Peanut Butter and Mayonnaise

Really good ideas

2011-11-06T19:28:00.000-08:00

“I have an idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her little shoulders trembled a bit as she nodded.

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

“I thought it was a good idea.”

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

Just call me Herb

2011-11-06T11:32:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Coach, where am I going to play?”

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

“Which side is left?”

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

“Which hand do I write with?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Dad?”

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

Five kids said yes, a little unsure.

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

“Yes.”

“Louder, I can't hear you!”

“YES, COACH!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hand signals

2011-08-07T15:24:00.001-07:00

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

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

“Good job, dude. Up?”

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

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

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

“Daddy, what if we sit on a crab?”

“We won't.”

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

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

That got a solemn nod.

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

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

“No, that's a piece of seaweed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cubs

2011-08-07T07:18:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

“Look daddy, I'm dancing.”

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

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

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

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

“Where is it?”

“I don't know.”

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

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

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

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

“Under the water.” I probably muttered.

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

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

Stripes

2011-08-03T08:52:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleeping

2011-08-02T16:07:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, to recap:

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you have fun?”

“Yeah, but I didn't win.”

“Want to try again next week.”

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

Another recap:

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

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

Rocks

2011-07-17T09:28:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or that word.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alan's a Bastard

2011-05-28T08:27:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A screw driver then.”

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

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

“We'll name it after you.”

And Alan's soul was lost.

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

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

“We are not impressed.”

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

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

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

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

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

Alan basked in the admiration.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Old Sport's Injury

2010-12-12T15:30:00.000-08:00

When I was in college, my best friend and I would play racketball on the weekends. Neither of us was great, but we didn't let that impede how hard we played. I remember one weekend. It might have been the after-effects of alchohol, or maybe too much studying (yeah... I don't buy that either, but had to include it to protect what little reputation I have left. Also, when I become famouse and historians review these articles, lines like that may cast enough doubt on what I actually did...) but we were showing off our “kill shots” (the serves that cannot be returned. They require a great deal of skill, timing and power. Or in our case, luck) (yeah, there were girls working out in the gym too, but I highly doubt that crossed our mind.)

We both went for the racketball at the same time. I hit the ball and it was a beautiful shot. My best friend hit my thumb and it was also a beautiful shot.

That's the only sports injury that I can really remember. It's not even a good one, because it doesn't bother me on cold and rainy days.

I started thinking about this recently when I woke up one morning and my big toe was having issues. After work, those issues had grown into a full blow “I'm-never-walking-again-so-just-put-me-out-of-misery” tenderness...

This all happened at Thanksgiving and we were travelling to both sets of grandparents. That meant at least five hundred years of combined medical experience. The only problem when you combine that many years of folk-lorish medical knowledge amoung 5 people (my parents, my wife's parents and my wife's grandmother) the results are always elderly afflications. The suggestions as to the cause of my limp ranged from:

“Fallen arches.”

“Eh? What did he say?”

“You need to wear a truss.”

“Arthritis?”

“Eh? What did he say?”

“What happened to your foot?”

“I can't find my dentures.”

However, it was my own mother that showed a complete lack of compassion in a single email. She had the nerve to suggest it was gout. When I looked it up, I saw “it affects middle-aged men”. At 44, I am NOT middle-aged. Oh, there are days I feel old, but not middle-aged. The side effect to the email was my wife was off on a new witch hunt. Not only does middle-age cause gout, but apparently there's something about diet being important. By the day after Thanksgiving, I had a new diet planned out for me. (This is another affliction of middle-age, planned diet. The next step to old-age... one of those pill boxes with each day of the week)

Face with the horror of bran three times a day, I took my health into my own hands and went to the doctor and got x-rays. It turns out I was right and I'm not middle-aged. It was a stress facture. I guess, when I played dek hockey with my son's team, in addition to the bruised ankles and ego, I fracture my toe.

So, the past two weeks, my wife and I have been constantly warning our children and dogs not to jump on me and watch my toe. “Daddy hurt his toe,” is the common refrain.

“What did you do to your toe?” My daughter asked, concern lacing her voice.

“Put my cane back.”

“But it's my horsey.”

“No, I need it to walk.”

“Why?”

“I hurt my toe.”

“What did you do to your toe?”

“Put my cane back!”

“But it's my horsey.”...

What does this have to do with sport's injuries? Well, now I finally have an excuse for disappointing my children as well as people that irritate me. While, technically, it's not an “old sports injury”, my toe is old, dek hockey is both a sport and form of medieval combat, and a stress fracture is an injury.

When ever I need an excuse or that day after the huge snow storm, I can now cite my “old sports injury.”

Practice

2010-11-22T11:12:00.000-08:00

This spring, I got a terrifying email. “Dek Hockey practice”.

Oh, the email started off innocently enough (I'm paraphrasing. Reading the email still gives me panic attacks). “Parents, the kids have had a great season, since playoffs start on Saturday, we're going to have a practice Friday night to show them positions.

Let me explain dek hockey, if you are not familiar with the sport. It's hockey, with a ball. They play it in an enclosed area, like hockey, but instead of ice and skates, they have a ball, shoes, shin pads, elbow pads, gloves and a helmet. You may think it's enclosed to keep the ball in. That might be true, but the real reason is; when you give a group of 6-9 year olds wooden sticks, federal saftey laws require that they be separated from the public.

The email went on to lie that the parents would only stand in the positions. I'd just gotten over a severe case of a mutated Ebola-SARS-Swine-Avian flu attack. (I'm pretty sure that if I hadn't fought off this mutated virus, it would have swept across the world with devasting results.) I figured I owed it to my son to show up and support him. After all, it was only to show positions, help them figure out where they needed to play...

The first drill sounded simple. When the ball goes into the corner, the kids are supposed to pass it up the boards. (the main point being not to pass it in front of their goal...) The coach passed the ball into the corner, a kid ran after it, passed it up the boards to a waiting teammate. “Fathers you pressure the kids.”...

There are several things wrong with that sentence. The kids were armed with deadly weapons. We were outnumbered. The kids were armed with deadly weapons.

After several hundred trips into the corner, almost as many bruises on my shins and a growing desire to whack one of the little monsters, they called a break. Fathers against sons, in a game that would go down in history as one of the bloodiest battles. Up and down the dek we raced, sticks flying, parents crippled and kids laughing evily.

I've read enough medical journals (ok, my wife has nagged me enough about junk food and exercise) to know that seeing dark spots are not a good thing. When I started seeing double, it was time to sit down. (Ok, it wasn't so much a decision.) Two heart attacks and a stroke later, the “practice” was over and I was allowed to seek propper medical treatment.

This fall, when the email came, my wife finally found me, curled up in a ball whimpering.

“What's wrong?” I think there might have been some worry in her voice.

“Dek hockey practice...”

To my horror, my son was right behind his mother and sent up a cheer. My only hope of ignoring the email and explaining to my son how it hadn't been delivered was gone.

However... this time would be different. I was healthy, the Ebola-SARS-Swine-Avian flu had been completely wiped out.

“I'm going to beat you so bad.” my son started off with the trash talking on the way to the practice.

“Oh yeah? I'm going to bury you so deep they won't be able to dig you out.” I countered.

“That was good!” (He needs a little work on the whole trash talking.) “We'll, after we get home, I'm going to throw away your keys!” (Again, we're going to have to work on this.)

How did I do this time? I made it through the practice on my feet. I even managed to play with a broken ankle. (I found out that the official dek hockey ball, while about the size of a baseball, is made out of rocks and probably pleutonium and spikes pop out right before it hits your ankle.) Did the parents win? Well, the coach was the kids' goalie and the team's regular goalie was ours. While the adults played their best, our goalie pretty much summed it up when he wanted the parents to shoot on him.

However, I did win the face off against my son at least once. I think that was because I went for the ball and he went for my ankles. So, while techinically I won the face off, he wasn't the one limping. “Old age and experience will beat youth and skill” might be true. But when youth comes armed with hockey sticks and a thirst for blood, old age doesn't stand a chance.

Getting There and Back

2010-11-22T07:21:00.000-08:00

“Can you print off directions to the airport?” I'm pretty much positive those were my wife's last words as she wandered off to bed. We were leaving for the airport at 4:00 am for a 6:45 am flight. The minivan was already packed with the suitcases. (the kids each had their own, plus one suitcase of food ((since we were going to the uncivilized U.S. Virgin Island of St. Croix, we had to take along enough food to last us a week in the wilds...)) a suitcase of toys ((As everyone knows, toys only exist in the U.S. Propper)) and our snorkeling gear. Our suitcase was still being filled with whatever had been forgotten.)

Before I fell asleep, I printed the plane tickets, hotel information and a map to the airport. It wasn't until we'd started off that I realized “Can you print off directions to the airport.” actually meant “and be sure to include the directions I followed a long time ago that included going down, I think, Interstate 70.... or maybe it was 79... but in any case I'm positive it wasn't the way you printed.”

Even with my bad directions, we made it to airport (at 4 am, there isn't a whole of traffic on the road and driving on two wheels around the corners tends to open the lane in front of you...)

Once we'd made it through security, we were off to the races. My wife asked which gate we needed to go to. When I traveled for work, gates actually had a meaning. They were a nice stroll between flights where you could stop for a beer or a coffee (depending on the time of day and how rough the previous flight was.). Sometime over the past several years, that has changed. I now know all airports only have two actual gates. The one you just arrived at and the one you have to drag two tired kids and their bags to. The distance between them is exactly inverse to how tired the kids are and how soon the next flight leaves.

At San Juan, my wife had the nerve to ask where the gate was. Our connecting flight left at 12:15, our flight, running a wee bit late, arrived at 12:15. The kids had been up since 3:30 a.m. And hadn't taken a nap. According to my calculations, the gate for our connecting flight was located, roughly, in Alaska.

To my surprise, we did make the connecting flight and arrived in St. Croix to start our vacation in the sun.

After a week of “island time” there's a slight chance we cut it a wee bit close getting back to the airport. The U.S. Air person that checked us in was very clear (I think if she hadn't spent 15 minutes stressing how late we were and how we would probably not make it through customs, we wouldn't have had to run so fast.) that the plane was on the verge of leaving and customs alone would take a minimum of two weeks.

So, we each grabbed a kid and bags and ran. After a harrowing 10 minute race through customs, security, another bag check, a game of scrabble (just checking to see if you are paying attention) we made it to the gate on St. Croix. My wife and kids were cleared and I got the dreaded “Do you mind if we check your carry on?” from the security guard. I waved a tearful goodbye to my family and wondered if I could somehow make another flight, this week. After my carry on was swabbed (it didn't even get a drink first.) I raced to the gate (ok. It was just around the corner and my family was always visible. But it sounded much more dramatic.)

“Our plane hasn't arrived yet.” You'd be surprised at just how clearly the swear words came out as my wife greeted me.

In San Juan, my wife asked which gate again. I muttered “Alaska,” and hoisted my daughter up on my shoulders. We arrived at gate 4 and had to get to gate 8. A mere 4 gates, you might be thinking, but you forget the letter. We arrived in concourse D and had to get to gate Epsilon. (I'm pretty sure we wandered through the entire Russian alphabet before we hit Latin.)

After quite a few hours, several hundred miles of airport terminals, we made it back to Pennsylvania and to the minivan. In all, there were only a few melt-downs, but the kids ignored them. The only question as I left the airport was, “Why was everyone driving on the wrong side of the road?”

Pot Holes

2010-11-10T05:33:00.000-08:00

“Drive faster!” My daughter called from the back of the jeep.

“I can't. Your mommy will scream again.”

“Drive faster!!” both kids called from the back of the jeep.

We'd spent the afternoon in St. Croix playing in the surf at Cayne Bay. The hurricane had recently passed and left, in my son's words, “some sweet waves, baby.” Those were the waves we saw as we pulled up to the beach. The plan was to snorkel and do a little body surfing. Keep in mind, body surfing for my eight-year old son and five-year old daughter was mainly laying right where the last wave crashed and rolling in the surf. At least that was what they loved the day before when the waves “gently” lapped along the shore.

I took a look at the surf and realized the likelyhood of snorkeling today was nil. Oh, the kids would have both been up for it. However, four to five foot waves crashing where we'd be snorkeling was more than I was ready for.

So, we went to check out the surf. When the first wave hit my daughter and carried her 20 feet back up the shore, then dragged her back out to the open ocean, with only my shins finally stopping her, I thought it was a little rough... “You ok?” I asked, hoping to fix any problems before her mother came to rescue her.

For a second, the concusion blurred her eyes, then the dialation went away. “More!” and she was off to fight the waves with her brother.

I've learned a couple of things on this vacation. When it comes to water, both of my kids are insane. (My son and I snorkel together and my wife and daughter snorkel together. It is a sexist thing. Snorkeling is the perfect water sport for my daughter. She can look at things, constantly move and, most importantly, constantly talk. When my son and I snorkel near them, we can hear their constant chatter. “Is that a parrot fish? I see a parrot fish. Yes, mom, it's a parrot fish. No, that's a parrot fish...” (She has a thing for parrot fish))

I also learned that when you put dishwashing soap (the kind used in the sink, NOT the kind used in a dishwasher) in a dishwasher, there's a limit to how much you should put in. Otherwise, you get a kitchen full of bubbles. (In order to protect her reputation, I'm not going to say who actually did that. However, my son, daughter and I all had a good laugh.)

I've also learned that there is good reason for driving on the wrong side of the road here. Since this is an island, space is at a premium and they've saved quite a bit on the roads. Most of the roads are wide enough for two cars to pass, as long there are only two coats of paint. When I picked up the rental jeep, I was surprised to get the only car in the world that had more dents than my wife's minivan. (By the time we got done with the inspection, you couldn't actually see the car). I figured the dents and stuff were from off-roading. Now I know better. The way you drive here is simple. If the brush on the left-hand side of the road is not smacking the car, you are too far over. (My wife would be a natural driving here. She also uses the drive by touch philosphy.)

I also learned that when you go around a corner on the island (I could add sharp, blind, pot-hole filled, overgrown and flooded corner, but that's every corner here.) and your wife is in the passenger seat, and she's tired and not paying attention and she looks up at the wrong second AND she sees a car right in front of her on the “wrong” side of the road, she will scream.

“I can't drive any faster we'll hit the potholes.”

“Drive faster and you'll fly over them.” In the rear view mirror, I saw my daughter's hand gacefully float as she demonstrated the physics of her version of driving.

“But mommy will scream again.” I pointed out.

“YAY!” At least the kids have adapted to island life...

Vacation

2010-11-10T05:18:00.000-08:00

It's been so long since we've gone on a real vacation, that I had some serious concerns as we began our trip. After this summer, we'd (my wife) decided that taking the kids south would be a good idea as winter threatened our western Pennsylvania area. We (my wife) spent countless hour searching for the best prices, snorkeling and family friendly place. We (my wife) carefully planned the itinerary and booked the flights.

After all this preparation, we were definitely ready for the trip to St. Croix. It was still in the United States, so we didn't need to find our passports. As we were driving the rental jeep, my wife pointed to the price for gas and mentioned it wasn't that expensive. I agreed and added as long as it wasn't in liters. This prompted a rather long lecture that gas prices were regulated. (being a wise husband, I just nodded and did not point out that I was pretty sure which side of the road you drove on was regulated too. Nor did I add that in Canada, which is much closer to us, they drive on the correct side of the road but use liters. In case you are wondering, there are 3.8 liters in a gallon. I learned this in public restrooms where they proudly proclaim how much water is used in every flush. That is the only place I've ever seen the metric system used. You can draw your own conclusion about how effective it is.)

But I digress...

My wife and I had both been working too many hours lately. My daughter's comment to my wife that daddy always works on vacation pretty much proved that point. So, I was concerned, would I be able to put aside work? How would I know when the vacation started? Before kids, when we went on scuba diving trips, the vacation started on the first dive. True, were were going to be snorkeling, but I'm pretty sure taking a five-year on her first real snorkeling trip is not considered a vacation for the parent responsible.

Well, this morning when I got up, I knew vacation had started. My daughter was sitting on the ceramic floor, a bowl of cereal on one side, a cup of yogurt on the other. She'd perched herself on a pillow and was watching a cartoon while patiently waiting for the rest of her clan to get moving. And, she was all ready for the water. She had her pink swimming goggles on. And nothing else. That sight, her blonde hair sticking out from the goggle straps (My daughter, if you haven't gathered from the other articles is rather un-subtle. It doesn't matter how tight the goggles were, she wanted them on, and they were going to go on.) food within easy reach and her general contentment with the world told me we were on island time.

