side of a mountain. This will be become an important piece of information shortly...(This is foreshadowing)

“Do you girls want to help build the tree house?” I heard my wife say this to my daughter and her friend. It may be surprising that I could hear her say this, but since I could only see spots, my hearing was compensating... (This is also foreshadowing)

People who write how-to books are sadistic. (This is a basic truth.)

Because the tree house was for the kids and their friends, I decided to abandon my usual approach to building and had done some research and even had plans. The first book I read was very clear, you cannot anchor the tree house to the tree. There was something about how this would cause the tree house to fall apart as the tree grew. Instead, you take two strong boards and bolt them into either side of the tree and then rest the tree house on this. As the tree grows or gently sways in the wind (since we live on the side of a mountain, I was picturing a more “gently” snapping in gale force winds.) the tree house moves with it. So, with the two support beams anchored into the tree trunk, I was ready to start the platform.

“Daddy, are the boards supposed to be that crooked?” My daughter kept asking after I gently rested each of the support boards on the the boards bolted into the tree.

Anyone who has done any kind of construction, knows that you always plan a slight slope so that water will drain off. My muttered answer (since I was out of quarters, my daughter did not hear my real answer. (My wife had recently instituted a policy where certain words meant a quarter was added to a jar. This was a good idea after my daughter tried out “damn it”... I think her exact phrase was “Damn it, daddy, you have to play Barbies with me, now.”

I told her that was not a word “we” use.

“But mommy says it all the time.”

I explained that it was not a word she should use.

“But I like it, damn it!” That was the start of the money jar.)) was always “Yes.”

Until I stepped back to look at my progress.

“Mom! Daddy said your favorite word! Again...”

The plans called for 2X6 boards bolted into the tree and 8 inch lag bolts. I'd used 2X8s and 12 inch lag bolts figuring to be extra safe. The pictures in the books all looked amazing and words like straight and level sprung to mind. As I looked over my progress I realized I was going to have to go the bank and get a roll of quarters... I also realized that the people that wrote the how to for tree houses are (insert at least three quarters here) sadists.

So, my daughter, son and I sat on the hill and looked at the beginning of the tree house platform. “Is that what you planned, daddy?”

“No.”

“Will we ever have a tree house?”

“Yes.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Yes.”

“I know you can do it, daddy.” My daughter patted my should in a kinda doubtful way.

“Can we go up and play in it?” My son is the optimist.

“It needs some more bracing,” I decided. A couple of 4X4s would definitely remove the grotesque tilt. Fortunately, none of the plans I'd looked at had called for that. This meant I was back in my comfort zone.... winging it.

There was just one problems with my new non-plan. The posts needed to be cemented into the ground. That meant digging through several feet of rock. I was halfway through digging the post holes (and most of the way through a coronary.). This was when I heard my wife say, “Do you girls want to help build the tree house?”

My daughter had a friend over and they were both anxious to play in the new tree house. “Yes, let's go help my daddy!” I'm positive I heard my wife smirk.

“Daddy, we'll help you dig.” I saw two blond-headed blurs coming down the hill. They were blurry because of the heat stroke, minor aneurysm and heart attack I was currently having.

I managed to bite back, “Go away and annoy your mother,”

“This is heavy,” My daughter grunted as she picked up the post-hole digger. “Is your foot ok?” she asked after she dropped the pointy end on my foot. Luckily I was wearing work boots and I'd lost most of the feeling in my lower body from the aneurysm.

“I know, we can pick the rocks out the of the hole! Daddy, you dig and we'll do that.” Both girls squatted next to the very shallow beginning of a hole and were ready to snatch any rocks that would show up. The only problem was I had to break through the impenetrable layer of rock first. And I didn't want my daughter's friend to take any new words home with her...

I also wanted my daughter's friend to go home with both her hands. I knew as soon as I started to use the post-hole digger, one of them would reach in for a rock, no matter how far I told them to stand back.

