11:15 a.m.
We had one pit stop to make before we started the trip. The two dogs had to be dropped off at the kennel. Oh, and a quick stop for my wife to pick up her allergy prescription. (I don't know how she measured time, but with two kids that had put themselves in their seats and buckled them and two dogs that thought my Prius was the perfect setting for running around, it had better use nano-seconds.) On the way to the store, the whining started. We'd actually made it further than I expected. But my wife reminded everyone that this was going to be a long trip and we all needed to behave. She also told me to set a good example, so I did my best to keep the whining to a minimum.
As we pulled into the shopping center to pick up the prescription, my daughter complained from the back seat, “I can't reach Honey to pet her.”
Since we rescued Honey and Stripe, we're not sure how old she is. The people at the rescue place said she was between 10 and 12 years old. That'd put her between 70 and 84 in human years. She is also the “baby” according to my daughter. Believe it or not, I was actually ready for this. (My wife's grandmother moved in with my wife's mother and father a few years ago because she “needed” to be taken care of. I have seen this exact same scenario played out many times since she moved in. My wife's mother has specific ideas and plans, none of which seems to phase my wife's grandmother in the least.) Rather than waste my breath telling the 82 year-old mother to move closer to my daughter, I told my daughter to concentrate really hard and make her arms grow.
For a moment there was utter silence from the back seat. Then I heard a grunt. A moment later there was another louder grunt. I did a quick turn and saw my 3 year-old daughter in her car seat. Her face was turning a bright shade of red, her little hands were white-knuckled fists, her eyes closed tight in a body-metamorphosing grimace.
“Are your arms longer?”
“Not yet,” she said between clenched teeth.
“Keep trying.”
I think she grunted an ok, but her focus didn't waver at all. (I'm sure my wife's grandmother has figured this tactic out, but in case she hasn't, I'll pass it on to her. That is sure to get me and my wife in the will.)
Once the dogs were dropped off, we hit the open road. 408 miles till our destination. 20 miles into the trip, “Are we there yet?” came from the back seat.
“Yeah, are we dere yet?” his sister piped in. (Apparently, the arm growing was a success or no longer needed since the dogs were at the kennel. I'll be sure to tell my wife's grandmother that for utmost effectiveness, you have to keep the object of desire within sight. Otherwise they get easily distracted and you have to start all over.)
“No, we have a long drive before we get there. Why don't you guys close your eyes and sleep?”
“We're not tired.” They both answered before I even finished my suggestion.
“I'm hungry.” I don't know which one said this. By the time trip was over, all talking was classified as white noise.
“We'll stop for lunch at the next exit,” my wife suggested. I can only assume it was in the deluded hope that full bellies would put them to sleep.
As promised, we stopped and I took my son in for a potty break while my wife unchained our daughter. (She'd recently learned how to undo her 3000 point safety harness. This is pretty impressive since I still need the directions to make all the required hookups.) I came out of the bathroom to a disgusted look on my wife's face.
“Your daughter left her shoes.” My daughter was perched in her arms, an innocent look on her face.
“Why didn't you make her put them on before you got her out of the car?”
“At home.” The innocent smile on my daughter's face got wider.
“She doesn't have to wear them while we're driving. Just when we get out.” (This all made perfect sense to me. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to my wife's brain. She's usually not this slow.)
“YOUR daughter (now I knew I was in trouble) LEFT them at home. I PUT them on her and she TOOK them off before she got in the car to DRIVE.”
My laughing probably didn't help my wife's mood, but with my daughter's sincere nodding, I couldn't help it. We'd both been so intent of packing the car, and with the kids buckled in, we'd overlooked one small detail; my daughter is a demon spawn.
Luckily, there was a mall close by. My wife and daughter went shoe shopping (their vacation got an early start.) After lunch, shoe shopping and repacking, we were back on the road heading west.
When I pulled into the rest area to get rid of a few cups of coffee I got The Look. “Why are we stopping? We're never going to get there?”
1:15 p.m.
54 miles into the trip, my daughter's arms are longer, the dogs are kenneled, the kids are fed, my daughter is wearing purple shoes and my bladder is empty and I'm sentenced to the passenger seat while my wife takes over “competently” driving. At least I can take a nap...
Friday, July 10, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Vacation
9:00 a.m.
I knew the kids were ready for the vacation when they were both sitting in their car seats and had buckled themselves in. The only problem was I was still packing the car for the trip. For the past week, they'd been smuggling toys into the car each morning on the way to school. “Daddy, are we going on vacation today?” one of them would ask.
“No, that's next week.”
“Well... can we put these toys in so we don't forget them?”
By the day we actually left, there was just enough room for them to squeeze in and buckle their seat belts.
Being a ecologically aware family, and with the price of gas starting to climb again, we were taking the Prius on this trip to Indiana. The directions said seven hours for the trip. That was the Iron Bladder rating. The Parents With Two Kids in a Cramped Car rating should have been listed as an easy ten hours.