“Wow...” I never knew how awe sounded under water until my son saw his first blue tang. It'd taken a few tries to get used to the salt water and surf. Once that was sorted out, we followed the directions the dive shop gave us to the reef. (“Out there...”) “Did you see that?” my son asked as we treaded water. (He treaded, I stood with the tip of a flipper on the bottom and kept his head above the waves.)

“Ready to see more?”

“You bet!” and he was off.

The next twenty minutes were exclamations and pointing as different colored fish swam under us. Afterwards, we continued a tradition that my wife and I had done since we started scuba diving. We went through the fish identification and found what we'd seen and wrote the date next to each fish.

Some Assembly Required

2010-09-20T21:28:00.000-07:00

“They say it should only take a day to put together.” Those were my wife's words after she returned with the bunk bed.

There are two things wrong with that sentence. Who are they? And what kind of sadistic engineer would design something that would take an entire day to assemble? What kind of mother would torture her eight year-old son with a brand new bunk bed when there was no chance it would be ready that day? (I have a feeling this will weigh heavily against her when it comes time to put her into a home. I'll already be in a home from sled riding, bunk bed building and falling down stairs.)

So, three large boxes were in the back of her minivan. My son had somehow cracked the code, “Your son's bunk b. is here.” After working to three AM, all I wanted was coffee. Somehow, my mumbled growl was interpreted as, “Of course, dear, I'll happily lug all three boxes up two flights of stairs and get started right away putting it together. Why don't you leave our two spawn here to help me while you go shopping in peace.”

“I want a bunk bed for MY birthday.” My daughter, almost-five-years-old-going-on-30, has no business being able to pack that much persecuted guilt in such a short sentence. Her lower lip quivered with just the right amount of emotion. A tear even threatened to slide down her cheek.

Luckily, I'd had enough coffee so my answer was censured into another mumble.

“Is the box heavy, dad?” My son asked that as I inched the first box up the steps.

“No, my back usually makes these popping sounds.”

Apparently, my sarcasm was lost on him as he suggested I use my legs more.

Once I had the two main boxes up to his room, my two helpers were all ready for me to start. We did the normal safety lecture. “No touching the sharp tools. Be careful with the heavy pieces. If you don't understand the word(s) daddy yells, don't tell mom. If you do understand the word(s) daddy yells, make sure she knows you didn't learned them from me.” I got two sets of grave nods that they understood the rules and would obey them to the best of their ability, or until they forgot, whichever came first.

Now, at five and eight, my kids have normal attention spans (3 minutes, unless a cartoon character is being splattered, then its measured in hours.), so I figured my next step would buy me at least another cup of coffee. “Let's find the directions.” Anything that required 2 boxes that could easily hold a small car, had to require a serious collection of tools. The directions were quickly located. I knew it was going to be a long afternoon when I saw that the directions were only a few pages long. My daughter proudly displayed the bags of bolts and screws.

“Now we're cooking,” my son rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist.

“I still need to get all the tools together to build it,” I reminded him. I might even be able to squeeze a nap out of that. There was space under the workbench and a box of nails that would work as a pillow in a pinch.

“These tools?” My son held up one of the packages. There was wrench and two allen wrenches.

“I'm sure we'll need more tools.” All right, there might have been a hint of desperation in my voice.

“No. It says this is all you need,” he said as he read the directions spread out on the floor in front of him.

When I was growing up, there were certain things you count on public education for. (Besides ending a sentence with a preposition.) We didn't know geography, math was iffy and I'm pretty sure reading was frowned upon. Starting on Monday, I am putting him in a private school.

In fairly short order, including three words they had better never use around their mother (For the direction makers out there, when it's vitally important which side goes down on the first piece, but that vitality won't be apparent until several hundred bolts later, you might want to STRESS that.) the bunk bed was together and in place. One hernia later, his mattress (His mother had decided that he needed a special mattress a year or two ago. I think it was made with lead.) was up on the top bunk and all was ready.

He and his sister made several trips up and down the ladder and pronounced my work satisfactory. (In case you are wondering, I was fully aware that the one day to put together comment was an outright manipulation. But it makes her feel like she's helping...)

That night, we read his stories in the lower bunk. The interesting thing is, after lugging the boxes up to his room and lifting his mattress up, my back was in the perfect permanent curve to get into the top bunk, I just didn't think I'd be able to move once there. After finishing his books, my son, the fruit of my loins, climbed to his top bunk, gather his pillows and blankets and dropped them over the edge. While I watched, he climbed back down.

“What are you doing?” I finally asked as he picked up his pillows.

“I'm going to sleep down here.”

“You're not going to sleep on the top bunk?”

“I'll sleep on the top bunk on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

While I'm pretty sure public education gave me some ideas on how to drive my parents crazy, I know they didn't teach Rationalizing Logic until I was at least in junior high school.

Amnesia

2010-07-25T12:59:00.001-07:00

My daughter is crazy.

I guess I should qualify that statement: Either my daughter is crazy or I've completely blanked out her baby-hood and my wife is way more relaxed that I ever suspected.

This realization came at the end our vacation. We'd spent the day at a beach on Lake Erie (yeah, I was surprised too.) snorkeling and playing in the sand. This summer, both our kids became amphibians. My daughter, never to let her brother out-do her has been trying to keep up with him. This has caused no end of gasps and frantic dives across the neighborhood pool as she simply dropped out of the Wal-Mart inner tube. She has her own swimming stroke, which can best be described as a cross between a graceful mermaid gliding effortlessly through the water, a semi-truck hell bent on reaching it's destination and an octopus that has suddenly realized it has 6 more arms than normal creatures and hasn't quite figured out how to make them all work together. Oh yeah, and she spirals while she swims.

We'd tried all week to find a good place to snorkel. My son kept asking and even when the only place we could find was the normal Ohio Lake Erie murky water, he loved it. My daughter proclaimed, “I ta tish!” (I saw fish, if you don't speak snorkel.) She also saw a mermaid, forever silencing all the anti-mermaid critics. (The fact that we were standing in three feet of water and I couldn't see my hand as soon as it was under water shows just how deep the anti-mermaid conspiracy runs)

Well the last day of vacation, we found The Beach. The water was crystal clear, for Ohio. Visibility was an astounding ten feet. Both kids finally really Saw. Our quick stop to check it out turned into several hours and my son dragging first me then my wife out to swim over the coral reef. (To a seven year-old on his first real snorkel, a bunch of seaweed (or whatever it's called in Lake Erie) looks like a coral reef.)

We finally pried them out of the water and de-sanded them and went for a late lunch. As we were eating, my son listed his favorite things from the vacation in order. Between bites, my daughter chimed in also. This isn't what convinced me she is crazy, also though it does support the conclusion. (When she is eating, she is single-minded, just check out the last article.) No, what convinced me was when I checked to see if she was listening. Her consistent “Yes,” to every question lead me to believe she was already asleep and it just hadn't reached her mouth yet. So, I added, “I really liked when we went sky diving.”

The got a little pause as she looked up with a disgusted look on her little face. “We didn't go skydiving this week, daddy,” she said in her daddy-you-are-a-moron-but-I-still-love-you-and-hope-I-didn’t-get-too-many-of-your-genes tone of voice.

Well, at least she was still awake. Then she patted my arm and said, “When I was a baby, we went sky diving. You and me.”

“We did?”

A simple nod put the matter to rest in her eyes.

“What else did we do when you were a baby, that I've forgotten?” (Trust me, I can spin a pretty good yarn, but nothing compared to what she pulled out next...)

“We climbed the Rocky Mountains.”

“Oh?”

Another nod as she dipped a french fry in her ketchup, also known as dippy. (My daughter is the queen of dipping. It doesn't matter what she's eating as long as there's something to dip it in.)

Then she pointed to the tartar sauce for her fish and explained, “This is called 'pretend sand' in Africa.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, not all dippy is pretend sand in Africa.”

“What's not?”

“Ketchup.”

“What about salsa?”

“That's pretend sand.”

“French fries?”

“Gorsh.” The amazing thing, she didn't even pause...

“How about fish?”

“Neenee.”

“And how do you know African?”

Another pat on my shoulder, between bites of gorsh. “When I was a baby, we went there, you and me, daddy.”

Everyone has warned me that when my daughter mutates into a teenager, I am in trouble. They go on and on about how I won't understand her or be able to talk to her. Until this past week, I'd put their comments down to exaggeration. Now, I'm not so sure. On the one hand, she's already speaking a language I don't. On the other hand, apparently I'm a pretty cool dad cause I've already taken her skydiving and mountain climbing and to Africa. (I was afraid to ask why we went to Africa with my wife sitting. After all, she's obviously laid enough back to let me do all these things, but I don't want to push the limits until I've been fully briefed by my daughter on all our antics.)

Try it, you'll like it.

2010-04-03T17:12:00.000-07:00

“You have to try it before you say you don't like it!” The warning was delivered rather sternly, and I have to admit there was a definite undertone of disappointment.

I'm sure many parents have issued that warning around the dinner table or out at a restaurant. There is an age range that is naturally hesitant to experiment with new foods and flavors. And while we know that if they will only try the flavor, they will be surprised at how much they like it. It's just getting them over that initial hump.

My son has been a picky eat for as long as I've known him, which I guess would be his whole life. I don't know how many meals have started and begun and had that phrase thrown in many times. It's usually seasoned with additions like, you liked it when we had it last week. Or, it's just like something else he likes. You'd think after 7 years, I'd have learned, but hope springs eternal in the blonde. (Or maybe it's parental senility.)

My daughter, on the other hand, will try anything once. Twice if enough people run away in disgust.

Back when we lived in Virginia, my son and I had two dining traditions. Every Friday we had lunch at Wendy's. Before he had teeth, we bonded while he gummed broken up french fries. With teeth, we graduated to chicken strips. (He didn't like the coating, so I peeled the fried layer off while he stole my french fries. He also flirted with the old ladies that came in. Every now and then I'd look up to see how many of my fries he'd stolen. When I glanced up, a silver-haired lady across the room was waving and called out, “Did you teach him that?” I looked at the fruit of my loins and wondered just what he'd done. After all, many was the night we'd both have a bottle while watching South Park. He met my concerned look with a smile and innocent eyes. My confused look in answer to her question prompted her to explain, “He's been making eyes at me since he sat down.” Yes, he's a chip off the old block. He's even found the elusive reset button on a girl. At a street fair, he was dancing with a girl a few years older than him. She apparently finished dancing before him. Whatever distracted her, she stopped and turned around. My son, either brave or foolish, used both index fingers and poked her in the sides. While all the men in our group winced at the expected slap, his target turned around and started dancing again.)

The other tradition was Mac and Cheese, koolade and a pickle. There was something about that on a hard weekend that was perfect. We'd sit at the kitchen table, each with our bowl and plan our adventures for the rest of the day,

This past weekend, I figured that pickles might be a little too tame for my daughter, but they were within easy reach when she wanted lunch. She gave me a doubtful look when she saw the dill pickle next to her strawberry sandwich. “You have to try it before you say you don't like it.” Five minutes later she stood before me with her empty plate. “More.”

I reached for the bread and heard, “No! More Pickle!” My raised eyebrow drew forth a reluctant, “Please.”

After the third pickle, I told her she needed to wait a little bit, to make sure her stomach was ok. (Truth is, I didn't want her to eat all my pickles. While I love my children quite a bit, there are limits.)

A few hours later, I was splitting the tree that had fallen over in our driveway when I heard an evil, triumphant laugh. My daughter was standing on the porch, a pickle in each fist. “Mommy gave me pickles!”

So, my son likes pickles and so does my daughter. You're probably wondering, so, what did they have to try? Strawberry jelly and pickles pretty much pushes any envelope.

Cheese fondue. In fact, to hear my daughter tell it, cheese fondue and dill pickles is probably the best combination ever made. In fact, it was so good, that she wanted to add the pickles to the pot. My wife's growl gave her a little pause.

“But Mommy, it's good. Try it.”

“I don't want to try it.”

“You should try it.” My daughter even put a pickle on her plate.

“No.”

“You have to try it before you say you don't like it!”

When your kids use your own logic on you, it can be funny. When they use your own logic and they are right, it is annoying. (My daughter, ever the optimist, is sure my wife will be out of the “never try a new food” phase soon.)

The Best Christmas Period

2009-12-20T17:20:00.000-08:00

(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

Parade

2009-11-22T08:31:00.001-08:00

“Is this a frick street too, Daddy?” my son asked as I turned the wrong way on the one-way street.

He was very proud of his new word. The morning had started with me asking my wife, at 10:20, “Are you taking him to the parade?”

He'd just started cub scouts and the troop was marching in the holiday parade. He was supposed to be at the staging area at 10:30. Naturally, I assumed she was taking him since I'd carried both of our little sumo wrestlers on my shoulders the prior night. We'd gone to Pittsburgh's light up celebration. Both kids lost steam and we only had the one stroller. So they took turns on my shoulders. (Unfortunately, my wife nixed the logical idea of me sitting in the stroller with them on my shoulders and her pushing.) By the time we got the car, I was a good two inches shorter than when I'd started the morning.

Her answer that she thought I was taking him was a little unexpected. So we rushed and made it out the door and headed to the holiday parade. We were meeting the rest of the pack at the YMCA. My wife gave me detailed directions on how to get there.

For someone that told our son, as we were walking back to the car after the parade, “I used to march in three parades every Memorial Day.” (I'm sure it was through three feet of snow, uphill both ways and in no shoes from her world-weary tone), you'd think her directions would not include using the parade route to get to the staging area.

I even called her on the cell phone and asked how the den leader suggested getting there. “Trust me, turn right on Main Street. The Y is at the top of the hill. You can't miss it.”

My trust level dropped dramatically as the police officer kept waving me to go straight at Main Street. Obviously, he hadn't marched in three parades every Memorial Day and didn't understand I was getting directions from an expert.

“What time is the next parade, Daddy?” My son asked from the back seat.

“There's only one parade today, Buddy. It starts at noon.”

“But, Daddy, will there be one next November?”

“Yes, there's one every year. Why?”

“I guess I'll march in that one.” (My son's confidence in my navigation skills filled me with warmth.)

All I had to do was figure out how to make it a half mile to the right and we were set. Fifteen minutes later, I knew we were getting closer. (We'd driven close to four miles, we had to be closer.)

That's when “frick” was introduced into my son's vocabulary. We did a quick u turn to get going in the correct direction and backtracked.

“I bet you think this is a frick road too, don't you, Daddy?”

“Yes, Buddy,” I lied. It was actually one consonant shorter and different vowel road because we heading away from the route. But it did get us to the other end of the parade route. This police officer had obviously marched in three parades every Memorial Day. He pointed down the street, behind the barricade. There was my destination. I couldn't drive down there, but could drop my son off here while I parked...

After hiking through a few counties to the get to the staging area, we met the rest of the pack. As soon as we got there, my son conserved his energy by racing off with the rest of the scouts in a game of cops and robbers. After forty-five minutes of restful scampering and playing, they were ready to march.

I moved down along the parade route. This being his first parade, I was looking forward to seeing him march by with the rest of his troop. The homecoming queens from the different counties drove by, followed by the marching bands, the politicians and volunteer fire departments. I was impressed at how well they they kept the formation.

Then a parent in our group announced they were coming. Sure enough, the Webelos came by with the flags, marching in step. All the scouts had bags of candy they “tossed” to the bystanders. Our place along the route was maybe 20 feet down from the official starts. I know because the candy throwing from the politicians started right before us. Our cub scouts were marching in perfect rhythm. The only problem was each had their own rhythm...

By the time he got to our group, my son's bag was empty. (I later found his complex calculations of distributing candy was one handful thrown out, one went in his pocket...)

At the end of the parade, where all the scouts were collected by proud parents, I realized that geometrically, parades are linear. And linearly, my car was not only at the wrong end, but so far past the wrong end, it probably started another parade. And we had to walk back. Frick.

Princess

2009-11-03T15:01:00.001-08:00

I know what you're wondering; what does a chic four-year old wear for a night out trick or treating?

A princess dress with a hoop skirt and two pairs of sweat pants. Granted, the two pairs of sweat pants do not technically fall within the accepted Princess Biona, wardrobe. (After the Fire truck incident of last year, switching the B for an F was a relief. (To relive that Halloween, check out the Fire Truck article.)) My daughter did her best to explain to the evil non-step mother that "Princess don't wear pants." While the argument was cogent and accurate and convinced me, it had no effect on my wife.

