Nurses...

“How's your knee?”

“Miss Ann's a nurse.”

“Did she say you are going to live?”

My daughter had bashed her knee pretty well on her bike. The only thing that helped was wrapping it in an ace bandage.

“Miss Ann doesn't make me straighten my leg when she wraps it. And she's a nurse.”

Miss Ann was a friend of the family, and being a nurse, the source of all medical knowledge to my impressionable daughter. She is also, in a word, a putz. She didn't go through four years of wrestling with a bad knee. Everyone knows that if you have to wrap your knee with an ace bandage, you stand up with your heal on a coke can and your toes on the floor. This gives the perfect natural bend to your knee. For the record, I did not tell my daughter to stand up on her bad knee. But after three days of ice and wrapping (plus the fact that I saw her running and jumping around as I walked through the door) I figured she was well on the road to recovery.

Before I go any further, I don't want you to think just because I called Miss Ann a putz, that I think all nurses are evil spawns of the devil. The fact that she, after (I'm guessing) years of medical training, still uses the phrase, “I don't get sunburned” (and she is not young enough to be naive either.). I know this because our dinner conversation started with my wife asking, “Guess where Miss Ann spent the day?”

“Hellooooo,” (My daughter has perfected condescending sarcasm with everyone now, not just me.) “She was at my school today.”

My daughter's grade had their Summer Olympics and apparently conned quite a few unsuspecting parents into attending. Since it's the end of the year, they get the kids outside to exercise, build self-esteem (from my limited understanding, some of the teachers participate too, so it has an element of humor as well) and thanks to Miss Ann, all the first graders learned two very important lessons.

They learned what the phrase famous last words really means. “I don't sunburn” actually means “and after years of medical training and life experiences, I still won't put on sunscreen because a trip to hospital for second degree burns sounds like a fun way to spend the afternoon.” (Yes, I've written blogs about my sunburns. Those were all beyond my control. I applied sunscreen like a responsible adult. My mistake was trusting my daughter to get my back. While technically, she is very good at applying sunscreen, she approaches it as a form of abstract art, which while she has made some masterpieces, there is an element of pain involved for the canvases.)

The first graders also learned what the color red really means. Even after a week, my daughter likes to point out how red she is. (Glowing, not the healthy beauty commercial kind of glow, would be a good description.)

So, my daughter was basing her knowledge of knee wrapping on Miss Ann's in-depth medical knowledge. “Miss Ann didn't know enough to wear sunscreen and has been sunburned for a week. She's a putz.” didn't seem like a parent-ally responsible answer to my daughter's assertion about how to properly wrap her fatally wounded knee. (See, I went off on another tangent that had no real relation to the general theme, and still brought it back for a thematically correct wrap up.)

“Miss Ann can wrap your knee like that tomorrow. It's a good idea to wrap it straight for a little while to give it a break.” After years of suffering through being “taken care of” by the medical industry, I've learned how to limit the damage they cause.

“You still wrap it better than mommy.”

“Helloooooo. I'm a professional knee wrapper.” (Yeah, I have no idea where she gets her sarcasm from...)

Laser Tag

“You would shoot your own daughter? Who you love?” (Yes, she's still working on her grammar, but not her guilt trips.)

This was after she'd told me how bad she felt about shooting me multiple times and I admitted I might have shot her once or twice.

We were playing laser tag, as a family. I didn't know there was a dress code to laser tag. Everyone else was dressed in black. When they turned on the black-lights, I could see the advantage this would have. My daughter, of course, was dressed in purple sweats. Unfortunately, her mother had given no laser tag forethought when she bought them. There were white stripes down her legs, which under the black-lights almost hurt my eyes. Since it was “cold” out, she was also forced to wear a jacket (The laser tag place was right next to the indoor water park we'd spent the day at. My daughter was all set to stay in her swim suit. Since we were going back after wards, I thought this made sense too. Even though it was 40 degrees out, it was a short walk and my daughter and I were sure it would be warm once we were inside.) Again, my wife showed no thought to her daughter's safety and had her in a white jacket.

The game started with a small emergency...

“Daddy! They're attacking our base! Come on!”

“What's our plan?” I asked after I'd recovered from her blinding glow.

“We attack! Come on!” There was a level of deadly seriousness to her voice that made me feel sorry for her future boyfriends.

“Hold on. We need a plan.”

We were eye to eye as I crouched down. “You follow me. We'll shoot them.”

The simplicity of her plan had merits. It was the details that needed worked out, though. However, a seven-year old that has tasted her first blood of combat is not interested in pesky details. She turned and charged with a suicidal ferocity that would have left General Custer speechless with envy.

