Death Predator

“You should be called Death Predator,” my daughter said.

This conversation had started like most of ours. Don't get me wrong, my son and I have long and in depth conversations, but he's reached the age of reason. My daughter and I are still at the phase where we don't let logic influence our version of reality. (Anyone that plays vampire-zombie-Barbies has a loose grip on the social glue that binds our society together.)

My daughter and I were relaxing after a long day. We were both avoiding her homework, so the obvious choice was a round of Halo. (If you haven't experienced Halo, it's what's called a first person shooter. (I quickly learned this means the first person that sees me, shoots me. On the surface, this may seem like a stupid genre... Well, even in the middle it is a stupid genre.) The goal of the game is to kill other people. Usually, you work as a team and move around different maps. When you get killed, you get reborn and are back into the battle.)

“Which one are you?” My daughter asked as the game loaded.

“I'm WillowyFlipper.” (Before I get any more grief, this is the name the game gave me. I haven't changed it yet, and now, it's kinda a point of pride.)

“That's a weird name.”

“I know.”

“Wow, he shot you in the head.”

“I noticed,” I said as my character lay in a pool of blood.

“Did the same person just kill you again?”

“Yeah.”

“You should duck, next time. Oh wait, you're dead again.”

“Yeah.” (Ok, I was getting a little bitter by now.)

“I didn't even see the guy that killed you that time.”

(The sad part is, the time it took you to read that is how fast it took me to die each time.)

“You need a scarier name,” my daughter declared after my run of spectacular deaths.

“What? WillowyFlipper is a terrifying name.”

(This is where it gets embarrassing. You'll have to imagine an eight-year old blond girl who's had a rough day at school and is bitter at the world. (From what I understand, Friday spelling tests are the worse things in the world.))

“Oooooooh... I'm WillowyFlipper. I'm soooooo scary,” She said this waving her little hands around and in an entirely too sarcastic voice. “See? Not scary at all.” Said that way, she did have a point. But I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of admitting it.

“Did you just kill someone?” There was far too much surprise and disbelief in her voice.

“Yes! They are afraid of WillowyFlipper now!”

“Dad, he wasn't afraid.”

“But I killed him. Did you see?” I honestly didn't believe it either.

“But he wasn't afraid. You should change your name to what's that thing that eats others?”

I was impressed that I remembered to censor my first several answers... “Predator?”

“Yeah! That's it. You should change your name to Death Predator. That'll make them afraid of you and you'll kill them easier.”

I couldn't argue with her logic. And I certainly couldn't do worse that I currently was. “What about Intestine JumpRoper?”

That got me a thoughtful look. “What?”

“Intestine JumpRoper.”

“That not scary, that's just gross.”

“If I tore out your intestines and used them for a jump rope, that'd be pretty scary, wouldn't it?”

“It would kill me. You wouldn't want to kill your own only daughter, would you?” (She does have an annoying habit of playing the daughter-guilt trump card whenever it suits her purpose.) “And it's still gross,” she dismissed my awesome name. “You should be Death Predator. Did that hand grenade just blow your head off?”

I don't know what was more disturbing. That she knew what a hand grenade was or that she wasn't upset that her own father's head was completely blown off. Kids now-a-days are so inured to violence and death. I think maybe it's time to go back to wholesome vampie-zombie-Barbies.

Insanity

I once heard that the definition of insanity was dong the exact same thing more than once and expecting a different result. (Strangely enough, this is the same principle that leads to questions like, “You're pregnant? How did that happen?”)

My son, when asked what he wanted to do for his eleventh birthday, (I was praying it wouldn't be a party at Chuckie Cheese, I hate that rat, but kids seem to love him.) didn't hesitate. He wanted to have a sleepover with a few close friends.

You might recall he had a sleepover with a friend this summer that ended up with an in depth discussion of Creationism vs Evolution that morphed into a Star-Wars-themed analysis of wormholes. You also might be thinking that this lead to the topic of this blog. But, once I heard about the plan, I had some hard questions for my wife and son.

“How many is a few?”

“Two, maybe three,” my son answered.

“Will I be allowed to drink?

“Of course,” my wife answered

“Can we add rum to their drinks if they get out of hand?”

“Dad!” That was my son.

“I'm just kidding.” (No, I wasn't)

So, I was perfectly fine with the sleepover concept. The party would start at six pm. My wife and I could handle two additional kids until ten pm. We had video games, movies, a tree house, a large yard, and dek hockey equipment. No, I was not at all worried about the party.

The part about doing the same thing more than once and expecting a different outcome was... Well there's no delicate way of putting it. My wife.

I should have gotten a clue as my son and I were driving home from dek hockey (Yes, I'm coaching again this season, so expect another Herb blog post.) and my wife called. “Could I pick up one of my son's friends?” She was running a little late getting last minute things for the party.

This is the same woman that volunteered to chaperone my son's kindergarten Christmas party and somehow, scheduled a root canal for the same day. Of course, the root canal was scheduled so it wouldn't interfere with her stuff for the party, but just to be safe, could I maybe be ready to run over to the school. Shockingly, after her root canal, she didn't think it would be a good idea to go the Christmas party. So, I got to start off Christmas being traumatized by a roomful of five-years hopped up on sugar and Christmas anticipation.

So... My son and I picked up his friend. I asked my son how many of his friends were going to come over. Two or three had morphed to five or six. I still wasn't worried. In dek hockey, I can manage twelve armed and armored kids. (If you're looking for a mental image, think of a tuna in the middle of a shark feeding frenzy...)

As the kids started to arrive, I couldn't help but notice how quickly the parents drove off. Their derisive laughter wasn't giving me much confidence. Eventually, I was looking into the frantic eyes of five boys that had been looking forward to a sleepover for a long time.

“Ok guys, here are the options.” As the parental leader, (since my wife was still out getting those essential last minute items) it was up to me to keep things organized and under control. “We have video games, movies, dek hockey or you can play in the tree house.”

Here was my first mistake. If you give a group of boys several options, they will choose all of them, each with a different choice. So, they did all of them. At once. And... it worked. They had rules that made no sense to anyone over thirteen.

When my wife finally made it home from the last minute shopping (Apparently, they grew the actual flour that they then ground for the cake.) she was ready to take over the social activities.

“Did you feed them?”

“Yep.”

“Where's the pizza?”

“Outside.”

“What? Why are the plates still on the table?” In her senility, she'd gotten out plastic cups and plates for them to eat off. When the pizza arrived, I did what any sane father would do. I waited until they ran by in a fairly good re-enactment of Lord of the Flies. Then I put the pizza boxes and drinks on the driveway. They would sense their primary food source. Sure enough, I checked back later and the pizza was gone. I knew they weren't hungry because there were only a few teeth marks on the pizza boxes.

“Where are they?”

“Outside.”

“What are they doing?”

Sometimes you have to wonder why mothers are even allowed around sleep-overs with their naïve questions. Next would be something equally inane like, “Are they all still alive?”

