Cues

As a parent, you learn the subtle cues when your children have either bitten off more than they can chew or think they have. My son's cue is “Dad, do you really think I'm ready for this?”

He asked me that question the night before we were to leave on the scouting trip. My answer was, “Of course you are, bud. You'll be able to handle everything.” What I was thinking was, “Of course you are, bud. I, on the other hand, am not. There's not going to be any beer, TV or anything resembling a bed for almost a week.”

The other day, he asked me the same question. We were sitting on the plastic chairs outside the dive shop at Cane Bay. I could tell by the tone of his voice, this was a serious one. Over the past month, we'd gone through the online training for open water scuba certification together. He could have easily done it himself, but I wanted to make sure I still knew the rules. (He is a stickler for the rules. The last thing I wanted was for him to grab my regulator halfway through a dive and kick me out of the water for a time out when I went too deep, or missed a proper surface interval. So, every night after work, we'd go over a couple of sections. (Do you have any idea how annoying it is when your son scores better on the tests than you do? Luckily, I didn't have to say my answers.))

We'd also done several practice sessions in the pool at home. He'd SNUBAed and was great at snorkeling, so, I was sure he'd have no problem. It was pretty hilarious seeing him in my wife's BCD (That's the thing they attach the tank to. When you're ten and trying to figure things out with an adult sized tank and adult equipment, the stakes are stacked against you pretty high. It's a good thing laughter doesn't travel well under water.)

When we got to St Croix, he had to do his pool sessions then four open water dives with an instructor before he would be certified and could dive on his own with a buddy. I made the reservations at the dive shop and got him there on time. My wife and daughter went to play in the sand while I stayed to make sure he was comfortable. He had to do a quick knowledge check (which he aced. Yes I was very proud of him). Then he had to put his equipment together. That was supposed to be the end of the first day. Since we were on vacation, a slow start was good. That's when the instructor told me my son was going to do his first open water dive.

Now, since the instructor had never seen my son in the pool and probably didn't remember him from last year, I was a little surprised. But not as surprised as my son. Hence our sitting in the plastic chairs outside the dive shop.

“Dad... Do you really think I'm ready for this?”

We shared a look for a minute. “Yep, bud, you are.”

“Are you sure?” This was definitely a “I've bitten off more than I can chew” moment.

“What are our rules for diving?” We'd come up with our own, and both had to agree before we would start a dive.

“Calm, confident and safe.”

“Do you think you can do this?”

A slight nod of his head.

Will I let you get hurt?

A slight shake of his head.

That just left calm. “You can do all the skills, Bud. I've seen you do them in the pool. You know all the rules, you've passed all the tests. Yes, you're ready for this. Do you think you are?”

There was a pause as he thought... “Yes, Dad. Are you going with us?”

“Yes. I'll get my stuff right now.”

The three of us made our way down to the ocean. (Actually, my son made his way. I limped under the 50 pounds of gear and whimpered because I was barefoot and forgot that the tropical sun and cement combine to create what's known as nuclear fusion heat. The instructor was better off, but he was “helping” my son walk with all his scuba gear on. This was quite a feat since the gear probably weighed more than my son.) After a few minutes of practicing key skills, we all headed out.

For the next 30 minutes, I saw my son do his first scuba dive. He was calm and confident. He did everything he was supposed to and made it look easy.

“Dad, do you think I'm ready for this?”

"Yes, you are, but damn it, I'm not.”

Princess

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Trick or treat!" my son yelled out.

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

"tk r trt," she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.