Cartoons

“Do not hit your brother with wood!”

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

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

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

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

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

There was defensive mumbling from the basement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cure

“Gramps is not allowed in our house.”

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

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

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

“What happened to Clifford.”

“He got a scratch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'll get your ice!”

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

“I'll keep him away from you, daddy.”

Mission accomplished.

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

Out of Warranty

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not really, an occasional cigar.”

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

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

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

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

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

The $%$#$*&$ Threes

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…