“No daddy, throw the small rocks.” Normally, you'd expect this sort of comment during something like skipping stones, not while playing freeze tag. (more on this later.)
We took our kids on their first real camping trip. A real weekend of roughing it in the wild... Us against nature... The real Swiss Family Robinson.
The trip had been planned for a few weeks, we were going to hit the wide open road right after work. Just the four of us for a weekend away.
But, there was a forecast of a thunderstorm and our five-year daughter thought it might be a good idea to postpone her first ever, real life camping trip one day until the storms had passed. So, our trip into the great unknown was delayed while Mother Nature got her act together.
Finally, Saturday arrived and no hint of the dreaded thunderstorms to ruin our trip. I hooked the pop-up trailer to the back of the SUV, loaded the pillow pets into the back and the cooler, then we took off for our one night of roughing it.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the camp ground and found our assigned spot. Two hours after that, (camping really is an educational experience. My kids' vocabularies had increased by several dozen new words and expressions.) I'd maneuvered the pop-up camper back onto the state-park mandated concrete slab. (The person that invented physics needs a good swift kick in the shin. Don't get me wrong, I did the high school physics and even had a degree in parental physics. (I was actually ready when my daughter asked, “Daddy, why is the sky blue.”
I told her all about vectors and light waves and infra red and even drew out the science of it.
When I was done, she gave me a long look, “For really, Daddy, why is the sky blue?”
“God used up all the green on the trees and only had blue left.” She gave me a quick nod as if to say, you shoulda stuck with the truth from the start.)
When I turn right going forward, the camper goes right. There is no logical reason why that same thing should not be true in reverse. ) I can still remember bits and pieces of the process.
“Daddy, is the tire s'posed to be in the fire pit?”
“Daddy, how come the camper is beside us?”
“Daddy, mommy said we can't use that word.”
“Or that word.”
With our home away from home finally parked within a reasonable definition of “on” the concrete slab, we jumped out and began the process of “camping”. Two mild strokes later, I'd learned that “pop-up” was code for turn the crank several hundred times while nothing happens.
But, my family was waiting. I knew how the settlers felt when they set out on the great expansions westward. Soulful eyes were staring and it'd been at least an hour since they'd eaten, so they were wondering if they were going to starve or, even worse, freeze to death in the cold, merciless night. My pioneering instincts kicked in. Within a matter of hours, the camper was up, the electricity plugged in, the gas turned on, the fridge started and the oven started. Just like our ancient ancestors overcame impossible odds, it looked like we were going to survive our first night out in the wild.
Where do rocks and freeze tag come in? After everything was set up, my son wanted to play freeze tag, with his rules. Timeouts were called often and based had a tendency to change for without warning. As he gleefully ran up the hill towards another base, I picked up a large rock. (In my defense, in western Pennsylvania all you can pick up are rocks, and I did look for a small one)
That's when my daughter channeled my wife. “No.” It wasn't even shouted. Both my son and I stopped and looked at my wife, then at my daughter. Since her hands were on her little hips, we knew we were in trouble. That's when the lecture started.
“Daddy, you can't throw big rocks. You have to throw the small ones. We have delicate skin. Adults don't, but kids do.” She started to scoop up a couple of small rocks.
Luckily, I managed to get to her before she could demonstrate her theory. It's a good thing that she wasn't part of the original settlers... If she had been, the west coast would have a lot less people. But, the survivors probable would have gotten there much faster.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Alan's a Bastard
My daughter graduated from pre-K the other day. This was special. It wasn't the pre-K pre-graduation, that was last year. And it wasn't the preschool graduation, that was the year before. No, this was her last graduation before she enters the cold cruel world of public education.
This is important because I made a promise to her last year. While my son and daughter are related (I know they are mine, but my wife refuses to take a DNA test.) and do the normal teasing and fighting, for siblings, they get along remarkably well. (Every day I pray that this ends before they become teenagers. My wife and I might stand a chance if we can keep them separated, but if they join forces in their evil-teenage-angsty years, we're doomed.)
The whole graduation thing is important because apparently, when I promised my daughter that she could have a bunk bed too, my wife took that to be a real promise. From the exasperated sigh when I asked, “You bought a what?” I even had some kind of input into the decision.
I wasn't overly worried. It wasn't that long ago that I survived assembling my son's bunk bed. And I had both kids helping me. I thought it was be a cool surprise for our new graduate to come home from her last day of school to see her big-girl bed.
Like my son's bunk bed, it came with all the tools, bolts and directions. This entire bed, all 4 million pieces was supposed to be put together with one alan wrench and four pages of directions.
I honestly don't know if Alan started out as a bastard. I'd imagine it started innocently enough...
“Alan, we need you to invent a tool that can be used to put together furniture.”
“It's called a hammer and nails,” I'd imagine he said before returning to whatever project he was working on.
“No, that's too permanent. We want something that can be taken apart easily. Something that the buyers can put together themselves. We'll sell the kits cheaper.”
“Who came up with that insane idea? When you figure medical expenses it would be much cheaper to pay for a qualified person to assemble it.”
“Market research. Wives hate their husbands. Trust us, this theory will be proven out in the years to come,” the evil corporation probably said.
