The Best Christmas Period

(Ok... this is a rerun, but it fits with the season...)

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
We all were hiding, scared as a mouse
My son and daughter were barricaded behind the couch
As down the stairs, stomped Mommy, the grouch

My son's eyes were bright with fear
My daughter, the youngest, huddled near
We heard the dishes break in the kitchen
And the eerie noise of muttered bitchin

We shared a look and gathered our courage more
We knew the stakes, and had survived this before
The straws were drawn, I got the short hand
To get the Midol, across no man's land

My son heaved a sigh of relief, another Christmas he'd see
And in his best Tiny Tim voice, said, “Father, it twas nice knowing thee.”
My daughter, eyes wide as a saucer
Silently asked, if this too would happen to her

Apparently she saw the worst in my eyes
For without hesitation, she got up and switched sides
“Daddy's in the living room.”
She declared, sealing my doom

So, with my army cut in half
I feared I wouldn't be having the last laugh.
A poke on my arm, “I ate the last cashew.”
My son's lip quivered as he said “and I told her it was you.”
My frown must have deepened, my face a bright red
With a tear and cry, into the enemy's arms he fled.

Gathering my nerves, over the back, I looked, of our now flimsy settee
Both my children, the fruit of my loins, were standing there, pointing at me!
“I'm bloated and retaining water”, came the battle cry
“No dear, you're not and in those jeans, your butt looks fine,” I said, practicing my lie.

I ducked the frying pan, the pitcher and glass of ice water
Imagine my surprise when both my children re-armed her
Now, you may be thinking, there's another Christmas gone bad
But there's a silver lining to my Christmas ballad

When the dishes were gone and the blender retrieved from the roof
(When she's mad, she's got an arm like Babe Ruth)
We all gathered round the Christmas tree to sing
And roast marshmallows, which I remembered to bring.
As the snow blew in through the broken windows
We opened presents, wrapped with papers and bows
My wife sedated with IVs of Midol and chocolate
It was a Christmas, we would not soon forget

The Question

There comes a time in every kid's life when things change. They notice subtle differences. As parents, we've watched our children grow from little wrinkly things that constantly cry to little things that make us constantly cry. It's a joyous time, seeing them become miniature versions of us ( without the cynicism and scars.). But, even though we know it's coming, we dread the time when they get old enough and ask The Question. You know...The Question that leads to The Talk.

It happened with my son one evening. I'd just gotten home from work and was looking forward to relaxing. My son sat next to me. I waited for the “Let's play catch” or “Let's play a game on the Wii.” But he sat there quietly.

I tensed up waiting for the tickle attack, but even that didn't happen.

“Daddy,” I could tell this was going to be a difficult discussion from the tone of his voice.

“Yes, bud?” I was prepared for pretty much anything. He'd been on a what-if kick lately. So, I was ready with most of the professional quarterbacks and whether or not they could throw the ball to the moon.

“Why is President Obama so bad?”

This, I was not prepared for. The last presidential election was the first he remembered. (He was about 2 years-old for the previous one. Even though we lived close to the center of the political world at the time, I'm pretty sure the whole process didn't register with him. I know what you're thinking, at two he drooled and had the same bodily control as most politicians, so there's no reason for him not to remember that election.) Anyway, after the last presidential election, he was very proud that he knew who the new President was. So, I was a little concerned and quite unprepared for his question. I fell back on the best Parental Response. “Why do you ask that?” (That'll buy you a good five minutes while they try to figure out how to re-word questions like, “Why is the sky blue?” and “If I hit my sister with a bat because she's annoying, but she's not bleeding too much, how much trouble would I be in? Not that I did.”)

“Because, he is destroying the country.”

Usually, I vote the opposite of my mother-in-law (just because it's fun to piss her off.) But I haven't actively set out to irritate my children yet. So, I was pretty sure he didn't get that impression from me. “Who told you that?”

“A commercial on TV.”

“That's not really true.”

“You mean Mitt Romney's a liar?”

“Not really.”

“But he said he won't raise taxes and Barack Obama will. And we'll be out of money.”

“He's just saying that because he wants people to vote for him.”