The Prius, while great on gas mileage, surprisingly is not one of the more spacious cars there is. Back when gas prices were double what they are now, we decided to use it rather than the minivan for the long trips. We got a roof top bag made of the space-age silver material that had the same effect on my Prius as plaid shorts, black socks and sandals do on men at the beach.
My wife and I have a system for packing. She sets aside the things we will need to survive the trip, everything else is fair game. So when I packed the bag for the top of the car, I packed the bag. Since a roof rack would eat up precious gas mileage, I used the straps that NASA uses to secure the Space Shuttle prior to launch. (These are rated for everything from shuttle securing to rooftop car bags, but surprisingly they are not designed for hammocks. See the previous article for proof.) (I'm one of those people you see at Lowes that uses at least as much twine as the weight of the load. To this date, I have never had anything fly off the top of my car. (There was the time two summers ago the we almost lost a load of lumber out of the back of my wife's minivan. But iot wasn't on top of the minivan and was more a result of poor planning. I thought my friend would be more than enough of a counter-balance. In my defense, the plan was working perfectly until we hit the bump. If he hadn't started yelling and scrambling off, it would have been a moot point. Luckily, slamming the brakes on resettled all the lumber.)) So, when I used the ratchets to tighten down those two straps, they were tight. A tornado would hot have moved that bag off the roof of my car.
So, with the roof bag on and full of my stuff, the kids clothes, sleeping bags, blow up mattresses and anything else that didn't crack, crumble or scream as I stuffed it in, we were almost ready. We only needed to pack the trip essentials, (Games for the kids. My wife spoils them. The only game I would pack is “Look out the Window or Sleep.” But she has coloring books and crayons, magnets, stuffed animals and books. If I hadn't put my foot down, we would have somehow fit a ping pong table in. My logic that they couldn't play while belted in finally won over.) my wife's clothes and the cooler with food.
Three trips later, I had all of her stuff. It was too late to put a towing hitch on my car, (besides, I think the extra weight of the hitch would have me pulling wheelies all the time.) so it was time for hard decisions. My first thought was to take out the kid seats (and the kids), there was plenty of room in the back seat for all her stuff. But I was reminded that this was a family vacation and apparently the kids are a key part of the whole “family” thing.
In the end, we trimmed my wife's essentials down to one suitcase. The back of the Prius was loaded up, all the available space filled in. We just needed to load the two dogs and drop them off at the kennel and we'd be on our way. The only problem was, the last trip we'd taken and brought a dog was when we had our miniature schnauzer. Honey was twice his size, but thought she was half his size. Stripe didn't really care.
After one last check and locking the doors, we were ready to leave. I looked at my family in the car. Faces shining with eagerness. I opened the driver's door to get in. Honey was wedged in front of the seat, ready to hit the gas for me. My wife was trying to pull her back to the passenger side. Stripe was sprawled across both kids in the back seat. My daughter was pushing him toward my son. My son was pushing him toward my daughter. Stripe didn't seem to notice.
11:00 a.m.
Only 10 more hours till we hit the cabin...
I knew the kids were ready for the vacation when they were both sitting in their car seats and had buckled themselves in. The only problem was I was still packing the car for the trip. For the past week, they'd been smuggling toys into the car each morning on the way to school. “Daddy, are we going on vacation today?” one of them would ask.
“No, that's next week.”
“Well... can we put these toys in so we don't forget them?”
By the day we actually left, there was just enough room for them to squeeze in and buckle their seat belts.
Being a ecologically aware family, and with the price of gas starting to climb again, we were taking the Prius on this trip to Indiana. The directions said seven hours for the trip. That was the Iron Bladder rating. The Parents With Two Kids in a Cramped Car rating should have been listed as an easy ten hours.
The Prius, while great on gas mileage, surprisingly is not one of the more spacious cars there is. Back when gas prices were double what they are now, we decided to use it rather than the minivan for the long trips. We got a roof top bag made of the space-age silver material that had the same effect on my Prius as plaid shorts, black socks and sandals do on men at the beach.
My wife and I have a system for packing. She sets aside the things we will need to survive the trip, everything else is fair game. So when I packed the bag for the top of the car, I packed the bag. Since a roof rack would eat up precious gas mileage, I used the straps that NASA uses to secure the Space Shuttle prior to launch. (These are rated for everything from shuttle securing to rooftop car bags, but surprisingly they are not designed for hammocks. See the previous article for proof.) (I'm one of those people you see at Lowes that uses at least as much twine as the weight of the load. To this date, I have never had anything fly off the top of my car. (There was the time two summers ago the we almost lost a load of lumber out of the back of my wife's minivan. But iot wasn't on top of the minivan and was more a result of poor planning. I thought my friend would be more than enough of a counter-balance. In my defense, the plan was working perfectly until we hit the bump. If he hadn't started yelling and scrambling off, it would have been a moot point. Luckily, slamming the brakes on resettled all the lumber.)) So, when I used the ratchets to tighten down those two straps, they were tight. A tornado would hot have moved that bag off the roof of my car.