“A screw driver then.”
I imagine these shadow figures shook their heads slowly. They knew they had Alan now. “Too easy. We want the man to feel a sense of accomplishment when it is assembled.”
“At lease give them a chance.” There was probably a hint of desperation in his voice as he felt his soul being sucked out.
“We'll name it after you.”
And Alan's soul was lost.
Later, after fully embracing his betrayal of the human race, I can see him unveiling the tool. “Now, you promised to name it after me. You'll keep your word, you have to.” There was probably a tremor in his hands and voice.
I'd imagine all the evil races in the universe had assembled for the unveiling. Breaths (or whatever passes for that in the aliens) were held as the drums rolled and disco lights flashed. There was probably a little hiss of disappointment at the initial unveil.
“We are not impressed.”
But Alan, being an evil engineer, was ready for this. He knew that simplicity was the key. This is where his true bastardness is revealed.
“The directions for anything are only 4 pages.” He would have held up the assembly manual, with the large pictures, clearly labeled.
“We are not impressed and we are not happy.” By now, the assembled beings would be rustling in irritation. “This is too easy.”
Alan had them right where he wanted them. “The pictures are all the same, not matter the product.”
“Ooooooo.” This was pure genius. “No man will admit he cannot put something together that only has four pages of directions.”
Alan basked in the admiration.
“And your tool? The Alan Wrench?” Now they were eager. What pure evil would be unveiled?
“One tool to put it together,” he would have said as he lifted it high. (The only thing missing was something croaking, “My Precious! (This all happened before the movies came out.))
“But the shape? Why the long part. That will be too easy to turn, won't it?”
An evil smile probably creased his face as he nodded. “It will fit into the bolts perfectly, and the bolts will turn easily. Too easily. As soon as they get on a roll, it will fall out. And by the time it is halfway assembled, the end will be rounded and useless.”
“And they will have to hold the short end? Ooooooo.”
Yes, this is what my wife subjected me to. I'm sure the balance of evil in the universe was irrevocably skewed by her purchase. My daughter's graduation day was on it's way to being ruined.
But, Alan didn't take into account two much greater engineers... Vise and his grips and Duct and his tape...
This is important because I made a promise to her last year. While my son and daughter are related (I know they are mine, but my wife refuses to take a DNA test.) and do the normal teasing and fighting, for siblings, they get along remarkably well. (Every day I pray that this ends before they become teenagers. My wife and I might stand a chance if we can keep them separated, but if they join forces in their evil-teenage-angsty years, we're doomed.)
The whole graduation thing is important because apparently, when I promised my daughter that she could have a bunk bed too, my wife took that to be a real promise. From the exasperated sigh when I asked, “You bought a what?” I even had some kind of input into the decision.
I wasn't overly worried. It wasn't that long ago that I survived assembling my son's bunk bed. And I had both kids helping me. I thought it was be a cool surprise for our new graduate to come home from her last day of school to see her big-girl bed.
Like my son's bunk bed, it came with all the tools, bolts and directions. This entire bed, all 4 million pieces was supposed to be put together with one alan wrench and four pages of directions.
I honestly don't know if Alan started out as a bastard. I'd imagine it started innocently enough...
“Alan, we need you to invent a tool that can be used to put together furniture.”
“It's called a hammer and nails,” I'd imagine he said before returning to whatever project he was working on.
“No, that's too permanent. We want something that can be taken apart easily. Something that the buyers can put together themselves. We'll sell the kits cheaper.”
“Who came up with that insane idea? When you figure medical expenses it would be much cheaper to pay for a qualified person to assemble it.”
“Market research. Wives hate their husbands. Trust us, this theory will be proven out in the years to come,” the evil corporation probably said.
“A screw driver then.”
I imagine these shadow figures shook their heads slowly. They knew they had Alan now. “Too easy. We want the man to feel a sense of accomplishment when it is assembled.”
“At lease give them a chance.” There was probably a hint of desperation in his voice as he felt his soul being sucked out.
“We'll name it after you.”
And Alan's soul was lost.
Later, after fully embracing his betrayal of the human race, I can see him unveiling the tool. “Now, you promised to name it after me. You'll keep your word, you have to.” There was probably a tremor in his hands and voice.
I'd imagine all the evil races in the universe had assembled for the unveiling. Breaths (or whatever passes for that in the aliens) were held as the drums rolled and disco lights flashed. There was probably a little hiss of disappointment at the initial unveil.
“We are not impressed.”
But Alan, being an evil engineer, was ready for this. He knew that simplicity was the key. This is where his true bastardness is revealed.
“The directions for anything are only 4 pages.” He would have held up the assembly manual, with the large pictures, clearly labeled.
“We are not impressed and we are not happy.” By now, the assembled beings would be rustling in irritation. “This is too easy.”
Alan had them right where he wanted them. “The pictures are all the same, not matter the product.”
“Ooooooo.” This was pure genius. “No man will admit he cannot put something together that only has four pages of directions.”
Alan basked in the admiration.
“And your tool? The Alan Wrench?” Now they were eager. What pure evil would be unveiled?
