Everything but Snorkeling

“It's still early... Go back to sleep for a little while.” When you wake up and there's a six-year old, gap-toothed blond smiling down at you, this is pretty much the only acceptable response at 6:15 AM.

“Hellooooooo,” she's worked out just the right amount of sarcasm to put into that one word. “You promised to take me snorkeling this morning.”

She was right and I remembered the promise as soon as I had opened my eyes. But hope springs eternal. “It's still early, the fish aren't awake.”

“I am. You promised.”

“Ok, go put your swimsuit on. I'll be ready in a minute.” This got me a few seconds to wake up.

We'd made our annual pilgrimage to St Croix. My early wake up call was because her promised night snorkel had been canceled due to rough waves. According to her (See, daddy, they aren't taller than me. I'll just swim really fast) this was a gross miscarriage of justice. So, we rescheduled for first thing in the morning.

My daughter and I have a similar approach to the morning. While she wakes up cheerful and full of energy and I just wake up... we are both ready to go as soon as we're up. My wife needs breakfast, three cups of coffee and a demilitarized zone for a couple of hours.. So, we were swim suited, and I grabbed the fins and snorkels. Then went back in for towels.

“Helloooooooo. I need my wet suit.”

That was another trip back in and we were finally ready to go. On the way to the beach, we had to pick a piece of grass, because she is now a farmer (I have no idea when this happened, but apparently all farmers chew a piece of grass.), we talked to three hermit crabs and told them which way to the ocean (because they were so short, they obviously had no idea which way to go.) and my daughter found The Cutest Snails. (She wanted to take them home for pets.) We were finally ready to snorkel. Her fins were strapped securely to her feet and her mask was on. We kicked off to swim the 100 yards to the artificial reef. My daughter was right, if she swam really fast, she skipped right over the waves. That meant I either had to pull her fast or she would climb on my back and kick me to swim faster. (In truth, it was more like 90 yards because I could just see the tires coming into view when she pulled up.)

“I have a rash on my arm,” came out more as, “I ave a ash on y rm.” as waves kept bouncing her up and down.

“Do you want to go back?”

“Es. It urts bad!”

Swimming in with the waves was much easier. You just wait until they crest and kick. We made it back in record time because of the medical emergency. As we sat on the steps and peeled down her wet suit, she bravely showed me the two spots on her arm. I don't think we'll have to amputate.

“Where are the snails? I told them we'd be back.”

On the way back to the room, we gathered more grass to chew on, saw a couple more hermit crabs and stopped to pet a dog.

Once in the room, we took care of her mortal wounds and settled her down to a breakfast of cheetos, tortilla chips and salsa and an apple.

I made a mistake and changed out of my wet swim suit and came back to a very very indignant girl.

“Where's my tooth!”

“In your mouth?”

“No, the one I lost yesterday! I looked under my pillow and the tooth fairy didn't come. Mommy didn't put it under my pillow!”

(Truth be told, I did remember she lost another tooth. But she's lost close to 300 of them over the past couple of months they all blur together.) “Let me check,” I also checked and had a couple of dollars in my pocket. Now, I knew my daughter had done a thorough check. Just putting the money under her pillow would never work. “Did you check under the sheet?”

“Helloooooo, the tooth fairy puts money under your pillow!”

“Helloooooo, (two can play at this game) this not your normal bed. Maybe the tooth fairy was confused?”

“Oh...”

Sure enough, tucked just under the corner of the bottom sheet was her money from the tooth fairy.

“Yeah! Now I can pay mommy back!”

“What do you have to pay mommy back for?” If there was a chance, I wanted in on that action.

“When I accidentally make a mess.”

With my daughter, it's more accidentally not make a mess, so I knew my wife was going to come into a large amount of money soon.

I checked my watch and we'd already had a full morning and it wasn't even 7:15. Welcome to paradise.  At least I'll get an early start on my sun burn...

