Teasing

“I'm not going to retaliate.” I could tell from my son's tone that he'd been practicing this speech for a long time. He delivered the statement in a very calm voice and enunciated each word clearly.

“What does retaliate mean?” the little girl across the table asked. (This threw a bit of a wrench in his script.)

“It means when you tease me, I'm not going to tease you back. (We'd had the talk about how when a girl teases you, it means she likes you. He was horrified...)

“I didn't tease you.” There was a degree of self-righteous persecution that was hard to fake, even for a seven-year old girl.

“Yes you did.” He was not backing down.

“When?”

“You called me Dead John.”

“I didn't call you that! I was going to call your dad, John.” (apparently in the heat of not teasing. “Dad John, sound like dead John. Either that or she has some deep seated anger management issues.)

For a second, he was rather flustered because she was not following his memorized script... “Why?”

“Because he calls me Lisa and my name is not Lisa!” (She was completely correct there. But since I can not remember names, this made perfect sense to me.

That comment got the attention of the rest of the girls at the table. Suddenly, things did not look good for my son and me.

After a long year, my daughter and her friends were graduating from being Daisies to full-fledged Brownies. It had been a cool ceremony. My wife had been stressing over the ceremony since she was the Daisy leader. The bridging ceremony was a full-fledged family thing and my son and I were both told (I felt rather harshly and unnecessarily) to be on our best behavior. That was the reason my son was not going to “retaliate”. “Lisa” is Miss “the putz” Ann's daughter (Miss Ann apparently has unresolved jealously issues. Not more than a week after she saw all the attention my daughter got with her near fatal knee injury (see the previous blog), Miss Ann decided to break her own foot. All I heard was something about standing on a table to change a light bulb (I'm going with a freak-table dancing accident.). At her age, she should know bones are brittle and don't heal very fast. Being a concerned friend, I've made sure my daughter reminds her of that very often.). So, over the last several months, they've developed a relationship that can only be described as married. Their bickering (as described by my wife) is so cute.

So, this was why my son was carefully explaining that he was not going to retaliate. The problem was, he was using a combination of fourth grade and minecraft vocabulary and Lisa was listening with first grade vocabulary and chocolate cupcake sugar high. So, even though they were actually saying the same thing and agreeing, neither one realized and the “conversation” was quickly heading toward a nuclear meltdown on both parts (it was like they'd been married for years.)

To re-cap, my son and I were surrounded by a troop of girls. For the past hour, the leaders had carelessly been loading them up with sugar. (Maybe it hadn't been a full hour, but I've learned, when you are surrounded by women, it's always best to assume the worst.) We were both on our best behavior. And we'd just been sold out by Lisa...

“Her name is not Lisa,” one of the girls said.

“Yeah,” the other Daisies chimed in.

There was a feral glint in their seven-year old eyes. Being the mature adult, I knew it was time to diffuse the situation. Never the less, I asked, “How do you know?”

“Because,” they all said at the same time.

“Let me see your driver's license.”

“I don't drive!”

“Why not?”

“I'm only SEVEN!”

“What are you waiting for? You're going to need a driver's license to get a job.”

“I'm too young to work.”

“Then, how do I know your name is not Lisa?”

“My mom said it's not.”

I was going to follow up with her mom is not a very good source since she's a nurse, likes sunburn and dances on tables without proper safety equipment, but my son had taken the opportunity to escape and was playing with the other Daisey brothers. I followed his cue as I saw Miss Ann limping over to see what the problem was. After all, I was on my best behavior.

Pride

"I got this, dad," my son assured me.

"Are you sure?" Even though he was only ten- years old, there was no doubt in his voice.

"Trust me. I got it."

"Trust me" was apparently one of my mom's triggers when I was growing up. To hear her tell (that's old fashion talk from her part of the country. They also say warsh instead of wash.) every time I said that she either started calling 911 or got the bandages out. (I'd like to point out that never once did the fire department have to make it all the way to our house after I said, "Trust me. I know what I'm doing.")

"What are you going tell her?"

"Dad..." I'd imagine Tiger Woods used the exact same tone when his dad asked him how he was going to tee off in his first Master's tournament.

"Well?"

After a long, exasperated sigh (Which he gets from his mother.) he explained. "I'm going to tell her I called my friend and he wants to play at the park."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What time."

"5."

"What if she wants to go earlier?"

"I'll tell her they are busy until then. If she want to leave too early, then I'll tell her I forgot something in the house. When she comes in looking for me, I'll tell her I can't find my stuffed dog and she'll see it on the table and I'll say I didn't look there." (Every lie needs an element of truth. There is no doubt he would not look in the most obvious place.)

I was proud of him. The keys to a good lie were the details and keeping it simple.

Now, I just needed to get everyone to the park, get the food and drinks and some cover in case it rained. Operation "Surprise Mommy" was underway.