When I write my how to book on tree houses, I'm going to include the little things like digging through rocks, avoiding cutting off little hands (no matter how tempting) and how to ignore all plans. Oh wait, I've already done that.

Tree House

“Let me show you what tree,” my daughter said as she surveyed our yard.

This was one of those times I was hoping the parental bond I've read about was strong. Because if we weren't in synch she was going to be disappointed. I'd already picked out the tree for the tree house...

She walked up to each tree and gave it considerable thought. I knew I was being set up from the way my wife was giggling.

“Not that tree!”

This only made my daughter consider the tree with more consideration. After a moment she shook her head and moved over to the next tree.

Fifteen trees later, she slowly approached the tree. “Daddy, this is the tree.” (We'd been talking about this tree for the past two years. We'd drawn up detailed plans. My daughter would spend hours dreaming about tree house and this was The Perfect Tree...)

“Are you sure?”

“I'm positive.”

“Ok,” I added a mellow-dramatic sigh so she wouldn't think all her hard work had gone to waste. “Is this going to be too high?” I pointed to the perfect fork to anchor the base. It was a good ten feet up. I made sure to raise my voice and look at my wife while posing this question. My daughter was of the opinion that it was too low. My wife and I made eye contact and there was no more than her usual concern for my lack of planning. Still maintaining the eye contact, “Are you sure this is NOT TOO high?” My wife smiled and that was all the answer I needed. (After years of marriage, we've developed a highly complex method on non-verbal communication.)

“Can we start building right now?” My daughter was already planning how to decorate her tree house.

“I have to get the lumber first.”

“Will the tree support it?” My wife has a knack for asking irresponsible questions.

“And directions.” I added with only a slight mutter.

“Today?” I knew she was excited because she was bouncing on my foot.

“I'm going to Lowes now.”

“Yeah! We're going to have a tree house tonight!” She ran off to tell her brother.

By the time I'd made my way to house, a pile of toys were piled up in front of the door. “What are these for?” I asked a little blur running past.

“For the tree house!” my son didn't miss a beat as he dropped his current load and went back for another.

“You do know it's not going to be ready today?” I asked a random blur.

“We have faith in you, daddy.”

It's unfounded faith like that that makes fatherhood all worthwhile

After a trip to Lowes, I had the directions, a load of lumber and optimism. The sticking point was how I was going to anchor the two 12 foot long 2X10s (If you've never tried to work with a twelve foot long 2X10, they are really long and probably weigh several hundred pounds) so they were both level. There was also the added difficulty that the tree was on a hill and my stepladder was definitely not hill friendly. I figured I could use two shorter boards, get those level and anchored to the tree and then use them to support the main joists. After a few hours, I had the two braces bolted into the tree and one of the 2X10s also level and anchored.

“It is done yet?” My daughter asked from the foot of the tree. The blood pounding in my ears had drowned out her normally un-quiet approach.

“Do you see a tree house?”

She actually paused and looked around me. “No?”

“Then it's not done yet.”

“Can I come up?”

Right now, there were two 2X6 boards about three feet long, one on each side of the tree. There was one twelve foot long 2X10 resting across these. The other 2X10 was wedged next to me. I was balanced on a branch holding a level and a chain saw (It seemed like a good idea at the time.). The step ladder had fallen over a few minutes ago and I was not sure how I was going to get get back to the ground (aside from the obvious method.)

“It's going to be that high?” My wife asked from up the hill.

I knew from her tone of voice that there was something wrong. “Yes.”

“Isn't that too high?” This was my wife's way of saying it was too high.

“Is it too high?” I asked my daughter. She was closer to my wife and I was pretty sure after all those hours of labor, my daughter was much safe than me.”

"No. It needs to be higher.”

“Are you sure it's not too high?”

“Mommy said you have to put a quarter in the jar when you use that word.”

My daughter, apparently has excellent hearing.

“Mommy, what's eight times a quarter?”

