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…

Salt-Covered Windshields

Well, we’ve survived two weeks of the new work schedule, so I thought I’d give an update to those comparing the changes to my family and the First Family. (Both families started new jobs about the same time, we both got new dogs and both have two kids that are going through this also.)

I don’t know about President Obama, but this week, I found that I could lie to my kids and not feel guilty. This happened on Thursday. I had to be at work by 9 a.m. to conduct a training class with people from the U.S. and London. The class had been planned for over a week, so I’d gone over pretty much every scenario and figured I could manage getting the kids up, fed, dressed and to school and still make it in on time. (For those detailed oriented people, with my daughter, the order is very important. If she eats before she is dressed, she needs at least another shirt, sometimes pants and socks have to be changed too.) (This is the same girl that thinks strawberries and yellow mustard is a “delicious” combination. She also turns from a platinum blonde to a redhead when she eats spaghetti.)

I took a few minutes Wednesday night with my son, explaining that we had to leave early in the morning and if he could help me, he’d earn more points. (I know, that’s bribery, but keep in mind the starting theme of this article. Just think of it as me starting him out early on a career as a politician.) Well, Thursday morning came and I still maintain that there is nothing positive about 6 a.m. We’ve gotten our routine down and we were all ready and in the car by 6:45, an hour ahead of our normal schedule. My son was doing his best for extra points.

When we got in the car, it was still dark. My daughter’s little voice whispered, “I scared.”

My son, still in his helpful mode, (I can see why lobbyist like their jobs.) explained, “She’s scared cause it’s dark.”

“It’s not that dark,” I grumbled and tried to back up the driveway. Mother Nature had decided to put my planning skills to the test and graced us with another night of snowfall. I found myself silently joining their morning chant of “Let’s crash, let’s crash, let’s crash.” (See the previous article on my children’s sadistic desire to see my car wrapped around a tree.) Unfortunately, we made it up the driveway without hitting a single tree. Halfway to preschool, my daughter broke the silence with, “I not scared anymore, daddy. It bright out.”

She was right, somewhere, the sun was rising. For the past two weeks, I’ve been getting up before the sun has risen, but sometime during getting my monsters fed and dressed, the sun had risen. This morning, it greeted us as we drove.

“Don’t you like the sun rise, daddy?” My son’s voice was far too bright and cheerful for this early. I considered explaining that daddy does not like anything until after three cups of coffee, but he was keeping his sister happy and I didn’t want to risk that. (I still had to get them out of the car, into preschool, their stuff put away and hands washed before I could make my escape.)

The Lie: “Yes, I love the sun rise. It makes me very happy.”

That led to a discussion on where the sun was. I had no idea. The sky was overcast and I was running low on clear windshield. The snow from last night had melted while the car warmed up so all the salt residue was cleaned off when we started. However, at 0 degrees, the windshield washer fluid was frozen.

While this sounds dangerous, I’ve got the routine down. After dropping the kids off, I get back on the main roads and the passing trucks kick up enough spray to keep the windshield somewhat clean. By the time I get into Pittsburgh, everything has unfrozen and I can clean the windshield.

It was just after the sunrise comment when my wife called. She’d left for work an hour earlier. Surely, she was calling to tell me traffic was fine and to take my time. Instead, she was in a backup and wanted directions on a different way into the city. After dropping the kids off, I checked and still had two hours to drive the 40 miles to work. After Washington, DC traffic, there was no way I couldn’t handle this.
Unless the backup that my wife had been in was an accident that had traffic snarled for ten miles. 20 degrees, that’s when the windshield washer pump unfreezes. I sat in the crawling traffic watching the temperature, the other cars and the time. You’ve heard of rose-colored glasses? I have a salt-covered windshield. Behind that layer of near impenetrable grime, everything slows down. I realized it didn’t matter if I was a few minutes late. You can’t control traffic any more than you can control when the temperature will get above 20.

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.

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.