Everyone had a part to play. My son was the initial liar, my daughter who can not keep a secret was the truth-telling-liar and found out how much fun it is to trick mommy. She "let out" that Sunday was a surprise pizza party (She was positive that Chuckie Cheese would be the perfect venue cause that 1000 ticket card in the cyclone was wicked awesome. And she could tell mommy how to get it.) My son and I both shushed her and my wife pretended not to hear. Later she told me how my daughter spilled all the details:

“She told me we're going to have pizza at the park.”

“Oh?” Since my daughter's idea of keeping a secret was to only yell it once, I figured she'd blown her part.

“Don't worry. I won't say anything to Ann.”

“Oh?” I tried to keep the worry out my voice and sound irritated that the small surprise had been ruined.

“It's OK. It'll be fun to have just us.” (If I wasn't so proud of how well they'd taken to deceiving their own mother, I'd be worried about how they were both naturals at lying...)

I had the people invited, the food bought (And I even remember the cake) and a place if it rained. Now, I just needed to get everything there without my wife realizing something was up. Getting out of the house was easy, I just needed “to make a quick trip to Lowes” for some supplies. That would be good for at least an hour.

While my son and daughter kept my wife distracted, a few of us met at the park and got things together. After the third text message from my wife, I figured it was probably time to go get her. Especially since the last message said she was getting ready to head to the park. I called and said I was on my way home, I'd had a little accident at the store and would tell her about it when I got home, but everything was ok.

Once home, I limped in and explained a row of doors had fallen over and jammed my knee. It was fun watching her go from we're-late-and-I'm-pissed-off to concerned about how bad my knee was. She made sure I got to the car without further damaging my knee. All the while telling the kids, “Daddy really hurt his knee. Be careful.” To my daughter, she had a special message, “No, you can't jump on his back!” On the way to the park, she planned how to take me to the hospital for x-rays if it didn't stop hurting soon. She even found a close parking space so I wouldn't have to limp as far. (And for the record, no, I didn't really feel any guilt about tricking her.)

When we got to the pavilion and she saw all her friends and then noticed I wasn't limping any more, she had the nerve to call me a big, fat liar. At least my kids are learning from the best.

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Nurses...

“How's your knee?”

“Miss Ann's a nurse.”

“Did she say you are going to live?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still wrap it better than mommy.”

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

Fishing

“My father gave me this Pokemon when he died...” My daughter intoned with an Academy Award winning performance.

“Hey! I'm still alive!” Although, counting the most recent hook I'd just jabbed into my finger, I was dangerously close to losing consciousness due to blood loss.

“I know. We're playing.”

For some reason, I thought we were fishing. The three fishing poles and containers of worms lent credence to my thought. The complete lack of fish gave her the upper hand though.

It was a beautiful Sunday in May and we'd decided to brave the wilds of Western Pennsylvania in the never ending search for food. (Actually, I could tell by my wife's not-so-subtle muttering that an afternoon off might be healthy for everyone.) So, we hit WalMart for new poles since they'd both outgrown Sponge Bob. (You're going to have to buy my book on Kindle if you want that reference to make any sense.) Someone had the sense to make a purple fishing pole and reel, so my daughter could not have been happier. My son checked out the little tackle box that came with her rod and searched until he found another that had approximately double the amount she had and then he was ready.

“The last time we came here, I caught 17 fish,” he explained to his wide-eyed sister. (Her last fishing trip had been 3 years ago. Unfortunately, she was not as pokemon-aware then, so she was forced to actually watch her pole...) “With my new bobber (He just had to have a night bobber even though it was noon and the chances of me being able to handle them, sharp hooks, worms and no alcohol until sundown were nil.) I'll probably catch three times as many today.”

After a short drive, we got to the fishing hole (This sounds much more rustic than state-stocked-lake). It seems that there were quite a few mothers that needed a mental-health break, because there were few places left to set up. My daughter pointed to the perfect place and started walking.

“We can't fish there.” I said as I tried to redirect her.

“Why not?”

“There is someone sitting there already.”

“So?”

“They got here first and we need to give them room.”

I could see the thought process as she checked out the situation. There was an easy ten feet between the two people sitting at the bank. In a pinch, she could squeeze down to 2 square feet. He brother, with a little effort and a bat, could be squashed down to 3 square feet, leaving 5 for me. There was no sane reason we couldn't fit in there.

“But...”

“There's a secret place that no one else knows about.” By now, I had the three rods in one hand, the three chairs in the other. I'd also managed to get my tackle box and the two bags of refreshments in the other other hand.

“Secret?” she perked up.

“Yes, follow me.”

Both of them struggled along with their own individual tackle boxes as we made our way down the edge of the lake. The “secret” spot was easy to find. It was the first place that had enough room for my son and daughter to “cast” without risking charges of involuntary man-slaughter. (Since I was a “willing” participant to this, my death would more than likely be classified as suicide or at the most, negligent homicide and they wouldn't get any jail time.)