At least I'd perfected the art of balancing on a rickety step ladder while using a chain saw. Doing it all over again wouldn't be that hard... My wife definitely has to work on her silent communication skills because I'm out of quarters.

A Night at the Zoo

“You may bring an air mattress or foam pad if desired.”

I've learned that anytime a business recommends something to enhance comfort, there is probably a very good reason for it. My son's cub scout den was going to spend a quiet evening at the Pittsburgh Zoo. The only drawback, as a parent, that I could see, was that someone had the brilliant idea to include the cub scouts.

We got a complete packing list that included ear-plugs and blow up mattress. The adventure was scheduled to start on a Saturday evening and last through Sunday morning. My wife, being a complete coward decided to take our daughter to a water park for a girl's day instead of stepping up and taking her only son camping.

I wasn't that worried though. My son and I had a full day planned. Dek hockey in the morning. I was certain this would work out some of his energy. Then we had to go home and pack for our overnight adventure. Luckily, my wife and daughter had already left for their trip. That meant, I got to pack.

And, I had a list. In addition, there was another important note. We were going to have to carry our stuff to the discovery center. Since they mentioned that a wagon would be a good idea, I figured this meant a very long walk. The list said to pack a change of clothes. If my wife had been doing the packing, this would have meant:

A change of clothes for over 70 degrees and sunny

A change of clothes for under 70 degrees and sunny
A change of clothes for over 80 degrees and rainy
A change of clothes for under 80 degrees and rainy
Extra shoes and socks
Another change of clothes for each of the above conditions
Two pairs of MATCHING (she always stresses this to me and I have no idea why. The kids always have a bottom and a top, how much more matching do you need?) pairs of pajamas
Another pair of heavy pants in case it was colder than forecast
A light shirt in case it warmed up in the afternoon
A jacket
A winter coat
A rain coat
Boots
Gloves
Mittens
A snake bite kit

(We usually only travel with seven sherpas, a team of oxen and a forklift for short weekend get-a-ways.) But now, the packing was all up to me. I was solely responsible for my son's comfort while we braved the wild frontiers of Pittsburgh's Zoo. So, I stepped outside and saw that it was warm and the sun was shining. There was absolutely no reason to think this would change over the next 24 hours. I packed a pair of shorts and a t shirt for both of us. Oh, and underwear and socks, but since this was a guy's weekend, those weren't technically required.

A few minutes after our clothes were packed into a plastic bag from Walmart, I had the sleeping bags and the air mattress ready to go to. (Once the air mattress was deflated, there was a lot more room in the bag, so our clothes fit in there too.)

Then, we were off on our adventure. I'd been to the zoo a few times and had my phone's GPS, so there wasn't really any need to look up directions. It was East, then somewhere off the turnpike. That somewhere was at the exact same place I lost connection to the GPS server.

“Dad, are we lost?”

“No.”

“You sure. Mom usually swears like that when she's lost.”

“We're not lost!”

“She says that too.”

“Just look for signs to the zoo.”

“We're never going to make it. Oh well, maybe we can try again next year...”

Contrary to his lack of faith, I found the zoo. He was in charge of the pillows and I was in charge of carrying everything else. After a few mile hike, we were at the kid's discovery center along with twelve other scouts and an assortment of parents.

So... we'd had a morning of dek hockey, a long hike and there were 5 solid hours of activities planned. Lights out was at 11 pm. All I had to do was survive from 6 to 11, surrounded by twelve cub scouts, every poisonous reptile in existence and a room full of bats. Once the lights were out, it would be clear sailing. Yes, no doubts.

The first doubt was when my son's best friend laid out his sleeping bag next to my son. For the next hour, they discussed dek hockey, what they'd see at the zoo, the meerkats, what they'd seen at the zoo, the meerkat tunnels, dek hockey and the Gila Monster that was sleeping directly over our heads.