“One tool to put it together,” he would have said as he lifted it high. (The only thing missing was something croaking, “My Precious! (This all happened before the movies came out.))
“But the shape? Why the long part. That will be too easy to turn, won't it?”
An evil smile probably creased his face as he nodded. “It will fit into the bolts perfectly, and the bolts will turn easily. Too easily. As soon as they get on a roll, it will fall out. And by the time it is halfway assembled, the end will be rounded and useless.”
“And they will have to hold the short end? Ooooooo.”
Yes, this is what my wife subjected me to. I'm sure the balance of evil in the universe was irrevocably skewed by her purchase. My daughter's graduation day was on it's way to being ruined.
But, Alan didn't take into account two much greater engineers... Vise and his grips and Duct and his tape...
Sunday, December 12, 2010
An Old Sport's Injury
When I was in college, my best friend and I would play racketball on the weekends. Neither of us was great, but we didn't let that impede how hard we played. I remember one weekend. It might have been the after-effects of alchohol, or maybe too much studying (yeah... I don't buy that either, but had to include it to protect what little reputation I have left. Also, when I become famouse and historians review these articles, lines like that may cast enough doubt on what I actually did...) but we were showing off our “kill shots” (the serves that cannot be returned. They require a great deal of skill, timing and power. Or in our case, luck) (yeah, there were girls working out in the gym too, but I highly doubt that crossed our mind.)
We both went for the racketball at the same time. I hit the ball and it was a beautiful shot. My best friend hit my thumb and it was also a beautiful shot.
That's the only sports injury that I can really remember. It's not even a good one, because it doesn't bother me on cold and rainy days.
I started thinking about this recently when I woke up one morning and my big toe was having issues. After work, those issues had grown into a full blow “I'm-never-walking-again-so-just-put-me-out-of-misery” tenderness...
This all happened at Thanksgiving and we were travelling to both sets of grandparents. That meant at least five hundred years of combined medical experience. The only problem when you combine that many years of folk-lorish medical knowledge amoung 5 people (my parents, my wife's parents and my wife's grandmother) the results are always elderly afflications. The suggestions as to the cause of my limp ranged from:
“Fallen arches.”
“Eh? What did he say?”
“You need to wear a truss.”
“Arthritis?”
“Eh? What did he say?”
“What happened to your foot?”
“I can't find my dentures.”
However, it was my own mother that showed a complete lack of compassion in a single email. She had the nerve to suggest it was gout. When I looked it up, I saw “it affects middle-aged men”. At 44, I am NOT middle-aged. Oh, there are days I feel old, but not middle-aged. The side effect to the email was my wife was off on a new witch hunt. Not only does middle-age cause gout, but apparently there's something about diet being important. By the day after Thanksgiving, I had a new diet planned out for me. (This is another affliction of middle-age, planned diet. The next step to old-age... one of those pill boxes with each day of the week)
Face with the horror of bran three times a day, I took my health into my own hands and went to the doctor and got x-rays. It turns out I was right and I'm not middle-aged. It was a stress facture. I guess, when I played dek hockey with my son's team, in addition to the bruised ankles and ego, I fracture my toe.
So, the past two weeks, my wife and I have been constantly warning our children and dogs not to jump on me and watch my toe. “Daddy hurt his toe,” is the common refrain.
“What did you do to your toe?” My daughter asked, concern lacing her voice.
“Put my cane back.”
“But it's my horsey.”
“No, I need it to walk.”
“Why?”
“I hurt my toe.”
“What did you do to your toe?”
“Put my cane back!”
“But it's my horsey.”...
What does this have to do with sport's injuries? Well, now I finally have an excuse for disappointing my children as well as people that irritate me. While, technically, it's not an “old sports injury”, my toe is old, dek hockey is both a sport and form of medieval combat, and a stress fracture is an injury.
When ever I need an excuse or that day after the huge snow storm, I can now cite my “old sports injury.”
We both went for the racketball at the same time. I hit the ball and it was a beautiful shot. My best friend hit my thumb and it was also a beautiful shot.
That's the only sports injury that I can really remember. It's not even a good one, because it doesn't bother me on cold and rainy days.
I started thinking about this recently when I woke up one morning and my big toe was having issues. After work, those issues had grown into a full blow “I'm-never-walking-again-so-just-put-me-out-of-misery” tenderness...
This all happened at Thanksgiving and we were travelling to both sets of grandparents. That meant at least five hundred years of combined medical experience. The only problem when you combine that many years of folk-lorish medical knowledge amoung 5 people (my parents, my wife's parents and my wife's grandmother) the results are always elderly afflications. The suggestions as to the cause of my limp ranged from:
“Fallen arches.”
“Eh? What did he say?”
“You need to wear a truss.”
“Arthritis?”
“Eh? What did he say?”
“What happened to your foot?”
“I can't find my dentures.”