The next few minutes were... describable. Imagine a blinding glow bouncing around the randomly placed pylons, stopping for a brief second before jumping to the next. 4 red bars clearly standing out among the white (cause the red was where the other team shot at). At every pylon, there was a shout of “AHA!” followed by “Darn!!!” then off to the next pylon. (Unlike her mother, my daughter listened to the pre-slaughter briefing about no swearing. (My wife was irritated after wards about her pathetically low score. The conversation went something like this...

“Did we get points for shooting the base?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“How much?”

“100 points.”

“I don't think so. I kept shooting the base and I didn't get any points. You must be wrong.”

“Did the base shoot you?”

“The base shot back?”

"Yes.”

“Why didn't they say that?”

“They did. Every time it shot you, you lost 1000 points.”

“They really should have told us that!”

“They did.”

“When?”

“Right before we went in.”

“Well I stopped listening. They should have said it sooner.”

Now I know why the guy stressed no swearing several times...))

The “AHA!” was when she had a victim in her sites. The “Darn!!!” was when her vest went off because she was shot. Every six seconds, the vest would reactivate, just enough time for her to get in position for her next kill.

Now, you might be feeling resentment towards her mother for sending her only daughter into such a dangerous situation dressed so poorly. While I'm sure the blinding glow didn't help, it wasn't what was causing the Darns!!! No, there was a small technical issue. She snuck around each corner in a perfect assassin crouch. She carefully picked each target and squinted as she aimed for the kill shot. Then shot herself because she was holding her gun backwards.

I meant to help her, I really did, I was laughing too hard. And for the record, I did shoot her in the back. And no, I didn't feel a whole lot of guilt about it. Especially after she admitted shooting me back.

Herb III

“I'm going to play goalie tonight,” my daughter said as I carried all the pads onto the dek.

Yes, I do not learn very quickly. While I did survive multiple games of being locked inside a large cage with rabid, armed and armored children in the spring, I decided to push my luck. (In case your memory is as bad as mine, or, on the very slight chance, you have not read my blog, let me refresh your memory on the “sport” known as dek hockey. Take a group of kids that have no concept of mortality and mind numbing pain (The mind numbing pain was when their sticks hit my shin, hand, foot, head...), cover them with shin pads, elbow pads, thick gloves and a helmet. Now, add wooden sticks (that could very well be sharpened and should be declared weapons of at least local mass destruction.). Because of local zoning and for safety reasons, you have to put them in an enclosed area with a fence at least fifteen feet high. In itself, this isn't too bad. But some idiot came up with the bright idea that adults need to be added and they do not give the adults any safety gear, not even tasers.(“They” say it's to coach, but I think it's so there's fresh prey for the little hooligans.) Last spring, my son and daughter both asked me to coach their teams. This season, my daughter moved up from the we'll-teach-them-the-basics-of stick-handeling-and-passing, AKA “Throw in raw meat and run and hide” league to the real league and they both wanted me to coach the team.

After most of the season, my daughter had gone from turning pirouettes in the middle of the dek and sometimes having a general idea of where the ball was on the dek (usually the side opposite of where she was looking) to wanting to play goalie. It was the last game of the season and we had third place locked up.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Without another word, she started taking off her shin pads so she could put the goalie pads on. If you've seen professional hockey, you've seen the pads they wear. Well, they wear the same pads for dek hockey. I don't mean the same pads metaphorically. They are The Same Pads. But, my daughter is about ¼ the size of a professional hockey goalie.

“I can't walk,” she said from behind the pads.

I carried her over to the goal and gave her the basic lecture. “Keep your pads together. Square up on the ball. Keep your stick in front of you.”

“I dropped my stick.”

I picked it up and put it in the general area of her palm. The problem was she had the blocker pad on her right hand. There were two things wrong with this. First, she's a lefty and as everyone know, the catcher pad goes on your primary hand. (Although, at this age and size, the goalie is pretty much a mound of pads with a helmet on top. (Sometimes there is actually a head inside the helmet.)) The other problem was I had no idea where her actual hand was.

“I dropped my stick again.”

I picked it up again. “Ok, just keep your eye on the ball and have fun.” Then some of the kids got ready to warm her up with practice shots.

I'm sure you've seen the drills in professional hockey where the players line up and each one shoots on the goalie. The shots are organized and everyone goes in order. Well, with six to nine year-olds, this is everyone shooting at the same time. Luckily, my daughter dropped her stick and was currently stuck on the dek. Every time she got a grip, she needed two hands to push herself up, so she dropped the stick again. Then she'd grab the stick and fall over and start the process all over.

After a few minutes, I checked again and we both agreed, maybe she wasn't quite ready to play goalie. So, we got her out of the pads and the other goalie padded up just in time for the game to start.

Since we couldn't get second place or lose third place with this game, I told the kids we were going to have fun. I wanted them to relax and spend the next hour running as hard as they could. After the first period, our goalie said he wanted a break. My daughter chirped up that she was ready to play goalie now.