You may be thinking this was a one time blatant disregard of logic. But my daughter has a history of Halloween persecution and disappointment. Even though she was healthy and active when she was born, my wife, and the entire medical establishment conspired to ruin her first Halloween. They hid behind the feeble excuse that she was only a day old. Luckily, her brother had her best interests in mind. He made a point to tell each house we visited, "I'm trick or treating for my sister too." He wisely left off, "give me more candy."

So, her first Halloween was ruined. Her next chance came, strangely enough, a year after she was born. This year, there was no logical reason for her mother to ruin another Day of Candy. Her brother was going as Spiderman and she picked Clifford. Well, her mother picked Clifford, mainly because it was the costume her brother wore the year before. It was at least three sizes too big and allowed a snowsuit, boots, hat and mittens to fit under the costume.

Aside from having her costume perverted into a round cherry instead of a popular product line, you might be wondering how her mother ruined this Halloween? The Clifford costume was a hand-me-down. While it didn't ruin her Halloween right then, I'm sure when she's old enough to read this, it will retroactively. I know this because of tennis shoes. This summer, she'd grown out of her sneakers, so I grabbed an old pair of her brother's and told her they might fit. "No! Too big!" she jerked her feet away and wouldn't let me see if they fit. Instead of forcing the issue, I tried another pair of his old shoes that were the exact same size and this time, announced that they were brand new, never been worn... EVER. This pair fit perfectly. I barely stopped her brother when he started to say, "Hey, those are my old-"

If you're counting, that's two Halloweens ruined. Last year, her brother was sick so she had to go up to complete stranger's houses with just her mother. Everyone knows that the last thing a three-year wants is her mother ringing doorbells for trick or treat. She also only got half the candy that was due her. She and her brother switch candy cause each has different allergies. It works out so they each get a full compliment a sugar.

So we came to this Halloween. It started off rough with the extra sweat pants under the princess dress. I noticed that is had a definite negative impact on her twirling. But she and her brother (dressed as Bumblebee, not the insect as my parents thought, but the Transformer) bravely faced the elements. As we walked up the long driveway, I checked to make sure they were both ready.

"What do you say when you knock on the door?"

"Trick or treat!" my son yelled out.

I looked at my daughter, "What do you say?"

"tk r trt," she whispered.

When it comes to strangers, my daughter has a tendency to cling to the back of my leg so tight I think she is trying to pull herself through the material. I was positive I was going to get the pleasure of walking up to each door and holding out her treat bag while she hid behind me.

For the first two houses, that's what happened. Her brother raced ahead, knocked and the candy was being handed out by the time we got to the door. A quiet "thank you" came from behind my leg and we went off to the next house.

By the fifth house, she was right beside her brother, her basket out, a millisecond behind in "Trick or treat!" Since her brother was running ahead, then back to the group of adults following at a slower pace then ahead and back, he wore down and soon his sister was reaching the doors first.

She'd studied how her brother did it and was an instant pro. She couldn't hold her basket and reach the doorbell. So, she'd carefully place it on the doorstep, stand on her tip toes and ring the doorbell. Then she'd pick up her basket, hold it old and yell, "Trick or treat!'

The problem was, not every house had someone stationed at the door to open it immediately. After her proclamation of "Trick or treat!" she'd look up expectantly and usually see a closed door. That's when she repeated putting her basket down, ringing the doorbell, pick up her basket and "Trick or treat." After the fourth ring, she'd look at me and heave a disgusted sigh at how slow some people were.

We made it through half of the neighborhood before they decided they'd had enough. (We even found the house that was handing out treats for the adults. Reeses's cups and beer actually aren't as bad as you'd think. I know which house we're starting with next year.) So, my daughter perched on my shoulders, her hoop skirt threatening to block my vision every few steps, we all returned from a successful trick or treat expedition.

My princess ended the trip asleep on my shoulders. Next trick or treat, I'll remember to take the sucker away before she falls asleep. That patch of hair should grow back in a few months. In the meantime, it's winter so a hat won't look out of place...

Almost There

2009-10-11T19:14:00.000-07:00

6:15 p.m.

We were close to three weeks into our road trip. (You travel with two kids that can barely wait to get to the cabin so they can get out their sleeping bags and blow up beds and tell me each hour doesn't feel like at least a day.) We all needed a break and there was a Waffle House coming up. In hindsight, loading them up on syrup at that time of night might not have been the wisest option.

We pulled into the parking lot and I freed my daughter from the 3000 point safety harness. For the record, I did notice that she was soaked. I thought it was from the effort of getting out of the Government Regulated Safety Seat. Besides, the bottle of water I'd given her earlier hadn't been that full. We almost made it into the restaurant, but her mother discovered the soaked clothes and decided there would be a Change.

That was when we ran into the packing issue. The Change had not been packed in the essentials bag. They were in the depths of the roof bag. And the roof bag was held down by straps that I had serious doubts I'd be able to loosen. With the grumpy whining motivating me, I managed to loosen the straps. Since I'd packed the roof bag, I had a pretty good idea where my daughter's clothes were and dug out a shirt and pair of shorts. I displayed my find proudly, sure the whining would stop. But, I was told they didn't match in a very grumpy voice.

I appealed to my daughter, and even though I got her seal of approval, my wife still wasn't happy. I was banished to child watching while my wife found a matching set of clothes. (In hindsight, I can see the importance of my daughter wearing clothes that match. We were in a small town, that we would never be in again, she was about to eat dinner (read pretty much any article in my blog and you'll figure out that food and my daughter means a mess), we were going to spend the next couple of hours in the car and would arrive at the campground well after dark and put the kids right to bed. Being seen in a mismatched shirt would undoubtedly traumatize her for life.)

After dinner, we hit the road again for the final leg of the trek. I was allowed back behind the wheel. I honestly don't know what time we got the cabin. I just remember that it was raining. And it was dark. And everyone was tired. We had a small cabin that first night and would move to a “family” cabin the next day. Since we were just going to sleep, I figured the small room would be fine.

That was before I carried the roof bag through the primeval rain forest that separated the parting lot from the cabin. Both kids immediately dug in looking for their sleeping bags and blow up mattresses. I didn't quite catch the fact that my wife had bought a different mattress for each child. All I looked at was the first box to make sure it had a pump.

Immediately after opening the first one, I made a note to verify that the pumps always have a plug. The one she'd bought used batteries. Even though I already knew the answer, I asked anyway, “Honey, do we have AA batteries?”

While she cursed and looked through her bag, I opened the other mattress, glad that it was a different type. Maybe it had a plug? The night was not a total loss yet. (Both kids had already spread their sleeping bags on the floor and were jumping up and down on the bed, positive that they were not tired.) I was right. This one didn't require batteries! That's because it didn't have a pump at all. You actually had to blow it up. It must have been the last one manufactured in the work and my wife bought it.

I tried telling the kids how soft and comfortable the floor looked in the vain hope they'd say, “Why father, there's no need for you to venture out into the rainy and dark night. We would be happy to camp out on the floor.”

Instead, I walked to the main lodge. Surely, they'd have the batteries and we'd back on track to a peaceful evening. I was right. They did have them. About two days ago they had them. The nearest store was a half-hour drive away and I had three tired and cranky people waiting back at the cabin.

Ok... I did consider going to get the batteries, and taking the scenic route. In case you are wondering, it is possible to blow up an air mattress. It took two aneurisms, a mild heart attack and I'm pretty sure my left eye was bleeding by the time I was done.

With the mattress blown up, the kids each on their half and fighting sleep, I told them a story. (The bag with their books was still in the back of the Prius and even though the rain had slowed, I was too lightheaded to risk the walk to the car.) I don't remember the moral of the story, but they were both silent and wide-eyed when I was done.

11:15 PM.

We'd arrived, everyone survived the trip. The veins in my temples weren't throbbing as much. Vacation officially starts tomorrow-- Hold on... “I don't want to hear any more complaining. It's time for you to sleep.. You've been whining all day. And kids, stop teasing your mother!”

On The Road

2009-07-10T08:25:00.000-07:00

11:15 a.m.

We had one pit stop to make before we started the trip. The two dogs had to be dropped off at the kennel. Oh, and a quick stop for my wife to pick up her allergy prescription. (I don't know how she measured time, but with two kids that had put themselves in their seats and buckled them and two dogs that thought my Prius was the perfect setting for running around, it had better use nano-seconds.) On the way to the store, the whining started. We'd actually made it further than I expected. But my wife reminded everyone that this was going to be a long trip and we all needed to behave. She also told me to set a good example, so I did my best to keep the whining to a minimum.

As we pulled into the shopping center to pick up the prescription, my daughter complained from the back seat, “I can't reach Honey to pet her.”

Since we rescued Honey and Stripe, we're not sure how old she is. The people at the rescue place said she was between 10 and 12 years old. That'd put her between 70 and 84 in human years. She is also the “baby” according to my daughter. Believe it or not, I was actually ready for this. (My wife's grandmother moved in with my wife's mother and father a few years ago because she “needed” to be taken care of. I have seen this exact same scenario played out many times since she moved in. My wife's mother has specific ideas and plans, none of which seems to phase my wife's grandmother in the least.) Rather than waste my breath telling the 82 year-old mother to move closer to my daughter, I told my daughter to concentrate really hard and make her arms grow.

For a moment there was utter silence from the back seat. Then I heard a grunt. A moment later there was another louder grunt. I did a quick turn and saw my 3 year-old daughter in her car seat. Her face was turning a bright shade of red, her little hands were white-knuckled fists, her eyes closed tight in a body-metamorphosing grimace.

“Are your arms longer?”

“Not yet,” she said between clenched teeth.

“Keep trying.”

I think she grunted an ok, but her focus didn't waver at all. (I'm sure my wife's grandmother has figured this tactic out, but in case she hasn't, I'll pass it on to her. That is sure to get me and my wife in the will.)

Once the dogs were dropped off, we hit the open road. 408 miles till our destination. 20 miles into the trip, “Are we there yet?” came from the back seat.

“Yeah, are we dere yet?” his sister piped in. (Apparently, the arm growing was a success or no longer needed since the dogs were at the kennel. I'll be sure to tell my wife's grandmother that for utmost effectiveness, you have to keep the object of desire within sight. Otherwise they get easily distracted and you have to start all over.)

“No, we have a long drive before we get there. Why don't you guys close your eyes and sleep?”

“We're not tired.” They both answered before I even finished my suggestion.

“I'm hungry.” I don't know which one said this. By the time trip was over, all talking was classified as white noise.

“We'll stop for lunch at the next exit,” my wife suggested. I can only assume it was in the deluded hope that full bellies would put them to sleep.

As promised, we stopped and I took my son in for a potty break while my wife unchained our daughter. (She'd recently learned how to undo her 3000 point safety harness. This is pretty impressive since I still need the directions to make all the required hookups.) I came out of the bathroom to a disgusted look on my wife's face.

“Your daughter left her shoes.” My daughter was perched in her arms, an innocent look on her face.

“Why didn't you make her put them on before you got her out of the car?”

“At home.” The innocent smile on my daughter's face got wider.

“She doesn't have to wear them while we're driving. Just when we get out.” (This all made perfect sense to me. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to my wife's brain. She's usually not this slow.)

“YOUR daughter (now I knew I was in trouble) LEFT them at home. I PUT them on her and she TOOK them off before she got in the car to DRIVE.”

My laughing probably didn't help my wife's mood, but with my daughter's sincere nodding, I couldn't help it. We'd both been so intent of packing the car, and with the kids buckled in, we'd overlooked one small detail; my daughter is a demon spawn.

Luckily, there was a mall close by. My wife and daughter went shoe shopping (their vacation got an early start.) After lunch, shoe shopping and repacking, we were back on the road heading west.

When I pulled into the rest area to get rid of a few cups of coffee I got The Look. “Why are we stopping? We're never going to get there?”

1:15 p.m.

54 miles into the trip, my daughter's arms are longer, the dogs are kenneled, the kids are fed, my daughter is wearing purple shoes and my bladder is empty and I'm sentenced to the passenger seat while my wife takes over “competently” driving. At least I can take a nap...

Vacation

2009-07-09T06:37:00.000-07:00

9:00 a.m.

I knew the kids were ready for the vacation when they were both sitting in their car seats and had buckled themselves in. The only problem was I was still packing the car for the trip. For the past week, they'd been smuggling toys into the car each morning on the way to school. “Daddy, are we going on vacation today?” one of them would ask.

“No, that's next week.”

“Well... can we put these toys in so we don't forget them?”

By the day we actually left, there was just enough room for them to squeeze in and buckle their seat belts.

Being a ecologically aware family, and with the price of gas starting to climb again, we were taking the Prius on this trip to Indiana. The directions said seven hours for the trip. That was the Iron Bladder rating. The Parents With Two Kids in a Cramped Car rating should have been listed as an easy ten hours.

The Prius, while great on gas mileage, surprisingly is not one of the more spacious cars there is. Back when gas prices were double what they are now, we decided to use it rather than the minivan for the long trips. We got a roof top bag made of the space-age silver material that had the same effect on my Prius as plaid shorts, black socks and sandals do on men at the beach.
My wife and I have a system for packing. She sets aside the things we will need to survive the trip, everything else is fair game. So when I packed the bag for the top of the car, I packed the bag. Since a roof rack would eat up precious gas mileage, I used the straps that NASA uses to secure the Space Shuttle prior to launch. (These are rated for everything from shuttle securing to rooftop car bags, but surprisingly they are not designed for hammocks. See the previous article for proof.) (I'm one of those people you see at Lowes that uses at least as much twine as the weight of the load. To this date, I have never had anything fly off the top of my car. (There was the time two summers ago the we almost lost a load of lumber out of the back of my wife's minivan. But iot wasn't on top of the minivan and was more a result of poor planning. I thought my friend would be more than enough of a counter-balance. In my defense, the plan was working perfectly until we hit the bump. If he hadn't started yelling and scrambling off, it would have been a moot point. Luckily, slamming the brakes on resettled all the lumber.)) So, when I used the ratchets to tighten down those two straps, they were tight. A tornado would hot have moved that bag off the roof of my car.

So, with the roof bag on and full of my stuff, the kids clothes, sleeping bags, blow up mattresses and anything else that didn't crack, crumble or scream as I stuffed it in, we were almost ready. We only needed to pack the trip essentials, (Games for the kids. My wife spoils them. The only game I would pack is “Look out the Window or Sleep.” But she has coloring books and crayons, magnets, stuffed animals and books. If I hadn't put my foot down, we would have somehow fit a ping pong table in. My logic that they couldn't play while belted in finally won over.) my wife's clothes and the cooler with food.

Three trips later, I had all of her stuff. It was too late to put a towing hitch on my car, (besides, I think the extra weight of the hitch would have me pulling wheelies all the time.) so it was time for hard decisions. My first thought was to take out the kid seats (and the kids), there was plenty of room in the back seat for all her stuff. But I was reminded that this was a family vacation and apparently the kids are a key part of the whole “family” thing.

In the end, we trimmed my wife's essentials down to one suitcase. The back of the Prius was loaded up, all the available space filled in. We just needed to load the two dogs and drop them off at the kennel and we'd be on our way. The only problem was, the last trip we'd taken and brought a dog was when we had our miniature schnauzer. Honey was twice his size, but thought she was half his size. Stripe didn't really care.

After one last check and locking the doors, we were ready to leave. I looked at my family in the car. Faces shining with eagerness. I opened the driver's door to get in. Honey was wedged in front of the seat, ready to hit the gas for me. My wife was trying to pull her back to the passenger side. Stripe was sprawled across both kids in the back seat. My daughter was pushing him toward my son. My son was pushing him toward my daughter. Stripe didn't seem to notice.

11:00 a.m.

Only 10 more hours till we hit the cabin...

Parachuting

2009-07-05T15:28:00.000-07:00

“Daddy, it's a great day to practice parachuting.”

You'd be surprised how such an innocent phrase can destroy a relaxing afternoon. I was sitting on our porch, enjoying the breeze and sun. Ever since I'd built the deck a couple of summers ago, my wife and I have enjoyed coffee in the morning or just taking a break to listen to the birds and the leaves rustle in the wind.

That's what I was doing this afternoon when my son and daughter came trooping out of the house with Wal-mart plastic bags on their shoulders. Now, I know they'd been planning somthing because both were far too happy. Usually when I catch them actively working together, they'll sheepishly admit to whatever bone breaking activity they've decided.