Tree House II

Mountains are made out of rock and we live on the side of a mountain. This will be become an important piece of information shortly...(This is foreshadowing)

“Do you girls want to help build the tree house?” I heard my wife say this to my daughter and her friend. It may be surprising that I could hear her say this, but since I could only see spots, my hearing was compensating... (This is also foreshadowing)

People who write how-to books are sadistic. (This is a basic truth.)

Because the tree house was for the kids and their friends, I decided to abandon my usual approach to building and had done some research and even had plans. The first book I read was very clear, you cannot anchor the tree house to the tree. There was something about how this would cause the tree house to fall apart as the tree grew. Instead, you take two strong boards and bolt them into either side of the tree and then rest the tree house on this. As the tree grows or gently sways in the wind (since we live on the side of a mountain, I was picturing a more “gently” snapping in gale force winds.) the tree house moves with it. So, with the two support beams anchored into the tree trunk, I was ready to start the platform.

“Daddy, are the boards supposed to be that crooked?” My daughter kept asking after I gently rested each of the support boards on the the boards bolted into the tree.

Anyone who has done any kind of construction, knows that you always plan a slight slope so that water will drain off. My muttered answer (since I was out of quarters, my daughter did not hear my real answer. (My wife had recently instituted a policy where certain words meant a quarter was added to a jar. This was a good idea after my daughter tried out “damn it”... I think her exact phrase was “Damn it, daddy, you have to play Barbies with me, now.”

I told her that was not a word “we” use.

“But mommy says it all the time.”

I explained that it was not a word she should use.

“But I like it, damn it!” That was the start of the money jar.)) was always “Yes.”

Until I stepped back to look at my progress.

“Mom! Daddy said your favorite word! Again...”

The plans called for 2X6 boards bolted into the tree and 8 inch lag bolts. I'd used 2X8s and 12 inch lag bolts figuring to be extra safe. The pictures in the books all looked amazing and words like straight and level sprung to mind. As I looked over my progress I realized I was going to have to go the bank and get a roll of quarters... I also realized that the people that wrote the how to for tree houses are (insert at least three quarters here) sadists.

So, my daughter, son and I sat on the hill and looked at the beginning of the tree house platform. “Is that what you planned, daddy?”

“No.”

“Will we ever have a tree house?”

“Yes.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Yes.”

“I know you can do it, daddy.” My daughter patted my should in a kinda doubtful way.

“Can we go up and play in it?” My son is the optimist.

“It needs some more bracing,” I decided. A couple of 4X4s would definitely remove the grotesque tilt. Fortunately, none of the plans I'd looked at had called for that. This meant I was back in my comfort zone.... winging it.

There was just one problems with my new non-plan. The posts needed to be cemented into the ground. That meant digging through several feet of rock. I was halfway through digging the post holes (and most of the way through a coronary.). This was when I heard my wife say, “Do you girls want to help build the tree house?”

My daughter had a friend over and they were both anxious to play in the new tree house. “Yes, let's go help my daddy!” I'm positive I heard my wife smirk.

“Daddy, we'll help you dig.” I saw two blond-headed blurs coming down the hill. They were blurry because of the heat stroke, minor aneurysm and heart attack I was currently having.

I managed to bite back, “Go away and annoy your mother,”

“This is heavy,” My daughter grunted as she picked up the post-hole digger. “Is your foot ok?” she asked after she dropped the pointy end on my foot. Luckily I was wearing work boots and I'd lost most of the feeling in my lower body from the aneurysm.

“I know, we can pick the rocks out the of the hole! Daddy, you dig and we'll do that.” Both girls squatted next to the very shallow beginning of a hole and were ready to snatch any rocks that would show up. The only problem was I had to break through the impenetrable layer of rock first. And I didn't want my daughter's friend to take any new words home with her...

I also wanted my daughter's friend to go home with both her hands. I knew as soon as I started to use the post-hole digger, one of them would reach in for a rock, no matter how far I told them to stand back.

When I write my how to book on tree houses, I'm going to include the little things like digging through rocks, avoiding cutting off little hands (no matter how tempting) and how to ignore all plans. Oh wait, I've already done that.

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.