So, with the roof bag on and full of my stuff, the kids clothes, sleeping bags, blow up mattresses and anything else that didn't crack, crumble or scream as I stuffed it in, we were almost ready. We only needed to pack the trip essentials, (Games for the kids. My wife spoils them. The only game I would pack is “Look out the Window or Sleep.” But she has coloring books and crayons, magnets, stuffed animals and books. If I hadn't put my foot down, we would have somehow fit a ping pong table in. My logic that they couldn't play while belted in finally won over.) my wife's clothes and the cooler with food.
Three trips later, I had all of her stuff. It was too late to put a towing hitch on my car, (besides, I think the extra weight of the hitch would have me pulling wheelies all the time.) so it was time for hard decisions. My first thought was to take out the kid seats (and the kids), there was plenty of room in the back seat for all her stuff. But I was reminded that this was a family vacation and apparently the kids are a key part of the whole “family” thing.
In the end, we trimmed my wife's essentials down to one suitcase. The back of the Prius was loaded up, all the available space filled in. We just needed to load the two dogs and drop them off at the kennel and we'd be on our way. The only problem was, the last trip we'd taken and brought a dog was when we had our miniature schnauzer. Honey was twice his size, but thought she was half his size. Stripe didn't really care.
After one last check and locking the doors, we were ready to leave. I looked at my family in the car. Faces shining with eagerness. I opened the driver's door to get in. Honey was wedged in front of the seat, ready to hit the gas for me. My wife was trying to pull her back to the passenger side. Stripe was sprawled across both kids in the back seat. My daughter was pushing him toward my son. My son was pushing him toward my daughter. Stripe didn't seem to notice.
11:00 a.m.
Only 10 more hours till we hit the cabin...
Sunday, July 5, 2009
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!)
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!)
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Gourmetness
I learned last week, that as a father, I was sorely lacking. My wife informed me that every Friday, my daughter has a picnic at preschool and is supposed to have a sandwich for lunch. Apparently, she’d been severely stigmatized by having to make do with cans of ravioli.
Her eyes lit up when I asked her if she’d like a bologna sandwich. “Yes!” was accompanied by a little happy dance. For those of you that have been following our antics, you will know that a plain sandwich would never do for my daughter. So, we went over the list of additives and she gave me her order.
That evening, when I made the lunches, my daughter got a bologna sandwich with mustard and mayonnaise, just like mine. As we were leaving for school, I told her about her sandwich. (I have to admit, I was proud that I’d finally stepped up and met my parental responsibilities. In all honesty, I thought it was cool to make the same lunch for as I made for myself.) Each item in her lunch brought a happy nod. Fig newtons, crackers, peaches and a bologna sandwich with mustard and mayonnaise.
Both my wife and my daughter immediately pipped in, “No, not mustard!” The look of horror on both their faces was a shock. This was the little girl that dunked strawberries in mustard and came back for more! Besides, that's what she asked for.
I know for a fact that my wife is her mother because they both put their hands on their hips and, in unison explained that it was supposed to be ketchup and mayonnaise. Armed with a correctly made sandwich, my daughter went off to school much happier and ready to finally take her place among the sandwichers of the world.
Now that I finally knew how to feed my daughter, I was ready for the weekend lunch and knew that my inability to to properly make a sandwich wouldn't leave my children starved. My son, the picky eater, made due with a boring peanut butter sandwich. My daughter and I settled down to our gourmet sandwiches. (Granted, I'd ruined mine by selecting mustard instead of ketchup.) (You may be wondering where my wife was during this historic lunch setting. Being a blatant coward, she tends to keep a safe distance when my daughter and I explore the more creative side of fine dinning.)
Now, there may be doubters that think mayonnaise and ketchup, or even mustard and strawberries do not make a gourmet. And you'd be correct, but they are encouraging signs and she is still pushing her frontiers. My daughter confirmed her gourmetness by peeling the bread off her sandwich and using the tortilla chips to scoop up the ketchup and mayonnaise. (I think she has a future being a judge on the Iron Chef. No matter what they have to use, she'll be more than happy to try it. Only problem is, she'll give everyone high scores.)
During one of our normal night's out (My wife was working late and so I “cooked” by taking them out.) I was tired and both of the little monsters behaved through the whole dinner. There wasn't any blood and, for the most part, neither one terrorized the other. It was when my son asked, “Daddy, can we have dessert?” that I realized it was all a shameless plot and my hopes that they'd turned into civilized beings evaporated.
“What do you want?”
“Cheesecake!”
Now, cheesecake is not technically a dessert, it's more a state of being, so I couldn't say no. We ordered two slices and each promised I could have a taste of theirs. When the waitress came back with one slice, I knew my evening of peace was gone. The other piece had been dropped and this was the last piece of cheesecake.
Quick thinking and diplomatic skills were called for as both kids realized they were going to have to share! An order of ice cream was placed and I guarded the cheesecake while the waitress raced away.