Just then, five overly excited boys ran by in a blur. There was a tint of purple so I knew my daughter was still keeping up with them. The primal screams of “KILL HIM!” made my wife blanch enough for me to remind them of the primary rule. “No killing, guys!”

That was more a guideline. I'd made sure each parent knew of my 80-20 rule. As long as 80% of the kids were still whole in the morning, it was a success. With 5 kids, that gave me a whole one to work with. So far, I had plenty of wiggle room, but we still had to get them to sleep and my wife had canceled my hotel reservation for the night...

Cues

As a parent, you learn the subtle cues when your children have either bitten off more than they can chew or think they have. My son's cue is “Dad, do you really think I'm ready for this?”

He asked me that question the night before we were to leave on the scouting trip. My answer was, “Of course you are, bud. You'll be able to handle everything.” What I was thinking was, “Of course you are, bud. I, on the other hand, am not. There's not going to be any beer, TV or anything resembling a bed for almost a week.”

The other day, he asked me the same question. We were sitting on the plastic chairs outside the dive shop at Cane Bay. I could tell by the tone of his voice, this was a serious one. Over the past month, we'd gone through the online training for open water scuba certification together. He could have easily done it himself, but I wanted to make sure I still knew the rules. (He is a stickler for the rules. The last thing I wanted was for him to grab my regulator halfway through a dive and kick me out of the water for a time out when I went too deep, or missed a proper surface interval. So, every night after work, we'd go over a couple of sections. (Do you have any idea how annoying it is when your son scores better on the tests than you do? Luckily, I didn't have to say my answers.))

We'd also done several practice sessions in the pool at home. He'd SNUBAed and was great at snorkeling, so, I was sure he'd have no problem. It was pretty hilarious seeing him in my wife's BCD (That's the thing they attach the tank to. When you're ten and trying to figure things out with an adult sized tank and adult equipment, the stakes are stacked against you pretty high. It's a good thing laughter doesn't travel well under water.)

When we got to St Croix, he had to do his pool sessions then four open water dives with an instructor before he would be certified and could dive on his own with a buddy. I made the reservations at the dive shop and got him there on time. My wife and daughter went to play in the sand while I stayed to make sure he was comfortable. He had to do a quick knowledge check (which he aced. Yes I was very proud of him). Then he had to put his equipment together. That was supposed to be the end of the first day. Since we were on vacation, a slow start was good. That's when the instructor told me my son was going to do his first open water dive.

Now, since the instructor had never seen my son in the pool and probably didn't remember him from last year, I was a little surprised. But not as surprised as my son. Hence our sitting in the plastic chairs outside the dive shop.

“Dad... Do you really think I'm ready for this?”

We shared a look for a minute. “Yep, bud, you are.”

“Are you sure?” This was definitely a “I've bitten off more than I can chew” moment.

“What are our rules for diving?” We'd come up with our own, and both had to agree before we would start a dive.

“Calm, confident and safe.”

“Do you think you can do this?”

A slight nod of his head.

Will I let you get hurt?

A slight shake of his head.

That just left calm. “You can do all the skills, Bud. I've seen you do them in the pool. You know all the rules, you've passed all the tests. Yes, you're ready for this. Do you think you are?”

There was a pause as he thought... “Yes, Dad. Are you going with us?”

“Yes. I'll get my stuff right now.”

The three of us made our way down to the ocean. (Actually, my son made his way. I limped under the 50 pounds of gear and whimpered because I was barefoot and forgot that the tropical sun and cement combine to create what's known as nuclear fusion heat. The instructor was better off, but he was “helping” my son walk with all his scuba gear on. This was quite a feat since the gear probably weighed more than my son.) After a few minutes of practicing key skills, we all headed out.

For the next 30 minutes, I saw my son do his first scuba dive. He was calm and confident. He did everything he was supposed to and made it look easy.

“Dad, do you think I'm ready for this?”

"Yes, you are, but damn it, I'm not.”

Pot Holes... Island Style

What is the one thing you don't want to add to a stressful driving experience? (In this case, stressful was remembering to drive on the left-hand side of the road and watch out for smooth sections of road (Why should you watch for smooth sections? We were in St Croix for our vacation. I've written about the roads and general driving before. This year, it looks like maintaining the roads got away from them, (kinda like spring cleaning) and it was actually easier to assume the road was a giant pot hole. The conversation usually went like this:


“Didn't you see that pot hole?” from my wife.

“That was us coming out of the pot hole.”

I think she usually had some other comment, but I couldn't hear it because my ears were popping as we descended into another pot hole.)

That one thing you don't want to add is two passengers of the female gender. My wife was hopped up on caffeine and my daughter was channeling an auctioneer. Both were talking to me, carrying on completely different conversations (In my daughter's case, her conversation had at least three separate themes that I was supposed to keep straight.)

We were heading back to Cane Bay to pick up my son from the first part of his scuba certification. So, to the best of my recollection, the topics I was being bombarded with were:

How big were the waves at Cane Bay (I made the mistake of saying they were sweet baby killer waves. Both my daughter and my wife explained in great detail that this meant the waves killed babies, and my daughter added that every year they had different ways of describing the waves, and this year, killer and baby were definitely not allowed to be in the description, even when properly punctuated (I proposed sweet killer waves, baby.).

When were we getting star fruit, because you can't have a vacation without star fruit. Also, we should take the seeds back with us and plant them. Her friends didn't know how good star fruit was. She could take a picture, but it would be much better to have the actual fruit.

My daughter missed her friends. Every summer she doesn't get to see them (because there is no school) and this summer, she again didn't get to see them at all! (At least she's good at noticing patterns. I didn't mention that she saw her friends every Monday at girl scouts. She also saw her friends at girl scout camp the week before we left. We've also had her friends over to play...)

I also take inappropriate pictures. The picture of her I used for the cover of my book (which you can buy on amazon.com, just search for Jack Dayett, it's called Surviving Childhood and Raising Special Needs Parents) was not taken with her permission and it is very embarrassing that millions of people have seen it. (I didn't mention that with my readership well into the mid-single digits, millions might be a bit high.) I should only take pictures when she is ready. That spawned a side conversation on the weirdest sleeping picture contest that we have every year. (For more info on that, check out the archives from August two years ago.) She thought for a couple of minutes and said it was ok, as long as they weren't published globally.

My wife's conversation was centered around the fact the our daughter had come out of her shell. (Along with a growth spurt that added about three inches to her height, she's also lost her fear of boys. Now they are just icky. She definitely is not going to get married unless they change the kiss thing to a fist bump. That might be acceptable, but kissing is out of the picture.)

So, we were having a nice drive through the island. (The people on St Croix are some of the nicest drivers you will ever meet. Going the wrong way down a one-way street or even driving on the wrong side of the road does not seem to bother them in the slightest. (My wife on the other hand is quick to point out both these errors, but she doesn't adapt to the island life as fast as I do.) I had the radio on to drown out the conversations, but each time I turned it up, they both talked louder. Luckily, all I had to do was hit a pot hole and all conversations stopped while they waited to see if the car was going to keep running. Thankfully, there is no shortage of potholes.

