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.”

Sleepover

“Dude, we started from two people.”

“Dude, I know. All I'm saying is those two people could have been monkeys.”

“Dude, we're not monkeys.”

“I'm not saying we're monkeys. Millions of years ago, we were monkeys.”

“First, there were two people. I forget what their names were. Second, monkeys don't have names.”

“Dude, I know. I'm not saying the first two people were monkeys. They evolved from dinosaurs. Then there were monkeys.”

“Animals came first. Then there were dinosaurs.”

“Everything on the Earth is an animal.”

My son was having a sleepover. It was almost midnight and I decided it might be a good idea to check on them. It was just us three guys, since my wife had decided that after almost a week of camping and sleeping on a “cot” surrounded by cub scouts, I needed one more night of no sleep while she and my daughter had a relaxing sleep over at the zoo with their girl scout troop. (Amazingly, my son's friend's mom was also going on the sleep over to the zoo. As she and my wife drove away, I'm pretty sure I heard unbalanced cackling from the car...) Also, it is a great idea to take two young boys who haven't gotten a decent night's sleep for a while and put them in close quarters, after an evening of junk food and super-hero movies.

So, I quietly walked up the stairs (on the very slight chance they were both asleep) and listened to the above conversation.

I was expecting a rehash of the Avengers and a heated argument about who was the best super-hero (One thought the Hulk was the best, the other thought it was Captain America.). Instead, I walked into a debate on creationism vs evolution.

I was not prepared for this. For one, I was sober and so were both kids, so any chance of a meaningful conversation was shot.

“Listen, million and millions of years ago, there were monkeys and cavemen evolved from them.”

“There were only two people.”

“Ok, dude, millions and millions of years ago, there were like two monkeys and they kept evolving, until there were like two cavemen.”

“It wasn't millions of years ago, it was like, I don't know, six days or something.”

“But, dude, the universe is infinite. It's still growing.”

“There are multiple universes, dude.”

“No dude. There is one universe. You mean galaxies.”

“No. There are multiple universes.”

They'd gone from creationism vs evolution to wormholes. As they got into the finer details of multi-dimensional travel (The Trekkies got seriously slighted. All their designs were based on Star Wars.) I had to sit down as they designed the rocket ships. (Oh, I'd had those same conversions with my friends when I was younger. But mine were in college and fueled by caffeine, alcohol and lack of sleep. My son and his friend were only going on pizza and super hero movies. Thankfully, nothing included Jar Jar.)

Around midnight, (yes, if my son's friend's mom reads this, I am going to be in trouble. I'm pretty sure I agreed to making sure both boys were in bed at a reasonable time, which they were. There was nothing in the verbal contract about being asleep at a reasonable time.) they finally had travel to distant worlds, stars and universes figured out. There was a few minutes of quiet from their room. The world kept spinning, time continued, so I don't think they broke anything with their ideas. Just in case, I felt obliged to watch an episode of Honey Boo Boo, just to make sure the universal scales stayed balanced.

Teasing

“I'm not going to retaliate.” I could tell from my son's tone that he'd been practicing this speech for a long time. He delivered the statement in a very calm voice and enunciated each word clearly.

“What does retaliate mean?” the little girl across the table asked. (This threw a bit of a wrench in his script.)

“It means when you tease me, I'm not going to tease you back. (We'd had the talk about how when a girl teases you, it means she likes you. He was horrified...)

“I didn't tease you.” There was a degree of self-righteous persecution that was hard to fake, even for a seven-year old girl.

“Yes you did.” He was not backing down.

“When?”

“You called me Dead John.”

“I didn't call you that! I was going to call your dad, John.” (apparently in the heat of not teasing. “Dad John, sound like dead John. Either that or she has some deep seated anger management issues.)

For a second, he was rather flustered because she was not following his memorized script... “Why?”

“Because he calls me Lisa and my name is not Lisa!” (She was completely correct there. But since I can not remember names, this made perfect sense to me.

That comment got the attention of the rest of the girls at the table. Suddenly, things did not look good for my son and me.

After a long year, my daughter and her friends were graduating from being Daisies to full-fledged Brownies. It had been a cool ceremony. My wife had been stressing over the ceremony since she was the Daisy leader. The bridging ceremony was a full-fledged family thing and my son and I were both told (I felt rather harshly and unnecessarily) to be on our best behavior. That was the reason my son was not going to “retaliate”. “Lisa” is Miss “the putz” Ann's daughter (Miss Ann apparently has unresolved jealously issues. Not more than a week after she saw all the attention my daughter got with her near fatal knee injury (see the previous blog), Miss Ann decided to break her own foot. All I heard was something about standing on a table to change a light bulb (I'm going with a freak-table dancing accident.). At her age, she should know bones are brittle and don't heal very fast. Being a concerned friend, I've made sure my daughter reminds her of that very often.). So, over the last several months, they've developed a relationship that can only be described as married. Their bickering (as described by my wife) is so cute.