(I've been told that sometimes the blog rambles, is disjointed or plain doesn't make any sense until the end. I have no problem blaming that on the little studied Parental Senility. I think this condition deserves a government grant and a team of scientist. Luckily, finding participants will be easy. Just look for a car with at least one child seat. If you're concerned that, once again, I've gone off on another train of thought, don't worry. I'm about to pull it back... I think.)
Both settled into the ice cream and cheesecake, and I even got a bite or two. My daughter's true gourmetness was confirmed after she finished her vanilla ice cream. Without any self-consciousness, she took a bite of garlic bread. While her eyes did water a little, it was, apparently, the perfect compliment to ice cream and cheesecake.
Her eyes lit up when I asked her if she’d like a bologna sandwich. “Yes!” was accompanied by a little happy dance. For those of you that have been following our antics, you will know that a plain sandwich would never do for my daughter. So, we went over the list of additives and she gave me her order.
That evening, when I made the lunches, my daughter got a bologna sandwich with mustard and mayonnaise, just like mine. As we were leaving for school, I told her about her sandwich. (I have to admit, I was proud that I’d finally stepped up and met my parental responsibilities. In all honesty, I thought it was cool to make the same lunch for as I made for myself.) Each item in her lunch brought a happy nod. Fig newtons, crackers, peaches and a bologna sandwich with mustard and mayonnaise.
Both my wife and my daughter immediately pipped in, “No, not mustard!” The look of horror on both their faces was a shock. This was the little girl that dunked strawberries in mustard and came back for more! Besides, that's what she asked for.
I know for a fact that my wife is her mother because they both put their hands on their hips and, in unison explained that it was supposed to be ketchup and mayonnaise. Armed with a correctly made sandwich, my daughter went off to school much happier and ready to finally take her place among the sandwichers of the world.
Now that I finally knew how to feed my daughter, I was ready for the weekend lunch and knew that my inability to to properly make a sandwich wouldn't leave my children starved. My son, the picky eater, made due with a boring peanut butter sandwich. My daughter and I settled down to our gourmet sandwiches. (Granted, I'd ruined mine by selecting mustard instead of ketchup.) (You may be wondering where my wife was during this historic lunch setting. Being a blatant coward, she tends to keep a safe distance when my daughter and I explore the more creative side of fine dinning.)
Now, there may be doubters that think mayonnaise and ketchup, or even mustard and strawberries do not make a gourmet. And you'd be correct, but they are encouraging signs and she is still pushing her frontiers. My daughter confirmed her gourmetness by peeling the bread off her sandwich and using the tortilla chips to scoop up the ketchup and mayonnaise. (I think she has a future being a judge on the Iron Chef. No matter what they have to use, she'll be more than happy to try it. Only problem is, she'll give everyone high scores.)
During one of our normal night's out (My wife was working late and so I “cooked” by taking them out.) I was tired and both of the little monsters behaved through the whole dinner. There wasn't any blood and, for the most part, neither one terrorized the other. It was when my son asked, “Daddy, can we have dessert?” that I realized it was all a shameless plot and my hopes that they'd turned into civilized beings evaporated.
“What do you want?”
“Cheesecake!”
Now, cheesecake is not technically a dessert, it's more a state of being, so I couldn't say no. We ordered two slices and each promised I could have a taste of theirs. When the waitress came back with one slice, I knew my evening of peace was gone. The other piece had been dropped and this was the last piece of cheesecake.
Quick thinking and diplomatic skills were called for as both kids realized they were going to have to share! An order of ice cream was placed and I guarded the cheesecake while the waitress raced away.
(I've been told that sometimes the blog rambles, is disjointed or plain doesn't make any sense until the end. I have no problem blaming that on the little studied Parental Senility. I think this condition deserves a government grant and a team of scientist. Luckily, finding participants will be easy. Just look for a car with at least one child seat. If you're concerned that, once again, I've gone off on another train of thought, don't worry. I'm about to pull it back... I think.)
Both settled into the ice cream and cheesecake, and I even got a bite or two. My daughter's true gourmetness was confirmed after she finished her vanilla ice cream. Without any self-consciousness, she took a bite of garlic bread. While her eyes did water a little, it was, apparently, the perfect compliment to ice cream and cheesecake.
Graduations
It's the time of year when flowers are in bloom, the weather's warming up and children are belting out songs without a care in the world. This is the third year we've been blessed with off-tune singing. One of the nice things about having our daughter go to the same preschool as our son is that we don't need to spend as much energy translating.
See, three years ago, after we moved from Virginia, we found a great pre-school and daycare for our children. At three and a half, our son was the perfect age for his first graduation. There were four songs his class sang. The first day they practiced the songs, my parental knowledge was seriously threatened. We were driving home and I heard his soft humming from the back seat.
“Daddy, what's the second line of the Turtle song?”
Now, I grew up knowing the twinkle twinkle song. The ABCs were another song I had a solid hold on. But, I can't say I'd ever heard the turtle song. I remembered there was a cartoon he watched, Franklin. “Do you mean the Franklin song?”
“No, the Timmy the Turtle song.”
“How's it go?” I figured if I stalled long enough, we'd be home or something along the way would catch his attention.