There's a three minute break between periods in dek hockey. During the season, I'd gotten the pattern down. We had three kids that could play goal and we usually switched goalies. My system was, get the current goalie to lie down while I called the kids around to give them The Speech. While I undid the seventy or eighty clips that keep the pads in the general area of the goalie:

• I went over what the kids were doing right and what we needed to work on the next period
• Called the kids back into the circle
• Repeated what they were doing right and what we needed to work on now that all the kids were gathered around.

Once the pads were off, the next goalie dropped down into the pads and I:

• Reversed the seventy to eighty snaps.
• Made sure the kids were all ok.
• Figure out who was going to be playing starting the next period
• Realized that instead of fastening the clips around the boy's legs, I'd actually fastened the pads to each other (Think about tying someone's shoes together.)
• Remind myself that I was not supposed to swear around the kids
• Redo the clasps
• Get the shoulder pads on and the goalie jersey (This is not a cosmetic. The jersey is only thing that holds the shoulder pads above the kid's waist.)

By this time, four minutes of the three minute break have gone by. We do our cheer and the next period starts.

I spent a few seconds thinking about the wisdom of this decision. I called the kids into a tight huddle.

“Ok guys, we have a new goalie. Can you protect her?”

“yes.”

“You can do better than that!”

“Yes!” eight little voices yelled loud enough for a couple of parents in the stands to look over.

My routine had been fine tuned over countless weeks. But, I had not taken into account my daughter.

“Where's my stick?”

“Let's get your pads on first. Drop down.”

“Am I going to get to wear the jersey?”

“Yes. Let's get your pads on first. Drop down.”

“And the shoulder pads?”

“Yes. Let's get your pads on first. Drop down.” She has the cutest laugh when the vein in my forehead throbs.

Five minutes later, the shin pads were on her. The other team was lined up.

“Coach, can I play center?”

“I want to play defense.”

“Dad, can I play defense too?” That was my son.

“Everyone plays the same positions they were when the period ended. Ok, stand up.” That was to my daughter.

“I can't”

I picked her up and set her on what I think were her feet. Then pulled the shoulder pads over her head and the yellow jersey. “Where's your helmet?” Not that there was much room for it.

“I dropped my stick.”

We were already seven minutes into the the three minute break. The jersey made a very nice dress on her. She held up her hands. At least I think she did, the sleeves of the jersey covering her “moved”. I put the gloves on her “hands.” and snapped on her helmet.

“I dropped my stick again. We both bent down and I found out that the helmet beats skull.

“Mommy said we're not allowed to say that word anymore.”

She was finally ready and we had a thirty foot walk to the goal. Thirty feet for me to pass on all my knowledge to my only daughter. Thirty feet to tell her everything she needed to know so that she could be The Goalie. Thirty feet of me saying goodbye to my little girl and turning her over to the hard, cruel world. (She might have been ready for this, but I wasn't.)

“Daddy, I can't walk.”

Thirty feet for me to carry her.

“Ok. Keep your pads together, square up on the ball.”

“I dropped my stick.”

I put it back in the area of her hand. “What's the most important thing?”

 

“Have fun,” came from the mass of pads.

A couple of seasons ago, I was able to coach my son when he scored his first goal. I lost my voice in that game. My daughter stood in the goal like I'd shown her. I yelled encouragement to her. When she made her first block, I lost my voice. Over the season, all the parents had learned what to yell to help the kids. Between my yelling and the parents, our games were never quiet.

When the other team had a break away, everyone stopped and you could hear a pin drop as everyone held their breath. I watch the kid charging down on my daughter as the stands went silent. When she blocked the shot, EVERYONE exploded. That was when I lost my voice for the rest of the game.

ROAR!!

“When I'm scared, I breathe like this.” My daughter took three huge gasps and I'm pretty sure she almost split the seams of her wetsuit.

“Remember, if you are scared, take deep breaths. We're not in any rush and we're going to take it very slow.”

We were walking along the beach to the stairs in front of the artificial reef and it was a little after 8 PM. Since we were so far east, it was already dark. We were going on her first night snorkel.

“I'm just a little scared,” she confided and took three more huge gasps.

“Are you sure you want to go? We can go tomorrow night.”

Since her brother had gone the night before and told her about all the cool things he'd seen, I knew there was no chance she was going to let me off the hook tonight.

“I'll be ok, daddy.”

We'd snorkeled the artificial reef earlier in the day so she was familiar the the area. It was only a short swim of about 100 yards.

We sat on the steps and had a pre-dive briefing.

“We're going to sit on the steps and put the masks on.”

A quick nod.

“Then put on our fins.”

Another nod.