My son's proud declaration, without any prompting from me, left little doubt that we had a trip to the emergency room scheduled soon. Knowing him, and my daughter, it wouldn't be him with the cast(s) on tomorrow.

“Yes! We going parachuting!” His sister chimed in, clearly cutting off any objections I might raise, further proving that this was a grassroots uprising. She even added a little sass to those tiny hips as she sashayed after her brother. “Dear!” I called as I watched them clomp down the steps from the deck.

Last year, I'd finished chopping up the tree that had fallen across the yard, so they couldn't climb up on that to jump off. (Although there had been some really great places to climb, the tree had fallen directly across my hammock. It'd torn the straps loose and left the hammock itself relatively undamaged. Once I'd cut and split the tree past the hammock, my son and I dug it out from under the sawdust and branches. At first glance, it looked doubtful. But we stretched the hammock out, untangled the tangles and saw that it was savable. We just needed new straps to tie it to the tree. (The tree that fell took an evergreen tree, my hammock and at least of hundred feet of smaller trees and bushes, but didn't even graze the two trees holding the hammock, a sure sign that the hammock gods were watching over me.) But, being the careful planner that I am ( Stop snickering, that is just rude) I didn't automatically grab the duct tape. (All right, I did. But I stopped before I'd used the whole roll to secure the hammock. My daughter was standing there, hope and pride radiating from her blue eyes. She wanted her turn to rock with me in the hammock. I'll trust my life to duct tape anytime, but not hers.) I found the heavy duty straps that, according to the directions, were capable of securing the space shuttle. Several wraps around each tree and in the hooks on the hammock and we were back in business. I carefully slid in while my kids watched, each holding their breath for the swing test. The backwards somersault I did when the strap gave loose didn't knock the air out of my lungs. It was the sudden stop as I hit the wood pile that did that. My daughter rushed to make sure I was all right. I could just make out my son's giggling as she made sure I was alive. (He has a lot of ground to make up to get back in the will.))

“Your children are going to kill themselves!” I called from my seat on the deck.

“So?”

“Shouldn't one of us stop them?”

“I'm cooking dinner.” In the game of life, apparently “cooking dinner” trumps “sitting on the porch relaxing”.

My kids came trooping back across the porch, the parachutes still on their shoulders. But this time, they each had a stuffed animal outfitted with a parachute. Neither of them met my gaze as they walked by, but I could feel the panic radiating from the stuffed animals.

There was a fairly good chance that the stuffed animals would test the parachutes first... I relaxed for a few more minutes.

“Hey! I have an idea,” levitated me from the chair as my daughter disappeared around the corner. Her “ideas” while usually mechanically sound rarely take into full account the limitations of the human body.

“Daddy, we're just playing.” My son managed to sound persecuted as I ran up.

I could have used logic and explained that their body mass was more than the plastic of the wal-mart bags could slow, especially over a short distance. But that would have gotten me a blank stare until the short distance, then his sister would have figured out a way to get up on the roof just to prove me wrong.

Instead I fell back on parental rules. “No playing on the stairs, the deck, the roof, the kitchen table, the kitchen counter...(By the time I'd finished all the items they could climb on, by any stretch of the imagination, they'd both lost interest in the game and wandered off to find something else to do.) (that is one good thing about children. You learn to think again. Don't run with scissors makes sense to adults, but to a kid, it is full of loopholes. Don't run, don't walk really quickly, don't skip, don't jump, don't race, don't jump off the couch onto all the cushions, blankets, pillows and stuffed animals with scissors. Because I said so!)

Gourmetness

2009-06-13T08:20:00.000-07:00

I learned last week, that as a father, I was sorely lacking. My wife informed me that every Friday, my daughter has a picnic at preschool and is supposed to have a sandwich for lunch. Apparently, she’d been severely stigmatized by having to make do with cans of ravioli.
Her eyes lit up when I asked her if she’d like a bologna sandwich. “Yes!” was accompanied by a little happy dance. For those of you that have been following our antics, you will know that a plain sandwich would never do for my daughter. So, we went over the list of additives and she gave me her order.

That evening, when I made the lunches, my daughter got a bologna sandwich with mustard and mayonnaise, just like mine. As we were leaving for school, I told her about her sandwich. (I have to admit, I was proud that I’d finally stepped up and met my parental responsibilities. In all honesty, I thought it was cool to make the same lunch for as I made for myself.) Each item in her lunch brought a happy nod. Fig newtons, crackers, peaches and a bologna sandwich with mustard and mayonnaise.

Both my wife and my daughter immediately pipped in, “No, not mustard!” The look of horror on both their faces was a shock. This was the little girl that dunked strawberries in mustard and came back for more! Besides, that's what she asked for.

I know for a fact that my wife is her mother because they both put their hands on their hips and, in unison explained that it was supposed to be ketchup and mayonnaise. Armed with a correctly made sandwich, my daughter went off to school much happier and ready to finally take her place among the sandwichers of the world.

Now that I finally knew how to feed my daughter, I was ready for the weekend lunch and knew that my inability to to properly make a sandwich wouldn't leave my children starved. My son, the picky eater, made due with a boring peanut butter sandwich. My daughter and I settled down to our gourmet sandwiches. (Granted, I'd ruined mine by selecting mustard instead of ketchup.) (You may be wondering where my wife was during this historic lunch setting. Being a blatant coward, she tends to keep a safe distance when my daughter and I explore the more creative side of fine dinning.)

Now, there may be doubters that think mayonnaise and ketchup, or even mustard and strawberries do not make a gourmet. And you'd be correct, but they are encouraging signs and she is still pushing her frontiers. My daughter confirmed her gourmetness by peeling the bread off her sandwich and using the tortilla chips to scoop up the ketchup and mayonnaise. (I think she has a future being a judge on the Iron Chef. No matter what they have to use, she'll be more than happy to try it. Only problem is, she'll give everyone high scores.)

During one of our normal night's out (My wife was working late and so I “cooked” by taking them out.) I was tired and both of the little monsters behaved through the whole dinner. There wasn't any blood and, for the most part, neither one terrorized the other. It was when my son asked, “Daddy, can we have dessert?” that I realized it was all a shameless plot and my hopes that they'd turned into civilized beings evaporated.

“What do you want?”

“Cheesecake!”

Now, cheesecake is not technically a dessert, it's more a state of being, so I couldn't say no. We ordered two slices and each promised I could have a taste of theirs. When the waitress came back with one slice, I knew my evening of peace was gone. The other piece had been dropped and this was the last piece of cheesecake.

Quick thinking and diplomatic skills were called for as both kids realized they were going to have to share! An order of ice cream was placed and I guarded the cheesecake while the waitress raced away.

(I've been told that sometimes the blog rambles, is disjointed or plain doesn't make any sense until the end. I have no problem blaming that on the little studied Parental Senility. I think this condition deserves a government grant and a team of scientist. Luckily, finding participants will be easy. Just look for a car with at least one child seat. If you're concerned that, once again, I've gone off on another train of thought, don't worry. I'm about to pull it back... I think.)

Both settled into the ice cream and cheesecake, and I even got a bite or two. My daughter's true gourmetness was confirmed after she finished her vanilla ice cream. Without any self-consciousness, she took a bite of garlic bread. While her eyes did water a little, it was, apparently, the perfect compliment to ice cream and cheesecake.

Graduations

2009-06-13T05:42:00.000-07:00

It's the time of year when flowers are in bloom, the weather's warming up and children are belting out songs without a care in the world. This is the third year we've been blessed with off-tune singing. One of the nice things about having our daughter go to the same preschool as our son is that we don't need to spend as much energy translating.

See, three years ago, after we moved from Virginia, we found a great pre-school and daycare for our children. At three and a half, our son was the perfect age for his first graduation. There were four songs his class sang. The first day they practiced the songs, my parental knowledge was seriously threatened. We were driving home and I heard his soft humming from the back seat.

“Daddy, what's the second line of the Turtle song?”

Now, I grew up knowing the twinkle twinkle song. The ABCs were another song I had a solid hold on. But, I can't say I'd ever heard the turtle song. I remembered there was a cartoon he watched, Franklin. “Do you mean the Franklin song?”

“No, the Timmy the Turtle song.”

“How's it go?” I figured if I stalled long enough, we'd be home or something along the way would catch his attention.

“I had a little turtle. His name was Tiny Tim.” He was remarkably close to being on pitch and there was a hint of melody. “I can't remember the rest of it.” There was the unspoken hint that, as his father, the one person he depended on, his role model and absolute hero, I had better step up with the second line.

When he was a baby, we spent many nights signing. He knew all the words to Cat's in the Cradle and Puff the Magic Dragon (Yes, I know the real meaning of the song, but at 3 a.m., it's an easy song to remember and sing.) “Where did you learn the song?”

“At school. What's the next line?”

“What's the song for?” Yes, I was stalling, but the speed limit through the neighborhood is 25 miles an hour and as the president of the civic association, speeding through the winding streets would not send a good example. I just needed a few more minutes and we'd be safely home.

“I can't tell you, it's a secret.”

Bingo! We spent the rest of the drive home talking about secrets, I even tried to see if his mommy had any, but he wasn't selling her out, even for a popsicle,

This year, it was my daughter's turn. One day we were driving home and from the back seat came, “I 'ad a wittle turtle, it name was Tim.” My son and I both jumped in on the second verse (Anyone with kids knows how those songs worm their way into your subconscious. Just walk though any mall and start humming “I love you, you love me...” and all the parent's will go glassy-eyed and join in on the Barney Song chorus.)

As the weeks went by this year, I realized they had a different person doing the program. My daughter added ballet to her routine. I know my son didn't have a ballet section when he graduated. And the thought of the teachers guiding eight 3 and 4 year-olds through Swan Lake guaranteed I'd have a front-row seat.

Every night, sometimes during the afternoon and even once or twice before I had my morning coffee, my daughter would announce, “Oh no! I forgot practice my ballet! Where my radio?” And she'd desperately search. As soon as she found something that could possibly be considered a radio (Believe it or not, apparently a rock on the ground has high innate musicalness.) she'd push a “button” and start her practice.

The last time I saw ballet was the movie with Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gregory Hines. That was pure amateurism next to my daughter's fusion of break-dancing, wall-shaking foot-stomping and a hint of the Charleston. We learned right away to wait for the “Tadaaaaaa” before we clapped. A premature clap earned you a cross, hands-on-the-hips, “I not done yet!”

So, after many months of being serenaded while we ate dinner and post-dinner floor shows, it was time for her first graduation ever. She'd watched her brother graduate from preschool and kindergarten. She'd watched his Christmas and Thanksgiving shows. Every time, she'd been in the audience, quiet and the not-center-of-attention. It was her turn!

My wife and I picked them up after school and went out to for a special pre-show dinner. I checked on our future star, “Are you ready?”

“Yes!”

“I'll be in the front row,” I promised her. (I was having a hard time with my baby growing up. Today, her first musical program, tomorrow she could be on Broadway, and not returning my calls.)

She went back with the rest of her class as soon as we got the school. Our proud family found seats in the front row, as we promised, and waited in anticipation. Would this be The Breakout Performance? How would the other parents feel when they saw the pure, raw talent? How does a three year-old do autographs when she can't write her name?

A hush fell over the room as the teachers led the kids out. Our daughter peaked around the doorway, saw all the people and raced straight to her mother's lap. At least she had a good view of the rest of the program.

A New Freezer

2009-05-09T11:03:00.000-07:00

It’s amazing what you can learn from a new appliance. Now that both my wife and I working full time, she came up with the idea of pre-cooking dinners. Her plan was simple, she’d make the week’s dinners ahead of time, then freeze them. The problem is that a day’s worth of dinner let alone a week’s worth would not fit in our freeze. (I didn’t mention the other problem, if it takes thirty-minutes to make the meal, then 5 minutes to freeze it, we’re not saving a whole lot of time when it takes an hour to melt the frozen block of ice. But, in mom-time, it seems to work out.)

So, we bought a freezer that fit perfectly in the guest room, right next to the wardrobe. My wife, ever impractical, began filling it with non-essentials like meat, frozen vegetables and that ilk. I, being the only responsible adult in our household, immediately put the ice cream maker bowl in the freezer. This was one of those new-fangled ones, you just pour the mix in and turn the motor on. The bowl is filled with frozen stuff (twenty years ago, I might have opened it up to see if it was just water or something else. Now I’m happy to accept it as a miracle of modern technology) and there’s no need for the crushed ice, salt or turn crank and broken wrists.

But the new technology isn’t what I learned about. I learned that everyone in my immediately family is, I believe the technical term is, whacko. I discovered this the other night while I was making the ice cream. Of course, I’d long ago lost the recipe book that came with the ice cream maker. There was a simple recipe that only took a few minutes. Instead, I decided to use the one I found online. It included real vanilla beans and cooking. After the second try (for the record, I did read all the steps in the recipe, I just didn’t think the order was that important) I noticed my son run through the kitchen.

Now, he and his sister often run through the kitchen. Usually I’m chasing them and they are screeching. But that’s not what as unique. What was unique this time was his clothing and lack of clothing. He was still wearing his shirt and underwear, but was missing his pants. I bring this up now because, at that moment, I didn’t notice his lack of pants. The reason I missed that was he was wearing a snow-boot and a sandal.

At dinner, I was too stunned at that moment to say anything, I asked him about his choice of footwear. He told me he wanted to match his sister.

“She was wearing your other boot and sandal?” At least that made sense. The fact that they had come up with this idea together sent a shiver of fear through me.

“Noooo, daddy,” my daughter chided me. “I wore my sandal.”

“And your brother’s boot?”

She nodded and gave me her he’s-so-cute-when-he-asks-dumb-questions look.

Now, I’ve known about the healing properties of magnets and felt their effect first hand. Several years ago, my wife’s mother got me a knee brace with magnets and suggested I try it. (After four knee operations, I figured it was worth a try. Every time I go to the doctor I end up getting cut open, so I’ve sworn off doctors. I can honestly say that the magnets had an affect. It took two weeks before I could walk without a limp.)

The other night, I was getting the kids’ lunches ready. (In order to make the mornings a little more tolerable, I get their clothes out and the lunches ready the night before. That gives me ten more minutes to drink coffee before dropping them off at school.) I went to our new freezer to get their juice boxes and was rather surprised to find we had bought a dual-use freezer. What is a dual-use freezer? I’m not sure, but I do know that you should only put food-type products in the freezer. (Ok, I did put a hard drive in the freezer, but that was only after the computer it was in fell off a shelf and knocked something loose. I was hoping that when it froze, everything would expand/contract enough to get one more use out of it and copy the data off.) At first, I was sure there was a good reason my wife had put her suit jacket in the freezer. After all, it was right next to the wardrobe, maybe she go confused.

Then I remembered the kids in their sandals and my son’s boots and the magnets in the knee brace. I’m calling to have them pickup the freezer tomorrow, hopefully sanity will return too.

One Size Might Fit All

2009-04-19T09:52:00.001-07:00

I think I’m on to something here. It’s a simple way to save the car industry, so bear with me…

I was driving home from work on Good Friday and the traffic came to a sudden stop. I managed to stop in time, the guy behind me didn’t. It wasn’t a serious accident. We both drove away. But now I have to find time to take my car to the body shop to get fixed. (I thought, for a brief second, that as soon as my motorcycle is fixed, I could drop off my car at the repair shop. Some of you might be jumping up and down, “But how will you take those two little monsters to school every morning?” I thought of that too. My son would fit behind me and there’s room on the gas tank for my daughter. They even have straps and stuff I could use to secure them. My daughter thought this was a fantastic idea. My son, apparently wise beyond his years, didn’t bother to hide his disgust at my suggestion.)

So, how did I get from endangering my kids’ lives (ok, I never really seriously considered it, but it was so much fun torturing both sets of grandparents. Even though they won’t say it, I know there’s always that thought, in the back of their minds, that I am just irresponsible enough to try it.) to another groundbreaking discovery? (Check out my article on Terrible Threes being genetically triggered.) Immediately after the accident, I didn’t really look at the damage to my car. I was more concerned with; a. Could I drive home? 2. Was my neck normally this stiff? and iii. Where did my cell phone go?

When I got home, I had my first good look at my poor car. The back left corner was no longer a corner, by the accepted definition. I started paying attention to the dents and dings on other cars. Then I relooked at my wife’s minivan. Could it be that I owed her an apology and she was, in truth, a visionary? True, the driver’s side of her minivan was relatively free of any dents.