Sleepover

“Dude, we started from two people.”

“Dude, I know. All I'm saying is those two people could have been monkeys.”

“Dude, we're not monkeys.”

“I'm not saying we're monkeys. Millions of years ago, we were monkeys.”

“First, there were two people. I forget what their names were. Second, monkeys don't have names.”

“Dude, I know. I'm not saying the first two people were monkeys. They evolved from dinosaurs. Then there were monkeys.”

“Animals came first. Then there were dinosaurs.”

“Everything on the Earth is an animal.”

My son was having a sleepover. It was almost midnight and I decided it might be a good idea to check on them. It was just us three guys, since my wife had decided that after almost a week of camping and sleeping on a “cot” surrounded by cub scouts, I needed one more night of no sleep while she and my daughter had a relaxing sleep over at the zoo with their girl scout troop. (Amazingly, my son's friend's mom was also going on the sleep over to the zoo. As she and my wife drove away, I'm pretty sure I heard unbalanced cackling from the car...) Also, it is a great idea to take two young boys who haven't gotten a decent night's sleep for a while and put them in close quarters, after an evening of junk food and super-hero movies.

So, I quietly walked up the stairs (on the very slight chance they were both asleep) and listened to the above conversation.

I was expecting a rehash of the Avengers and a heated argument about who was the best super-hero (One thought the Hulk was the best, the other thought it was Captain America.). Instead, I walked into a debate on creationism vs evolution.

I was not prepared for this. For one, I was sober and so were both kids, so any chance of a meaningful conversation was shot.

“Listen, million and millions of years ago, there were monkeys and cavemen evolved from them.”

“There were only two people.”

“Ok, dude, millions and millions of years ago, there were like two monkeys and they kept evolving, until there were like two cavemen.”

“It wasn't millions of years ago, it was like, I don't know, six days or something.”

“But, dude, the universe is infinite. It's still growing.”

“There are multiple universes, dude.”

“No dude. There is one universe. You mean galaxies.”

“No. There are multiple universes.”

They'd gone from creationism vs evolution to wormholes. As they got into the finer details of multi-dimensional travel (The Trekkies got seriously slighted. All their designs were based on Star Wars.) I had to sit down as they designed the rocket ships. (Oh, I'd had those same conversions with my friends when I was younger. But mine were in college and fueled by caffeine, alcohol and lack of sleep. My son and his friend were only going on pizza and super hero movies. Thankfully, nothing included Jar Jar.)

Around midnight, (yes, if my son's friend's mom reads this, I am going to be in trouble. I'm pretty sure I agreed to making sure both boys were in bed at a reasonable time, which they were. There was nothing in the verbal contract about being asleep at a reasonable time.) they finally had travel to distant worlds, stars and universes figured out. There was a few minutes of quiet from their room. The world kept spinning, time continued, so I don't think they broke anything with their ideas. Just in case, I felt obliged to watch an episode of Honey Boo Boo, just to make sure the universal scales stayed balanced.

Songs

After the first day of camp, we settled into a comfortable routine. Each morning was a rush to get the kids down to the dining hall for colors and the raising of the flag. Then we had breakfast.

Each meal had the same pattern. A scout for each table came early and helped set up. The scout was responsible for setting the table, getting the food and drinks. They also had to clear the table and clean up after the meal. This duty was rotated at each meal. (I was amazed when I got home and the first night called out that it was time to bus the table. My son had already cleaned up half the table before he realized we weren't at camp any more.)

Once the table was ready and food was out, they let in the rest of the scouts. This resulted in a minor stampede until all the seats were taken. After the meal, one of the counselors made the announcements...

This is where I learned that there was a bit of a rivalry between the kitchen crew and the counselors. (I also learned that I have a very low tolerance for camp songs.) The first time the counselor said he had some announcements, the head cook (I was surprised at how good the food was. I'd heard the horror stories from the parents that had gone the previous years. Truthfully, they did an excellent job. There was plenty of food and there were options for the kids that were picky eaters (my son) and special diets. While the food was good, it wasn't up to Gordon Ramsey's standards, so I can't use chef... Although there were some meals that would have rivaled the intensity of Hell's Kitchen, but when you get that many sleep deprived parents in one room there are bound to be tantrums.) sprang from the kitchen and began the announcements song. I must have missed when this was a top 40 song, because everyone immediately joined in. It goes like this:

Announcements, announcements annoooooouncments.

A terrible way to die

A terrible way to die

A terrible way to be talked to death

A terrible way to die.

Announcements, announcements annoooooooooooooooouncements

The first time I heard the song, it was catchy. The tenth time, I had an almost unbearable urge to stab the cook in the eye with a dull pencil. Since my son has been singing this particular song several times a day since we got back from camp, that urge has grown quite a bit.

After the announcements (Announcements, announcements, annoooooouncements—See? It's a Pavlovian thing now) all the counselors would get up on benches and sing at least one song. For me, this was the most enjoyable part of the meal.

Our troop had the tables nearest the kitchen. It was also the area in the dining hall with the most room. So, they always set the benches up near our tables. Now, these were old benches and not the most stable of structures. And when you have ten people precariously balanced and jumping around on them, it is very entertaining for the kids.

Remember the two mothers that each “broke” a foot so they wouldn't have to go swimming in the glacier filled pool? Well, since this was the area with most room, they tended to sit there too. (Something about not being able to squeeze between the tables to find a seat. As the kids say now-a-days, whatever...) Watching these two mothers constantly flinch and try to move their “broken” feet to safety every time the benches almost tipped over just about made up for the Announcements song.

After breakfast, there was the trek to swimming, fishing and boating. My son and a group of his friends always walked over together. It was a ten minute hike there and another ten minute hike back after lunch. For the five days we were there, they never ran out of topic to talk about. I say topic because apparently every kid is now playing Minecraft. (If you have a child and don't know what that is, count yourself lucky. If your child truly does not know what Minecraft is, turn off your internet connection now before it is too late.) I learned about all the evil characters (There's a special term for the characters, MOB.) and how to defeat them and what their strengths were. After a while, I tried to bring up Pokemon, so I would at least have an idea what they were talking about, but that was passé.

After lunch and more announcements (Announcements, announcements, annoooooooouncements) it was back to our camp site for crafts, sports, BB guns and archery. After those, we had a few minutes to relax before trekking back down the mountain for dinner.

The second evening of camp was when the head cook (already treading on thin ice) broke through and secured the position of most hated on my list.

You may not know it, but young boys have a reflex condition when in a group. If one does something and it gets the desired response, not only will that one boy repeat the action, but every other boy will also repeat that action. The louder the response, the longer and more intensely they will repeat the action.