However, it was my own mother that showed a complete lack of compassion in a single email. She had the nerve to suggest it was gout. When I looked it up, I saw “it affects middle-aged men”. At 44, I am NOT middle-aged. Oh, there are days I feel old, but not middle-aged. The side effect to the email was my wife was off on a new witch hunt. Not only does middle-age cause gout, but apparently there's something about diet being important. By the day after Thanksgiving, I had a new diet planned out for me. (This is another affliction of middle-age, planned diet. The next step to old-age... one of those pill boxes with each day of the week)
Face with the horror of bran three times a day, I took my health into my own hands and went to the doctor and got x-rays. It turns out I was right and I'm not middle-aged. It was a stress facture. I guess, when I played dek hockey with my son's team, in addition to the bruised ankles and ego, I fracture my toe.
So, the past two weeks, my wife and I have been constantly warning our children and dogs not to jump on me and watch my toe. “Daddy hurt his toe,” is the common refrain.
“What did you do to your toe?” My daughter asked, concern lacing her voice.
“Put my cane back.”
“But it's my horsey.”
“No, I need it to walk.”
“Why?”
“I hurt my toe.”
“What did you do to your toe?”
“Put my cane back!”
“But it's my horsey.”...
What does this have to do with sport's injuries? Well, now I finally have an excuse for disappointing my children as well as people that irritate me. While, technically, it's not an “old sports injury”, my toe is old, dek hockey is both a sport and form of medieval combat, and a stress fracture is an injury.
When ever I need an excuse or that day after the huge snow storm, I can now cite my “old sports injury.”
Monday, November 22, 2010
Practice
This spring, I got a terrifying email. “Dek Hockey practice”.
Oh, the email started off innocently enough (I'm paraphrasing. Reading the email still gives me panic attacks). “Parents, the kids have had a great season, since playoffs start on Saturday, we're going to have a practice Friday night to show them positions.
Let me explain dek hockey, if you are not familiar with the sport. It's hockey, with a ball. They play it in an enclosed area, like hockey, but instead of ice and skates, they have a ball, shoes, shin pads, elbow pads, gloves and a helmet. You may think it's enclosed to keep the ball in. That might be true, but the real reason is; when you give a group of 6-9 year olds wooden sticks, federal saftey laws require that they be separated from the public.
The email went on to lie that the parents would only stand in the positions. I'd just gotten over a severe case of a mutated Ebola-SARS-Swine-Avian flu attack. (I'm pretty sure that if I hadn't fought off this mutated virus, it would have swept across the world with devasting results.) I figured I owed it to my son to show up and support him. After all, it was only to show positions, help them figure out where they needed to play...
The first drill sounded simple. When the ball goes into the corner, the kids are supposed to pass it up the boards. (the main point being not to pass it in front of their goal...) The coach passed the ball into the corner, a kid ran after it, passed it up the boards to a waiting teammate. “Fathers you pressure the kids.”...
There are several things wrong with that sentence. The kids were armed with deadly weapons. We were outnumbered. The kids were armed with deadly weapons.
After several hundred trips into the corner, almost as many bruises on my shins and a growing desire to whack one of the little monsters, they called a break. Fathers against sons, in a game that would go down in history as one of the bloodiest battles. Up and down the dek we raced, sticks flying, parents crippled and kids laughing evily.
I've read enough medical journals (ok, my wife has nagged me enough about junk food and exercise) to know that seeing dark spots are not a good thing. When I started seeing double, it was time to sit down. (Ok, it wasn't so much a decision.) Two heart attacks and a stroke later, the “practice” was over and I was allowed to seek propper medical treatment.
This fall, when the email came, my wife finally found me, curled up in a ball whimpering.
“What's wrong?” I think there might have been some worry in her voice.
“Dek hockey practice...”
To my horror, my son was right behind his mother and sent up a cheer. My only hope of ignoring the email and explaining to my son how it hadn't been delivered was gone.
However... this time would be different. I was healthy, the Ebola-SARS-Swine-Avian flu had been completely wiped out.
“I'm going to beat you so bad.” my son started off with the trash talking on the way to the practice.
“Oh yeah? I'm going to bury you so deep they won't be able to dig you out.” I countered.
“That was good!” (He needs a little work on the whole trash talking.) “We'll, after we get home, I'm going to throw away your keys!” (Again, we're going to have to work on this.)
How did I do this time? I made it through the practice on my feet. I even managed to play with a broken ankle. (I found out that the official dek hockey ball, while about the size of a baseball, is made out of rocks and probably pleutonium and spikes pop out right before it hits your ankle.) Did the parents win? Well, the coach was the kids' goalie and the team's regular goalie was ours. While the adults played their best, our goalie pretty much summed it up when he wanted the parents to shoot on him.
However, I did win the face off against my son at least once. I think that was because I went for the ball and he went for my ankles. So, while techinically I won the face off, he wasn't the one limping. “Old age and experience will beat youth and skill” might be true. But when youth comes armed with hockey sticks and a thirst for blood, old age doesn't stand a chance.
Oh, the email started off innocently enough (I'm paraphrasing. Reading the email still gives me panic attacks). “Parents, the kids have had a great season, since playoffs start on Saturday, we're going to have a practice Friday night to show them positions.
Let me explain dek hockey, if you are not familiar with the sport. It's hockey, with a ball. They play it in an enclosed area, like hockey, but instead of ice and skates, they have a ball, shoes, shin pads, elbow pads, gloves and a helmet. You may think it's enclosed to keep the ball in. That might be true, but the real reason is; when you give a group of 6-9 year olds wooden sticks, federal saftey laws require that they be separated from the public.