So, what is my plan to save the auto industry? I think we should follow my wife’s example. When we bought the minivan, we were living in Washington, DC. Our daughter was on the way, so we were in major money-saving mode. There was no way a car was going to be able to handle our trips to Ohio to see the grandparents and, at that time, SUVs and minivans were at the very very very top edge of our budget. So, we bought the one minivan that we could afford, and to my surprise, my wife didn’t complain that it was too big or too wide.

I’ll give those of you that know her a few minutes to regain consciousness…. The reason she didn’t complain is, much like the women that struck out west to tame those savage lands during the pioneering days, my wife is part of a new breed. Just like those men and women made do with that they had, so does this new breed. Just look at the other cars as you drive.

Rather than spend the extra money for the smaller and thinner vehicles, especially when they might not come as small as wanted, these people are doing it themselves. I can see that clearly now. For years, my wife has suffered with too-wide cars. That is why she runs over curbs. She’s been telling Detroit to make the cars thinner (but since Akron makes the tires, I don’t think they’ll be too happy when this idea makes it mainstream. From my wife alone, they will be loosing thousands of dollars in income.) The dents in the bumper are her trying to make her minivan shorter. The huge dent on the passenger side, right where my son sits, I’m hoping is another effort at making the van fit into smaller parking spaces...

So, how can this save Detroit and the auto industry? Lack of customization. Think how much cheaper it will be to produce one size of square car and let the buyers customize the width, length, and (I’m sure my wife will soon figure out a way to do this) the height! The only problem is that I was really happy with the length of my Prius, but in that split second, I didn’t have a chance to tell this to the guy that was trying to make his car shorter.

Sarcasm

2009-04-18T06:36:00.000-07:00

“No, daddy was bored and decided to fall down the stairs to see if it was fun. It wasn’t.”

That’s what my son told my daughter the other night as we went upstairs for bedtime. The statement was prompted by my daughter trying to grab the cane that was steadying me as I limped upstairs. She was grabbing it because it was her horsey that she rode around the house when she and my son played cowboys.

I was limping because I’d spent the day curled into a ball of whimpering snot-filled miserabilty. (Yeah, go ahead and look that word up. I have a critique partner for my fiction that is constantly telling me, “Jack, you can’t just make up words and ignore the rules of grammar!” I tell her it is creative license and sets the mood. She usually has some sarcastic comment about it pulled her out of the story. Being a mature writer, completely open to all constructive criticism, I usually respond, “That’s cause your stupid.”) I’d stayed home with the plan of either sleeping until I felt better or they buried me. (It has been suggested that I might be a little melodramatic when it comes to being sick, mornings, work, growing older or pain. To those suggestions, see my usual response.)

Eventually I woke to my stomach growling. I remembered the age-old phrase, “Feed a cold, starve a fever. (That may be backwards, but I was hungry and it gave me the motivation to crawl out of bed.) Between bed and food was a flight of stairs. I remember most of the steps. I even remember seeing the floor. What I don’t remember is levitating several dozen feet into the air. I know it was at least that high cause I have no problem remembering the landing.

My first thought was, Well… there goes the hip. (At my age, hips, gray hair and soft foods gain importance.) I had visions of my wife arriving home with the kids to find me broken and maimed at the bottom of the steps. Fortunately, nothing was broken and with a few groans I made it to the kitchen and made my lunch, chips and salsa.

So, why did my son tell my daughter that I was bored and decided to fall down the stairs? (You gotta admit, that was a pretty good hook.) Well, that morning I’d promised him that we could build when he got home. For the past year he’s been into the Transformers. Of course we bought him the required toys. (However, I did not have the required doctorate in Advanced Particle Engineering and only thing I could figure out how to transform it into was a truck. Since it came as a truck, it was rather anti-climatic.) My son, being patient and understanding, took matters into his own hands. While I was grumbling and cursing, he came back with his own version. He’d used his Legos to make his own version of a Bumble Bee. (That’s an Autobot. They are the good guys. By now I know all the Autobots and Decepticons and each one’s abilities.) We looked online and went though all the different ones. He’d spend a few minutes studying the picture, then come back with his version. He now has his own shrine. A corner of his room is carefully organized with blocks (that he stole from his sister) and each transformer is placed on its own block.

That was our plan for when he got home from school. We were going to build Transformers. “Daddy, don’t you want to build with me?” (He learned the whole guilt thing from his mother. I’d say his mother’s mother, but we might need her to baby sit again.)

“Of course, buddy, just give me a few minutes to get down to the floor.”

“Daddy fell down the steps and hurt himself today,” my wife added helpfully.

I didn’t want to burden my family with pain and agony from my fall or worry him, so I had barely mentioned it passing to my wife when she got home. (broken hips, no more stairs, delirium and agony.) My son looked at me with grave concern. I nodded. “Yes, I fell down the stairs and hurt my hip and elbow.” I even showed him the beginning bruise on my elbow.

He thought before he asked, “Why did you fall down the stairs?”

“I was bored and thought it would be fun. It wasn’t.” For a six year-old, that was a perfectly sensible explanation and we went back to building and crashing his Transformers.

I’m just waiting for the next time one of the grandparents falls. “My daddy could have told you it wasn’t fun. You should have asked him.” The problem is, he’s figured out how to perfectly mimic my deadpan-tone, but doesn’t know to wink as he says it. At least he’ll be able to outrun them if they land on their hip.

Paintball

2009-04-09T20:45:00.001-07:00

“So, daddy, do you think you maybe shouldn’t have gone to play with those kids?” My son asked, in a tone I’m sure his mother had been teaching him the previous five hours. The subject was raised by the state of my pants and my limp as we walked across the parking lot from the ice cream shop.

It had started very innocently four weeks ago. One of the kids (anyone closer to my son’s age than mine I guess is categorized as a kid now. I’m not sure when that happened. When your own son thinks a twenty-one year-old is a kid compared to you, it’s probably best not to think too hard about it. Instead, I added a few more pictures to the photo album I will show his first girlfriend.) invited me to play paintball. He and his friends were going for his twenty-first birthday.

Now, you might be thinking someone of my advanced age would be too old to play paintball. If so, you don’t need to tell me. My wife did, her mother did and so did several friends. I think I even got some spam about being too old, but I don’t read so well without my bifocals now. Another point that was raised is the well-publicized fact that it hurts when those little balls hit you.

When you’ve been hit in the crotch by a thirty-five pound missile yelling, “Daddy!” when she sees you, a paint ball doesn’t seem so intimidating. Add in two consecutive kids with springs in their legs and impeccable timing. You’d think I’d catch on the first time my son bounced straight up into my chin; or my nose, or my mouth, or my eye.

So, even with all the well-intentioned bashing of my failing health do to my age, I thought it’d be fun and asked my wife if I could go out and play with the other kids. With permission in hand, I RSVPed.

Being the senior citizen among this group, and twice the age of the guest of honor, I’ve started to feel my age. Maybe my step has a little less pep now than it did ten years ago. But damn it, I am not old. (It’s true, if you repeat a lie enough times you start to believe it.)

I put my orthopedic shoes on, trimmed my beard so the gray wasn’t as noticeable and got dressed for a fun afternoon of paintball last Sunday. I left the house with my travel mug of coffee. (I know it wasn’t that long ago that I had the conversation with my wife. “Why do your parents and my dad always have to have coffee when they go anywhere. If it’s midnight, we have to wait for them to find their travel mug, (always look in the car first) fill it, then creep out to the car." They never drank it, but they had to have it.)

Before I go any further, I should say there was one person that was supportive of my endeavor. My wife’s brother remarked that I should do well, since paintball requires cunning. I’m sure he didn’t mean that since I was old, it was a good thing I still had some of my senses left and would hopefully use them instead of trying to keep up with the kids.

There’s a paintball place right next to our house. It’s a huge building and there’s a field (notice the word field. Meaning, flat, open space, often with the complete absence of hills of any kind) right next to it. This is what I expected. I didn’t expect the overgrown trail that led into the Western Pennsylvania Jungle.

We were armed and given a bag of paint balls. After I picked up the ones I dropped, (Ok, you try and pour a stream of marbles into a small hole when your fingers are cold) I got loaded up and we were off. The course was, for lack of a better word, vertical. I’m pretty sure I saw mountain goats laughing at us as our team followed the path to our fort.

The objective was simple. Find the other team’s fort, capture their flag and bring it back to our fort. Whoever accomplished this; won. Then I realized what I’d gotten myself into. Someone actually asked, “Who wants to charge the other fort?”

Believe it or not, several people volunteered. I wasn’t one of them. I was looking for a comfortable place to sit, where I could watch and shoot the other team. The ideal place would have a table and a cup of coffee.

Our team won the first game. Our chargers had them pinned down and no one made it to our fort. After waiting for several minutes, I went to check it out. Apparently, a limp and muttered swearing at each rock you stumble over is the perfect camouflage for humans. I made it to a place right above their fort without anyone seeing me. From there, I was able to pick off the last of their defenders.

We played for five hours. I ended up covered in mud. I still have the bruise on my thigh and bubble on my knee from where I was hit. I’m sure I have several other bruises, but hopefully the overall pain will keep them masked until they heal.

On the way home, I lifted my travel mug, full of luke-warm coffee in a toast--I’d kept up with the kids. Next time, I’ll suggest we play on a Saturday, so I have a full day to recover. As I drove home, wincing at each bump, I drank my coffee. I may be old, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to not drink the coffee. Hopefully I’ll remember where my mug is tomorrow…

Rules

2009-03-14T06:54:00.001-07:00

“No, daddy. You can’t jump my letter L because you don’t have the blue crayon. Whoever has the blue crayon is king. I told you that.”

Believe it or not, this made sense to me. We were at TGI Fridays for dinner because neither my wife nor I wanted to cook I’d just finished working 35 hours over the weekend (Yes, that will definitely make it in here, once I recover from the gray hair and stop whimpering every time I think about it.) So here’s the picture, if you recognize yourself as one of the players, you have my sympathy and complete understanding.

Two forty-year olds, (yes, my wife is 40, not 39, not 39 twice, but a solid four zero. If you see her on the street, feel free to say how’s 40? She likes the attention.) a six-year old boy and a three-year old girl. I think it was the middle of the week, but honestly it’s all a blur now. Per the new phrase in our house, my wife and I were dragging. Our two kids on the other hand had plenty of energy.

So, we tag teamed. That’s how I got to be playing checkers with the world’s most honest player. I say that because he will not break any rules in a game, nor is anyone else allowed to break them either. The problem is, when we play, he makes up the rules as he goes and by some mysterious quirk of fate, the rules he makes up always fall in his favor.

Last summer, we played football in the park next to us. There was a large depression in the ground. Since water gathers there, this is the most obvious place for him to constantly fall down. That lead to the rule that if I threw the ball and he caught it, but fell into the depression, he got a point. If he missed, but the ball landed there, I got a point. Seeing as he was only a little over three and a half feet high, it was easy to score points. So, my little congressman added a rider and apparently I didn’t get a vote. If the football went into the depression, but bounced out three times in a row, I lost all but two points.

Since the depression wasn’t a full-blown sinkhole yet, (Yes, I know this was the first thing the mothers and grandmothers thought. The fathers and grandfathers, more than likely thought, hey there’s still water in it, so it can’t be that dangerous yet.) throwing the ball just right so it wouldn’t bounce out added a new level to the game. It also gave me the chance to lose all my points when he got frustrated. There were other rules that he added opportunistically. I wasn’t allowed to go under the playground equipment to catch him (This rule I was in favor of. A five year-old can fit in some pretty tight places a 40 plus (unlike my wife, I’m keeping my real age a secret) father with bad knees has no business going.). The seesaw was safe and I had to go to the swings if he got there.

Which brings us back to tag teaming at TGI Fridays. The kid’s placemat at restaurants is usually good for ten minutes of distraction. There’s the coloring and games. He also picks out what he wants to eat and circles it so when they come to take the order he can recite what he’s picked. The waitress came and I was still trying to figure out which way to turn the menu so it was right side up. (Remember, 35 hours working over the weekend, and it wasn’t fun work)

My wife ordered and gave the order for our daughter. There was a pause and I said, “Do you want mac and cheese, bud?” That’s a pretty safe order for him and I couldn’t focus enough to see what he’d circled.

“Daddy, I already ordered.”

You know, hearing your we’ve-gone-over-this-one-thousand-times-but-I’ll-go-over-it-one-more-time, forced patience tone of voice coming from a six year-old is an eye-opener. I looked at the waitress and she nodded that he had. It was going to be a long dinner.

Now, even though my wife and I work in the same room now, we really don’t get a chance to talk that much. So, we were trying to catch up on each other’s weeks, and still pay attention to the two little monsters. Once the coloring was done, my son wanted to play another game.

There was a word search shaped, I think, like a pirate ship. Now, if you are thinking, the word search is a great idea, it would keep him occupied and teach him how to spell, you are wrong. Remember, he loves to play games, and that means taking turns. So, after he found a word, then I have to find one. And the whole not focusing thing was going to make that hard. So, I had a brainstorm. He colored in the vowels, and I colored in the consonants. If one of us colored too far, we had to recite the alphabet. (I admit I was trying, but had to recite it a few more times than he did.)

At this point, he had the orange crayon and I had the blue crayon. After a few minutes, when almost all the vowels were colored in, he said it was time to switch crayons. I didn’t catch on to the fact that this also included he was now coloring in the consonants and I was on the vowels. I was informed of this rule change and had to recite the alphabet once again.

When there weren’t any more vowels, he announced we were going to play checkers. Believe it or not, you can actually play checkers with just about anything, including a word search that is shaped like a pirate ship. Apparently there are hidden powers associated with blue. He could jump me twice, his letter Ls couldn’t be jumped and he could jump across the blank spaces to other parts of the ship. Being orange, I was limited to only jumping once, not allowed to jump the letter L and definitely no double jumps. Because, “Blue is king and you’re not blue, daddy.”

After playing word search checkers with a six-year that constantly changes and adds rules, I’m starting to understand the stock market a lot more.

The $%$#$*&$ Threes

2009-03-03T18:45:00.000-08:00

I’d heard about the Terrible Twos and survived both kids going through them. (And in case you wondering, the kids survived too.) Our son skipped that stage and lulled us into a false sense of confidence. I’ve come up with a groundbreaking thesis that the Terrible Twos is not based on age, but is genetically triggered. I’m sure that once this gets out, I’ll have several government grants to study it further. Until then, I’ll continue my practice of not letting facts and details influence my opinion.

You may be wondering why I say the Terrible Twos is genetically triggered. Look at how many families have more than one child. In our case, my wife and I had that fateful discussion one day. We saw how well behaved our son was. After the horror stories we’d heard and read about (Look at how many books Mr. Spock has written. If there wasn’t something terribly wrong with children as a species, I don’t think he would have sold nearly as many books, even with the help of Star Trek fame.) we understood that our genes (at least mine) needed to be passed along even more. He was well past his two-year mark and he wasn’t having the hourly temper tantrums. I hadn’t noticed his head spinning around at odd hours or him speaking in demonic voices. Yes, he was The Ideal Child, the one that mankind had been waiting for.

So, my wife said those fateful words one day…”Let’s have another.” Being a male, I naturally agreed.

Now that I look back, I don’t have any definite proof, but I’m positive that at the moment of conception, my son entered the Terrible Twos. Our innocent angel became the little monster I’d read about. This proves my point. If he’d entered the Terrible Twos when he turned two, like everyone warned us about, we would never have considered another ticking time bomb.

Now, you may be wondering how I survived my wife being pregnant and my son feeling his oats. Well, I’m sure you’d get the same answer from the people that run the lunatic asylum. Once you are used to dealing with one whacko, adding another isn’t too bad. Luckily for our sanity, shortly after our daughter was born, we decided to sell our house in Virginia and move to Pennsylvania.

The whole process, deciding to move, getting the house in order, packing, moving and unpacking took a little over six months. This is important because it was right after my son turned three. So while, again, we’d had the warning about the stages following the Terrible Twos, he had so many things going on that he never really settled into a “stage” after two.

This is important because this past weekend, my daughter came down with, this is in no way an exaggeration, The Plague from Hell. In three years, she’d never had a problem taking any kind of medicine. (For that matter, food and drink is her favorite past time. This is the same girl that brazenly dips fresh strawberries in mustard and honestly declares the combination is delicious. My son, on the other hand, makes a picky eater look like a glutton.) I was not concerned when it came time for bed. We had cough medicine for her and I knew she’d take it and sleep through the night. So, while my wife fretted and fussed, I was my normal calm and collected self.