“I had a little turtle. His name was Tiny Tim.” He was remarkably close to being on pitch and there was a hint of melody. “I can't remember the rest of it.” There was the unspoken hint that, as his father, the one person he depended on, his role model and absolute hero, I had better step up with the second line.
When he was a baby, we spent many nights signing. He knew all the words to Cat's in the Cradle and Puff the Magic Dragon (Yes, I know the real meaning of the song, but at 3 a.m., it's an easy song to remember and sing.) “Where did you learn the song?”
“At school. What's the next line?”
“What's the song for?” Yes, I was stalling, but the speed limit through the neighborhood is 25 miles an hour and as the president of the civic association, speeding through the winding streets would not send a good example. I just needed a few more minutes and we'd be safely home.
“I can't tell you, it's a secret.”
Bingo! We spent the rest of the drive home talking about secrets, I even tried to see if his mommy had any, but he wasn't selling her out, even for a popsicle,
This year, it was my daughter's turn. One day we were driving home and from the back seat came, “I 'ad a wittle turtle, it name was Tim.” My son and I both jumped in on the second verse (Anyone with kids knows how those songs worm their way into your subconscious. Just walk though any mall and start humming “I love you, you love me...” and all the parent's will go glassy-eyed and join in on the Barney Song chorus.)
As the weeks went by this year, I realized they had a different person doing the program. My daughter added ballet to her routine. I know my son didn't have a ballet section when he graduated. And the thought of the teachers guiding eight 3 and 4 year-olds through Swan Lake guaranteed I'd have a front-row seat.
Every night, sometimes during the afternoon and even once or twice before I had my morning coffee, my daughter would announce, “Oh no! I forgot practice my ballet! Where my radio?” And she'd desperately search. As soon as she found something that could possibly be considered a radio (Believe it or not, apparently a rock on the ground has high innate musicalness.) she'd push a “button” and start her practice.
The last time I saw ballet was the movie with Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gregory Hines. That was pure amateurism next to my daughter's fusion of break-dancing, wall-shaking foot-stomping and a hint of the Charleston. We learned right away to wait for the “Tadaaaaaa” before we clapped. A premature clap earned you a cross, hands-on-the-hips, “I not done yet!”
So, after many months of being serenaded while we ate dinner and post-dinner floor shows, it was time for her first graduation ever. She'd watched her brother graduate from preschool and kindergarten. She'd watched his Christmas and Thanksgiving shows. Every time, she'd been in the audience, quiet and the not-center-of-attention. It was her turn!
My wife and I picked them up after school and went out to for a special pre-show dinner. I checked on our future star, “Are you ready?”
“Yes!”
“I'll be in the front row,” I promised her. (I was having a hard time with my baby growing up. Today, her first musical program, tomorrow she could be on Broadway, and not returning my calls.)
She went back with the rest of her class as soon as we got the school. Our proud family found seats in the front row, as we promised, and waited in anticipation. Would this be The Breakout Performance? How would the other parents feel when they saw the pure, raw talent? How does a three year-old do autographs when she can't write her name?
A hush fell over the room as the teachers led the kids out. Our daughter peaked around the doorway, saw all the people and raced straight to her mother's lap. At least she had a good view of the rest of the program.
See, three years ago, after we moved from Virginia, we found a great pre-school and daycare for our children. At three and a half, our son was the perfect age for his first graduation. There were four songs his class sang. The first day they practiced the songs, my parental knowledge was seriously threatened. We were driving home and I heard his soft humming from the back seat.
“Daddy, what's the second line of the Turtle song?”
Now, I grew up knowing the twinkle twinkle song. The ABCs were another song I had a solid hold on. But, I can't say I'd ever heard the turtle song. I remembered there was a cartoon he watched, Franklin. “Do you mean the Franklin song?”
“No, the Timmy the Turtle song.”
“How's it go?” I figured if I stalled long enough, we'd be home or something along the way would catch his attention.
“I had a little turtle. His name was Tiny Tim.” He was remarkably close to being on pitch and there was a hint of melody. “I can't remember the rest of it.” There was the unspoken hint that, as his father, the one person he depended on, his role model and absolute hero, I had better step up with the second line.
When he was a baby, we spent many nights signing. He knew all the words to Cat's in the Cradle and Puff the Magic Dragon (Yes, I know the real meaning of the song, but at 3 a.m., it's an easy song to remember and sing.) “Where did you learn the song?”
“At school. What's the next line?”
“What's the song for?” Yes, I was stalling, but the speed limit through the neighborhood is 25 miles an hour and as the president of the civic association, speeding through the winding streets would not send a good example. I just needed a few more minutes and we'd be safely home.
“I can't tell you, it's a secret.”
Bingo! We spent the rest of the drive home talking about secrets, I even tried to see if his mommy had any, but he wasn't selling her out, even for a popsicle,
This year, it was my daughter's turn. One day we were driving home and from the back seat came, “I 'ad a wittle turtle, it name was Tim.” My son and I both jumped in on the second verse (Anyone with kids knows how those songs worm their way into your subconscious. Just walk though any mall and start humming “I love you, you love me...” and all the parent's will go glassy-eyed and join in on the Barney Song chorus.)