“Then we'll turn on the lights. When you're ready, we'll just lean forward and kick out. We're going to go nice and slow. I'll hold your hand the whole time. If you get scared, you can climb on my back and rest. Then we'll keep going. If you get scared, we can always come back in.” This got me a quick kiss on my cheek. (I used this same lecture for my son, father-in-law, brother-in-law and sister-in-law, except none of them gave me a kiss. I don't think they were really listening.)

Halfway out, I felt a hand on my back and a quick scramble next to me. “Daddy!” My daughter, using her normal perfect timing had waited until I'd breathed out before her scramble. Before I could get a breath I was under water while my daughter was comfortably sitting on my back.

“I lost my fin!” I heard as I came up for air. Tears were streaming down her face under her mask. We took a few moments to calm down, then I looked under the water while she held on to my back. That's when I realized the meaning of futility. At night, underwater is the definition of black. The dive light makes a nice bright beam, but that beam is not wide. The futility was looking for a dark blue fin in black water with a sobbing seven-year old riding on your back as waves bounce you up and down.

“It's ok. We'll get you more fins tomorrow.”

“Fin,” several words that could not be translated from snorkeleze. “Lost!”

A few minutes of treading water (I was treading, she was graciously letting me hold her above the waves.) and she decided she was ready to continue. (Sound is strange when you're in the water. High pitched sounds carry farther and seem amplified. I know this because, “Fin” and “Lost” along with soft sobs accompanied us the rest of the way to the artificial reef.

As we came over the tires and she saw her first lion fish, her lack of one fin vanished. She did her normal kick, twist and sideways spin. (My daughter took to water almost as soon as she was born. She has a unique way of moving through the water. All four limbs move at the same time (But none of them seem to know what the other is doing, or care for that matter). This causes a corkscrew motion through the water that is remarkable effective. Think of an octopus that suddenly realizes that it has twice as many legs as it should and hasn't quite figured out why or what to do with the extra limbs.) “ROAR!” she yelled as she looked down. (The lion fish was 10 feet below us. Both it and my daughter were safe from each other.) a couple of feet further and she saw her first octopus. (Just like the lion fish, the octopus had it's own sound. For the life of me, I have no idea what it was, I just know it was loud.)

Two lion fish, two octopi, several lobsters and a dozen string rays later, I had the pattern down and was able to gasp a deep breath before she climbed on my back. She lifted her head and said she'd seen all that her brother had and was ready to go in.

“Awesome!” was the first unsnorkeled word she said as we sat on the steps.

“Did you see the lion fish?”

“ROAR!”

"Did you see the octopus turn red?”

“Was he mad cause cause you touched him?” (I'd dove down to see if he would swim away. (I'm guessing it was a he because it wasn't smart enough to hide when two huge aliens swam over it. And since my daughter was still roaring to call the other lion fish, we definitely did not sneak up on it.)

“Yes. Did you have fun?”

I got a salty kiss on my cheek. “Yes, daddy.”

That more than made up for each mouthful of seawater I swallowed each time she climbed up on my back.

Tree House

“Let me show you what tree,” my daughter said as she surveyed our yard.

This was one of those times I was hoping the parental bond I've read about was strong. Because if we weren't in synch she was going to be disappointed. I'd already picked out the tree for the tree house...

She walked up to each tree and gave it considerable thought. I knew I was being set up from the way my wife was giggling.

“Not that tree!”

This only made my daughter consider the tree with more consideration. After a moment she shook her head and moved over to the next tree.

Fifteen trees later, she slowly approached the tree. “Daddy, this is the tree.” (We'd been talking about this tree for the past two years. We'd drawn up detailed plans. My daughter would spend hours dreaming about tree house and this was The Perfect Tree...)

“Are you sure?”

“I'm positive.”

“Ok,” I added a mellow-dramatic sigh so she wouldn't think all her hard work had gone to waste. “Is this going to be too high?” I pointed to the perfect fork to anchor the base. It was a good ten feet up. I made sure to raise my voice and look at my wife while posing this question. My daughter was of the opinion that it was too low. My wife and I made eye contact and there was no more than her usual concern for my lack of planning. Still maintaining the eye contact, “Are you sure this is NOT TOO high?” My wife smiled and that was all the answer I needed. (After years of marriage, we've developed a highly complex method on non-verbal communication.)

“Can we start building right now?” My daughter was already planning how to decorate her tree house.

“I have to get the lumber first.”

“Will the tree support it?” My wife has a knack for asking irresponsible questions.

“And directions.” I added with only a slight mutter.

“Today?” I knew she was excited because she was bouncing on my foot.

“I'm going to Lowes now.”

“Yeah! We're going to have a tree house tonight!” She ran off to tell her brother.