I got her in her PJs and ready for bed while my wife hovered, sure that her daughter was in mortal danger and of coughing up a lung. Once she was ready for bed, I carefully measure out the proper dose of cough syrup. My daughter looked up at me with watery eyes, the bags making them soulful. “Do you want some medicine?” I asked

She gave a weak nod, probably using the last reserves of her energy. (She learned how to milk being sick from me.) I handed her the little container and told her to shoot it. I even had a cup of apple juice ready to wash the taste out of her mouth.

Now, this is nothing new. Whenever she takes medicine, I tell her to shoot it, she downs it in one swallow and we’re done. Why would this night be any different? Because she’s my daughter, that’s why.

She drank the cough syrup and then promptly spit it and dinner up. At least the cold hadn’t affected her appetite earlier…

What does this have to do with her being three? I spent the weekend up every couple of hours as she woke up coughing and crying. She was a pathetic sight, laying in her bed, her stuffed animals, dolls, books and whatever else a little girl needs, surrounding her, while she sniffled and cried. I tried more cough medicine, but the answer was always the same, “Too yucky.”

How did we survive? Purple. Some genius made a purple cough syrup and she reluctantly agreed that her favorite color would not let her down. Sunday night, she slept through the night without waking up. Unfortunately, I now had her cold…

After Work

2009-02-20T19:56:00.000-08:00

I’ve realized that the past couple of articles have dealt almost completely with how much I hate mornings. (Ok, I didn’t actually realize that. A couple of people pointed it out, including my mother-in-law, who according to my wife, said, “I hope he doesn’t expect any sympathy.” And this came after my nice comments. I’m not bitter and haven’t planned any revenge… yet.) While it’s true that mornings, especially the 6 a.m. part of them, are classified as a dirty word in our house now, I don’t hate everything about them.

This past week I re-realized why my wife and I are working. While our normal schedule is I get our two little spawns up, dressed, fed (and sometimes redressed) and off to school and my wife picks them up in the evening, this week she had to work late a couple of nights, so I picked them up after work too.

On Wednesday, I got to their daycare and signed them out before going in. My daughter saw me from across the room. “Daddy!” she cried and ran to me, her arms open wide.

Those of you with small children have experienced what I‘m talking about. It’s that moment when you know you are the center of their world. They rely on you for everything and trust you implicitly. The pure joy at seeing you at the end of the day, suddenly everything is right in their tiny world…

My daughter had gone through several growth spurts in the past few months and at three and a half, her forehead reaches just above my belly button. This is important, because while most parents are smiling as they remember/relive/hope for what I described in the previous paragraph, they don’t know my daughter.

She raced across the room, her eyes bright with joy and relief at being rescued. Just before she reached me, she ducked her head, turning into a 35-pound missile aimed at my crotch. While the fathers are wincing in shared pain, let me explain.

My daughter and I have developed many routines and games over the past year. She stands in the middle of the room, her tiny arms crossed and a toxic frown on her face and states, “I mad you!” I’ll mimic her and echo, “I’m mad at you!” We’ll go back and forth until one of us starts laughing. Another is she’ll flop over and whisper, “I broke.” I get out my imaginary tools and make noises while I fix her. Then I flop over and say, “I broke.” She’ll get out her tools and fix me.

Ever since she was big enough to walk, she’d run to me when I pick her up from daycare. When she gets to me I make a loud “OOMPH!” sound and flip her upside down. Then I ask her where her head is. She’ll laugh and in her most Daddy-you-are-a-moron-but-I-still-love-you-and-hope-I-didn’t-get-too-many-of-your-genes voice say, “I down here.” After a few flips, she started ducking her head at the last instant. When she was only up to my mid thigh, that placed her head about level with my kneecap. For the sake of self-preservation, I learned to react quickly and kept both knees relatively unbroken.

Over the past couple of months, I guess my wife had been picking the kids up after school. The last time I rescued their teachers, I know the top of my daughter’s head was barely to my hip. So, when she ducked for the flip, I was in no danger of having my voice raised by several octaves. (Believe me, men pay attention to this sort of thing.) Between traveling for work, getting ready for the new job to start and the holidays, my daughter must have had several growth spurts.

This week, when she turned into the voice-raising missile, I had just spent over an hour driving from a long day of work. To say I was mentally and physically worn out would be an understatement. And after playing the same game for months, my daughter had no reason to expect today to be any different when she saw me walk in.

It’s true that if you practice enough, your muscles will react without conscious thought. I caught her at the last second and flipped her upside down. She giggled and answered “I down here!” when I asked why she was wearing her pants on her head.

You may be wondering what this has to do with re-realizing why my wife and I are working. It’s pretty simple. Every time I hear her giggle at my silliness or my son race down stairs in the morning because my wife didn’t give him a morning kiss (she never forgets, but he sleeps like a log. There have been times I’ve gotten home at midnight from traveling. I woke him up, told him I was home, kissed and hugged him. The next morning I was accused of breaking my promise to let him know when I got home.) I am amazed at how well adjusted they are considering their parents. And how lucky we are.

Salt-Covered Windshields

2009-02-07T18:36:00.001-08:00

Well, we’ve survived two weeks of the new work schedule, so I thought I’d give an update to those comparing the changes to my family and the First Family. (Both families started new jobs about the same time, we both got new dogs and both have two kids that are going through this also.)

I don’t know about President Obama, but this week, I found that I could lie to my kids and not feel guilty. This happened on Thursday. I had to be at work by 9 a.m. to conduct a training class with people from the U.S. and London. The class had been planned for over a week, so I’d gone over pretty much every scenario and figured I could manage getting the kids up, fed, dressed and to school and still make it in on time. (For those detailed oriented people, with my daughter, the order is very important. If she eats before she is dressed, she needs at least another shirt, sometimes pants and socks have to be changed too.) (This is the same girl that thinks strawberries and yellow mustard is a “delicious” combination. She also turns from a platinum blonde to a redhead when she eats spaghetti.)

I took a few minutes Wednesday night with my son, explaining that we had to leave early in the morning and if he could help me, he’d earn more points. (I know, that’s bribery, but keep in mind the starting theme of this article. Just think of it as me starting him out early on a career as a politician.) Well, Thursday morning came and I still maintain that there is nothing positive about 6 a.m. We’ve gotten our routine down and we were all ready and in the car by 6:45, an hour ahead of our normal schedule. My son was doing his best for extra points.

When we got in the car, it was still dark. My daughter’s little voice whispered, “I scared.”

My son, still in his helpful mode, (I can see why lobbyist like their jobs.) explained, “She’s scared cause it’s dark.”

“It’s not that dark,” I grumbled and tried to back up the driveway. Mother Nature had decided to put my planning skills to the test and graced us with another night of snowfall. I found myself silently joining their morning chant of “Let’s crash, let’s crash, let’s crash.” (See the previous article on my children’s sadistic desire to see my car wrapped around a tree.) Unfortunately, we made it up the driveway without hitting a single tree. Halfway to preschool, my daughter broke the silence with, “I not scared anymore, daddy. It bright out.”

She was right, somewhere, the sun was rising. For the past two weeks, I’ve been getting up before the sun has risen, but sometime during getting my monsters fed and dressed, the sun had risen. This morning, it greeted us as we drove.

“Don’t you like the sun rise, daddy?” My son’s voice was far too bright and cheerful for this early. I considered explaining that daddy does not like anything until after three cups of coffee, but he was keeping his sister happy and I didn’t want to risk that. (I still had to get them out of the car, into preschool, their stuff put away and hands washed before I could make my escape.)

The Lie: “Yes, I love the sun rise. It makes me very happy.”

That led to a discussion on where the sun was. I had no idea. The sky was overcast and I was running low on clear windshield. The snow from last night had melted while the car warmed up so all the salt residue was cleaned off when we started. However, at 0 degrees, the windshield washer fluid was frozen.

While this sounds dangerous, I’ve got the routine down. After dropping the kids off, I get back on the main roads and the passing trucks kick up enough spray to keep the windshield somewhat clean. By the time I get into Pittsburgh, everything has unfrozen and I can clean the windshield.

It was just after the sunrise comment when my wife called. She’d left for work an hour earlier. Surely, she was calling to tell me traffic was fine and to take my time. Instead, she was in a backup and wanted directions on a different way into the city. After dropping the kids off, I checked and still had two hours to drive the 40 miles to work. After Washington, DC traffic, there was no way I couldn’t handle this.
Unless the backup that my wife had been in was an accident that had traffic snarled for ten miles. 20 degrees, that’s when the windshield washer pump unfreezes. I sat in the crawling traffic watching the temperature, the other cars and the time. You’ve heard of rose-colored glasses? I have a salt-covered windshield. Behind that layer of near impenetrable grime, everything slows down. I realized it didn’t matter if I was a few minutes late. You can’t control traffic any more than you can control when the temperature will get above 20.

Work

2009-01-31T13:32:00.000-08:00

I found something this past week that I haven’t seen for many years. Apparently, 6 a.m. really does exist. I learned this during the past week when I started a new job.

Before all the professionals that read my blog get up in arms, let me give a little back-story. There was a time, many years ago, when I was working as a server administrator that I often got to work well before the sun rose. It was almost relaxing fixing the problems that had arisen during the night with no one around to demand attention or ask annoying questions.

Then we had children. My wife and I came up with a unique schedule that worked quite well for us. I’d take the night shift (When I got home from work until 2 a.m.) and she took from 2 a.m. on. There have been many times over the years that I’ve gone to work bleary-eyed and short on sleep. In my defense, I do my best work when I am light-headed. I think it has something to do with no sleep not inhibiting the creative process. (There have been times when this has also interfered with my self-editing. See the article below.)

But this time it’s different. My wife started a new job also. We not only have to figure out our schedule, but also make sure our kids see us and get to school on time. This past week, my mother-in-law came in to help us and was an amazing help. She made sure we didn’t have to worry about the kids getting where they needed while my wife and I adapted to the new schedule. (For the record, I can say nice things about my wife’s mother.) (Just don’t expect another nice comment for several months.)

So, this past week, I was rudely reacquainted with 6 a.m. I can honestly report that it is dark, cold and early. I looked, I really did, but in all candor, I couldn’t find anything positive about this time. Especially since we’d switched the schedules. My wife is leaving before the little monsters are up, stranding me alone to get them fed, dressed and ready for school.

I also found out how sadistic my children are. (Proving that they really are my wife’s children.) We made this change and it seemed like about 47 feet of snow fell over a two-week period. We’d known about my wife’s job and had made sure she had good snow tires on her minivan. Since most of my driving had been to Washington, DC and back, it hadn’t been a priority to get snow tires on my car. My new job caught us by surprise so there hasn’t been enough time to go and get tires that can actually handle western Pennsylvania weather.

Each morning, during the past week, has started with my son asking, “Do I have school today?” (It doesn’t help that apparently when the weather is going to be below a certain temperature, the schools here tell the students when there will be a two-hour delay. And my son listens when he hears that.) Problem is, if there’s a two hour delay, he still has to go to preschool where the bus picks him up. By the time they are dressed, and the car is warmed up and the snow has been cleared off, he has his sister wound up too so neither want to go to school.

I can’t blame them. After this past week, staying in a warm bed and sleeping does have a great appeal. Apparently, I wasn’t listening to what I said that first morning as I looked at the snow covering my car and the driveway. I may have muttered something about not going anywhere if I slid off the driveway.

So, each morning starts with the cheer of, “Let’s crash, daddy!” If they’ve had enough time to wake up, they’ll even give suggestion to help the odds of crashing. “Go faster.” “Hit the gas.” “Lookout for that tree.” and "Drive like mommy." As I back up the driveway, trying to stay in the tracks my wife made earlier, (This is harder than it sounds since the minivan is wider than my Prius, so we usually end up siding back and forth.) my daughter shows her confidence in me by covering her eyes and screaming. (I have to admit, there are times when I follow her example and we hit a perfect harmony)

So, how are we adapting to the new schedule? I’ve found that making their lunches, getting the coffee ready for the morning and putting their clothes out the night before saves me about 10 minutes. I tried to put them in their school clothes one night to save even more time. I could tell by the look my wife gave me that this was too much. (Next time, I’ll wait until she’s asleep before I try that.) 6 a.m. gives me time to have a slice of coffee, (This early, it has to be strong.) get dressed and ready. I think in three to four years, we’ll have adapted to the new schedule just fine.

New Arrivals

2009-01-24T21:42:00.000-08:00

This weekend, we started a major house cleaning. No, my wife’s mother was not coming over for a visit (well, yes she was, but that’s a story for a whole other article). No, this cleaning was for two new members of our family. I don’t know if my memory has faded over the past three years, but I am almost positive that we did not clean up and straighten this much when our daughter was born.

You might be thinking that in our senile old age, we’d gone and done the unthinkable and my wife was expecting twins. No, from her reactions and cleaning frenzy, this was much worse. I knew she was serious when I was banished to my basement to… organize. Everything had to be off the floor and put away. No big deal. Then she said that includes almost three years of old manuscripts, computer parts and… (wait for it…) all the paperback books had to be on the shelves. The upside of this is I found my weight bench.

When we told our family and friends of our plan, the reactions were varied. “Wow,” was the most sedate. “Are you crazy? That’s asinine!” was probably the most common (I’m paraphrasing since this is a family targeted blog.). We were cleaning and picking up to make sure the house (ok, mainly the kids’ toys) was ready for two dogs.

When our thirteen-year old miniature schnauzer died before Thanksgiving, my wife began the search for a new pet. My son took Pepper’s death hard, but we’d been preparing him for it and he knew his dog went to a better place. A few weeks later, he began talking about another dog. He even had the name picked out… Pepper II. The one after that would be Pepper III. (He got up to Pepper XIII)

We always planned to replace Pepper. Our kids loved him and enjoyed playing with him. He was my daughter’s shadow. (Especially after she’d eaten. When she switched to solid foods and began feeding herself, he gained enough weight to develop a waddle.) With the changes coming in the new year, we knew they were going to need playmates to keep up with them.

So, my wife went through the local rescue shelters. She found a fluffy white breed, called a bichon, and fell in love with it. I had two criteria and this breed met both. It had to fit through our dog door and I didn’t have to shave it. White was an added bonus. I’d be able to easily see it in the middle of the night right after I tripped over it.

Then she stumbled across two dogs that had been rescued. Stripe and his mother Honey. They’d both been rescued and were looking for a home. Hey were both house trained and used to children.

How did we go from one dog to two? (We heard that question from everyone. Why two?) Just after Christmas, we found out that we’d both be starting new jobs (This will be a whole other article.) and the dog would be home alone during the day. So two dogs made sense to us so they wouldn’t be lonely. Stripe and Honey were perfect for this. They’d been together for two years and Honey didn’t walk around babbling and drooling. (I’m hoping my wife will pick up some tips from Honey on how to stay sane with young children.)

When my son saw their pictures on the web page, they immediately had a home. We called and arranged the pick up. We managed to get my son to take off his coat and come back in the house since we couldn’t pick them up until the following day.

It’s been a week and both Stripe and Honey are acclimating well to their new home. There was a little confusion the first night. My daughter wanted Honey to sleep with her and my son wanted Stripe to sleep with him. With all of her stuffed animals and dolls, there’s barely enough room in her bed for my daughter, let alone a dog. Of course the dogs had their own agenda and spent most of the night exploring inside and outside.

My careful planning with the bichon was out the window, however. Honey is a German Shepard and Stripe is a Labrador/Shepard mix. Even though they are “medium” size dogs and the dog door is for medium dogs, Honey barely fit through. Each time she went out during that first night, I had to make sure she could get back in. I got a new dog door first thing in the morning and by mid-afternoon, had finished my third trip to Lowes and had it installed.

Stripe got his name from the line of white fur on his chest and stomach. Every other part of him is coal black. I mention this because we did have one escape. Stripe stayed close to the house and raced around exploring. It would have been much less nerve-wracking if he’d made his escape during the daylight. But he did it in the evening. It was just like a horror movie. I’d see a blur streak past out of the corner of my eye. When I looked, there was nothing but blackness. My two kids standing on the porch screaming did an adequate job of filling in for the mutilated teenage girls.