The email went on to lie that the parents would only stand in the positions. I'd just gotten over a severe case of a mutated Ebola-SARS-Swine-Avian flu attack. (I'm pretty sure that if I hadn't fought off this mutated virus, it would have swept across the world with devasting results.) I figured I owed it to my son to show up and support him. After all, it was only to show positions, help them figure out where they needed to play...
The first drill sounded simple. When the ball goes into the corner, the kids are supposed to pass it up the boards. (the main point being not to pass it in front of their goal...) The coach passed the ball into the corner, a kid ran after it, passed it up the boards to a waiting teammate. “Fathers you pressure the kids.”...
There are several things wrong with that sentence. The kids were armed with deadly weapons. We were outnumbered. The kids were armed with deadly weapons.
After several hundred trips into the corner, almost as many bruises on my shins and a growing desire to whack one of the little monsters, they called a break. Fathers against sons, in a game that would go down in history as one of the bloodiest battles. Up and down the dek we raced, sticks flying, parents crippled and kids laughing evily.
I've read enough medical journals (ok, my wife has nagged me enough about junk food and exercise) to know that seeing dark spots are not a good thing. When I started seeing double, it was time to sit down. (Ok, it wasn't so much a decision.) Two heart attacks and a stroke later, the “practice” was over and I was allowed to seek propper medical treatment.
This fall, when the email came, my wife finally found me, curled up in a ball whimpering.
“What's wrong?” I think there might have been some worry in her voice.
“Dek hockey practice...”
To my horror, my son was right behind his mother and sent up a cheer. My only hope of ignoring the email and explaining to my son how it hadn't been delivered was gone.
However... this time would be different. I was healthy, the Ebola-SARS-Swine-Avian flu had been completely wiped out.
“I'm going to beat you so bad.” my son started off with the trash talking on the way to the practice.
“Oh yeah? I'm going to bury you so deep they won't be able to dig you out.” I countered.
“That was good!” (He needs a little work on the whole trash talking.) “We'll, after we get home, I'm going to throw away your keys!” (Again, we're going to have to work on this.)
How did I do this time? I made it through the practice on my feet. I even managed to play with a broken ankle. (I found out that the official dek hockey ball, while about the size of a baseball, is made out of rocks and probably pleutonium and spikes pop out right before it hits your ankle.) Did the parents win? Well, the coach was the kids' goalie and the team's regular goalie was ours. While the adults played their best, our goalie pretty much summed it up when he wanted the parents to shoot on him.
However, I did win the face off against my son at least once. I think that was because I went for the ball and he went for my ankles. So, while techinically I won the face off, he wasn't the one limping. “Old age and experience will beat youth and skill” might be true. But when youth comes armed with hockey sticks and a thirst for blood, old age doesn't stand a chance.
Getting There and Back
“Can you print off directions to the airport?” I'm pretty much positive those were my wife's last words as she wandered off to bed. We were leaving for the airport at 4:00 am for a 6:45 am flight. The minivan was already packed with the suitcases. (the kids each had their own, plus one suitcase of food ((since we were going to the uncivilized U.S. Virgin Island of St. Croix, we had to take along enough food to last us a week in the wilds...)) a suitcase of toys ((As everyone knows, toys only exist in the U.S. Propper)) and our snorkeling gear. Our suitcase was still being filled with whatever had been forgotten.)
Before I fell asleep, I printed the plane tickets, hotel information and a map to the airport. It wasn't until we'd started off that I realized “Can you print off directions to the airport.” actually meant “and be sure to include the directions I followed a long time ago that included going down, I think, Interstate 70.... or maybe it was 79... but in any case I'm positive it wasn't the way you printed.”
Even with my bad directions, we made it to airport (at 4 am, there isn't a whole of traffic on the road and driving on two wheels around the corners tends to open the lane in front of you...)
Once we'd made it through security, we were off to the races. My wife asked which gate we needed to go to. When I traveled for work, gates actually had a meaning. They were a nice stroll between flights where you could stop for a beer or a coffee (depending on the time of day and how rough the previous flight was.). Sometime over the past several years, that has changed. I now know all airports only have two actual gates. The one you just arrived at and the one you have to drag two tired kids and their bags to. The distance between them is exactly inverse to how tired the kids are and how soon the next flight leaves.
At San Juan, my wife had the nerve to ask where the gate was. Our connecting flight left at 12:15, our flight, running a wee bit late, arrived at 12:15. The kids had been up since 3:30 a.m. And hadn't taken a nap. According to my calculations, the gate for our connecting flight was located, roughly, in Alaska.
To my surprise, we did make the connecting flight and arrived in St. Croix to start our vacation in the sun.
After a week of “island time” there's a slight chance we cut it a wee bit close getting back to the airport. The U.S. Air person that checked us in was very clear (I think if she hadn't spent 15 minutes stressing how late we were and how we would probably not make it through customs, we wouldn't have had to run so fast.) that the plane was on the verge of leaving and customs alone would take a minimum of two weeks.
