Laser Tag

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

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

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

The game started with a small emergency...

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

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

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

“Hold on. We need a plan.”

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

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

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

“Did we get points for shooting the base?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“How much?”

“100 points.”

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

“Did the base shoot you?”

“The base shot back?”

"Yes.”

“Why didn't they say that?”

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

“They really should have told us that!”

“They did.”

“When?”

“Right before we went in.”

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

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

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

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

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

The Best Christmas Period

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rocks

“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

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...

Some Assembly Required

“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.

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.)

The Best Christmas Period

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On The Road

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...

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!)

Graduations

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

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.

Rules

“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

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

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.

Work

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

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.

The Best Christmas Period

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

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

“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.

Home Health Care

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.