A Night at the Zoo

“You may bring an air mattress or foam pad if desired.”

I've learned that anytime a business recommends something to enhance comfort, there is probably a very good reason for it. My son's cub scout den was going to spend a quiet evening at the Pittsburgh Zoo. The only drawback, as a parent, that I could see, was that someone had the brilliant idea to include the cub scouts.

We got a complete packing list that included ear-plugs and blow up mattress. The adventure was scheduled to start on a Saturday evening and last through Sunday morning. My wife, being a complete coward decided to take our daughter to a water park for a girl's day instead of stepping up and taking her only son camping.

I wasn't that worried though. My son and I had a full day planned. Dek hockey in the morning. I was certain this would work out some of his energy. Then we had to go home and pack for our overnight adventure. Luckily, my wife and daughter had already left for their trip. That meant, I got to pack.

And, I had a list. In addition, there was another important note. We were going to have to carry our stuff to the discovery center. Since they mentioned that a wagon would be a good idea, I figured this meant a very long walk. The list said to pack a change of clothes. If my wife had been doing the packing, this would have meant:

A change of clothes for over 70 degrees and sunny

A change of clothes for under 70 degrees and sunny
A change of clothes for over 80 degrees and rainy
A change of clothes for under 80 degrees and rainy
Extra shoes and socks
Another change of clothes for each of the above conditions
Two pairs of MATCHING (she always stresses this to me and I have no idea why. The kids always have a bottom and a top, how much more matching do you need?) pairs of pajamas
Another pair of heavy pants in case it was colder than forecast
A light shirt in case it warmed up in the afternoon
A jacket
A winter coat
A rain coat
Boots
Gloves
Mittens
A snake bite kit

(We usually only travel with seven sherpas, a team of oxen and a forklift for short weekend get-a-ways.) But now, the packing was all up to me. I was solely responsible for my son's comfort while we braved the wild frontiers of Pittsburgh's Zoo. So, I stepped outside and saw that it was warm and the sun was shining. There was absolutely no reason to think this would change over the next 24 hours. I packed a pair of shorts and a t shirt for both of us. Oh, and underwear and socks, but since this was a guy's weekend, those weren't technically required.

A few minutes after our clothes were packed into a plastic bag from Walmart, I had the sleeping bags and the air mattress ready to go to. (Once the air mattress was deflated, there was a lot more room in the bag, so our clothes fit in there too.)

Then, we were off on our adventure. I'd been to the zoo a few times and had my phone's GPS, so there wasn't really any need to look up directions. It was East, then somewhere off the turnpike. That somewhere was at the exact same place I lost connection to the GPS server.

“Dad, are we lost?”

“No.”

“You sure. Mom usually swears like that when she's lost.”

“We're not lost!”

“She says that too.”

“Just look for signs to the zoo.”

“We're never going to make it. Oh well, maybe we can try again next year...”

Contrary to his lack of faith, I found the zoo. He was in charge of the pillows and I was in charge of carrying everything else. After a few mile hike, we were at the kid's discovery center along with twelve other scouts and an assortment of parents.

So... we'd had a morning of dek hockey, a long hike and there were 5 solid hours of activities planned. Lights out was at 11 pm. All I had to do was survive from 6 to 11, surrounded by twelve cub scouts, every poisonous reptile in existence and a room full of bats. Once the lights were out, it would be clear sailing. Yes, no doubts.

The first doubt was when my son's best friend laid out his sleeping bag next to my son. For the next hour, they discussed dek hockey, what they'd see at the zoo, the meerkats, what they'd seen at the zoo, the meerkat tunnels, dek hockey and the Gila Monster that was sleeping directly over our heads.

Before long, I drifted off into a peaceful sleep. You would think after a long day of running, hiking, running, playing in the meerkat tunnels, more running and more playing in the meerkat tunnels, my son would be so exhausted he couldn't move. It was shaping up to be a quiet night on our air mattress. I've been woken up from a peaceful slumber by:

A pillow from my wife blaming me for snoring

My daughter proclaiming she lost a toof
My daughter proclaiming the toof fairy had come. (For serious, dad. She came)
My son having a nightmare.
My daughter having a nightmare.