So, we each grabbed a kid and bags and ran. After a harrowing 10 minute race through customs, security, another bag check, a game of scrabble (just checking to see if you are paying attention) we made it to the gate on St. Croix. My wife and kids were cleared and I got the dreaded “Do you mind if we check your carry on?” from the security guard. I waved a tearful goodbye to my family and wondered if I could somehow make another flight, this week. After my carry on was swabbed (it didn't even get a drink first.) I raced to the gate (ok. It was just around the corner and my family was always visible. But it sounded much more dramatic.)
“Our plane hasn't arrived yet.” You'd be surprised at just how clearly the swear words came out as my wife greeted me.
In San Juan, my wife asked which gate again. I muttered “Alaska,” and hoisted my daughter up on my shoulders. We arrived at gate 4 and had to get to gate 8. A mere 4 gates, you might be thinking, but you forget the letter. We arrived in concourse D and had to get to gate Epsilon. (I'm pretty sure we wandered through the entire Russian alphabet before we hit Latin.)
After quite a few hours, several hundred miles of airport terminals, we made it back to Pennsylvania and to the minivan. In all, there were only a few melt-downs, but the kids ignored them. The only question as I left the airport was, “Why was everyone driving on the wrong side of the road?”
Before I fell asleep, I printed the plane tickets, hotel information and a map to the airport. It wasn't until we'd started off that I realized “Can you print off directions to the airport.” actually meant “and be sure to include the directions I followed a long time ago that included going down, I think, Interstate 70.... or maybe it was 79... but in any case I'm positive it wasn't the way you printed.”
Even with my bad directions, we made it to airport (at 4 am, there isn't a whole of traffic on the road and driving on two wheels around the corners tends to open the lane in front of you...)
Once we'd made it through security, we were off to the races. My wife asked which gate we needed to go to. When I traveled for work, gates actually had a meaning. They were a nice stroll between flights where you could stop for a beer or a coffee (depending on the time of day and how rough the previous flight was.). Sometime over the past several years, that has changed. I now know all airports only have two actual gates. The one you just arrived at and the one you have to drag two tired kids and their bags to. The distance between them is exactly inverse to how tired the kids are and how soon the next flight leaves.
At San Juan, my wife had the nerve to ask where the gate was. Our connecting flight left at 12:15, our flight, running a wee bit late, arrived at 12:15. The kids had been up since 3:30 a.m. And hadn't taken a nap. According to my calculations, the gate for our connecting flight was located, roughly, in Alaska.
To my surprise, we did make the connecting flight and arrived in St. Croix to start our vacation in the sun.
After a week of “island time” there's a slight chance we cut it a wee bit close getting back to the airport. The U.S. Air person that checked us in was very clear (I think if she hadn't spent 15 minutes stressing how late we were and how we would probably not make it through customs, we wouldn't have had to run so fast.) that the plane was on the verge of leaving and customs alone would take a minimum of two weeks.
So, we each grabbed a kid and bags and ran. After a harrowing 10 minute race through customs, security, another bag check, a game of scrabble (just checking to see if you are paying attention) we made it to the gate on St. Croix. My wife and kids were cleared and I got the dreaded “Do you mind if we check your carry on?” from the security guard. I waved a tearful goodbye to my family and wondered if I could somehow make another flight, this week. After my carry on was swabbed (it didn't even get a drink first.) I raced to the gate (ok. It was just around the corner and my family was always visible. But it sounded much more dramatic.)
“Our plane hasn't arrived yet.” You'd be surprised at just how clearly the swear words came out as my wife greeted me.
In San Juan, my wife asked which gate again. I muttered “Alaska,” and hoisted my daughter up on my shoulders. We arrived at gate 4 and had to get to gate 8. A mere 4 gates, you might be thinking, but you forget the letter. We arrived in concourse D and had to get to gate Epsilon. (I'm pretty sure we wandered through the entire Russian alphabet before we hit Latin.)
After quite a few hours, several hundred miles of airport terminals, we made it back to Pennsylvania and to the minivan. In all, there were only a few melt-downs, but the kids ignored them. The only question as I left the airport was, “Why was everyone driving on the wrong side of the road?”
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Pot Holes
“Drive faster!” My daughter called from the back of the jeep.
“I can't. Your mommy will scream again.”
“Drive faster!!” both kids called from the back of the jeep.
We'd spent the afternoon in St. Croix playing in the surf at Cayne Bay. The hurricane had recently passed and left, in my son's words, “some sweet waves, baby.” Those were the waves we saw as we pulled up to the beach. The plan was to snorkel and do a little body surfing. Keep in mind, body surfing for my eight-year old son and five-year old daughter was mainly laying right where the last wave crashed and rolling in the surf. At least that was what they loved the day before when the waves “gently” lapped along the shore.
I took a look at the surf and realized the likelyhood of snorkeling today was nil. Oh, the kids would have both been up for it. However, four to five foot waves crashing where we'd be snorkeling was more than I was ready for.
So, we went to check out the surf. When the first wave hit my daughter and carried her 20 feet back up the shore, then dragged her back out to the open ocean, with only my shins finally stopping her, I thought it was a little rough... “You ok?” I asked, hoping to fix any problems before her mother came to rescue her.
