Teasing

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

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

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

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

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

“When?”

“You called me Dead John.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” the other Daisies chimed in.

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

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

“Let me see your driver's license.”

“I don't drive!”

“Why not?”

“I'm only SEVEN!”

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

“I'm too young to work.”

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

“My mom said it's not.”

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

Try it, you'll like it.

“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.)

Parachuting

“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!)

One Size Might Fit All

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.

FAQS

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.