“You mean he's going to raise taxes?”

For a minute, I thought about explaining global economics to my son. Then I remembered that he's doing math problems in school that make no sense to me. (For that matter, the last time I helped my daughter, who is in first grade, with her math, we BOTH got letters from the teacher. Luckily my wife gave me an excuse and I didn't have to go to detention. But I did have to promise to never help my daughter with math again.) There's also the fact to count above ten, I have to take off my shoes and socks and I was too comfortable to move right then.

“Well, see, it's like this. They both want people to vote for them. They say what they think people want to hear.”

“Barack Obama does that too?”

“Yes. It's all part of running for election.”

“We have to choose between two liars?”

“Well... They aren't really lies. They are campaigning.”

He gave a look that only a kid presented with adult logic can get. “So, we have to choose between two liars. That's stupid.”

“Let's play a game on the Wii,” I suggested.

“OK, but it's still stupid.”

“I know, Go talk to your Grandma. She was alive when they signed the Declaration of Independence. She can explain it.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” If the President can campaign, so can I.

Herb III

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

“I dropped my stick.”

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

“I dropped my stick again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yes.”

“You can do better than that!”

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

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

“Where's my stick?”

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

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

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

“And the shoulder pads?”

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

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

“Coach, can I play center?”

“I want to play defense.”

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

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

“I can't”

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

“I dropped my stick.”

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

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

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

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

“Daddy, I can't walk.”

Thirty feet for me to carry her.

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

“I dropped my stick.”

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

 

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

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

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

Cartoons

“Do not hit your brother with wood!”

Right off the bat, there are a couple things wrong with that statement.

Firstly, my wife knows that there is way more than just a piece of wood in the basement. By now, she should know not to limit my daughter's options. There's a doll house, a suitcase, motor cylce helmet and a large screen TV. All of those should have been included in the warning.

Normally, my wife saying something like this to our daughter would have gotten me moving, or at least starting to call 911. But, after a weekend of cats and chinchillas, I was in the midst of a Benadryl induced coma.

When I was growing up, we watched wholesome shows like Tom and Jerry and The Roadrunner. I know for a fact my mother never shouted at me not to hit my brother with wood. (She'd probably say something unrealistic like there was never enough delay for her to shout the warning. But since neither my brother nor I spent that much time in the emergency room, she obviously has a faulty memory.)

“I said not to HIT your brother with wood.”

There was defensive mumbling from the basement.

“I don't care who started it. Do Not Hit Your Brother With Wood!”

I have to admit, it was hard to hear my wife over the giggling. (Apparently, Benadryl gives me the giggles.)

Now, you may be wondering what awful TV show they were watching? What terrible cartoon was subverting their natural brother/sister love and turning them into such ruffians?

After several years of having Netflix, my wife had finally joined the new-fangle fad of streaming video. She was so proud of her discovery of how they had “hours” of movies and shows the kids would love. (My son had already found all the videos from my youth. Nothing quite beats macaroni and cheese and Koolade on a rainy Saturday with Voltron. We'd spent many car trips singing the theme songs to Spiderman (Yes, I googled it.) and Scooby Doo (The real Scooby Doo, not the water-down rehash out now.))

I learned a lesson with Netflix and movies. My son loved the first Transformers movie. When I saw that Netflix had, what I thought was, a prequel to the Transforms, my son and I sat down for a night of popcorn and wholesome mechanical violence. After the first five minutes of the movie, my son was white and curled up in a ball under a pillow and I was morally scared. After that, I check to make sure the program is kid-friendly.

So... back to the question, what horrible show had my children stumbled on? With the amount of Benadryl coursing through my system, I figured it would be a medical experiment to see if I was as susceptible to the obvious subliminal messages as them. I made my way down the stairs (this is harder than it sounds, especially when the stairs were warped (last I remembered they were straight) and kept changing their angle. (Benadryl, apparently, also distorts my spacial perceptions.))

All I can say is after watching ten minutes of the new My Little Pony, I hate Rainbow Daze and can totally sympathize with my daughter for wanting to hit something. We've since watched every episode and I know all the pony's names. That information has replaced important memories I will never get back. At least I still remember peaceful, quality TV like Tom and Jerry.