For a second, the concusion blurred her eyes, then the dialation went away. “More!” and she was off to fight the waves with her brother.
I've learned a couple of things on this vacation. When it comes to water, both of my kids are insane. (My son and I snorkel together and my wife and daughter snorkel together. It is a sexist thing. Snorkeling is the perfect water sport for my daughter. She can look at things, constantly move and, most importantly, constantly talk. When my son and I snorkel near them, we can hear their constant chatter. “Is that a parrot fish? I see a parrot fish. Yes, mom, it's a parrot fish. No, that's a parrot fish...” (She has a thing for parrot fish))
I also learned that when you put dishwashing soap (the kind used in the sink, NOT the kind used in a dishwasher) in a dishwasher, there's a limit to how much you should put in. Otherwise, you get a kitchen full of bubbles. (In order to protect her reputation, I'm not going to say who actually did that. However, my son, daughter and I all had a good laugh.)
I've also learned that there is good reason for driving on the wrong side of the road here. Since this is an island, space is at a premium and they've saved quite a bit on the roads. Most of the roads are wide enough for two cars to pass, as long there are only two coats of paint. When I picked up the rental jeep, I was surprised to get the only car in the world that had more dents than my wife's minivan. (By the time we got done with the inspection, you couldn't actually see the car). I figured the dents and stuff were from off-roading. Now I know better. The way you drive here is simple. If the brush on the left-hand side of the road is not smacking the car, you are too far over. (My wife would be a natural driving here. She also uses the drive by touch philosphy.)
I also learned that when you go around a corner on the island (I could add sharp, blind, pot-hole filled, overgrown and flooded corner, but that's every corner here.) and your wife is in the passenger seat, and she's tired and not paying attention and she looks up at the wrong second AND she sees a car right in front of her on the “wrong” side of the road, she will scream.
“I can't drive any faster we'll hit the potholes.”
“Drive faster and you'll fly over them.” In the rear view mirror, I saw my daughter's hand gacefully float as she demonstrated the physics of her version of driving.
“But mommy will scream again.” I pointed out.
“YAY!” At least the kids have adapted to island life...
“I can't. Your mommy will scream again.”
“Drive faster!!” both kids called from the back of the jeep.
We'd spent the afternoon in St. Croix playing in the surf at Cayne Bay. The hurricane had recently passed and left, in my son's words, “some sweet waves, baby.” Those were the waves we saw as we pulled up to the beach. The plan was to snorkel and do a little body surfing. Keep in mind, body surfing for my eight-year old son and five-year old daughter was mainly laying right where the last wave crashed and rolling in the surf. At least that was what they loved the day before when the waves “gently” lapped along the shore.
I took a look at the surf and realized the likelyhood of snorkeling today was nil. Oh, the kids would have both been up for it. However, four to five foot waves crashing where we'd be snorkeling was more than I was ready for.
So, we went to check out the surf. When the first wave hit my daughter and carried her 20 feet back up the shore, then dragged her back out to the open ocean, with only my shins finally stopping her, I thought it was a little rough... “You ok?” I asked, hoping to fix any problems before her mother came to rescue her.
For a second, the concusion blurred her eyes, then the dialation went away. “More!” and she was off to fight the waves with her brother.
I've learned a couple of things on this vacation. When it comes to water, both of my kids are insane. (My son and I snorkel together and my wife and daughter snorkel together. It is a sexist thing. Snorkeling is the perfect water sport for my daughter. She can look at things, constantly move and, most importantly, constantly talk. When my son and I snorkel near them, we can hear their constant chatter. “Is that a parrot fish? I see a parrot fish. Yes, mom, it's a parrot fish. No, that's a parrot fish...” (She has a thing for parrot fish))
I also learned that when you put dishwashing soap (the kind used in the sink, NOT the kind used in a dishwasher) in a dishwasher, there's a limit to how much you should put in. Otherwise, you get a kitchen full of bubbles. (In order to protect her reputation, I'm not going to say who actually did that. However, my son, daughter and I all had a good laugh.)
I've also learned that there is good reason for driving on the wrong side of the road here. Since this is an island, space is at a premium and they've saved quite a bit on the roads. Most of the roads are wide enough for two cars to pass, as long there are only two coats of paint. When I picked up the rental jeep, I was surprised to get the only car in the world that had more dents than my wife's minivan. (By the time we got done with the inspection, you couldn't actually see the car). I figured the dents and stuff were from off-roading. Now I know better. The way you drive here is simple. If the brush on the left-hand side of the road is not smacking the car, you are too far over. (My wife would be a natural driving here. She also uses the drive by touch philosphy.)
I also learned that when you go around a corner on the island (I could add sharp, blind, pot-hole filled, overgrown and flooded corner, but that's every corner here.) and your wife is in the passenger seat, and she's tired and not paying attention and she looks up at the wrong second AND she sees a car right in front of her on the “wrong” side of the road, she will scream.
“I can't drive any faster we'll hit the potholes.”
“Drive faster and you'll fly over them.” In the rear view mirror, I saw my daughter's hand gacefully float as she demonstrated the physics of her version of driving.
