Pride

"I got this, dad," my son assured me.

"Are you sure?" Even though he was only ten- years old, there was no doubt in his voice.

"Trust me. I got it."

"Trust me" was apparently one of my mom's triggers when I was growing up. To hear her tell (that's old fashion talk from her part of the country. They also say warsh instead of wash.) every time I said that she either started calling 911 or got the bandages out. (I'd like to point out that never once did the fire department have to make it all the way to our house after I said, "Trust me. I know what I'm doing.")

"What are you going tell her?"

"Dad..." I'd imagine Tiger Woods used the exact same tone when his dad asked him how he was going to tee off in his first Master's tournament.

"Well?"

After a long, exasperated sigh (Which he gets from his mother.) he explained. "I'm going to tell her I called my friend and he wants to play at the park."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What time."

"5."

"What if she wants to go earlier?"

"I'll tell her they are busy until then. If she want to leave too early, then I'll tell her I forgot something in the house. When she comes in looking for me, I'll tell her I can't find my stuffed dog and she'll see it on the table and I'll say I didn't look there." (Every lie needs an element of truth. There is no doubt he would not look in the most obvious place.)

I was proud of him. The keys to a good lie were the details and keeping it simple.

Now, I just needed to get everyone to the park, get the food and drinks and some cover in case it rained. Operation "Surprise Mommy" was underway.

Everyone had a part to play. My son was the initial liar, my daughter who can not keep a secret was the truth-telling-liar and found out how much fun it is to trick mommy. She "let out" that Sunday was a surprise pizza party (She was positive that Chuckie Cheese would be the perfect venue cause that 1000 ticket card in the cyclone was wicked awesome. And she could tell mommy how to get it.) My son and I both shushed her and my wife pretended not to hear. Later she told me how my daughter spilled all the details:

“She told me we're going to have pizza at the park.”

“Oh?” Since my daughter's idea of keeping a secret was to only yell it once, I figured she'd blown her part.

“Don't worry. I won't say anything to Ann.”

“Oh?” I tried to keep the worry out my voice and sound irritated that the small surprise had been ruined.

“It's OK. It'll be fun to have just us.” (If I wasn't so proud of how well they'd taken to deceiving their own mother, I'd be worried about how they were both naturals at lying...)

I had the people invited, the food bought (And I even remember the cake) and a place if it rained. Now, I just needed to get everything there without my wife realizing something was up. Getting out of the house was easy, I just needed “to make a quick trip to Lowes” for some supplies. That would be good for at least an hour.

While my son and daughter kept my wife distracted, a few of us met at the park and got things together. After the third text message from my wife, I figured it was probably time to go get her. Especially since the last message said she was getting ready to head to the park. I called and said I was on my way home, I'd had a little accident at the store and would tell her about it when I got home, but everything was ok.

Once home, I limped in and explained a row of doors had fallen over and jammed my knee. It was fun watching her go from we're-late-and-I'm-pissed-off to concerned about how bad my knee was. She made sure I got to the car without further damaging my knee. All the while telling the kids, “Daddy really hurt his knee. Be careful.” To my daughter, she had a special message, “No, you can't jump on his back!” On the way to the park, she planned how to take me to the hospital for x-rays if it didn't stop hurting soon. She even found a close parking space so I wouldn't have to limp as far. (And for the record, no, I didn't really feel any guilt about tricking her.)

When we got to the pavilion and she saw all her friends and then noticed I wasn't limping any more, she had the nerve to call me a big, fat liar. At least my kids are learning from the best.

The Question

There comes a time in every kid's life when things change. They notice subtle differences. As parents, we've watched our children grow from little wrinkly things that constantly cry to little things that make us constantly cry. It's a joyous time, seeing them become miniature versions of us ( without the cynicism and scars.). But, even though we know it's coming, we dread the time when they get old enough and ask The Question. You know...The Question that leads to The Talk.

It happened with my son one evening. I'd just gotten home from work and was looking forward to relaxing. My son sat next to me. I waited for the “Let's play catch” or “Let's play a game on the Wii.” But he sat there quietly.

I tensed up waiting for the tickle attack, but even that didn't happen.

“Daddy,” I could tell this was going to be a difficult discussion from the tone of his voice.

“Yes, bud?” I was prepared for pretty much anything. He'd been on a what-if kick lately. So, I was ready with most of the professional quarterbacks and whether or not they could throw the ball to the moon.

“Why is President Obama so bad?”

This, I was not prepared for. The last presidential election was the first he remembered. (He was about 2 years-old for the previous one. Even though we lived close to the center of the political world at the time, I'm pretty sure the whole process didn't register with him. I know what you're thinking, at two he drooled and had the same bodily control as most politicians, so there's no reason for him not to remember that election.) Anyway, after the last presidential election, he was very proud that he knew who the new President was. So, I was a little concerned and quite unprepared for his question. I fell back on the best Parental Response. “Why do you ask that?” (That'll buy you a good five minutes while they try to figure out how to re-word questions like, “Why is the sky blue?” and “If I hit my sister with a bat because she's annoying, but she's not bleeding too much, how much trouble would I be in? Not that I did.”)

“Because, he is destroying the country.”

Usually, I vote the opposite of my mother-in-law (just because it's fun to piss her off.) But I haven't actively set out to irritate my children yet. So, I was pretty sure he didn't get that impression from me. “Who told you that?”

“A commercial on TV.”

“That's not really true.”

“You mean Mitt Romney's a liar?”

“Not really.”

“But he said he won't raise taxes and Barack Obama will. And we'll be out of money.”

“He's just saying that because he wants people to vote for him.”

“You mean he's going to raise taxes?”

For a minute, I thought about explaining global economics to my son. Then I remembered that he's doing math problems in school that make no sense to me. (For that matter, the last time I helped my daughter, who is in first grade, with her math, we BOTH got letters from the teacher. Luckily my wife gave me an excuse and I didn't have to go to detention. But I did have to promise to never help my daughter with math again.) There's also the fact to count above ten, I have to take off my shoes and socks and I was too comfortable to move right then.

“Well, see, it's like this. They both want people to vote for them. They say what they think people want to hear.”

“Barack Obama does that too?”

“Yes. It's all part of running for election.”

“We have to choose between two liars?”

“Well... They aren't really lies. They are campaigning.”

He gave a look that only a kid presented with adult logic can get. “So, we have to choose between two liars. That's stupid.”

“Let's play a game on the Wii,” I suggested.

“OK, but it's still stupid.”

“I know, Go talk to your Grandma. She was alive when they signed the Declaration of Independence. She can explain it.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” If the President can campaign, so can I.

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.