As the weeks went by this year, I realized they had a different person doing the program. My daughter added ballet to her routine. I know my son didn't have a ballet section when he graduated. And the thought of the teachers guiding eight 3 and 4 year-olds through Swan Lake guaranteed I'd have a front-row seat.
Every night, sometimes during the afternoon and even once or twice before I had my morning coffee, my daughter would announce, “Oh no! I forgot practice my ballet! Where my radio?” And she'd desperately search. As soon as she found something that could possibly be considered a radio (Believe it or not, apparently a rock on the ground has high innate musicalness.) she'd push a “button” and start her practice.
The last time I saw ballet was the movie with Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gregory Hines. That was pure amateurism next to my daughter's fusion of break-dancing, wall-shaking foot-stomping and a hint of the Charleston. We learned right away to wait for the “Tadaaaaaa” before we clapped. A premature clap earned you a cross, hands-on-the-hips, “I not done yet!”
So, after many months of being serenaded while we ate dinner and post-dinner floor shows, it was time for her first graduation ever. She'd watched her brother graduate from preschool and kindergarten. She'd watched his Christmas and Thanksgiving shows. Every time, she'd been in the audience, quiet and the not-center-of-attention. It was her turn!
My wife and I picked them up after school and went out to for a special pre-show dinner. I checked on our future star, “Are you ready?”
“Yes!”
“I'll be in the front row,” I promised her. (I was having a hard time with my baby growing up. Today, her first musical program, tomorrow she could be on Broadway, and not returning my calls.)
She went back with the rest of her class as soon as we got the school. Our proud family found seats in the front row, as we promised, and waited in anticipation. Would this be The Breakout Performance? How would the other parents feel when they saw the pure, raw talent? How does a three year-old do autographs when she can't write her name?
A hush fell over the room as the teachers led the kids out. Our daughter peaked around the doorway, saw all the people and raced straight to her mother's lap. At least she had a good view of the rest of the program.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
A New Freezer
It’s amazing what you can learn from a new appliance. Now that both my wife and I working full time, she came up with the idea of pre-cooking dinners. Her plan was simple, she’d make the week’s dinners ahead of time, then freeze them. The problem is that a day’s worth of dinner let alone a week’s worth would not fit in our freeze. (I didn’t mention the other problem, if it takes thirty-minutes to make the meal, then 5 minutes to freeze it, we’re not saving a whole lot of time when it takes an hour to melt the frozen block of ice. But, in mom-time, it seems to work out.)
So, we bought a freezer that fit perfectly in the guest room, right next to the wardrobe. My wife, ever impractical, began filling it with non-essentials like meat, frozen vegetables and that ilk. I, being the only responsible adult in our household, immediately put the ice cream maker bowl in the freezer. This was one of those new-fangled ones, you just pour the mix in and turn the motor on. The bowl is filled with frozen stuff (twenty years ago, I might have opened it up to see if it was just water or something else. Now I’m happy to accept it as a miracle of modern technology) and there’s no need for the crushed ice, salt or turn crank and broken wrists.
But the new technology isn’t what I learned about. I learned that everyone in my immediately family is, I believe the technical term is, whacko. I discovered this the other night while I was making the ice cream. Of course, I’d long ago lost the recipe book that came with the ice cream maker. There was a simple recipe that only took a few minutes. Instead, I decided to use the one I found online. It included real vanilla beans and cooking. After the second try (for the record, I did read all the steps in the recipe, I just didn’t think the order was that important) I noticed my son run through the kitchen.
Now, he and his sister often run through the kitchen. Usually I’m chasing them and they are screeching. But that’s not what as unique. What was unique this time was his clothing and lack of clothing. He was still wearing his shirt and underwear, but was missing his pants. I bring this up now because, at that moment, I didn’t notice his lack of pants. The reason I missed that was he was wearing a snow-boot and a sandal.
At dinner, I was too stunned at that moment to say anything, I asked him about his choice of footwear. He told me he wanted to match his sister.
“She was wearing your other boot and sandal?” At least that made sense. The fact that they had come up with this idea together sent a shiver of fear through me.
“Noooo, daddy,” my daughter chided me. “I wore my sandal.”
“And your brother’s boot?”
She nodded and gave me her he’s-so-cute-when-he-asks-dumb-questions look.
Now, I’ve known about the healing properties of magnets and felt their effect first hand. Several years ago, my wife’s mother got me a knee brace with magnets and suggested I try it. (After four knee operations, I figured it was worth a try. Every time I go to the doctor I end up getting cut open, so I’ve sworn off doctors. I can honestly say that the magnets had an affect. It took two weeks before I could walk without a limp.)