This is an important fact when combined with a tradition at this particular camp. When ever someone said chili, everyone in the kitchen stopped what they were doing and yelled, “Chili? Did you say chili? HEY CHILI!” (At least this was a tradition for this particular cook. I really hope he gets on Hell's Kitchen. Somehow, I don't think Gordon Ramsey would find the humor in his whole kitchen staff yelling this.) Once one kid heard this, well... he just had to go back to the kitchen for something. Pretty soon there was a line of cub scouts at the kitchen entrance and a constant roar of “Chili? Did you say chili? Hey chili!”

That night, as the kids went to bed at the early hour of midnight, you'd hear the peaceful chirping of cub scouts in their native habitat. “Chili.”

“Did you say chili? HEY CHILI!” would echo from all the cabins. I really hate that cook.

An Afternoon of Education

What is the one thing you don't want to give a group of rabid boys that are in the perfect setting for a re-creation of Lord of the Flies?

You guessed it, anonymity. That is apparently why our first craft after lunch was to make knight helmets out of cardboard paper. They offered the authentic look of an ancient knight of yore and even came with the eye slits that removed any chance of a clear field of vision with none of the durability of a real helmet. Add in an unlimited supply of sticks and it was the perfect craft. They finished off this lesson with leather working. The idea was to use a mold to create a decorative necklace or name tag. Once the boys got their hands on the hammers, that changed to using a mold to beat the heck out of an innocent piece of leather.

If five boys pee on a bush, even though the bathroom is a mere twenty feet away, and they are being supervised by four fathers who spent the night on cots that have no support, will anyone yell at them?

This is an easy one. No mothers were near were enough to interfere with nature. They made a perfectly straight line with their backs to us. I think the only problem was us fathers knew that we had to walk all the way to bathroom. So, the only protest was our envy. (We also followed the unwritten rule that what happens at camp stays at camp. There were a few mothers that took offense to boys being boys. One mother even went so far as to explain how one year, she woke up and a boy was peeing a mere “ten feet from her head.” This lead to several comments from the men about close only counting in hand grenades. I added, since BB guns and archery were already on the schedule for the afternoon, a section for hand grenades sounded like fun. All the kids would be pretty much guaranteed of getting a bull's eye. I even knew the counselor that could lead it. It was the same one that taught my son the song about announcements. (That song has been my constant companion for the past week. Added to the fact that he could not make a decent pot of coffee and I would volunteer to throw the first grenade at him...))

What year was the BB gun invented?

This was a real question the counselor at the BB gun range asked. “I'll give you a hint, it was a really long time ago,” he added.

“1993?” one of the kids in our group suggested.

“That was a year before I was born. The BB gun was invented long before that.

I don't know what was more aggravating, that the kids thought 1993 was a long, long, long time ago or that I'd graduated college, been married and had at least five jobs before the counselor teaching my son how to shoot a BB gun was even born.

It turns out, that the BB gun was invented and used for Lewis and Clark's trip. The fact that it was silent when it was shot impressed and scared the Indians. (The fact that they were teaching a bunch of wild, barely tamed kids how to use a silent weapon was not very calming, from a parental point of view.)

What is the square knot used for?

(To join two ropes together) This was more along the lines of a foolish question. I understand that knot tying has a long and celebrated history in the Boy Scouts. However, when you have a group of boys that outnumber the parents, and you give them helmets and teach them how to shoot guns, adding how to quickly tie up your potential victims is just not a good idea.

There was five hours until lights out. I'm pretty sure, the announcement, “Time to brush your teeth!” was going to have a much different result tonight. Luckily, I made a helmet too.

Day 1... The Morning

Our first day of cub scout camp started with a refreshing dip in the glacier filled pool. Our troop got the first slot because we had the most “campers” that had not taken the required swimming test the evening before.

There were three ranks: white, blue/white and red/white/blue. If you got red/white/blue, you could go out on a canoe. Blue/white only allowed you on a rowboat, as long as a red/white/blue was with you. (There were sailboats too, but, with only a college education, I didn't think I'd be able to decipher the level of colors needed to use the sailboat.) If you had white, I don't think you were allowed to even look at the water.

This was when I found out that I had forgotten my swim suit in the changing room the night before. My son and I were all set to swim. (He was ready to swim, I was preparing myself for bone-numbing water.) I checked my pack and I had my towel, but no swim suit. I was crushed. (At least I put on a good act for my son.) I checked the pool's lost and found and no swim suit. I even walked up and checked the main office for the missing suit. Luckily, my son had several friends he could buddy up with. (You were not allowed to even look at the pool unless you had a buddy. From the rules briefing, it sounded like you were not allowed to be more than five feet from your buddy. I'm guessing, if your buddy drowned, it was your responsibility to drown with him, unless it was in the shallow end and less than five feet deep.)

I could tell the other parents were jealous of me. I had a valid reason not to be in the icy pool. In the whole week we were there, I only counted two other fathers that braved the water. One was the scout master for the pack. He had pure cappuccino in his veins instead of blood, so I don't think he even felt the cold. (One morning, I noticed that all the fathers were gather around his tent. I wandered over to see what was so interesting. They were passing around a cup. I took a breath of the coffee he'd brewed and my heart rate skyrocketed to 140 beats a minute. I think it was three to four hours before I stopped stuttering from the caffeine jolt.) Two mothers went so far as to break their feet before camp even started so they wouldn't be guilted into going into the ice water.

After swimming, we had boating. My son and his friend wanted to go out. My son's friend had one of the mothers that opted to break her foot just so she wouldn't have to get in the pool. So, we all went out in a row boat (even though we were all red/white/blues, you can only have two in a canoe. They kinda screwed up this rule during the closing ceremony when three scouts rowed across the small lake in a canoe.)

There is nothing quite as funny as watching two kids row a boat together for the first time. They had the circle steering down perfectly. Unfortunately, they were trying to go straight. We had a quick lessen.

“Ok, guys. Oars out of the water and lean forward. Put your oars in the water and lean back... Ok, that was really good. Next time, hold onto the oars when you lean back. No, sit down, I'll get the oar out of the water.” A few minutes to reset and we tried again.

“That was better. Next time, put your oars in the water when you lean back and pull.” I was starting to figure out why the person that sits at the back of those row boats in the Olympics is always yelling...

After a few more minutes, I was dizzy and took over the rowing.

“Daddy, why are you going backwards.”

“Because that's the way rowboats are made.”

“But you can't see where you're going.”

“That's why you're suppose to tell me which way to go.”

That's about the time we hit the shore. “Daddy, turn left.”

At least it was almost lunchtime. And the we were closer to the dining hall now...

Camping - Coffee

“What time will coffee be ready in the morning?” One of the mothers asked. We were at the leaders' meeting for the cub scout camp. This being my first time at camp, I was interested in how things were going to work. They'd gathered all the adults (At least the adults that still had the energy to walk to the dinning hall) and had the kids at the opening camp fire. (Any time you combine five-year to ten-year olds and fire, I find it's a good idea to be far away.) There had been several, I thought, key points brought up But it wasn't until this question was asked that the parents actually perked up.