By the time I'd made my way to house, a pile of toys were piled up in front of the door. “What are these for?” I asked a little blur running past.

“For the tree house!” my son didn't miss a beat as he dropped his current load and went back for another.

“You do know it's not going to be ready today?” I asked a random blur.

“We have faith in you, daddy.”

It's unfounded faith like that that makes fatherhood all worthwhile

After a trip to Lowes, I had the directions, a load of lumber and optimism. The sticking point was how I was going to anchor the two 12 foot long 2X10s (If you've never tried to work with a twelve foot long 2X10, they are really long and probably weigh several hundred pounds) so they were both level. There was also the added difficulty that the tree was on a hill and my stepladder was definitely not hill friendly. I figured I could use two shorter boards, get those level and anchored to the tree and then use them to support the main joists. After a few hours, I had the two braces bolted into the tree and one of the 2X10s also level and anchored.

“It is done yet?” My daughter asked from the foot of the tree. The blood pounding in my ears had drowned out her normally un-quiet approach.

“Do you see a tree house?”

She actually paused and looked around me. “No?”

“Then it's not done yet.”

“Can I come up?”

Right now, there were two 2X6 boards about three feet long, one on each side of the tree. There was one twelve foot long 2X10 resting across these. The other 2X10 was wedged next to me. I was balanced on a branch holding a level and a chain saw (It seemed like a good idea at the time.). The step ladder had fallen over a few minutes ago and I was not sure how I was going to get get back to the ground (aside from the obvious method.)

“It's going to be that high?” My wife asked from up the hill.

I knew from her tone of voice that there was something wrong. “Yes.”

“Isn't that too high?” This was my wife's way of saying it was too high.

“Is it too high?” I asked my daughter. She was closer to my wife and I was pretty sure after all those hours of labor, my daughter was much safe than me.”

"No. It needs to be higher.”

“Are you sure it's not too high?”

“Mommy said you have to put a quarter in the jar when you use that word.”

My daughter, apparently has excellent hearing.

“Mommy, what's eight times a quarter?”

At least I'd perfected the art of balancing on a rickety step ladder while using a chain saw. Doing it all over again wouldn't be that hard... My wife definitely has to work on her silent communication skills because I'm out of quarters.

Tooth Fairy

I live with morons.

My daughter finally lost her first front tooth. This tooth took a while to go from loose to out. For the past three weeks, I'd check and be told that it had not fallen out yet. I suggested a hammer to help it come out, but that was nixed before I could find a hammer. It took a group of excited Brownies and my wife's elbow to finally get it out. Apparently my daughter was a little distracted as they learned about the Ruffed Grouse and my wife's elbow didn't check for right of way.

A few gallons of blood later, my daughter arrived home to tell me all about her first Brownies meeting. It might have been a bit mean of me to keep asking, is it grouse or grouth? After the tenth time, it was still funny...

I did my fatherly duty and made sure the tooth was placed in a plastic sandwich bag so it would not be lost (After going through my son's fifty teeth, this was a common habit. (This is important in a bit...)) The tooth fairy made it's stumbling and grumbling way into her room much later that night and swapped the tooth for cash. The grumbling was because I didn't plan ahead. For well over six years, my daughter has fallen asleep in every position imaginable (and many unimaginable). The one thing in common was her pillow never figured into those positions. So, when I tucked her tooth (in it's plastic bag) under her pillow I figured the swap would be easy. This night, she was plastered over her pillow. The middle of the night is not the time to silently sneak a tooth from under a six year old anticipating a visit from the tooth fairy.

I was a bit surprised the next day when I got a teary-eyed call on my way home. (This is where the moron-ness starts) Her other tooth came out at school! (actually it was shhool) and she lost her toof. After some intense patience on my part, I gleaned the whole story. The nurse had put her tooth in a special necklace for her to bring home. My daughter, being MY daughter, had to check out her toof... several times. Unfortunately, one of these times was on the shhool bus as she was getting off. Someone bumped her and her toof was lost! Gone forever.

I assured my distraught daughter that I would look for it when I got home and was pretty sure I'd be able to find it.

“How can you find it? It's gone!”

“I have special daddy skills.” (Those skills stemmed from my son when he lost his second tooth and couldn't find it. I found this out at bed time. My suggestion that I could pull another tooth wasn't too well received. So began project “Distraction.” My wife read his stories while I searched. Believe it or not, very few household items look enough like a bottom tooth to fool a tired child. I had a brainstorm when I came across the first tooth he'd lost. This met all the requirements... It was tooth shaped and it was handy.

“Where did you find it?” He instantly perked up.

I rolled my eyes to cover a small bit of information I'd forgotten to gather. In the initial panic, I neglected to ask where he was when he lost it. “Where do you think I found it? Right where you lost it.”