So, this was why my son was carefully explaining that he was not going to retaliate. The problem was, he was using a combination of fourth grade and minecraft vocabulary and Lisa was listening with first grade vocabulary and chocolate cupcake sugar high. So, even though they were actually saying the same thing and agreeing, neither one realized and the “conversation” was quickly heading toward a nuclear meltdown on both parts (it was like they'd been married for years.)

To re-cap, my son and I were surrounded by a troop of girls. For the past hour, the leaders had carelessly been loading them up with sugar. (Maybe it hadn't been a full hour, but I've learned, when you are surrounded by women, it's always best to assume the worst.) We were both on our best behavior. And we'd just been sold out by Lisa...

“Her name is not Lisa,” one of the girls said.

“Yeah,” the other Daisies chimed in.

There was a feral glint in their seven-year old eyes. Being the mature adult, I knew it was time to diffuse the situation. Never the less, I asked, “How do you know?”

“Because,” they all said at the same time.

“Let me see your driver's license.”

“I don't drive!”

“Why not?”

“I'm only SEVEN!”

“What are you waiting for? You're going to need a driver's license to get a job.”

“I'm too young to work.”

“Then, how do I know your name is not Lisa?”

“My mom said it's not.”

I was going to follow up with her mom is not a very good source since she's a nurse, likes sunburn and dances on tables without proper safety equipment, but my son had taken the opportunity to escape and was playing with the other Daisey brothers. I followed his cue as I saw Miss Ann limping over to see what the problem was. After all, I was on my best behavior.

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!)

Sarcasm

“No, daddy was bored and decided to fall down the stairs to see if it was fun. It wasn’t.”

That’s what my son told my daughter the other night as we went upstairs for bedtime. The statement was prompted by my daughter trying to grab the cane that was steadying me as I limped upstairs. She was grabbing it because it was her horsey that she rode around the house when she and my son played cowboys.

I was limping because I’d spent the day curled into a ball of whimpering snot-filled miserabilty. (Yeah, go ahead and look that word up. I have a critique partner for my fiction that is constantly telling me, “Jack, you can’t just make up words and ignore the rules of grammar!” I tell her it is creative license and sets the mood. She usually has some sarcastic comment about it pulled her out of the story. Being a mature writer, completely open to all constructive criticism, I usually respond, “That’s cause your stupid.”) I’d stayed home with the plan of either sleeping until I felt better or they buried me. (It has been suggested that I might be a little melodramatic when it comes to being sick, mornings, work, growing older or pain. To those suggestions, see my usual response.)

Eventually I woke to my stomach growling. I remembered the age-old phrase, “Feed a cold, starve a fever. (That may be backwards, but I was hungry and it gave me the motivation to crawl out of bed.) Between bed and food was a flight of stairs. I remember most of the steps. I even remember seeing the floor. What I don’t remember is levitating several dozen feet into the air. I know it was at least that high cause I have no problem remembering the landing.

My first thought was, Well… there goes the hip. (At my age, hips, gray hair and soft foods gain importance.) I had visions of my wife arriving home with the kids to find me broken and maimed at the bottom of the steps. Fortunately, nothing was broken and with a few groans I made it to the kitchen and made my lunch, chips and salsa.

So, why did my son tell my daughter that I was bored and decided to fall down the stairs? (You gotta admit, that was a pretty good hook.) Well, that morning I’d promised him that we could build when he got home. For the past year he’s been into the Transformers. Of course we bought him the required toys. (However, I did not have the required doctorate in Advanced Particle Engineering and only thing I could figure out how to transform it into was a truck. Since it came as a truck, it was rather anti-climatic.) My son, being patient and understanding, took matters into his own hands. While I was grumbling and cursing, he came back with his own version. He’d used his Legos to make his own version of a Bumble Bee. (That’s an Autobot. They are the good guys. By now I know all the Autobots and Decepticons and each one’s abilities.) We looked online and went though all the different ones. He’d spend a few minutes studying the picture, then come back with his version. He now has his own shrine. A corner of his room is carefully organized with blocks (that he stole from his sister) and each transformer is placed on its own block.

That was our plan for when he got home from school. We were going to build Transformers. “Daddy, don’t you want to build with me?” (He learned the whole guilt thing from his mother. I’d say his mother’s mother, but we might need her to baby sit again.)

“Of course, buddy, just give me a few minutes to get down to the floor.”