“The cooks will be here at six in the morning,” the camp coordinated answered.

“We'll start the coffee as soon as we get in,” the head cook added.

“So, if I take my shower at six, the coffee will be ready after? By 6:30?”

I think the look in that mother's eye and the tone of her voice finally got through. The cook gulped and promised that the coffee would be ready. The tension hung in the air as the adults waited. Finally, there was a slight nod from our caffeine leader and the deal was sealed.

Now, that I knew caffeine was guaranteed and the rest of the schedule for the week, I was all set. The kids would be in their cabins and asleep by 9 pm, cause that's when lights out was. I checked the time. We had 10 minutes to finish the opening campfire, then 10 minutes to hike up the trail to the camp site. (I'd made the hike up to the campsite after the swimming test. Once the spots cleared from my vision and the ringing in my ears passed, I could appreciate the view. I'm pretty sure there were eagles circling below us...) Once at the campsite, there was a full half hour for smores, teeth brushing and pjs. (They'd actually allowed mothers to come on the camping trip and they brought useless things like tooth brushes and changes of clothes.)

My tent (yes, the kids were in cabins and the adults were in tents.) was set up and my son already had his cot set up and stuff stowed in his cabin. He was happy because he had two pads on his cot and said it was the best bed ever.

Even though it was almost nine by the time I crawled into camp, I was still confident about the schedule. This was the cub scouts and they had Rules. (And a weird definition of the backstroke. I am going to take this to the Olympic committee. All the gold medals for the past Olympics need to be re-evaluated.) Apparently, chocolate, marshmallows and graham crackers are not the ideal pre-bedtime snack. For the next two hours, the campsite was filled with running kids wielding flashlights, Frisbees and sticks. (Yes, when we saw them with the sticks, we stopped them, but you try and keep track of kids re-enacted Lord of the Flies. I was going with to the 80/20 rule. As long as we brought back 80% of the kids, we were ahead of the game.)

Finally, the dreaded “Time to brush teeth” was called. (This is the only known weakness for a pack of rabid boys.) We were only two hours past the lights out, but we still had all the kids and the all the parents and my tent was away from most of the cabins. (Strangely, the tents furthest from the cabins were picked first. Even though the tents only slept two, I think the farthest away ones had seven or eight adults crammed in.

By 12:30, the last of our kids were asleep. (I know this because there was another group camping on the other side of the ridge and I could hear their parents yelling at their kids well past 2:30 to stop talking.)

The next morning, for some reason, we had a bit of trouble getting the kids up and going. However, we did make roll call on time. (I think that was because all the adult were anxious for the promised coffee that was brewing and all ready by the time breakfast started at 8 am.)

As they let us in, there was a line of adults at the coffee urn.

Children should not be allowed to brew coffee, especially at camp. Technically, the cook hadn't lied. The coffee was ready. However, you should not be able to see the bottom of a styrofoam cup that is full of coffee. I think the adults took him aside and explained the finer points of morning and caffeine. The next day, the coffee was much darker and the parents were not nearly as whiney.

Only five days left until camp is over...

Camping - Part 1

“Dad! I got a red white and blue!”

“Great! Was it hard?”

“No way. Did you get yours yet?”

“I just got here. You saw me drive up.” I couldn't tell if the grin on his face from from excitement or laughing at teasing me.

I should explain. About six months ago, I made the mistake of taking him to a cub scout pack meeting where they announced the date for the summer camping trip. “Can we go? Can we? Can we?”

Half way home, he wore me down enough for me to answer, “We'll see if your mother can go.”

“I want you to go. We might never be able to go camping again. It would be a travesty and could leave permanent emotional scars if I can't go camping with you this summer.” Maybe he didn't say those exact words, but it had to be something close to that for me finally agree to spend 5 days away from a dry, comfortable bed and go camping with his troop.

This was the last time he'd be able to go camping as a cub scout, and he could stay the entire five days, so I made the parental promise that we would go and got the time off work.

A few days before the camp was to start, we hit a road bump. He had to do a swimming test at the very start of camp. And he was worried. This is the same kid that has done snuba, can dive deeper than the life guards at the pool and has no problem snorkeling for hours. And he was worried about swimming two laps in a pool and floating on his back.

That explained the excitement and pride as he cheered that he'd passed his swimming test for cub scout camp. Since work was an hour and a half away from the camp and check-in was at 5, our friend took him so that he would have a chance to settle in. He and his friends had immediately jumped in and passed their swimming test with flying colors.

“Are you going to do your test now?” There was a snicker.

“It's a little late.”

“Oh, you can take it now. Take your swim suit with you to sign in.” This was our friend that had graciously brought him. (She is no longer a good friend.)

“Yes. Go take it now, Dad. We'll come watch.”

“You guys go up to the campsite and get settled in. I'll come up after I get signed in. You guys need to get the camp fire going for smores.”

I swim three-four miles a week, so I was not worried about the test. I was actually looking forward to it, it'd been a long day and a long drive to campsite. The rest of the day was a refreshing swim, then a short hike up to the camp site, a comfortable cot and a peaceful night's sleep out under the stars. Yep, the next five days were going to be relaxing and full of father/son bonding and learning.

As I walked down to the pool, I heard a terrible rumor: The pool was not heated. Still, I wasn't worried... too much. It was out in the sun, surely it wouldn't be too cold.

Over the next few minutes, I learned several things.

• Some boy scouts do not have a sense of humor. I asked if it was ok to scream when I jumped in. The scout “monitoring” my swim looked at me blankly. I was referring to the cold water, he thought I meant in excitement.

• Even if the pool had been in the middle of the desert, it wouldn't have been warm because they obviously filled it every day from glacier water. I figured this out the instant my toes hit the water. I'm pretty sure my entire body was blue before my feet were wet...

• My son HAS a sense of humor. He knows I hate cold water and wanted to hear my scream.

Once in, there was nothing left to do but swim. We had to do at least one length of the pool doing a back stroke. I suffered through three lengths doing the adult version of the crawl. It was adult because every other stroke was followed by a four letter word. (Since my teeth were chattering so much, no one heard the curses. Even if they had, cub scouts is about learning new things...)

Then, it was time for the backstroke. I started and after a few strokes I heard the life guard yelling at me that I was NOT doing the backstroke. Now, I watched the Olympics, and while my form may not be in the same league as Michael Phelps, I'm pretty sure it's still recognizable as the back stroke. It was my turn to look blankly until he demonstrated that the “back stroke” was the breast stroke on your back.

“Did you pass?” My son asked when I got to camp.

“Yep.”

“Was it cold?” He and his friend giggled

“What do you think?”

I couldn't hear his answer because he was laughing so hard.

“Why didn't you warn me?”

That got him and his friend laughing even harder.