It's surprising how strong the paternal instinct is. I was in a deep slumber when my son tried to kick a reverse field goal. His heel connected solidly with my groin and I didn't feed him to the Gila Monster. He might have woken up a little as I whimpered. Over the course of the short night, he kicked me in the back twice (I learned after the first kick to the groin), used my head for a footrest and mistook me for the air mattress.

“Rough night eh, bud?” I asked as I rolled up the sleeping bags.

“No, I slept really good.”

It's a good thing reptiles don't have ears. They would have learned some new words...

Herb II

“Dad, will you coach my dek hockey team this season?”

“Mine too!” My daughter piped in.

After my perfect season as a substitute coach, I couldn't say no to their requests. Also, being well into middle age, I am apparently developing senility and have forgotten how dangerous dek hockey is.

“Coach, why don't you have pads?”

I looked down to see one of my players (That's all guesswork. He was encased in impenetrable shin guards, elbow pads, gloves and helmet a good three sizes too large. Since he was still standing upright, I'm fairly certain he was a human boy.) swinging his stick painfully close to my bare ankles. My first response was, “Because I'm stupid and want a painfully slow death.” But I've found middle-aged sarcasm is lost on the younger generations. (and my sense of humor is lost on pretty much anyone.) I gave a thoughtful look at, what I was fairly certain was his face, and said, “ I don't know.”

This was enough of an answer and he went off to chase a ball or whack at one of his teammates. (In truth, those are pretty much the same thing.)

After a few minutes of loosely regimented drills, (I was still trying to work up the nerve to get within striking distance (a mile) of their sticks.) it was time to go over fundamentals. We needed to cover the rules.

I learned about the importance of rules. My son and daughter were having their own Stanley Cup in our driveway that weekend.

“Why did you stop us?” my daughter demanded, stalking over to me.

“Slashing,” I explained as I stepped away from her stick.

Her head tilted a little to the side as she took in my verdict. When in trouble, my daughter has two modes. The crushed, world ending sobbing side and the let's-learn-so-we-won't-get-caught-next-time mode. “But I was going after the ball.”

“The ball wasn't near your brother's head.”

“It bounced.” I have give her credit, she didn't even pause.

“You were chasing your brother, swinging your stick.”

“You said to attack the ball.”

“You were screaming that you were going to kill him.”

“That's slashing?”

“That's attempted homicide, but they don't call that in hockey. The closest thing is slashing.”

After this, I thought it would be a good idea to go over the basic rules with my team. We called a huddle in front of the net. “Ok guys, listen up.”

“Those two birds are watching us play.”

“Birds don't watch dek hockey.”

“What are they doing then?”

There's one thing about an adult teaching kids, usually the kids are looking up. At this age, they are easily distracted. (The birds were watching us. I could tell from their laughter every time I ducked.) I crouched down so there would be fewer distractions. “Ok guys, listen up.”

Eleven helmets dropped and looked down.

“Why are there holes in the dek?”

“That's so water will drain.”

“Last season, it rained really hard and the corner was filled with water.”

“I know, I skidded through it like this...”

“GUYS!”

“Yes coach?”

“Let's focus. We need to cover some of the rules.”

“I know the rules, coach!”

“I got called for tripping once.”

“We'll cover tripping in a minute.” Maybe there was a hint of desperation in my voice. “Ok, guys. Who knows what high sticking is?”

You'd think, after two kids and surviving my wife being pregnant twice, I'd have a better grasp on cause and effect at my age. I had eleven armed and armored kids gathered around me... listening intently.

You might be wondering, what does it sound like when eleven sticks are instantly raised from the ground to straight in the air? I can tell you...

It sounds like a middle-aged man screaming in panic followed by eleven kids giggling. The giggling is what hurt the most.

“Coach, why are you bleeding?”

“I had a bloody nose once. I didn't get hit by a hockey stick though.”

“What hit you?”

“I ran into someone's head.”