Before long, I drifted off into a peaceful sleep. You would think after a long day of running, hiking, running, playing in the meerkat tunnels, more running and more playing in the meerkat tunnels, my son would be so exhausted he couldn't move. It was shaping up to be a quiet night on our air mattress. I've been woken up from a peaceful slumber by:

A pillow from my wife blaming me for snoring

My daughter proclaiming she lost a toof
My daughter proclaiming the toof fairy had come. (For serious, dad. She came)
My son having a nightmare.
My daughter having a nightmare.

It's surprising how strong the paternal instinct is. I was in a deep slumber when my son tried to kick a reverse field goal. His heel connected solidly with my groin and I didn't feed him to the Gila Monster. He might have woken up a little as I whimpered. Over the course of the short night, he kicked me in the back twice (I learned after the first kick to the groin), used my head for a footrest and mistook me for the air mattress.

“Rough night eh, bud?” I asked as I rolled up the sleeping bags.

“No, I slept really good.”

It's a good thing reptiles don't have ears. They would have learned some new words...

Herb II

“Dad, will you coach my dek hockey team this season?”

“Mine too!” My daughter piped in.

After my perfect season as a substitute coach, I couldn't say no to their requests. Also, being well into middle age, I am apparently developing senility and have forgotten how dangerous dek hockey is.

“Coach, why don't you have pads?”

I looked down to see one of my players (That's all guesswork. He was encased in impenetrable shin guards, elbow pads, gloves and helmet a good three sizes too large. Since he was still standing upright, I'm fairly certain he was a human boy.) swinging his stick painfully close to my bare ankles. My first response was, “Because I'm stupid and want a painfully slow death.” But I've found middle-aged sarcasm is lost on the younger generations. (and my sense of humor is lost on pretty much anyone.) I gave a thoughtful look at, what I was fairly certain was his face, and said, “ I don't know.”

This was enough of an answer and he went off to chase a ball or whack at one of his teammates. (In truth, those are pretty much the same thing.)

After a few minutes of loosely regimented drills, (I was still trying to work up the nerve to get within striking distance (a mile) of their sticks.) it was time to go over fundamentals. We needed to cover the rules.

I learned about the importance of rules. My son and daughter were having their own Stanley Cup in our driveway that weekend.

“Why did you stop us?” my daughter demanded, stalking over to me.

“Slashing,” I explained as I stepped away from her stick.

Her head tilted a little to the side as she took in my verdict. When in trouble, my daughter has two modes. The crushed, world ending sobbing side and the let's-learn-so-we-won't-get-caught-next-time mode. “But I was going after the ball.”

“The ball wasn't near your brother's head.”

“It bounced.” I have give her credit, she didn't even pause.

“You were chasing your brother, swinging your stick.”

“You said to attack the ball.”

“You were screaming that you were going to kill him.”

“That's slashing?”

“That's attempted homicide, but they don't call that in hockey. The closest thing is slashing.”

After this, I thought it would be a good idea to go over the basic rules with my team. We called a huddle in front of the net. “Ok guys, listen up.”

“Those two birds are watching us play.”

“Birds don't watch dek hockey.”

“What are they doing then?”

There's one thing about an adult teaching kids, usually the kids are looking up. At this age, they are easily distracted. (The birds were watching us. I could tell from their laughter every time I ducked.) I crouched down so there would be fewer distractions. “Ok guys, listen up.”

Eleven helmets dropped and looked down.

“Why are there holes in the dek?”

“That's so water will drain.”

“Last season, it rained really hard and the corner was filled with water.”

“I know, I skidded through it like this...”

“GUYS!”

“Yes coach?”

“Let's focus. We need to cover some of the rules.”

“I know the rules, coach!”

“I got called for tripping once.”

“We'll cover tripping in a minute.” Maybe there was a hint of desperation in my voice. “Ok, guys. Who knows what high sticking is?”

You'd think, after two kids and surviving my wife being pregnant twice, I'd have a better grasp on cause and effect at my age. I had eleven armed and armored kids gathered around me... listening intently.