It wasn't until the next morning that I realized I'd left my swim suit in the changing room and it had disappeared. (Hypothermia has a marked affect on short term memory) We checked the lost and found and no one had turned it in. Unfortunately, the pool had a rule that you could only swim with a swim suit. Each time I heard the kids scream as they jumped in the cold water, I learned that I did not mind that rule. After all, cub scouts is also about following the rules.

Teasing

“I'm not going to retaliate.” I could tell from my son's tone that he'd been practicing this speech for a long time. He delivered the statement in a very calm voice and enunciated each word clearly.

“What does retaliate mean?” the little girl across the table asked. (This threw a bit of a wrench in his script.)

“It means when you tease me, I'm not going to tease you back. (We'd had the talk about how when a girl teases you, it means she likes you. He was horrified...)

“I didn't tease you.” There was a degree of self-righteous persecution that was hard to fake, even for a seven-year old girl.

“Yes you did.” He was not backing down.

“When?”

“You called me Dead John.”

“I didn't call you that! I was going to call your dad, John.” (apparently in the heat of not teasing. “Dad John, sound like dead John. Either that or she has some deep seated anger management issues.)

For a second, he was rather flustered because she was not following his memorized script... “Why?”

“Because he calls me Lisa and my name is not Lisa!” (She was completely correct there. But since I can not remember names, this made perfect sense to me.

That comment got the attention of the rest of the girls at the table. Suddenly, things did not look good for my son and me.

After a long year, my daughter and her friends were graduating from being Daisies to full-fledged Brownies. It had been a cool ceremony. My wife had been stressing over the ceremony since she was the Daisy leader. The bridging ceremony was a full-fledged family thing and my son and I were both told (I felt rather harshly and unnecessarily) to be on our best behavior. That was the reason my son was not going to “retaliate”. “Lisa” is Miss “the putz” Ann's daughter (Miss Ann apparently has unresolved jealously issues. Not more than a week after she saw all the attention my daughter got with her near fatal knee injury (see the previous blog), Miss Ann decided to break her own foot. All I heard was something about standing on a table to change a light bulb (I'm going with a freak-table dancing accident.). At her age, she should know bones are brittle and don't heal very fast. Being a concerned friend, I've made sure my daughter reminds her of that very often.). So, over the last several months, they've developed a relationship that can only be described as married. Their bickering (as described by my wife) is so cute.

So, this was why my son was carefully explaining that he was not going to retaliate. The problem was, he was using a combination of fourth grade and minecraft vocabulary and Lisa was listening with first grade vocabulary and chocolate cupcake sugar high. So, even though they were actually saying the same thing and agreeing, neither one realized and the “conversation” was quickly heading toward a nuclear meltdown on both parts (it was like they'd been married for years.)

To re-cap, my son and I were surrounded by a troop of girls. For the past hour, the leaders had carelessly been loading them up with sugar. (Maybe it hadn't been a full hour, but I've learned, when you are surrounded by women, it's always best to assume the worst.) We were both on our best behavior. And we'd just been sold out by Lisa...

“Her name is not Lisa,” one of the girls said.

“Yeah,” the other Daisies chimed in.

There was a feral glint in their seven-year old eyes. Being the mature adult, I knew it was time to diffuse the situation. Never the less, I asked, “How do you know?”

“Because,” they all said at the same time.

“Let me see your driver's license.”

“I don't drive!”

“Why not?”

“I'm only SEVEN!”

“What are you waiting for? You're going to need a driver's license to get a job.”

“I'm too young to work.”

“Then, how do I know your name is not Lisa?”

“My mom said it's not.”

I was going to follow up with her mom is not a very good source since she's a nurse, likes sunburn and dances on tables without proper safety equipment, but my son had taken the opportunity to escape and was playing with the other Daisey brothers. I followed his cue as I saw Miss Ann limping over to see what the problem was. After all, I was on my best behavior.

Pride

"I got this, dad," my son assured me.

"Are you sure?" Even though he was only ten- years old, there was no doubt in his voice.

"Trust me. I got it."

"Trust me" was apparently one of my mom's triggers when I was growing up. To hear her tell (that's old fashion talk from her part of the country. They also say warsh instead of wash.) every time I said that she either started calling 911 or got the bandages out. (I'd like to point out that never once did the fire department have to make it all the way to our house after I said, "Trust me. I know what I'm doing.")

"What are you going tell her?"

"Dad..." I'd imagine Tiger Woods used the exact same tone when his dad asked him how he was going to tee off in his first Master's tournament.

"Well?"

After a long, exasperated sigh (Which he gets from his mother.) he explained. "I'm going to tell her I called my friend and he wants to play at the park."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What time."

"5."

"What if she wants to go earlier?"

"I'll tell her they are busy until then. If she want to leave too early, then I'll tell her I forgot something in the house. When she comes in looking for me, I'll tell her I can't find my stuffed dog and she'll see it on the table and I'll say I didn't look there." (Every lie needs an element of truth. There is no doubt he would not look in the most obvious place.)

I was proud of him. The keys to a good lie were the details and keeping it simple.

Now, I just needed to get everyone to the park, get the food and drinks and some cover in case it rained. Operation "Surprise Mommy" was underway.

Everyone had a part to play. My son was the initial liar, my daughter who can not keep a secret was the truth-telling-liar and found out how much fun it is to trick mommy. She "let out" that Sunday was a surprise pizza party (She was positive that Chuckie Cheese would be the perfect venue cause that 1000 ticket card in the cyclone was wicked awesome. And she could tell mommy how to get it.) My son and I both shushed her and my wife pretended not to hear. Later she told me how my daughter spilled all the details:

“She told me we're going to have pizza at the park.”

“Oh?” Since my daughter's idea of keeping a secret was to only yell it once, I figured she'd blown her part.

“Don't worry. I won't say anything to Ann.”

“Oh?” I tried to keep the worry out my voice and sound irritated that the small surprise had been ruined.

“It's OK. It'll be fun to have just us.” (If I wasn't so proud of how well they'd taken to deceiving their own mother, I'd be worried about how they were both naturals at lying...)

I had the people invited, the food bought (And I even remember the cake) and a place if it rained. Now, I just needed to get everything there without my wife realizing something was up. Getting out of the house was easy, I just needed “to make a quick trip to Lowes” for some supplies. That would be good for at least an hour.

While my son and daughter kept my wife distracted, a few of us met at the park and got things together. After the third text message from my wife, I figured it was probably time to go get her. Especially since the last message said she was getting ready to head to the park. I called and said I was on my way home, I'd had a little accident at the store and would tell her about it when I got home, but everything was ok.

Once home, I limped in and explained a row of doors had fallen over and jammed my knee. It was fun watching her go from we're-late-and-I'm-pissed-off to concerned about how bad my knee was. She made sure I got to the car without further damaging my knee. All the while telling the kids, “Daddy really hurt his knee. Be careful.” To my daughter, she had a special message, “No, you can't jump on his back!” On the way to the park, she planned how to take me to the hospital for x-rays if it didn't stop hurting soon. She even found a close parking space so I wouldn't have to limp as far. (And for the record, no, I didn't really feel any guilt about tricking her.)

