Death Predator

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

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

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

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

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

“That's a weird name.”

“I know.”

“Wow, he shot you in the head.”

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

“Did the same person just kill you again?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What? WillowyFlipper is a terrifying name.”

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

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

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

“Yes! They are afraid of WillowyFlipper now!”

“Dad, he wasn't afraid.”

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

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

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

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

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

That got me a thoughtful look. “What?”

“Intestine JumpRoper.”

“That not scary, that's just gross.”

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

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

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

Herb II

“Dad, will you coach my dek hockey team this season?”

“Mine too!” My daughter piped in.

After my perfect season as a substitute coach, I couldn't say no to their requests. Also, being well into middle age, I am apparently developing senility and have forgotten how dangerous dek hockey is.

“Coach, why don't you have pads?”

I looked down to see one of my players (That's all guesswork. He was encased in impenetrable shin guards, elbow pads, gloves and helmet a good three sizes too large. Since he was still standing upright, I'm fairly certain he was a human boy.) swinging his stick painfully close to my bare ankles. My first response was, “Because I'm stupid and want a painfully slow death.” But I've found middle-aged sarcasm is lost on the younger generations. (and my sense of humor is lost on pretty much anyone.) I gave a thoughtful look at, what I was fairly certain was his face, and said, “ I don't know.”

This was enough of an answer and he went off to chase a ball or whack at one of his teammates. (In truth, those are pretty much the same thing.)

After a few minutes of loosely regimented drills, (I was still trying to work up the nerve to get within striking distance (a mile) of their sticks.) it was time to go over fundamentals. We needed to cover the rules.

I learned about the importance of rules. My son and daughter were having their own Stanley Cup in our driveway that weekend.

“Why did you stop us?” my daughter demanded, stalking over to me.

“Slashing,” I explained as I stepped away from her stick.

Her head tilted a little to the side as she took in my verdict. When in trouble, my daughter has two modes. The crushed, world ending sobbing side and the let's-learn-so-we-won't-get-caught-next-time mode. “But I was going after the ball.”

“The ball wasn't near your brother's head.”

“It bounced.” I have give her credit, she didn't even pause.

“You were chasing your brother, swinging your stick.”

“You said to attack the ball.”

“You were screaming that you were going to kill him.”

“That's slashing?”

“That's attempted homicide, but they don't call that in hockey. The closest thing is slashing.”

After this, I thought it would be a good idea to go over the basic rules with my team. We called a huddle in front of the net. “Ok guys, listen up.”

“Those two birds are watching us play.”

“Birds don't watch dek hockey.”

“What are they doing then?”

There's one thing about an adult teaching kids, usually the kids are looking up. At this age, they are easily distracted. (The birds were watching us. I could tell from their laughter every time I ducked.) I crouched down so there would be fewer distractions. “Ok guys, listen up.”

Eleven helmets dropped and looked down.

“Why are there holes in the dek?”

“That's so water will drain.”

“Last season, it rained really hard and the corner was filled with water.”

“I know, I skidded through it like this...”

“GUYS!”

“Yes coach?”

“Let's focus. We need to cover some of the rules.”

“I know the rules, coach!”

“I got called for tripping once.”

“We'll cover tripping in a minute.” Maybe there was a hint of desperation in my voice. “Ok, guys. Who knows what high sticking is?”

You'd think, after two kids and surviving my wife being pregnant twice, I'd have a better grasp on cause and effect at my age. I had eleven armed and armored kids gathered around me... listening intently.

You might be wondering, what does it sound like when eleven sticks are instantly raised from the ground to straight in the air? I can tell you...

It sounds like a middle-aged man screaming in panic followed by eleven kids giggling. The giggling is what hurt the most.

“Coach, why are you bleeding?”

“I had a bloody nose once. I didn't get hit by a hockey stick though.”

“What hit you?”

“I ran into someone's head.”

“Ok, guys, sticks down,” I said, still dazed.

You know, I think they giggled harder this time when I screamed as all the sticks sliced back down.

“Coach, you should have to wear a helmet too.”

I can understand why Coach Herb had a reputation for swearing.

Vacation

9:00 a.m.

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

“No, that's next week.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11:00 a.m.

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

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.