You might be wondering, what does it sound like when eleven sticks are instantly raised from the ground to straight in the air? I can tell you...

It sounds like a middle-aged man screaming in panic followed by eleven kids giggling. The giggling is what hurt the most.

“Coach, why are you bleeding?”

“I had a bloody nose once. I didn't get hit by a hockey stick though.”

“What hit you?”

“I ran into someone's head.”

“Ok, guys, sticks down,” I said, still dazed.

You know, I think they giggled harder this time when I screamed as all the sticks sliced back down.

“Coach, you should have to wear a helmet too.”

I can understand why Coach Herb had a reputation for swearing.

Tooth Fairy

I live with morons.

My daughter finally lost her first front tooth. This tooth took a while to go from loose to out. For the past three weeks, I'd check and be told that it had not fallen out yet. I suggested a hammer to help it come out, but that was nixed before I could find a hammer. It took a group of excited Brownies and my wife's elbow to finally get it out. Apparently my daughter was a little distracted as they learned about the Ruffed Grouse and my wife's elbow didn't check for right of way.

A few gallons of blood later, my daughter arrived home to tell me all about her first Brownies meeting. It might have been a bit mean of me to keep asking, is it grouse or grouth? After the tenth time, it was still funny...

I did my fatherly duty and made sure the tooth was placed in a plastic sandwich bag so it would not be lost (After going through my son's fifty teeth, this was a common habit. (This is important in a bit...)) The tooth fairy made it's stumbling and grumbling way into her room much later that night and swapped the tooth for cash. The grumbling was because I didn't plan ahead. For well over six years, my daughter has fallen asleep in every position imaginable (and many unimaginable). The one thing in common was her pillow never figured into those positions. So, when I tucked her tooth (in it's plastic bag) under her pillow I figured the swap would be easy. This night, she was plastered over her pillow. The middle of the night is not the time to silently sneak a tooth from under a six year old anticipating a visit from the tooth fairy.

I was a bit surprised the next day when I got a teary-eyed call on my way home. (This is where the moron-ness starts) Her other tooth came out at school! (actually it was shhool) and she lost her toof. After some intense patience on my part, I gleaned the whole story. The nurse had put her tooth in a special necklace for her to bring home. My daughter, being MY daughter, had to check out her toof... several times. Unfortunately, one of these times was on the shhool bus as she was getting off. Someone bumped her and her toof was lost! Gone forever.

I assured my distraught daughter that I would look for it when I got home and was pretty sure I'd be able to find it.

“How can you find it? It's gone!”

“I have special daddy skills.” (Those skills stemmed from my son when he lost his second tooth and couldn't find it. I found this out at bed time. My suggestion that I could pull another tooth wasn't too well received. So began project “Distraction.” My wife read his stories while I searched. Believe it or not, very few household items look enough like a bottom tooth to fool a tired child. I had a brainstorm when I came across the first tooth he'd lost. This met all the requirements... It was tooth shaped and it was handy.

“Where did you find it?” He instantly perked up.

I rolled my eyes to cover a small bit of information I'd forgotten to gather. In the initial panic, I neglected to ask where he was when he lost it. “Where do you think I found it? Right where you lost it.”

The nice thing about children is they are so trusting. “You mean you found it in the family room? I looked all over. How did you find it?”

“I was just lucky.”

Ever since, that tooth has been in the top drawer of my dresser. It's gotten us through at least 4 teeth that were lost and never made it home.)

Shortly after I got home, the search began for my daughter's newly lost tooth. Against all odds, the tooth was found. (The impressive part was that I still remembered where I'd stored the fallback tooth.)

“Is this the tooth you lost?”

“Where did you find it?” She carefully took the tooth from my hand.

“It must have fallen into a pocket on your backpack.”

Then, I started to worry. This WAS my daughter and she was looking at the tooth far too intensely. There was doubt. And the only other tooth I had on hand was a front tooth.