When we got to the pavilion and she saw all her friends and then noticed I wasn't limping any more, she had the nerve to call me a big, fat liar. At least my kids are learning from the best.

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Nurses...

“How's your knee?”

“Miss Ann's a nurse.”

“Did she say you are going to live?”

My daughter had bashed her knee pretty well on her bike. The only thing that helped was wrapping it in an ace bandage.

“Miss Ann doesn't make me straighten my leg when she wraps it. And she's a nurse.”

Miss Ann was a friend of the family, and being a nurse, the source of all medical knowledge to my impressionable daughter. She is also, in a word, a putz. She didn't go through four years of wrestling with a bad knee. Everyone knows that if you have to wrap your knee with an ace bandage, you stand up with your heal on a coke can and your toes on the floor. This gives the perfect natural bend to your knee. For the record, I did not tell my daughter to stand up on her bad knee. But after three days of ice and wrapping (plus the fact that I saw her running and jumping around as I walked through the door) I figured she was well on the road to recovery.

Before I go any further, I don't want you to think just because I called Miss Ann a putz, that I think all nurses are evil spawns of the devil. The fact that she, after (I'm guessing) years of medical training, still uses the phrase, “I don't get sunburned” (and she is not young enough to be naive either.). I know this because our dinner conversation started with my wife asking, “Guess where Miss Ann spent the day?”

“Hellooooo,” (My daughter has perfected condescending sarcasm with everyone now, not just me.) “She was at my school today.”

My daughter's grade had their Summer Olympics and apparently conned quite a few unsuspecting parents into attending. Since it's the end of the year, they get the kids outside to exercise, build self-esteem (from my limited understanding, some of the teachers participate too, so it has an element of humor as well) and thanks to Miss Ann, all the first graders learned two very important lessons.

They learned what the phrase famous last words really means. “I don't sunburn” actually means “and after years of medical training and life experiences, I still won't put on sunscreen because a trip to hospital for second degree burns sounds like a fun way to spend the afternoon.” (Yes, I've written blogs about my sunburns. Those were all beyond my control. I applied sunscreen like a responsible adult. My mistake was trusting my daughter to get my back. While technically, she is very good at applying sunscreen, she approaches it as a form of abstract art, which while she has made some masterpieces, there is an element of pain involved for the canvases.)

The first graders also learned what the color red really means. Even after a week, my daughter likes to point out how red she is. (Glowing, not the healthy beauty commercial kind of glow, would be a good description.)

So, my daughter was basing her knowledge of knee wrapping on Miss Ann's in-depth medical knowledge. “Miss Ann didn't know enough to wear sunscreen and has been sunburned for a week. She's a putz.” didn't seem like a parent-ally responsible answer to my daughter's assertion about how to properly wrap her fatally wounded knee. (See, I went off on another tangent that had no real relation to the general theme, and still brought it back for a thematically correct wrap up.)

“Miss Ann can wrap your knee like that tomorrow. It's a good idea to wrap it straight for a little while to give it a break.” After years of suffering through being “taken care of” by the medical industry, I've learned how to limit the damage they cause.

“You still wrap it better than mommy.”

“Helloooooo. I'm a professional knee wrapper.” (Yeah, I have no idea where she gets her sarcasm from...)

Fishing

“My father gave me this Pokemon when he died...” My daughter intoned with an Academy Award winning performance.

“Hey! I'm still alive!” Although, counting the most recent hook I'd just jabbed into my finger, I was dangerously close to losing consciousness due to blood loss.

“I know. We're playing.”

For some reason, I thought we were fishing. The three fishing poles and containers of worms lent credence to my thought. The complete lack of fish gave her the upper hand though.

It was a beautiful Sunday in May and we'd decided to brave the wilds of Western Pennsylvania in the never ending search for food. (Actually, I could tell by my wife's not-so-subtle muttering that an afternoon off might be healthy for everyone.) So, we hit WalMart for new poles since they'd both outgrown Sponge Bob. (You're going to have to buy my book on Kindle if you want that reference to make any sense.) Someone had the sense to make a purple fishing pole and reel, so my daughter could not have been happier. My son checked out the little tackle box that came with her rod and searched until he found another that had approximately double the amount she had and then he was ready.

“The last time we came here, I caught 17 fish,” he explained to his wide-eyed sister. (Her last fishing trip had been 3 years ago. Unfortunately, she was not as pokemon-aware then, so she was forced to actually watch her pole...) “With my new bobber (He just had to have a night bobber even though it was noon and the chances of me being able to handle them, sharp hooks, worms and no alcohol until sundown were nil.) I'll probably catch three times as many today.”

After a short drive, we got to the fishing hole (This sounds much more rustic than state-stocked-lake). It seems that there were quite a few mothers that needed a mental-health break, because there were few places left to set up. My daughter pointed to the perfect place and started walking.

“We can't fish there.” I said as I tried to redirect her.

“Why not?”

“There is someone sitting there already.”

“So?”

“They got here first and we need to give them room.”

I could see the thought process as she checked out the situation. There was an easy ten feet between the two people sitting at the bank. In a pinch, she could squeeze down to 2 square feet. He brother, with a little effort and a bat, could be squashed down to 3 square feet, leaving 5 for me. There was no sane reason we couldn't fit in there.

“But...”

“There's a secret place that no one else knows about.” By now, I had the three rods in one hand, the three chairs in the other. I'd also managed to get my tackle box and the two bags of refreshments in the other other hand.

“Secret?” she perked up.

“Yes, follow me.”

Both of them struggled along with their own individual tackle boxes as we made our way down the edge of the lake. The “secret” spot was easy to find. It was the first place that had enough room for my son and daughter to “cast” without risking charges of involuntary man-slaughter. (Since I was a “willing” participant to this, my death would more than likely be classified as suicide or at the most, negligent homicide and they wouldn't get any jail time.)

“I'm cold.” This came out precisely 2.3 seconds after I'd sat down. (For the previous twenty minutes, I'd been setting up their poles, baiting their hooks, casting out, setting up their little chairs, getting them a healthy snack (Pringles and Gatorade).) I looked and they were both huddled up in their chairs as a nice arctic May breeze blew through. I left very clear instructions about hooks and sitting and not moving until I got back. Sure that my two angels would be fine for the minute or two it would take to get back to my car for the jackets, coats and parkas, I got up.

“I got a bite!” my daughter called right as I hit the 30 foot mark. I turned and she was frantically reeling in her purple rod. My son was cheering her on. Any thought of getting the jackets vanished. If there was a fish, I was not going to miss the chance of watching them get it off the hook. If there wasn't as fish, then my daughter was going to cast out and that would be funnier than watching them get the fish off the hook.

Surprisingly, there was nothing on the hook. “That darn fish! He stole my bait!”