The nice thing about children is they are so trusting. “You mean you found it in the family room? I looked all over. How did you find it?”

“I was just lucky.”

Ever since, that tooth has been in the top drawer of my dresser. It's gotten us through at least 4 teeth that were lost and never made it home.)

Shortly after I got home, the search began for my daughter's newly lost tooth. Against all odds, the tooth was found. (The impressive part was that I still remembered where I'd stored the fallback tooth.)

“Is this the tooth you lost?”

“Where did you find it?” She carefully took the tooth from my hand.

“It must have fallen into a pocket on your backpack.”

Then, I started to worry. This WAS my daughter and she was looking at the tooth far too intensely. There was doubt. And the only other tooth I had on hand was a front tooth.

“That's my toof?”

“Yes. Don't they look weird when they fall out?” Ok, there might have been a bit of hysteria in my voice. I snatched the tooth from her hand. “I'll put this on my dresser. We'll put it under your pillow tonight.”

That night, my daughter made sure she had the tooth when my wife put her to bed. I made a quick check so I knew where the tooth and bag were. But, there was no plastic bag.

“Where's your tooth?”

“Under my pillow!”

"I don't feel it. Are you sure?”

My daughter picked up her pillow and pointed at her tooth. There were just three little problems. The tooth was white. Her sheet was white. The tooth was not in a plastic bag.

Her mother got a very strong talking to about night vision, stumbling and finding a white tooth the size of a grain of sand. She didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. I think the exact words were, “Ok. I'm going back to sleep.”

The tooth fairy definitely needs better support staff.

Really good ideas

“I have an idea.”

This phrase used to give me cold chills, until my daughter amended her catch phrase to, “I have a really good idea.” Now, I just have an overwhelming urge to curl up in a corner when I hear it.

Don't get me wrong. Her ideas are actually really good. The problem is her grip on reality is almost as shaky as mine. Neither of us sees the point in letting the Laws of Physics (most of which I would not have voted for anyway.) limit our flights of creativity. The main difference is, after forty plus years, I've learned which way to lean right before you light the fuse so you have a better chance of getting out of the blast range.

What has me afraid, very afraid, is that she is a good six years ahead of me.

Electricity and I have always had a... cautious relationship. It's not that we don't get along. We get along just fine, but it doesn't always keep up it's end of the bargain.

I remember our first run in. My dad had an old Lionel train set. Not the little things you buy now-a-days that are made out of plastic. No, they were made from steel and each car was at least a foot long and weighed pounds, not ounces. Every Christmas, I'd hassle my parents until they dug out the four boxes that held all the cars, tracks, buildings and trees. I'd carefully set the tracks up around the tree. You could tell these were made well before child welfare was established. The tracks connected via small, razor sharp shards of metal. I think the dried blood probably helped the electricity flow through the tracks faster.

Once the track was together, and the little houses and trees in place, it was time to connect the transformer to the track. Again, this was back when they made things to last. The transformer was a huge black box that was big enough to power a small third-world country. Every year, I'd plug it in and the lights in the house would dim for a second. I'd carefully line the wheels on the track. (Getting them lined up wasn't the hard part, levering the engine onto the tracks was.) We were then ready for the Christmas Tradition.

I'd turn the lever on the transformer, the lights would dim again and the engine would... do nothing. “It's still broken,” I'd proclaim and the second tradition would start, the Repacking.

But, I had the whole year to wonder why it was broken and how do you fix a transformer. One year I got the brilliant idea. If the transformer was broken, why not just take the transformer out of the equation. Stay with me, this makes sense, even now. The track needed electricity to run the engine. The transformer was blocking that. Take out the transformer, and voila! Working train. Now... What would effectively supply the electricity? Exactly, an old extension cord. All I had to do was cut one end off, bare the wires and my theory could be tested.

And I had the perfect tool to bare the wires. And they were custom made. See, I had a lamp by my bed as I was growing up, but the plug was right where I slept, so at night, the plug from the light would jab into my back. One day, I thought, if it was flat, no more poking. And, we had a replacement plug that was flat. It was perfect. Because my room was in the basement, there wasn't much light, so I needed to replace the plug quickly. I figured I could chop off a good five seconds by cutting the end off while it was still plugged in and keep the light until the very end.

You'd be surprised how easily steel melts. But, I now had a pair of pliers that were perfect for stripping wires and my career as an amateur electrician was off to a (literally) blazing start.

After cutting and baring the wires, I only paused a moment before attaching the bared wires to the track. Now was the moment of truth. I'd imagine Alexander Graham Bell felt the same trepidation as I did. (In case you are wondering, no, the train was not set up around the Christmas tree. I was young, not stupid. I'd set it on a ping pong table in the basement. The area was surrounded by thick concrete blocks and should be able to contain any unforeseen explosions.) As I plugged the cord into an outlet, I got my first view of how fast electricity travels. Sparks flew from the engine as it got the full jolt of energy that it'd been missing for years. The track became a mere idea as it hit a corner and continued in a straight line and became airborne for at least twenty feet.