“Daddy fell down the steps and hurt himself today,” my wife added helpfully.

I didn’t want to burden my family with pain and agony from my fall or worry him, so I had barely mentioned it passing to my wife when she got home. (broken hips, no more stairs, delirium and agony.) My son looked at me with grave concern. I nodded. “Yes, I fell down the stairs and hurt my hip and elbow.” I even showed him the beginning bruise on my elbow.

He thought before he asked, “Why did you fall down the stairs?”

“I was bored and thought it would be fun. It wasn’t.” For a six year-old, that was a perfectly sensible explanation and we went back to building and crashing his Transformers.

I’m just waiting for the next time one of the grandparents falls. “My daddy could have told you it wasn’t fun. You should have asked him.” The problem is, he’s figured out how to perfectly mimic my deadpan-tone, but doesn’t know to wink as he says it. At least he’ll be able to outrun them if they land on their hip.

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.

FAQS

If you’ve read my articles, and enjoyed them, thanks. (If you didn’t enjoy them, then email the link to your friends so they can be angry too.)

A couple of questions have come up that I think need answered. (Keep reading, I’m my usual irreverent self when I answer questions, especially when I make them up.) If you have any questions, let me know at cord0111@yahoo.com. Comments are always appreciated too.

What does your wife think of her starring appearances? (Ok. I paraphrased that one. It was more like; “How come she hasn’t killed you yet?”)

Truth is, she likes being the center of attention and, so far, has been my biggest fan. She even edits and makes sure I’m using the English language good. When she’s reading and spits out her coffee, I know it’s ready to be posted. (It does take its toll on the laptop though.)

Won’t your children be mortified when they get older?

Yes, see the revenge part below. Since they take after my wife and enjoy any and all attention, I think they will forgive me…

Is there a reason you started the blog?

Yes. I’m trying to get a “platform”. This is what the publishing industry calls it when you have a following that can be counted on to buy your book when it comes out. My book, Surviving Childhood and Raising Special Needs Parents, is pretty much the same as my blog. Ask any new parent, that first time they trust their bundle of joy to a complete stranger long enough to escape into the world of adult conversation, and they will maybe admit they are terrified. Oh, they've read the Dr. Sears books and the "Raising your darling spawn." de jour self-help book and can probably quote all the right answers. But deep down, there's the "am I doing this right" syndrome all parents suffer through. Just what is the proper response when your 18-month old son names his wee-wee god? If your toddler likes strawberries dipped in mustard, does that mean she won't get into a good college? Should you be jealous if your son is better at picking up girls than you ever were?

In just over six years, my children have matured me decades, but I am younger than I was before they were born. My book and blog validate and embrace children, family and humor.

So, if you know of anyone with a sense humor or children that have a tendency to drive them crazy, pass along my blog so they can join in the laughter.

Ok, but what’s the real reason for the blog?

Revenge would probably be the main reason. When my kids bring home their first boy/girlfriends, I’m planning on having a long talk with their new friends. (Yes, I have pictures to back up the stories.) Also, when my kids reach that level of insanity and decide to have their own children, I want them to know what they having coming. (Karma can be a sweet revenge.)

Another reason is for the police. When my wife does snap and kill me, (see the article on self-editing), she’s going to need to get out of jail quickly to take the kids to school. I figure the blog will be all the evidence that is needed to prove it was a justifiable homicide.

I have a friend/son/daughter with young children and think they would enjoy reading about your adventures. Can I send them a link?

Did you miss the part about needing a lot of readers? By all means, tell your friends/relatives/strangers you meet on the street/people you hate. The more the merrier!

Are the stories true?

They are truish. The story about the Marine is true though. And for the record, the poem is pretty much all made up. However, my kids have sold me out to their mother many times. (Hence the revenge.) I am keeping their names out to protect them.

Are the articles taken from your book?

No, these are unique. So when Surviving Childhood and Raising Special Needs Parents does hit the bookstores, there won’t be any repeats from the blog. Of course, if I need more material or get writer’s block for the next book, I might take these articles. I’m sure I’ll figure out a reason to rationalize it.

Where do you get your ideas?

A six-year old and three-year old that have way too many of my genes (or the Fed-Ex guy’s) and a supporting wife give me all the material I can hope for. Each dent in my wife’s minivan tells it’s own story. And if I’m lucky enough that my son was in the minivan when the dent happened…

How often will you post?

Well, between working, two kids and writing, probably not as often as I like. (It’s a kinda guilty pleasure writing these articles.) My goal is at least once a week. If you want to be notified when I post a new article, use the link to the left to follow the blog. I’m pretty sure it’ll notify you when the muse hits me and I make it though my wife’s editing regime.