“Get a worm.” That was my one rule. I'd put the worm on the hook, but they had to at least get the worm.

“Daddy, can we not use this worm?”

“Why not?”

“He looks scared and he's cute.”

She picked another worm and fixed it with a very determined look. “You better get a fish, or else.” (What or else is worse than getting a hook pushed through you (I know from very person experience) thrown in the water without a life jacket and being reeled in every 23 seconds only to have it repeated, I'm not sure, but from her tone of voice, she had some definite ideas.)

We ended the day with each of them happy. My daughter caught the most fish, my son caught the biggest. They had an epic pokemon battle. I lost all my bobbers. Oh, and we have a new pet, Bob the worm. Once he knew he was safe, I have to admit, he didn't look as scared.

Laser Tag

“You would shoot your own daughter? Who you love?” (Yes, she's still working on her grammar, but not her guilt trips.)

This was after she'd told me how bad she felt about shooting me multiple times and I admitted I might have shot her once or twice.

We were playing laser tag, as a family. I didn't know there was a dress code to laser tag. Everyone else was dressed in black. When they turned on the black-lights, I could see the advantage this would have. My daughter, of course, was dressed in purple sweats. Unfortunately, her mother had given no laser tag forethought when she bought them. There were white stripes down her legs, which under the black-lights almost hurt my eyes. Since it was “cold” out, she was also forced to wear a jacket (The laser tag place was right next to the indoor water park we'd spent the day at. My daughter was all set to stay in her swim suit. Since we were going back after wards, I thought this made sense too. Even though it was 40 degrees out, it was a short walk and my daughter and I were sure it would be warm once we were inside.) Again, my wife showed no thought to her daughter's safety and had her in a white jacket.

The game started with a small emergency...

“Daddy! They're attacking our base! Come on!”

“What's our plan?” I asked after I'd recovered from her blinding glow.

“We attack! Come on!” There was a level of deadly seriousness to her voice that made me feel sorry for her future boyfriends.

“Hold on. We need a plan.”

We were eye to eye as I crouched down. “You follow me. We'll shoot them.”

The simplicity of her plan had merits. It was the details that needed worked out, though. However, a seven-year old that has tasted her first blood of combat is not interested in pesky details. She turned and charged with a suicidal ferocity that would have left General Custer speechless with envy.

The next few minutes were... describable. Imagine a blinding glow bouncing around the randomly placed pylons, stopping for a brief second before jumping to the next. 4 red bars clearly standing out among the white (cause the red was where the other team shot at). At every pylon, there was a shout of “AHA!” followed by “Darn!!!” then off to the next pylon. (Unlike her mother, my daughter listened to the pre-slaughter briefing about no swearing. (My wife was irritated after wards about her pathetically low score. The conversation went something like this...

“Did we get points for shooting the base?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“How much?”

“100 points.”

“I don't think so. I kept shooting the base and I didn't get any points. You must be wrong.”

“Did the base shoot you?”

“The base shot back?”

"Yes.”

“Why didn't they say that?”

“They did. Every time it shot you, you lost 1000 points.”

“They really should have told us that!”

“They did.”

“When?”

“Right before we went in.”

“Well I stopped listening. They should have said it sooner.”

Now I know why the guy stressed no swearing several times...))

The “AHA!” was when she had a victim in her sites. The “Darn!!!” was when her vest went off because she was shot. Every six seconds, the vest would reactivate, just enough time for her to get in position for her next kill.

Now, you might be feeling resentment towards her mother for sending her only daughter into such a dangerous situation dressed so poorly. While I'm sure the blinding glow didn't help, it wasn't what was causing the Darns!!! No, there was a small technical issue. She snuck around each corner in a perfect assassin crouch. She carefully picked each target and squinted as she aimed for the kill shot. Then shot herself because she was holding her gun backwards.

I meant to help her, I really did, I was laughing too hard. And for the record, I did shoot her in the back. And no, I didn't feel a whole lot of guilt about it. Especially after she admitted shooting me back.

Punctuation

Six-year olds do not understand the value of punctuation. I learned this the other day at dek hockey practice. (Yes, the definition of insanity is not learning from your mistakes. After two seasons of coaching, I'm positive I've done enough penance to make up for the few sins I've committed in my life. But for some reason, I didn't say no when my kids asked if I was going to coach again this season.)

 

The season started interestingly. One evening, I asked my son if he would like to help me plan out a couple of simple plays. He instantly perked up and grabbed several dozen pieces of paper. “We're only going to come up to two or three,” I cautioned while he looked for a pencil.

 

“I know. I'll get more paper for the next play.”

 

“Bud, the plays have to be simple. Remember, the kids on the team are going to be between 6 and 10.”

 

He ran off several names of kids he'd played with previous seasons and asked if they were going to be on the team.

 

“I don't know. I won't have the roster until the first day of practice.” (I'm pretty sure professional football coaches at least have a hint of their players a week or two before their season starts. It seems that the standards for volunteer coaches of dek hockey in Pennsylvania are far below par. Don't even get me started about my ordeals with salary caps.)

 

A few minutes later, my son came back with his first plan. After his third trip of carrying the papers, he had it all together.

 

“I said the play needs to be simple.”

 

“It is. See, we get the ball then they shoot it (He pointed to the first X). Then I pass it here. (He showed me the second X.) Then the winger runs over here. (This was represented by a Y.) Their defense (These were A and B) think (Now, I vaguely remember what he was like at 6 and playing dek hockey. It was his first season. And I'm positive that if you asked his coach how he played, the word “think” would not be one of the descriptive words.)

 

We were half-way through the Cyrillic alphabet and I was lost and we were only halfway through his play. “Bud, this might be too complex for some of the younger players. (And the coaches.) How about something like this. I call it around the world.”

 

My drawing only had three Xs. I could tell he was not impressed by the way he looked for the supporting glossary.

 

“It might work. How about we try my play first?”

 

“Let's see who's on the team first, then I'll decide.”

 

So this brings us to our first practice of the season. I have to admit, my team is easy to describe. Short pretty much sums it up. What they lacked for in size, they made up for with an uncanny knack of hitting my shins with their sticks. Even with my old sports injury (It was NOT gout. I have the note from my doctor.) I was running the drills with them. Our first drill was getting the ball out of our zone.

 

“Ok guys, listen up.” This is usually a good way to start a drill.

 

I want the defense men to shoot the ball up the boards as hard as they can,.” I pointed where I wanted them to shoot. This is also a good way to continue the drill. Also, notice the well placed comma.

 

This is where the punctuation comes in. The comma clearly states that there is more coming. It does NOT in any way imply that the ball, carelessly left on the dek, should be shot as hard as you can in such a way, that while the coach's hand is out, your follow through ends up crushing most of the bones in his thumb. At least, when I was in school it didn't mean that.

 

Laying on the dek and whimpering would not be considered a good way to continue the drill. But, at least I now have two sports related injuries.