“I'm cold.” This came out precisely 2.3 seconds after I'd sat down. (For the previous twenty minutes, I'd been setting up their poles, baiting their hooks, casting out, setting up their little chairs, getting them a healthy snack (Pringles and Gatorade).) I looked and they were both huddled up in their chairs as a nice arctic May breeze blew through. I left very clear instructions about hooks and sitting and not moving until I got back. Sure that my two angels would be fine for the minute or two it would take to get back to my car for the jackets, coats and parkas, I got up.

“I got a bite!” my daughter called right as I hit the 30 foot mark. I turned and she was frantically reeling in her purple rod. My son was cheering her on. Any thought of getting the jackets vanished. If there was a fish, I was not going to miss the chance of watching them get it off the hook. If there wasn't as fish, then my daughter was going to cast out and that would be funnier than watching them get the fish off the hook.

Surprisingly, there was nothing on the hook. “That darn fish! He stole my bait!”

“Get a worm.” That was my one rule. I'd put the worm on the hook, but they had to at least get the worm.

“Daddy, can we not use this worm?”

“Why not?”

“He looks scared and he's cute.”

She picked another worm and fixed it with a very determined look. “You better get a fish, or else.” (What or else is worse than getting a hook pushed through you (I know from very person experience) thrown in the water without a life jacket and being reeled in every 23 seconds only to have it repeated, I'm not sure, but from her tone of voice, she had some definite ideas.)

We ended the day with each of them happy. My daughter caught the most fish, my son caught the biggest. They had an epic pokemon battle. I lost all my bobbers. Oh, and we have a new pet, Bob the worm. Once he knew he was safe, I have to admit, he didn't look as scared.

Laser Tag

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

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

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

The game started with a small emergency...

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

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

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

“Hold on. We need a plan.”

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

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

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

“Did we get points for shooting the base?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“How much?”

“100 points.”

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

“Did the base shoot you?”

“The base shot back?”

"Yes.”

“Why didn't they say that?”

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

“They really should have told us that!”

“They did.”

“When?”

“Right before we went in.”

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

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

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

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

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

Punctuation

Six-year olds do not understand the value of punctuation. I learned this the other day at dek hockey practice. (Yes, the definition of insanity is not learning from your mistakes. After two seasons of coaching, I'm positive I've done enough penance to make up for the few sins I've committed in my life. But for some reason, I didn't say no when my kids asked if I was going to coach again this season.)

 

The season started interestingly. One evening, I asked my son if he would like to help me plan out a couple of simple plays. He instantly perked up and grabbed several dozen pieces of paper. “We're only going to come up to two or three,” I cautioned while he looked for a pencil.

 

“I know. I'll get more paper for the next play.”

 

“Bud, the plays have to be simple. Remember, the kids on the team are going to be between 6 and 10.”

 

He ran off several names of kids he'd played with previous seasons and asked if they were going to be on the team.

 

“I don't know. I won't have the roster until the first day of practice.” (I'm pretty sure professional football coaches at least have a hint of their players a week or two before their season starts. It seems that the standards for volunteer coaches of dek hockey in Pennsylvania are far below par. Don't even get me started about my ordeals with salary caps.)

 

A few minutes later, my son came back with his first plan. After his third trip of carrying the papers, he had it all together.

 

“I said the play needs to be simple.”

 

“It is. See, we get the ball then they shoot it (He pointed to the first X). Then I pass it here. (He showed me the second X.) Then the winger runs over here. (This was represented by a Y.) Their defense (These were A and B) think (Now, I vaguely remember what he was like at 6 and playing dek hockey. It was his first season. And I'm positive that if you asked his coach how he played, the word “think” would not be one of the descriptive words.)

 

We were half-way through the Cyrillic alphabet and I was lost and we were only halfway through his play. “Bud, this might be too complex for some of the younger players. (And the coaches.) How about something like this. I call it around the world.”

 

My drawing only had three Xs. I could tell he was not impressed by the way he looked for the supporting glossary.

 

“It might work. How about we try my play first?”

 

“Let's see who's on the team first, then I'll decide.”

 

So this brings us to our first practice of the season. I have to admit, my team is easy to describe. Short pretty much sums it up. What they lacked for in size, they made up for with an uncanny knack of hitting my shins with their sticks. Even with my old sports injury (It was NOT gout. I have the note from my doctor.) I was running the drills with them. Our first drill was getting the ball out of our zone.

 

“Ok guys, listen up.” This is usually a good way to start a drill.

 

I want the defense men to shoot the ball up the boards as hard as they can,.” I pointed where I wanted them to shoot. This is also a good way to continue the drill. Also, notice the well placed comma.

 

This is where the punctuation comes in. The comma clearly states that there is more coming. It does NOT in any way imply that the ball, carelessly left on the dek, should be shot as hard as you can in such a way, that while the coach's hand is out, your follow through ends up crushing most of the bones in his thumb. At least, when I was in school it didn't mean that.

 

Laying on the dek and whimpering would not be considered a good way to continue the drill. But, at least I now have two sports related injuries.