The other night, I was getting the kids’ lunches ready. (In order to make the mornings a little more tolerable, I get their clothes out and the lunches ready the night before. That gives me ten more minutes to drink coffee before dropping them off at school.) I went to our new freezer to get their juice boxes and was rather surprised to find we had bought a dual-use freezer. What is a dual-use freezer? I’m not sure, but I do know that you should only put food-type products in the freezer. (Ok, I did put a hard drive in the freezer, but that was only after the computer it was in fell off a shelf and knocked something loose. I was hoping that when it froze, everything would expand/contract enough to get one more use out of it and copy the data off.) At first, I was sure there was a good reason my wife had put her suit jacket in the freezer. After all, it was right next to the wardrobe, maybe she go confused.
Then I remembered the kids in their sandals and my son’s boots and the magnets in the knee brace. I’m calling to have them pickup the freezer tomorrow, hopefully sanity will return too.
So, we bought a freezer that fit perfectly in the guest room, right next to the wardrobe. My wife, ever impractical, began filling it with non-essentials like meat, frozen vegetables and that ilk. I, being the only responsible adult in our household, immediately put the ice cream maker bowl in the freezer. This was one of those new-fangled ones, you just pour the mix in and turn the motor on. The bowl is filled with frozen stuff (twenty years ago, I might have opened it up to see if it was just water or something else. Now I’m happy to accept it as a miracle of modern technology) and there’s no need for the crushed ice, salt or turn crank and broken wrists.
But the new technology isn’t what I learned about. I learned that everyone in my immediately family is, I believe the technical term is, whacko. I discovered this the other night while I was making the ice cream. Of course, I’d long ago lost the recipe book that came with the ice cream maker. There was a simple recipe that only took a few minutes. Instead, I decided to use the one I found online. It included real vanilla beans and cooking. After the second try (for the record, I did read all the steps in the recipe, I just didn’t think the order was that important) I noticed my son run through the kitchen.
Now, he and his sister often run through the kitchen. Usually I’m chasing them and they are screeching. But that’s not what as unique. What was unique this time was his clothing and lack of clothing. He was still wearing his shirt and underwear, but was missing his pants. I bring this up now because, at that moment, I didn’t notice his lack of pants. The reason I missed that was he was wearing a snow-boot and a sandal.
At dinner, I was too stunned at that moment to say anything, I asked him about his choice of footwear. He told me he wanted to match his sister.
“She was wearing your other boot and sandal?” At least that made sense. The fact that they had come up with this idea together sent a shiver of fear through me.
“Noooo, daddy,” my daughter chided me. “I wore my sandal.”
“And your brother’s boot?”
She nodded and gave me her he’s-so-cute-when-he-asks-dumb-questions look.
Now, I’ve known about the healing properties of magnets and felt their effect first hand. Several years ago, my wife’s mother got me a knee brace with magnets and suggested I try it. (After four knee operations, I figured it was worth a try. Every time I go to the doctor I end up getting cut open, so I’ve sworn off doctors. I can honestly say that the magnets had an affect. It took two weeks before I could walk without a limp.)
The other night, I was getting the kids’ lunches ready. (In order to make the mornings a little more tolerable, I get their clothes out and the lunches ready the night before. That gives me ten more minutes to drink coffee before dropping them off at school.) I went to our new freezer to get their juice boxes and was rather surprised to find we had bought a dual-use freezer. What is a dual-use freezer? I’m not sure, but I do know that you should only put food-type products in the freezer. (Ok, I did put a hard drive in the freezer, but that was only after the computer it was in fell off a shelf and knocked something loose. I was hoping that when it froze, everything would expand/contract enough to get one more use out of it and copy the data off.) At first, I was sure there was a good reason my wife had put her suit jacket in the freezer. After all, it was right next to the wardrobe, maybe she go confused.
Then I remembered the kids in their sandals and my son’s boots and the magnets in the knee brace. I’m calling to have them pickup the freezer tomorrow, hopefully sanity will return too.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
One Size Might Fit All
I think I’m on to something here. It’s a simple way to save the car industry, so bear with me…
I was driving home from work on Good Friday and the traffic came to a sudden stop. I managed to stop in time, the guy behind me didn’t. It wasn’t a serious accident. We both drove away. But now I have to find time to take my car to the body shop to get fixed. (I thought, for a brief second, that as soon as my motorcycle is fixed, I could drop off my car at the repair shop. Some of you might be jumping up and down, “But how will you take those two little monsters to school every morning?” I thought of that too. My son would fit behind me and there’s room on the gas tank for my daughter. They even have straps and stuff I could use to secure them. My daughter thought this was a fantastic idea. My son, apparently wise beyond his years, didn’t bother to hide his disgust at my suggestion.)
So, how did I get from endangering my kids’ lives (ok, I never really seriously considered it, but it was so much fun torturing both sets of grandparents. Even though they won’t say it, I know there’s always that thought, in the back of their minds, that I am just irresponsible enough to try it.) to another groundbreaking discovery? (Check out my article on Terrible Threes being genetically triggered.) Immediately after the accident, I didn’t really look at the damage to my car. I was more concerned with; a. Could I drive home? 2. Was my neck normally this stiff? and iii. Where did my cell phone go?