Surviving Childhood and Raising Special Needs Parents

Surviving Childhood and Raising Special Needs Parents is available on amzaon.com at
http://www.amazon.com/Surviving-Childhood-Raising-Special-ebook/dp/B007B2WEL8

This is the book at started this blog, check it out and, of course, feel free to buy it.

Independence Day Rush

When you have four adults and two kids in a medium size car, they all scream with a different pitch when you turn into oncoming traffic. It didn't help a whole lot that almost everyone in St. Croix drives on the incorrect side of the road. The rental car even has a helpful decal reminding you (I'm sure the original idea of placing a red decal in the upper left corner of the front windshield with “Drive Left” was a good idea at first. Then some bureaucrat got a hold of the idea and the decal grew larger until it obscures most of the field of vision. But damn it, you now know which side of the road to drive on.)

We were going to the 4^th of July fireworks for the island. Everyone on the island was also going there. I know because the only four-lane road was backed up for a whole five minutes. (This might not sound bad, but when two kids and two adults (none of whom can carry a tune when it's dark) decide to pass the time singing the Twelve Days of Christmas, any back up is interminable.)

The fireworks were at the Frederiksted Pier at 8 pm. We decided to leave our place on the other side of the island at 7. (This doesn't mean we actually left. This means I had the kids in the car and my wife and her parents were beginning the process of getting ready to go. The kids and I had time for a nap and a game of monopoly while we waited in the car.)

While we waited, the kids and I bonded as a family.

“The fireworks are tonight?” my daughter asked.

“Yes,” I answered

“Do they start when it's dark?” my son asked

“Yes,” I answered

“We can come back and see them next year, can't we?” my daughter asked

“We'll get there in time. Dad drives fast,” my son answered.

“But grandpa and grandma will scream like mommy if he does,” my daughter pointed out. (In all fairness, there had only been one episode of screaming so far. It was the first day and we were going to cane bay. I knew everyone drove on the left side of the road. It's just that at a 5-way intersection, it can be difficult to figure out which left lane is the right left lane. I would have been all right if the scream hadn't distracted me. I ended up making a perfect five point turn and was impressed with the handling of the rental car. I'm pretty sure the ten or so drivers I cut off were also impressed.)

“No one's going to scream,” I was still a bit sensitive.

“Can I ride in the front? I get car sick now.”

“No,” I told my son. “Grandpa is going to ride in the front.”

“Why does he get to ride in the front?”

“Really old people get to ride in the front,” I answered.

That got them to talking about who was the oldest until were heard the grandparents coming down the steps. Ten minutes later, we were off across the island. One Christmas carol and a wrong turn later, were were almost there.

One of the nice things of driving in St. Croix, aside from the quick reflexes of the of the drivers, is they are very polite drivers. Often times, they will stop in the middle of a busy highway and let people turning right in. (For normal (Yes, I know this is not geographically correct.) driving, that'd be the same as stopping on the interstate to let someone from the left turn and merge into traffic.) As we came to the intersection, a polite driver was doing just that.

The screams from the backseat were my first clue that something was amiss. First of all, they were all in tune. Then I saw the car coming at us from the blind spot on my right. (My father-in-law, while old, is not yet transparent.) I slammed on my brakes and the other car slammed on his. There was a brief moment of residual screaming. Once everyone was stopped, I again showed how responsive the rental car was took off (this time minus the perfect 5-point turn.).

“Daddy, you scared the life out of me!” My daughter gasped from the back seat. “Don't ever do that again!”

“I wanted to make sure everyone was awake for the fireworks,” I explained.

Sure enough it, worked. For the rest of the trip there, every time a car was spotted on the road, everyone gasped in fear. They were awake, alert and paranoid. And too scared to sing. Mission accomplished.

ROAR!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'll be ok, daddy.”

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

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

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

A quick nod.

“Then put on our fins.”

Another nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you see the lion fish?”

“ROAR!”

"Did you see the octopus turn red?”

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

“Yes. Did you have fun?”

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

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