Fire Truck

2009-01-17T21:01:00.000-08:00

“Fire truck! Daddy, I see a fire truck!” This is what my daughter cried out on Halloween this year as we sat on the side of the road. We were taking a break from collecting loot and candy. No, there wasn’t a fire. The local volunteer fire department drives through our neighborhood (and others) every Halloween and Christmas. My son loves fire trucks and has spent hours and hours educating his sister on the subtleties of the different kinds. She knows a fire truck when she sees one and made sure everyone within earshot knew it was coming.

When my son started speaking, he had a problem with the letter L. Pillow was pronounced “Piwwow.” We weren’t concerned. (There were many times in college when I had a hard time pronouncing almost all the letters. This only tended to happen on the weekends, so I wasn’t that worried about it.) But we did work with him. We made a list of words that started and had the letter L in them. We’d carefully pronounce them. He could hear the difference, but couldn’t quite get his mouth around that one letter. When he learned his letters and started reading, he saw what the letter L looked like. That helped. Now, when we wrote the words with the L’s in them, he saw where it was in the word. Pillow went from “Piwwow” to “Pillllow.” (He was dedicated and persistent)

Now, since my son had the problems with the letter L and the TH, you might think I’d expect the same from my daughter when she started talking. But, she’s lead me down that same path many times. My son was a picky eater; my daughter ate anything that she could catch. My son was a loud sleeper; my daughter never made a peep. My son is surprisingly (considering his mother) agile and coordinated; I don’t think there’s an obstacle my daughter hasn’t first tried to go through.

So, while my wife did her thing, (reading, researching, talking to other parents and generally learning all the options) I knew my daughter would pretty much wake up one day and be completely fluent in English and probably a few other languages. This time, she was not going to fool me.

My son was on the job. Many were the times we’d be driving and I’d hear, “Now, say one.” A moment later, a little voice would chirp, “One.” They worked up to ten in no time. So, with her brother taking care of her vocabulary and counting, I knew my daughter was in good hands. In no time at all, she had one to five down. She even knew those numbers backwards. I found that one out, and also learned that with a five-year old and two and half-year old, you need to pay attention, the hard way. I made the mistake of lying on the floor one fall day to watch a football game. I was aware of the counting down, and didn’t pay it much attention until she landed on my back after what felt like a perfect double flip from the sofa. The giggling from the two of them almost drown out my cry of agony. Now, my back spasms whenever I hear either of them counting backwards from five.

What does this have to do with, “Fire truck! Daddy, I see a fire truck!”? Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t know if my son decided that my daughter didn’t really need to have TR in her list of mastered sounds, or if she decided to once again do the exact opposite of what I’d expected. While she’d mastered the important words, like “please” “more” “no” and “I don’t want to take a nap right now because I am not tired and I really know that you want me to take a nap so you can take one too.”, she couldn’t make the TR sound.

You’d be surprised how many words don’t have TR in them. This would probably explain why I didn’t know this until Halloween night. So, while we were sitting in a neighbor’s yard, my kids both dressed as Spiderman (she found her brother’s old Spiderman costume and claimed it as hers. Clifford and Elmo were both discarded as she proclaimed she was going to be Spiderman, like her brother!). Our neighbors walked by and we’d exchange hellos, the kids talking about which houses had the best candy.

When the fire truck, lights flashing, started down the road. My daughter stood and pointed and for the first time, I found out that she couldn’t pronounce TR. When a three-year old can’t say TR, you might be wondering just what does she use to replace those two letters? Well, my daughter proudly proclaimed that a “Fire f__k” was coming down the street. Somehow, I don’t think the people at Marvel Comics would have approved of her Spiderman impersonation.

Imagination

2009-01-10T19:16:00.000-08:00

Lately, my daughter has developed a terrible affliction. She’ll be walking across the room and suddenly stop and look at me. “I stuck,” she’ll declare. Both hands will reach out for me, a desperate look in her eyes. “Pull me,” she’ll plead when I take her hands. Somehow, her foot will become unstuck. (I don’t know why, but it is always her left foot. I know it’s serious because she does this even when it’s not time for bed or some odious chore.) She’ll look back and in her best three-year old disgusted voice say, “There mud there.”

I find this interesting for several reasons. A: I’m pretty sure we don’t have patches of mud throughout the house. Second: I know I didn’t have that active an imagination when I was her age. Up until five, I lived in the inner city of Akron. My fondest memory is the neighborhood bully, on his tricycle, chasing me to kindergarten. I’m not sure, but everyone calling him Pukie might have led to his anger issues. On those lazy summer afternoons when we played with our friends, the game of choice was “whip your mamma.” (The “it” person had a stick or branch. If you were on the ground, you were fair game. That’s how I learned to climb trees. Face it, when a five-year old, tricycle-riding bully terrorizes the neighborhood, chances are, a tea party is not going to be the game of choice.)

But now, my kids amaze me with their creativity. I’m pretty sure the creativity doesn’t come from just the six-year old. Any unclaimed chair, box, crate or container is destined to become part of their newest train. (I think the last one started in the dining room, went through the living room and stretched to our family room. The length is important because, this time, they managed to block the front door, the stairs to the second floor, three doorways and a bathroom.)

The length also allowed them to seat almost all of my daughter’s dolls and stuffed animals. I know this because when it was bedtime, my daughter’s bed was empty. Usually I can barely see her peeking out from under the dolls and stuffed animals. (Yes, both grandmothers miss my subtle hints. “It’s a good thing we already have every stuffed animal ever made. I wouldn’t want either kid to feel underprivileged.” For some reason, they always come home with more fluffy lumps of animal-like dolls.)

Back to the bedtime. There’s PJ (her first doll that is still almost bigger than her), Baby (I don’t know why she picked that name either.), Pink Pony (the newest member of the collection, this time from my wife.) (She doesn’t listen to me either.) and Purple Monkey (Ok, this one is actually pretty cool. It has long arms with Velcro on the hands.). These were her usual companions when it came time for bed. This night, when she was sick, she looked up at me, her friends adding support and whispered, “Kayla. I need Kayla.”

She and her brother had raided every single doll and animal from both their rooms. I was vaguely aware that there was a doll called Kayla. (I think that is one of the babies at her preschool.) But, I’d given it my fatherly attention and had absolutely no idea which one it was. But, from the look in her eyes, I knew she and, more importantly, I would get no sleep until Kayla had been found.

So, it was back downstairs to the train. I grabbed two dolls that looked familiar, reasoning that if I recognized them, that meant she’d carried them around enough for me to notice and there was a good chance one was Kayla. “That not Kayla.” I was told as I put the first down. Well, it was a fifty/fifty shot. I honestly didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to get it right the first time. “That not Kayla!” she announced at the second. I kept the mumbling under my breath and censored (see the article on self-editing) and headed back to the train. This time, I brought up as many dolls as I could carry.

Each shake of her head sent my hopes plummeting further. I was getting tired of going up and down the stairs. However, when her eyes lit up and she reached with a shout of, “Kayla!” I breathed a sigh of relief. “Tank you, daddy, for saving Kayla.” She smiled and snuggled up with her dolls and animals. I dumped the remaining armload of unnamed dolls on the foot of her bed and beat a hasty retreat.

With the rampant imagination, you’d think I’d be right at home. But… I’m not allowed to play. Thinking I’d turn the tables and get her to pull me along, one day I stopped and told her I was stuck. I got a very stern look and, “Daddy, there no mud there.” She didn’t even look back as she wandered off to torment her brother. (The tormenting she gets from me. The driving me crazy she gets from her mother.)

FAQS

2009-01-07T13:16:00.000-08:00

If you’ve read my articles, and enjoyed them, thanks. (If you didn’t enjoy them, then email the link to your friends so they can be angry too.)

A couple of questions have come up that I think need answered. (Keep reading, I’m my usual irreverent self when I answer questions, especially when I make them up.) If you have any questions, let me know at cord0111@yahoo.com. Comments are always appreciated too.

What does your wife think of her starring appearances? (Ok. I paraphrased that one. It was more like; “How come she hasn’t killed you yet?”)

Truth is, she likes being the center of attention and, so far, has been my biggest fan. She even edits and makes sure I’m using the English language good. When she’s reading and spits out her coffee, I know it’s ready to be posted. (It does take its toll on the laptop though.)

Won’t your children be mortified when they get older?

Yes, see the revenge part below. Since they take after my wife and enjoy any and all attention, I think they will forgive me…

Is there a reason you started the blog?

Yes. I’m trying to get a “platform”. This is what the publishing industry calls it when you have a following that can be counted on to buy your book when it comes out. My book, Surviving Childhood and Raising Special Needs Parents, is pretty much the same as my blog. Ask any new parent, that first time they trust their bundle of joy to a complete stranger long enough to escape into the world of adult conversation, and they will maybe admit they are terrified. Oh, they've read the Dr. Sears books and the "Raising your darling spawn." de jour self-help book and can probably quote all the right answers. But deep down, there's the "am I doing this right" syndrome all parents suffer through. Just what is the proper response when your 18-month old son names his wee-wee god? If your toddler likes strawberries dipped in mustard, does that mean she won't get into a good college? Should you be jealous if your son is better at picking up girls than you ever were?

In just over six years, my children have matured me decades, but I am younger than I was before they were born. My book and blog validate and embrace children, family and humor.

So, if you know of anyone with a sense humor or children that have a tendency to drive them crazy, pass along my blog so they can join in the laughter.

Ok, but what’s the real reason for the blog?

Revenge would probably be the main reason. When my kids bring home their first boy/girlfriends, I’m planning on having a long talk with their new friends. (Yes, I have pictures to back up the stories.) Also, when my kids reach that level of insanity and decide to have their own children, I want them to know what they having coming. (Karma can be a sweet revenge.)

Another reason is for the police. When my wife does snap and kill me, (see the article on self-editing), she’s going to need to get out of jail quickly to take the kids to school. I figure the blog will be all the evidence that is needed to prove it was a justifiable homicide.

I have a friend/son/daughter with young children and think they would enjoy reading about your adventures. Can I send them a link?

Did you miss the part about needing a lot of readers? By all means, tell your friends/relatives/strangers you meet on the street/people you hate. The more the merrier!

Are the stories true?

They are truish. The story about the Marine is true though. And for the record, the poem is pretty much all made up. However, my kids have sold me out to their mother many times. (Hence the revenge.) I am keeping their names out to protect them.

Are the articles taken from your book?

No, these are unique. So when Surviving Childhood and Raising Special Needs Parents does hit the bookstores, there won’t be any repeats from the blog. Of course, if I need more material or get writer’s block for the next book, I might take these articles. I’m sure I’ll figure out a reason to rationalize it.

Where do you get your ideas?

A six-year old and three-year old that have way too many of my genes (or the Fed-Ex guy’s) and a supporting wife give me all the material I can hope for. Each dent in my wife’s minivan tells it’s own story. And if I’m lucky enough that my son was in the minivan when the dent happened…

How often will you post?

Well, between working, two kids and writing, probably not as often as I like. (It’s a kinda guilty pleasure writing these articles.) My goal is at least once a week. If you want to be notified when I post a new article, use the link to the left to follow the blog. I’m pretty sure it’ll notify you when the muse hits me and I make it though my wife’s editing regime.

Self-Editing

2009-01-05T08:10:00.000-08:00

When does our ability to self-edit fail? I don’t mean going back through an email or re-reading the instant message before you send it to make sure you’ve gotten all the you’re, your, its and it’s correct. No, I’m talking about the time lag between when the words come to mind and they pass your lips.

Like everything from gray hair to my sore knees, I blamed my children when I noticed that my self-editor wasn’t always working at full speed. It was only logical. I’d seen my parents and my wife’s parents lose theirs. Granted, my wife was not nearly the angel and child prodigy I was, so it was only logical that her parents would lose theirs. I blame my brother for my parents losing theirs.

But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I realize that this one time, maybe my children aren’t to blame. The first time I remember noticing it was long before we had children. We still lived in Washington, DC and I was an instructor at one of the leading technical training centers there. It was also a government contracting company. (Every business in DC seems to be a government contractor.) Because we did a lot of work with the CIA and NSA and I specialized in security, many military people came through my classes.

Now, over the years, I’ve worked with a lot of Marines. I don’t think I’ve met one that didn’t impress me. The ones that came through my training were, to a man, young, intelligent and driven.

The first time I remember my self-editor not working was during a class that had two Marines in addition to other corporate clients. It was towards the end of lunch and the students were starting to return. Being a professional, I’d reloaded my coffee and played minesweeper during lunch. (I do my best work when I am overloaded on coffee and lightheaded.) (Minesweeper isn’t just a game. It’s a Tao. I’ve often used it to predict events. The first time my wife went for an important job interview, I stayed up most of the night working. The first goal was winning on the advanced level under a certain time. If I did that, the interview would go well. Then I had to win twice in a row, and she would be considered for the job. When I won three times in a row, under a certain time limit, she would get the job offer. The next day, when she came home with the job, she didn’t seem too impressed when I told her how I got her the job.)

As the students returned, one of the Marines asked a question about something we’d covered before lunch. It was a really good question and something we were going to cover that afternoon. I remember the words forming. Saw each and everyone. For. Marine. Question. Good. That’s. A. Very. A. I think my body knew something was wrong because the fight or flight response was triggered when the adrenaline kicked in.

“For a Marine, that’s a very good question.”

Now, I need to explain that there was nothing prejudice or anti-military in my response. We’d spent the past week joking and everyone in the class had a good sense of humor. In fact, when another student said, in amazement, “I didn’t know Lotus Notes did that,” about a security feature, this Marine said, “That’s because you don’t need to know.”

There were two possible responses. Since I’m still alive, he obviously didn’t take the first. He laughed and we spent the afternoon working on his question.

So, I can’t blame my kids for my self-editing feature not working. Now that I think about it, they’ve helped strengthen it. Rather than use the first four-letter word that immediately springs to mind when I see my daughter unscrew her sippy-cup and pour the contents on the carpet I just finished cleaning, my brain catches them and substitutes a string of incoherent sounds.

I know I am more aware of the words, especially when my son started the nightly Daddy, what does this word mean game. To which, I’ve added the second part, Where did you hear that word? So far, we haven’t hit any of George Carlin’s words. The problem is, I know my kids are plotting to see which one will be the first to get daddy to teach them those words. Until then, here’s hoping my self-editor doesn’t overheat.

Firsts

2008-12-29T22:29:00.000-08:00

This was a fall was filled with firsts. My son’s first day of kindergarten. His first bus ride. His first time getting off the bus. His first time getting back on the bus and getting off at the correct stop. My son’s first Christmas play. It was also the first time my wife watched him get on the bus, never ever, ever, ever to see him again. (Strangely, when he safely got off the bus that afternoon, she claimed she wasn’t at all worried.) It was also the first time I realized what a craven coward my wife is.

It all started three weeks before Christmas. That’s when she started her nefarious plotting. She made several references to my son’s Christmas play and wanted to make sure I was going to be in town. I checked my schedule and made sure everything was clear. Honestly, there was no way I was going to miss his first (well, actually it was his third, but it was the first officially sanctioned by the American public school system.) Christmas play. Especially after listening to him practice his songs.

Pretty much from the end of October I ‘d hear them practicing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. I’d sneak into the living room and as soon as he saw me, he’d clam up and tell my wife to stop singing. When I asked what they were doing, I was firmly told, by both conspirators, that it was a secret.

A couple weeks before the play, my wife casually (I should learn that when she casually slips something into the conversation, I need to pay attention) mentioned that my son also had his class Christmas party the same day of the play. I recall she added that she had volunteered to help out. Now, at this point, my respect for her rose by leaps and bounds. Anyone that would volunteer to be confined in a small room with twenty six-year old sugar-addled, pre-Christmas hyped hooligans deserves a special place in heaven.

Because it was the end of the year, we had money set aside for medical expenses that had to be used or it’d go back into the tax pool. (Don’t ask me. When my wife explained it, it made sense.) And she had a coupon for a local dentist. She’d been complaining about a crown or something. Apparently a crown has something to do with your teeth and is not a bid to be treated like royalty?

Now, I grew up with the phrase, “I’d rather have a root canal than do…” fill in the blank. And in over forty years, I always thought that was just a hugely exaggerated phrase. That is until my wife told me that she had scheduled her root canal for the Tuesday before Christmas. I can think of many ways to prepare for the holidays, but for some reason, a visit to the dentist never ranked real high on my list.