“That's my toof?”

“Yes. Don't they look weird when they fall out?” Ok, there might have been a bit of hysteria in my voice. I snatched the tooth from her hand. “I'll put this on my dresser. We'll put it under your pillow tonight.”

That night, my daughter made sure she had the tooth when my wife put her to bed. I made a quick check so I knew where the tooth and bag were. But, there was no plastic bag.

“Where's your tooth?”

“Under my pillow!”

"I don't feel it. Are you sure?”

My daughter picked up her pillow and pointed at her tooth. There were just three little problems. The tooth was white. Her sheet was white. The tooth was not in a plastic bag.

Her mother got a very strong talking to about night vision, stumbling and finding a white tooth the size of a grain of sand. She didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. I think the exact words were, “Ok. I'm going back to sleep.”

The tooth fairy definitely needs better support staff.

The Cure

“Gramps is not allowed in our house.”

This might sound like a rather harsh statement for my six-year old daughter to say, but she was not backing down. The “spot” on my lung turned out to be a spot on my rib. Apparently I'd broken it sometime in my past. Since I am well into middle-age now, (Going from “young and healthy” to “over forty and we need to run some tests” in one doctor's appointment ages you quickly.) I can't be expected to remember when this happened, but it probably had something to do with helping the insurgents cross war-torn Afghanistan. However, with age comes responsibility, so I followed up with my doctor who confirmed that there was nothing overly wrong with my lung. He also found why my shoulder and neck were “twitchy”.

The problem could be fixed with a local and 20 minutes under the knife. (In this case, knife meant “a chisel and hammer”. And local meant “you won't feel any pain, but you will feel everything else.”) So, an appointment was made for the next Saturday. There was just one problem... My daughter.

My daughter has a very deep and painful caring streak. Her view of of medicine is, “more is better”. (if she does become the doctor she is threatening, the pharmaceutical companies are going to LOVE her.) If one bandade would do the job, then my daughter will make sure that ten cover whatever real or imagined scratch you have. I've seen her dolls after a day of play and there is nothing sadder than seeing a stuffed Clifford the Big Red Dog released from intensive care and only a few small patches of red showing through all the medical dressings.

“What happened to Clifford.”

“He got a scratch.”

“All those bandages for a scratch?” I shake my head.

“It was a bad one.” Then her medical attention would turn to me... “Daddy, you need a shot.”

So, I was torn, I could have the pain quickly and easily (Yeah, I took that with a grain of salt. Remember this the same profession that categorized explosive diarrhea as a “mild” side effect.) removed and then go home to the tender care of my daughter... Or I could live with the pain for the rest of my life, or until my daughter turned eighteen. In the end, my wife convinced me to have the “procedure”.

My daughter, in her most medically sincere voice, told me she would take care of me. (This was right after she jumped on shoulder. Apparently the tears were enough for her to ask if that was my bad shoulder...) That's when I had a brainstorm (or a stroke).

“I hope you do a better job than Mommy and Gramps did last time.” (This got her competitive streak up.)

“What did Gramps do?” There was a hint of disappointed suspicion in her voice.

“Well, last time, Gramps and Mommy were taking care of me. I couldn't bend my knees and I had socks on. Well, you know how slippery the floor in the kitchen is?”

“Oh yes!” She jumped off my lap, using my shoulder for leverage, and proceeded to demonstrate how well she can slide.

Once the tears cleared, she was back in my lap for the rest of the story. “Well, I had to go to the bathroom, and Mommy and Gramps wanted to help me get up. Except, my feet slipped on the floor and they dropped me!” (Well, drop may be a bit of an exaggeration... It was more, my socks started to slip on the hardwood floor, and rather than react in a medically safe and prudent manner, both let go. The icing on the cake was when my wife started to laugh and then my dad followed suit.)

One of the coolest things about children is their frame of reference. They haven't become inured to things yet.