How does this relate to my daughter? Well a few weeks ago, I heard her in her room, crying. I went up and found that all the lights upstairs were off. A fuse had blown and left her in the dark. Flipping the circuit breaker fixed the darkness and my wife and I consoled her until the sobs stopped.

A little later that night, I got another shout from upstairs. The cord on my daughter's lamp was frayed. As I looked it over, the “frayed” was more a cut. The cut was all too familiar. “Did you cut the wire?”

Her little shoulders trembled a bit as she nodded.

“Why?” I might have sounded a little more severe than I wanted, but in my defense, it's hard to sound parent-ally concerned when you are trying not to laugh.

“I thought it was a good idea.”

Everyone says that I am going to be in trouble when she reaches her teen years. Me, I think the world is going to be in trouble when we combine my years of knowing which way to jump and her really good ideas, especially after she has several years to fine tune them.

Cubs

When I was a kid, I used to watch those wildlife shows... The ones where they'd show a family of lions or something with new borns. The babies would be climbing on the father, biting his ears and making a general nuisance of themselves while he was trying to sleep. The narrator would say something like this wasn't just play, the babies were learning how to hunt through this aggressive play. After a few minutes, the father would open one eye, and the babies would continue. Eventually, he would give the babies a good swat and they'd tumble away and go rough house with each other, just long enough for the father to get comfortable and then be back.

A part of me was always surprised at that. Until this week.

We were snorkeling, all four of us. Again, my daughter was snorkeling with me. (Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoy the constant soundtrack I now have with every snorkel. (“I love fishes” sung three thousand times can be very catchy, even if it is grammatically inaccurate.) My daughter is able to practice her ballet dancing, sing, point out fish, and generally go in the opposite direction I am trying to swim at the same time. So, every trip with her in an adventure.) We all headed for the small artificial reef to look for the lobsters she and I had seen the evening before.

“Look daddy, I'm dancing.”

“You can't dance in the water.” That was her brother, the realist.

“Yes I can.” To her credit, she did prove she could. The only problem was I was still trying to get my second fin on. (Recapping here... Holding a bobbing five-year old from being washed out to sea, trying to balance on one leg (with a flipper already on) and get the second flipper on and not pull all my middle-aged muscles (yes, I've finally admitted it, but I do not have gout!) is not the best way to start a morning.)

“Sit still!” Maybe I growled it louder than I intended. I'm pretty sure I caught my wife smirking (I'm pretty sure it was a full-blown smirk if I could see it through a scuba mask.).

“I lost my fin.” Actually it came out more as “I wost by bin.” (When she's snorkeling, she can enunciate clearly with her snorkel in her mouth. Any other time, like when I'm half-off balance, she's impossible to understand.

“Where is it?”

“I don't know.”

I caught a glimpse of blue a few feet away. Keeping one hand on her, my fins and mask in my other hand, I lunged and grabbed it (spontaneous evolution, look it up.) before the next wave pushed it further away.

This time both fins were strapped tighter. Rather than chance anything else coming off, I pushed off with one fin and started towing her to the reef. (Towing is an understatement. My wife took my daughter out one snorkel. I'm not sure how it happened. I had to go back up on the beach and get my stuff, and amazingly, that took much much much longer than I expected. After they were done, my daughter and son were fighting the waves and each other, as usual, and my wife was panting on the beach. “Your... daughter... is... heavy. Did you... know that?” “Really? I hadn't noticed.” I don't think she caught the sarcasm.) Halfway to the reef, I put the other fin on and got a better grip.

“Where are the lobsters?” My wife asked as we approached the reef. Now, she's been diving for over fifteen years. One of our hobbies while we dive is to learn the behavior of what we're watching. So, I have no idea what possessed her to lead our two impressionable children to think that the lobsters, which we'd never seen there, and this is not a big reef, would still be there.

This is about the same time my daughter swam right in front of me. I know because of the two blue fins that hit me in the face. (At least they were still both on her feet.)

“Under the water.” I probably muttered.