“Ok, guys, sticks down,” I said, still dazed.

You know, I think they giggled harder this time when I screamed as all the sticks sliced back down.

“Coach, you should have to wear a helmet too.”

I can understand why Coach Herb had a reputation for swearing.

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.

The Cure

“Gramps is not allowed in our house.”

This might sound like a rather harsh statement for my six-year old daughter to say, but she was not backing down. The “spot” on my lung turned out to be a spot on my rib. Apparently I'd broken it sometime in my past. Since I am well into middle-age now, (Going from “young and healthy” to “over forty and we need to run some tests” in one doctor's appointment ages you quickly.) I can't be expected to remember when this happened, but it probably had something to do with helping the insurgents cross war-torn Afghanistan. However, with age comes responsibility, so I followed up with my doctor who confirmed that there was nothing overly wrong with my lung. He also found why my shoulder and neck were “twitchy”.

The problem could be fixed with a local and 20 minutes under the knife. (In this case, knife meant “a chisel and hammer”. And local meant “you won't feel any pain, but you will feel everything else.”) So, an appointment was made for the next Saturday. There was just one problem... My daughter.

My daughter has a very deep and painful caring streak. Her view of of medicine is, “more is better”. (if she does become the doctor she is threatening, the pharmaceutical companies are going to LOVE her.) If one bandade would do the job, then my daughter will make sure that ten cover whatever real or imagined scratch you have. I've seen her dolls after a day of play and there is nothing sadder than seeing a stuffed Clifford the Big Red Dog released from intensive care and only a few small patches of red showing through all the medical dressings.

“What happened to Clifford.”

“He got a scratch.”

“All those bandages for a scratch?” I shake my head.

“It was a bad one.” Then her medical attention would turn to me... “Daddy, you need a shot.”

So, I was torn, I could have the pain quickly and easily (Yeah, I took that with a grain of salt. Remember this the same profession that categorized explosive diarrhea as a “mild” side effect.) removed and then go home to the tender care of my daughter... Or I could live with the pain for the rest of my life, or until my daughter turned eighteen. In the end, my wife convinced me to have the “procedure”.

My daughter, in her most medically sincere voice, told me she would take care of me. (This was right after she jumped on shoulder. Apparently the tears were enough for her to ask if that was my bad shoulder...) That's when I had a brainstorm (or a stroke).

“I hope you do a better job than Mommy and Gramps did last time.” (This got her competitive streak up.)

“What did Gramps do?” There was a hint of disappointed suspicion in her voice.

“Well, last time, Gramps and Mommy were taking care of me. I couldn't bend my knees and I had socks on. Well, you know how slippery the floor in the kitchen is?”

“Oh yes!” She jumped off my lap, using my shoulder for leverage, and proceeded to demonstrate how well she can slide.

Once the tears cleared, she was back in my lap for the rest of the story. “Well, I had to go to the bathroom, and Mommy and Gramps wanted to help me get up. Except, my feet slipped on the floor and they dropped me!” (Well, drop may be a bit of an exaggeration... It was more, my socks started to slip on the hardwood floor, and rather than react in a medically safe and prudent manner, both let go. The icing on the cake was when my wife started to laugh and then my dad followed suit.)

One of the coolest things about children is their frame of reference. They haven't become inured to things yet.

My daughter listened to the story, then stood up, her tiny fists on her hips. “That Gramps! He dropped you! I'm not letting him anywhere near you.”

“But, he's going to want to get ice for my shoulder,” I warned her.

“I'll get your ice!”

“But what if he wants to see how I'm doing?”

“I'll keep him away from you, daddy.”

Mission accomplished.

Now, you might be wondering, how could I sell out my dad so easily? Well, the story I told my daughter is true. Both my wife and my dad defended their actions by saying they'd been up hours and were exhausted. I can see how sitting and drinking coffee while I had my kneecap removed and re-adjusted and bones chopped out of my knees can be an exhausting experience. Now, I only have a week to figure out how to keep my loving, caring and supportive wife as far away as possible. I'm going to check out the finer points of restraining orders...