My daughter listened to the story, then stood up, her tiny fists on her hips. “That Gramps! He dropped you! I'm not letting him anywhere near you.”

“But, he's going to want to get ice for my shoulder,” I warned her.

“I'll get your ice!”

“But what if he wants to see how I'm doing?”

“I'll keep him away from you, daddy.”

Mission accomplished.

Now, you might be wondering, how could I sell out my dad so easily? Well, the story I told my daughter is true. Both my wife and my dad defended their actions by saying they'd been up hours and were exhausted. I can see how sitting and drinking coffee while I had my kneecap removed and re-adjusted and bones chopped out of my knees can be an exhausting experience. Now, I only have a week to figure out how to keep my loving, caring and supportive wife as far away as possible. I'm going to check out the finer points of restraining orders...

Out of Warranty

“Since you're over forty, we need to run some tests.”

In case you are wondering, the Caucasian, male kidney (for all I know, it could be all kidneys, I hate to make broad sweeping statements.) is only good for forty years. After that, you need tests before you can do anything.

I found this out recently. Over the past two weeks, my neck and shoulder have been “twitchy”. This is my medical term meaning it hurts enough to remember, but not enough to actually do anything about. Well, yesterday, that “twitchy” went into full blown “is amputation an option.”

Now, I've gone through four knee operations (not the wimpy arthroscope stuff either. The real chisel and hammer, bone shards flying kind.), a fractured toe (definitely not gout, so don't even think it.) and child birth. (Yeah, I know my wife “had” the baby, but I suffered through the labor. (You might want to grab another cup of coffee, this is going to be a long side track.) I have a pretty cool bone disease. I get extra growths throughout my body. At one time, I had one on the middle finger of my left hand. When people would ask why four knee operations, I'd either make up a story about land mines and guiding the insurgents through the mountains of Afghanistan, or sometimes tell them the truth. Through my twenties and thirties, I got immense pleasure, especially at work, showing what the disease did. I could legally and morally give anyone the middle finger.

I lost this passive/aggressive outlet for my deep-seated frustrations when my daughter was born. My wife somehow mis-planned the epidural and didn't have it in place at the third month. So, when we got to the hospital and the anesthesiologist was overbooked, we resorted to the age-old “squeeze the husband's hand” method of pain relief. Well, after the blessed event (she let go of my hand) I saw several things. The growth on my middle finger was gone. My wedding ring was a wedding oval. Oh, and I had a beautiful, wrinkle-covered daughter. That's, from what I've heard from unreliable third parties, when I passed out the first time.)

So, I'm no stranger to pain. Today, it was bad enough for a trip to the doctor. After an initial examination, it was determined that an x-ray was in order. A few doses of radiation and it was back to my room to wait for the Dr. to read the film and come back. At this point, I just wanted something to ease the pain until I could see my real Dr for a long term solution. A few minutes later, the emergency room Dr did just that. “Do you smoke?”

“Not really, an occasional cigar.”

“The x-rays show a spot on your lung. You're young and healthy, so I'm not that worried about it, but want to get another angle on the x-ray.”

While the pain in my shoulder didn't stop, I wasn't really noticing it any more. The doctor was rather attractive and thought I was young. Then the words “spot”, “lung” and “on” seeped through. A young doctorette though I was young and healthy even with a spot on my lung. I still had it.

I went back for more x-rays and then back to the room to wait for the young, cute doctor. That's when I found out there's a warranty on the adult male kidney. And I was no longer young and healthy. A CT scan was ordered because the second set of x-rays were inconclusive. My middle-aged kidneys needed to be tested to see if they could handle the dye used in the CT scan.

There is a bit of good news though... In order to get a more accurate x-ray so they could conclusively say they weren't sure what the spot on my lung was, the radiologist had me grab my left elbow and attempt to place it behind my right ear. While that was physically impossible, it did move whatever was “twitchy” back to where it should be.

Now that the immediate pain was gone, I was able concentrate on what the doctorette had said... I was no longer young.