“But mommy will scream again.” I pointed out.
“YAY!” At least the kids have adapted to island life...
Vacation
It's been so long since we've gone on a real vacation, that I had some serious concerns as we began our trip. After this summer, we'd (my wife) decided that taking the kids south would be a good idea as winter threatened our western Pennsylvania area. We (my wife) spent countless hour searching for the best prices, snorkeling and family friendly place. We (my wife) carefully planned the itinerary and booked the flights.
After all this preparation, we were definitely ready for the trip to St. Croix. It was still in the United States, so we didn't need to find our passports. As we were driving the rental jeep, my wife pointed to the price for gas and mentioned it wasn't that expensive. I agreed and added as long as it wasn't in liters. This prompted a rather long lecture that gas prices were regulated. (being a wise husband, I just nodded and did not point out that I was pretty sure which side of the road you drove on was regulated too. Nor did I add that in Canada, which is much closer to us, they drive on the correct side of the road but use liters. In case you are wondering, there are 3.8 liters in a gallon. I learned this in public restrooms where they proudly proclaim how much water is used in every flush. That is the only place I've ever seen the metric system used. You can draw your own conclusion about how effective it is.)
But I digress...
My wife and I had both been working too many hours lately. My daughter's comment to my wife that daddy always works on vacation pretty much proved that point. So, I was concerned, would I be able to put aside work? How would I know when the vacation started? Before kids, when we went on scuba diving trips, the vacation started on the first dive. True, were were going to be snorkeling, but I'm pretty sure taking a five-year on her first real snorkeling trip is not considered a vacation for the parent responsible.
Well, this morning when I got up, I knew vacation had started. My daughter was sitting on the ceramic floor, a bowl of cereal on one side, a cup of yogurt on the other. She'd perched herself on a pillow and was watching a cartoon while patiently waiting for the rest of her clan to get moving. And, she was all ready for the water. She had her pink swimming goggles on. And nothing else. That sight, her blonde hair sticking out from the goggle straps (My daughter, if you haven't gathered from the other articles is rather un-subtle. It doesn't matter how tight the goggles were, she wanted them on, and they were going to go on.) food within easy reach and her general contentment with the world told me we were on island time.
“Wow...” I never knew how awe sounded under water until my son saw his first blue tang. It'd taken a few tries to get used to the salt water and surf. Once that was sorted out, we followed the directions the dive shop gave us to the reef. (“Out there...”) “Did you see that?” my son asked as we treaded water. (He treaded, I stood with the tip of a flipper on the bottom and kept his head above the waves.)
“Ready to see more?”
“You bet!” and he was off.
The next twenty minutes were exclamations and pointing as different colored fish swam under us. Afterwards, we continued a tradition that my wife and I had done since we started scuba diving. We went through the fish identification and found what we'd seen and wrote the date next to each fish.
After all this preparation, we were definitely ready for the trip to St. Croix. It was still in the United States, so we didn't need to find our passports. As we were driving the rental jeep, my wife pointed to the price for gas and mentioned it wasn't that expensive. I agreed and added as long as it wasn't in liters. This prompted a rather long lecture that gas prices were regulated. (being a wise husband, I just nodded and did not point out that I was pretty sure which side of the road you drove on was regulated too. Nor did I add that in Canada, which is much closer to us, they drive on the correct side of the road but use liters. In case you are wondering, there are 3.8 liters in a gallon. I learned this in public restrooms where they proudly proclaim how much water is used in every flush. That is the only place I've ever seen the metric system used. You can draw your own conclusion about how effective it is.)
But I digress...
My wife and I had both been working too many hours lately. My daughter's comment to my wife that daddy always works on vacation pretty much proved that point. So, I was concerned, would I be able to put aside work? How would I know when the vacation started? Before kids, when we went on scuba diving trips, the vacation started on the first dive. True, were were going to be snorkeling, but I'm pretty sure taking a five-year on her first real snorkeling trip is not considered a vacation for the parent responsible.
Well, this morning when I got up, I knew vacation had started. My daughter was sitting on the ceramic floor, a bowl of cereal on one side, a cup of yogurt on the other. She'd perched herself on a pillow and was watching a cartoon while patiently waiting for the rest of her clan to get moving. And, she was all ready for the water. She had her pink swimming goggles on. And nothing else. That sight, her blonde hair sticking out from the goggle straps (My daughter, if you haven't gathered from the other articles is rather un-subtle. It doesn't matter how tight the goggles were, she wanted them on, and they were going to go on.) food within easy reach and her general contentment with the world told me we were on island time.
“Wow...” I never knew how awe sounded under water until my son saw his first blue tang. It'd taken a few tries to get used to the salt water and surf. Once that was sorted out, we followed the directions the dive shop gave us to the reef. (“Out there...”) “Did you see that?” my son asked as we treaded water. (He treaded, I stood with the tip of a flipper on the bottom and kept his head above the waves.)
“Ready to see more?”
“You bet!” and he was off.
The next twenty minutes were exclamations and pointing as different colored fish swam under us. Afterwards, we continued a tradition that my wife and I had done since we started scuba diving. We went through the fish identification and found what we'd seen and wrote the date next to each fish.
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