Remember the statement that there is a special place in heaven for people that volunteer to be caged with over twenty six-year olds? Well, I’m even surer that there is a special place in hell for wives that volunteer to do that, then schedule a root canal and send their husbands in their place. I found out about her evil bait and switch Tuesday morning.

Since my son has a dye allergy, and his teacher was on vacation, one of us had to go and make sure the substitute didn’t give him anything that would make him sick. One of the great things about where we live is, everyone knows and watches out for him, even his little friends. But with Christmas just around the corner, we didn’t want to take any chances.

My son’s class had their Christmas play first, so we went to see our firstborn’s fourth first Christmas play. They did a great job. My favorite was, All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth. The fact that for most, it was true added to the realism. Then seeing close to one hundred kindergarteners leap when they sang “Sister Suzie sitting on the thistle, OUCH!” really sold the song.

Afterwards, my wife still maintained that she would be able to help out with the party in the afternoon. I was impressed at how she lied without flinching. When I got the call, that after the root canal, she “just didn’t think she’d be able to go, could I?” I wasn’t mad. I’m not the one going to hell.

So, with my most stain resistant clothes, several cups of coffee in me to fortify, I went to face my doom. I knew what my son was like at home. Him multiplied by twenty, with the excitement of Christmas, I figured we’d throw the pizza, cookies and juice through the door and wait until the noise settled down before going in. Add a substitute and I wasn’t sure I’d get out alive.

We were invited into the classroom and I stared at those little eyes, waiting for them to pounce. Then something amazing happened. “I don’t see all the kindergarteners sitting and quiet,” the substitute announced. I thought, that’s because they are getting ready to ambush us.
Then, just like in the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes, all those little hooligans sat, cleaned up their desk and looked on… with… angelic faces. Even my son! We had pizza, punch and cookies, played games, made reindeer antlers and I survived my first immersion into the wild habitat of a herd of kindergarteners.

I hope everyone has as wonderful a holiday as we did.

The Best Christmas Period

2008-12-24T18:42:00.000-08:00

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

Quality Time

2008-12-22T20:27:00.000-08:00

This past summer, my daughter really found her legs. It’s been amazing watching the differences between her and her brother. He spent the first four years of his life in Vienna, Virginia. I think the biggest hill around us was shorter than me. Oh, we had gradual hills, but nothing compared to western Pennsylvania, where we moved when he was almost four and his sister was still learning the freedom of crawling.

Just like Vienna was pretty much flat, western Pennsylvania is pretty much flat. The main difference is the flatness is mixed in with constant hills, valleys and mountains. That first summer we all enjoyed exploring our new domain. (We moved from a postage stamp lot to three acres, so it was huge in our eyes.) There was one small problem. While living on the side of a mountain guarantees you spectacular views, it means you are on the side of a mountain. When we bought the house, I knew we’d be carrying my daughter for that first summer. My wife even made the comment that she was looking forward to walking up and down the hills and getting in shape. (After fifteen years of marriage, I knew enough to keep quiet whenever she made that comment.)

I don’t think my daughter is stronger or more stoic than my son, it’s just that she’s never known anything but hills. My son and I had a nice tradition in Vienna. After dinner, when the weather permitted, we’d walk to a creek about a mile away from out house. Sometimes he rode his tricycle; sometimes he’d push his mower. When we got to the creek, we’d take turns tossing rocks into the water. We also played in the cul-de-sac with the other kids and the parents. So, he wasn’t a junior couch potato. He must have thought it very rude to find his flat turf replaced by unending hills.

One of the rudest things I found was when I got a call from my wife saying a tree had fallen across our driveway. When we first saw the house, the driveway amazed us. Over a hundred feet long and laid perfectly with pavered blocks. Not only that, but huge rhododendrons bordered both sides of the driveway and in the spring it was like driving down a tunnel of purple. Near the house, the driveway spread out to a large parking area with two ancient trees in the middle, the pavered blocks around the trees. All in all, quite impressive. Until a windstorm blew one of the trees over and took out our power, cable and telephone lines.

To add insult to Mother Nature’s vandalism, the tree fell barely a month before we were going to host my wife’s family reunion at our new house. I still had to finish the deck, convert half the garage into a guest room, as well as my normal work. In other words, I was going to have a very irritated wife when everyone arrived and nothing was completed. (I’m great at starting projects, it’s the whole finishing thing I have a teeny tiny problem with.) We had a bit of luck in that we could still drive my car around the fallen tree. However, my wife’s minivan was a tight fit.

Now, there are those that will say, “So it’s a tight fit. Why’s that an issue?” Those are the same people that have seen the sides, bumper and tires of her car. It’s not that she’s a bad driver. If you’ve heard of touch typists, that’s how my wife drives. When she hits a curb, it’s time to stop. (Even my son, at four, knew it was ok to tease her about her driving. He told me, in great detail, how he looked out his window one time and they were flying. Since my wife was standing nearby and he was giggling the whole time, I knew he was teasing her.)

So, I had an almost four-foot diameter tree lying across our driveway and my wife’s car hopelessly trapped. And I had a trip to Washington DC coming up the next week. So in a weekend, I cut, chopped and split enough wood to last us for the winter.

The silver lining was that in September, the evenings tend to get chilly in the mountains. A good chunk of the stump remained and it made a cheery gathering place during the family reunion (We quickly ran out of neutral corners) as I tried to burn it down. (It only took a year and a half to completely burn the stump out.)

This is when I learned about my daughter’s fascination with fire. At almost two, she’d sit with me and laugh and chortle as the sparks shot into the night. That love of fire translated into watching me start the BBQ grill, fires in the fireplace and rewiring light switches.

Before I got a bellow, I’d spend several minutes blowing on the fire to get it going again after it’d burned down. Of course, she’d join me. There’s nothing quite as funny as watching her on her hands and knees, a good, safe distance from the fireplace, huffing and blowing. “I start fire for you, daddy,” she’d say confidently and turn her blonde head back and keep blowing. With her help, we’d get the fire roaring again and then we’d settle in for an evening of rocking. Now that I have the bellow, getting the fire going is easier, but when my daughter helps, we still do it the old fashioned way.

Green Eggs and Ham

2008-12-22T09:20:00.000-08:00

“Sam I am!” My daughter, at 3 has learned the final line by heart and knows most of the rest by now. I usually try to give my wife a break after dinner and read our children their bedtime stories.

When our son was born, I did the nighttime routine with him (except for the bath. I didn’t have the required doctorate in Babies and Water, so I wasn’t allowed near the bathroom during that time. However, the one night our son had a high fever I was the one that got to sit in the cold bathtub with him while my wife called the doctor, emergency room, her mother and Dr. Sears.) That meant swaddling and giving him his nighttime bottle. This was our bonding time.

Eventually the bottle changed to a cup of milk and crackers while I read him two stories. It had to be two stories, not one long book or three short books—two! Anything else and his little world was thrown into chaos. Now, you might be thinking that is a sign of future problems. Both sets of grandparents thought the same thing and delicately brought up that he needed to be evaluated. But this is my son. While he can be a little OCD about his Hot Wheels cars, the two books, when you add in my wife’s genes and mine, made perfect sense.

One book meant he was going to bed too early, because two is obviously more than one. But… he knew if he pushed it to three, he was skating on thin ice, especially after I’d had a bad day at work. So two was safe, and if he picked out thick ones, he could push the limit even further.

When our daughter graced us with her presence, I did her nighttime routine also. We moved from Washington, DC to Pennsylvania shortly after she was born. My daughter and I spent many a relaxing evening next to the fire, watching TV while she had her bottle(s). At least that was the plan. Usually, she’d wake up halfway through the bottle and decide that her tiny fingers needed to see how pliable my eyes were.

We had a nice routine for a while. Both the children would take their baths/showers then I’d separate my daughter from the pile of energy that raced around the house, wrestle her into her pajamas (I only made the mistake of telling her one time that she was getting her brother’s old pajamas. The, “They too big for me!” left no doubt what her opinion on the matter was.) and take her downstairs to rock. When she outgrew her bottle (an executive decision my wife and I made after she unscrewed the lid and poured the contents out) I decided it was time for her to join her brother during story time.

To make it fair, she picked one book and her brother picked another book. Since they are both adorers of Thomas the Train, we were guaranteed a book that took us to the isle of Sodor. The other book was usually a Dr. Seuss.

As a writer and teacher, I’ve always admired Dr. Seuss. He wrote books to help children learn through repetition of small recognizable words. And then managed to rhyme each sentence (no small feat but made somewhat easier by his knack of making up words.) As a father, who’d spent the day working on computers or teaching people and was drained, I’ve always carried an undying hatred for him. Getting my mouth to form those made up words and my eyes to focus on them in the early evening is a stretch. That is, until I found Green Eggs and Ham.

Pure and simple, this work should go down in history along side War and Peace. While it may not address the same social, economic and political issues that Tolstoy covered, it has saved my sanity. I know the words by heart and… every single word in the book is a… word! Fifty plus pages of rhymes with words that I knew.

After the first thirty or forty times of reading it, I sensed that my children were losing interest in the storyline. Now, I could have just let it go and moved on to another book, but I was still looking forward to our nightly reading. Our children are complete opposites when it comes to eating. Our daughter will eat anything (including strawberries dipped in mustard) and our son would make a picky eater jealous. So, thinking quick one night as both kids began wandering away when I reached for Green Eggs and Ham, I shouted, after the first refrain of, “I do not like Green eggs and Ham,” “Do you like green eggs and ham?” My daughter looked and me and shook her head, “No.” My son followed with “No!”

We had common ground now. I lead them both through the refrains, each time louder until the house shook with their screams of, “No, I do not like green eggs and ham!” (Yes, my wife also pointed out that getting them that riled up right before bed was not the brightest move I’ve made).

We finished with the revelation that green eggs and ham are good. I had no doubt my daughter would agree (remember the strawberries). I was shocked when my son answered, yes, he does like green eggs and ham. I was even more surprised when the next night at dinner, he did his normal balking at trying something new, until I brought up green eggs and ham. He tried the new dish. When I asked him how it was, he answered, “Not too terrible.”

Well… you can’t win all the time.

Snow

2008-12-21T09:09:00.000-08:00

We had our first real snow fall of the year this past weekend. So, of course this meant my wife was sick and the kids had to go sled riding. With no other option, I did the daddy thing. Both kids were bundled up until they couldn't move and shoved outside. Since my wife was still in the house, I had to go out with them.

I made the first run down the hill next to the house. When we bought the house, one of the selling points for me was the hill it sat on. I saw many winters of fun sled riding with the kids. In DC, the snow usually lasted a weekend at most and the hills near our house dumped you out into a busy road. So, while it looked fun, and I kept telling my wife we could always make more, sled riding was frowned upon. Another nice feature that both my wife and I liked was the creek that ran through the property. Unfortunately, I didn't quite put all the geometry and physics together when we bought the house. Water runs down hill, and that is also the general path a sled will take. This meant that the sled run tended to end up at the creek. Luckily, there was a row of bushes and trees that bordered the creek. So, you'd have to be going pretty darn fast to actually make it into the creek.

Last year, both kids had been too young and it was easy to keep them toward the bottom of the hill. This year, I think my son is going to feel the need for speed, especially when his friends come over. If it was just me, I wouldn't worry. By the time he has his long johns, snow pants, boots, coat, hat and mittens on, he is pretty much invulnerable to anything. He has rolling off down pat. There is nothing quite as funny as watching him fly down the hill, snow flying over his head until he dives off the sled, the red mingling with the white. However, with his mother, and both grandparents ready to voice their "opinions" on safety, I'm pretty sure we will be making the sledding hill "kid friendly."

This year, I figured it would be a slow run to start. We only had a little over an inch of snow. A few runs down and most of the snow should be gone. I didn't take into account the leaves. We had a belt break on the tractor this fall, so I dug out the manual and replaced it. After successfully proving my mechanical manhood, I was able to use the tractor to gather the leaves that had fallen. What I didn't take into account was that if one belt breaks, there's a good chance the remaining ones are probably going to break soon. That soon was before the majority of the leaves in our three acres covered the ground. Between work, school starting and general laziness, I never got around to replacing that second belt. So, we have a nice layer of leaves covering the grass. When you add snow on top of the leaves, you get Mother Nature's grease.
That first run, over the thin snow turned into a race of death to the creek. Of course both kids stood at the top of the hill cheering. They must have mistaken my screams as excitement. Luckily, the first row of trees slowed me enough that I gracefully plowed into the prickers right along the back of the creak.

The next time it snows, I'm making sure I get sick first.

Home Health Care

2008-12-21T09:03:00.000-08:00

Several years ago, before we had children and our own business, I worked for a government contractor with a great health benefit system. Before my wife and I started our own business, we agreed it would be a good idea to have my knees checked before we started out and ran up our insurance premiums. It'd been several years since my last physical or visit to a doctor of any kind (When ever I go to a doctor, they either want to stick a needle in me or chop on my knees. This tends to make me a little reluctant to visit that profession). Since I am basically helpless when it comes to picking a doctor, my wife helped me and did a ton of research. She found a joint specialist in Washington, DC that also did most of the joint work for the Washington Redskins.

Since my bone disease is fairly rare, we spent a few visits explaining and educating this doctor. After the third visit and no needles and no chopping, I was feeling pretty good. That's when the hammer dropped. He decided that I needed to have a few bones removed and my kneecap "cleaned." So the date was set and my dad came in to help take care of me while I recovered. My two executioners (this will become clear in a little bit) drove me to the medical center for the out-patient surgery. I had definite plans on how the surgery would happen, and they all involved me being blissfully comatose through the entire thing. My wife, on the other hand had gone and done more annoying research. Apparently, general anesthesia was now considered dangerous. So, my plans were cancelled and I was talked into getting an spinal tap, with the guarantee that I wouldn't feel a thing. They even promised me something to help me relax and sleep. A long needle in my spine and the chance to be permanently paralyzed or an IV with nice drugs...

So they put in the spinal block and put me on my side in the pre-op area and waited for it to take affect. After about twenty minutes a nurse came back, tapped my leg and asked if I felt anything. Nope, everything was going according to plan. My right leg was completely numb. The nurse asked if I was ready and even started to wheel me to the operating room when I casually mentioned that I could still pretty much feel everything in my left leg. This brought a frown of confusion and a question of why I brought that up. I calmly mentioned that they were operating on both my knees. (While I did contemplate not saying anything and then collecting on a huge malpractice suit, it was only for a second when weighed against the pain.) So, I was flipped over to the other side until my left leg was also numb then off we went.

The promised drugs did relax me and I drifted off to a peaceful sleep. I also woke up about halfway through. There was the coolest movie on the screen. It looked just like the sandworm in the Dune movies. Except you could see it burrowing through the sand. I must have made a comment because someone said that was the arthroscopy. It took a few minutes to put it all together... I was actually watching them "clean" my knee, a surgical instrument inside my body, while I was awake. Only one word can adequately sum up that experience-cool!

Surprisingly, in Washington, DC, if you get your body cut open, bones literally hacked out by a hammer and chisel (granted, it's an EXPENSIVE hammer and chisel) and your kneecap buzzed by something that looks like a sandworm, it is classified as out-patient surgery. I'd no sooner woke up completely than they started getting me ready to go home. I mentioned that there was still a huge honking needle in my back that might pose a problem getting into the car, and they graciously removed it. My knees were locked in two thick braces, so I had no choice but to let my wife drive home.

Once home, my wife and dad sprang into action. Ice was applied, pain-killers ordered, something to drink and read kept close by as I was laid to rest on the couch. Everything went along smoothly until nature began calling. I'd made sure the crutches were nearby so I reached for them. Both of my guardians leapt up and wanted to know what I was doing. I explained the basics of biology and how the human bladder is a finite organ that needs emptying periodically. Truthfully I was little disappointed in my wife. She new enough about general anesthesia to know it was pretty much fatal (at least for me) but going to the bathroom was a surprise to her.

They both insisted they help me to the bathroom. I should mention that the house we were living in at the time had amazing hardwood floors throughout. It was an old house, so they were polished from years and years and years of use. I was wearing a pair of shorts, two thick knee immobilizers and and socks. My two caretakers each took an arm to help me up. As they lifted and I put weight on my feet, my socks slipped and instead of going up, I ended up on my butt. Instead of the expected gasps of anguish at how they'd failed their jobs, both of them were laughing uncontrollably. Apparently they thought it was quite funny.

So, my wife and dad have been added to doctors in the list of people that seem to want to hurt me for no apparent reason.