When I got home, I had my first good look at my poor car. The back left corner was no longer a corner, by the accepted definition. I started paying attention to the dents and dings on other cars. Then I relooked at my wife’s minivan. Could it be that I owed her an apology and she was, in truth, a visionary? True, the driver’s side of her minivan was relatively free of any dents.
So, what is my plan to save the auto industry? I think we should follow my wife’s example. When we bought the minivan, we were living in Washington, DC. Our daughter was on the way, so we were in major money-saving mode. There was no way a car was going to be able to handle our trips to Ohio to see the grandparents and, at that time, SUVs and minivans were at the very very very top edge of our budget. So, we bought the one minivan that we could afford, and to my surprise, my wife didn’t complain that it was too big or too wide.
I’ll give those of you that know her a few minutes to regain consciousness…. The reason she didn’t complain is, much like the women that struck out west to tame those savage lands during the pioneering days, my wife is part of a new breed. Just like those men and women made do with that they had, so does this new breed. Just look at the other cars as you drive.
Rather than spend the extra money for the smaller and thinner vehicles, especially when they might not come as small as wanted, these people are doing it themselves. I can see that clearly now. For years, my wife has suffered with too-wide cars. That is why she runs over curbs. She’s been telling Detroit to make the cars thinner (but since Akron makes the tires, I don’t think they’ll be too happy when this idea makes it mainstream. From my wife alone, they will be loosing thousands of dollars in income.) The dents in the bumper are her trying to make her minivan shorter. The huge dent on the passenger side, right where my son sits, I’m hoping is another effort at making the van fit into smaller parking spaces...
So, how can this save Detroit and the auto industry? Lack of customization. Think how much cheaper it will be to produce one size of square car and let the buyers customize the width, length, and (I’m sure my wife will soon figure out a way to do this) the height! The only problem is that I was really happy with the length of my Prius, but in that split second, I didn’t have a chance to tell this to the guy that was trying to make his car shorter.
I was driving home from work on Good Friday and the traffic came to a sudden stop. I managed to stop in time, the guy behind me didn’t. It wasn’t a serious accident. We both drove away. But now I have to find time to take my car to the body shop to get fixed. (I thought, for a brief second, that as soon as my motorcycle is fixed, I could drop off my car at the repair shop. Some of you might be jumping up and down, “But how will you take those two little monsters to school every morning?” I thought of that too. My son would fit behind me and there’s room on the gas tank for my daughter. They even have straps and stuff I could use to secure them. My daughter thought this was a fantastic idea. My son, apparently wise beyond his years, didn’t bother to hide his disgust at my suggestion.)
So, how did I get from endangering my kids’ lives (ok, I never really seriously considered it, but it was so much fun torturing both sets of grandparents. Even though they won’t say it, I know there’s always that thought, in the back of their minds, that I am just irresponsible enough to try it.) to another groundbreaking discovery? (Check out my article on Terrible Threes being genetically triggered.) Immediately after the accident, I didn’t really look at the damage to my car. I was more concerned with; a. Could I drive home? 2. Was my neck normally this stiff? and iii. Where did my cell phone go?
When I got home, I had my first good look at my poor car. The back left corner was no longer a corner, by the accepted definition. I started paying attention to the dents and dings on other cars. Then I relooked at my wife’s minivan. Could it be that I owed her an apology and she was, in truth, a visionary? True, the driver’s side of her minivan was relatively free of any dents.
So, what is my plan to save the auto industry? I think we should follow my wife’s example. When we bought the minivan, we were living in Washington, DC. Our daughter was on the way, so we were in major money-saving mode. There was no way a car was going to be able to handle our trips to Ohio to see the grandparents and, at that time, SUVs and minivans were at the very very very top edge of our budget. So, we bought the one minivan that we could afford, and to my surprise, my wife didn’t complain that it was too big or too wide.
I’ll give those of you that know her a few minutes to regain consciousness…. The reason she didn’t complain is, much like the women that struck out west to tame those savage lands during the pioneering days, my wife is part of a new breed. Just like those men and women made do with that they had, so does this new breed. Just look at the other cars as you drive.
Rather than spend the extra money for the smaller and thinner vehicles, especially when they might not come as small as wanted, these people are doing it themselves. I can see that clearly now. For years, my wife has suffered with too-wide cars. That is why she runs over curbs. She’s been telling Detroit to make the cars thinner (but since Akron makes the tires, I don’t think they’ll be too happy when this idea makes it mainstream. From my wife alone, they will be loosing thousands of dollars in income.) The dents in the bumper are her trying to make her minivan shorter. The huge dent on the passenger side, right where my son sits, I’m hoping is another effort at making the van fit into smaller parking spaces...
So, how can this save Detroit and the auto industry? Lack of customization. Think how much cheaper it will be to produce one size of square car and let the buyers customize the width, length, and (I’m sure my wife will soon figure out a way to do this) the height! The only problem is that I was really happy with the length of my Prius, but in that split second, I didn’t have a chance to tell this to the guy that was trying to make his car shorter.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