Both kids proceeded to dive in search of the lobsters. My son dives very well and was able to make it down the ten feet and look inside the old tires that make up the artificial reef. My daughter's version of diving is... describable. It's a several step process. First, her head goes straight down. (From everything I've read, this is the normal process for diving.) Almost at the same time, her butt goes up (think of a dolphin breaching). So, this would be great. However, she does both so well that she doesn't stop and this is where it gets interesting. Her head ends up too close to her knees, but since her butt's already in full dive mode, her knees, much to her head's frustration, disappear. Now, the only way for her head to catch up to her knees is to take a shortcut by spinning 180 degrees. This usually works for a second, before another 180 degree turn in the opposite direction is needed. While all this is happening underwater, her flippers are flailing around above the water. Anyone within five feet is sure to get kicked in the face at least once per dive. The final part of the dive is the snorkel clearing. By now, it's completely filled with sea water. (But somehow, none of the water is in her mouth. One theory is she does not stop talking/singing during the diving, but no one has had to courage to get close enough to verify this.) Clearing the snorkel involves a quick scamper up my back, and a few minutes of readjusting. Then back into the water for another dive.

After about ten minutes of blue and yellow flippers (my son) zipping around me and kicking me in the face and body, I remembered the father lion and his cubs. In case you are wondering, no I didn't swat them... barely.

Stripes

“Daddy, I'm going to put sunscreen on your back. Very carefully.”

In the Caribbean, sunscreen is a must, especially if you are visiting from Pennsylvania. If you are not sure, Pennsylvania is not known for it's beaches. Where we're from, it's more known for not-being-flat-at-all (That doesn't really have anything to do with this article, but if you've been following me (all three of you) you know that doesn't bother me overly much.). I figured my daughter would be perfect for this job. Messy and a lot were the two primary concerns I had. And... my daughter is nothing if not messy.

“Put it in my hand, Daddy.” She cupped her little hand and waited for the sunscreen. I squeezed out a large amount. “I'm going to use one finger. That's important.”

At five-years old, I think she's been talking for at least fifteen years. Let me rephrase that... Since she grasped the mechanics of speaking, she has not stopped... ever. Even my wife's mother has commented on it. (Never mind that is the pot calling the kettle black.)

So, we had a nice conversation (monologue) while she carefully put the sunscreen on my back. I have no idea what we talked about, but that wasn't important. She did the back of my legs, again, very carefully.

Once we were all sun-screened, we were off for more fun in the sun.

I learned a long time ago that when you are snorkeling, you need to have at least one very good friend. Anyone can put sunscreen on their arms and legs, but it takes a very talented person to completely cover their own back with sunscreen. When you are snorkeling, your back, it's safe to say, is always in the sun. I learned this shortly after I was married. My wife and I took a vacation to Florida to go scuba diving. We'd just gotten our certification and were anxious to try it out. We even worked in visit to her aunt and uncle who had a boat. They took us snorkeling for sea shells the day before our first dive.

Being originally from north-eastern Ohio, I was not that familiar with the “sun”. I knew it existed, and had even seen it a couple of times. But as far as “tanning” and “sunburn”, those were foreign concepts to a simple farm boy.

I ended up with a fourth degree sunburn on my back. My wife still claims it wasn't that bad, but she's still won't admit it was all her fault. (She did show enough concern to get Solarcane and spray it on my back. It must have provided some relief after I passed out from the initial scream.) So, the next morning, I'm sure my back was covered in open blisters, we walked out to the boat with all our gear. Part of this gear included wet suits.

If you've never worn a wet suit, I think the scientific way it works is it keeps a layer of water next to your skin and that gets warmed from your body heat. So your core temperature doesn't drop quickly. In order for this to work, the wet suit has to be tight. (I think the real way it works is you get so over heated forcing your body into a rubber suit, in the blazing sun of Florida, that when you get in the cooler water, you go into shock and don't realize how cold you are.)

In all honesty, getting into the wetsuit for that first dive was not bad. The boat was fairly steady in the water and it wasn't crowded. The pain started when I pulled the zipper up the back of the wetsuit. I'm pretty sure dolphins and whales miles away perked up as I whimpered. Even that wasn't too bad.

No, the real pain was when I put on the scuba tank and stood up. Forty pounds of metal bouncing on a fourth degree (yeah, I know there is no fourth degree, but it's my story.) sunburn gives new meaning to “discomfort.” Luckily, it was only a few steps to fall into the salt water.

What does this have to do with my daughter putting sunscreen on my back? Well, after a day of snorkeling, we returned to the resort. It was a little later that I noticed parts of my back were tender. When I checked in a mirror, I noticed that there were definitely lines of non-sunburn. Among those few lines of non-sunburn were great patches of bright red. I have to admit, you could easily see the care that was taken with each stroke of sun screen. I'm sure that Salvadore Dali would have been impressed with her child-prodigy-ness. I've heard the phrase that artists suffer for their craft, but this is the first time I've heard of the canvas suffering.

I'd forgotten one key factor... My daughter has the attention span that can only be measured in nano seconds. I'm sure this will end up being my fault, somewhere down the road. But at least she hasn't learned the finer skills of marketing so I don't have to worry about walking down the beach as a mobile advertisement... That'll be next year.