Oh, deer

I am sure you’ve been asked the question a thousand times: “Dad, is this the place where the deer ate my hair?”
And I am sure you answered as I did: “Yes, and your popcorn.”
My family and I took a weekend trip to visit family in Atlanta, and one of the stops on the journey was the scene of the aforementioned deer hair/popcorn incident. But more on that later.
Our first stop in Atlanta was at a Red Robin restaurant. I had never eaten at one, but had been told good things. I consider myself the world’s foremost expert on hamburgers – even more so than the Hamburglar – and know a good burger. I told my wife that I was somewhat concerned when we drove past a Fuddrucker’s and a Steak ’n Shake to get to Red Robin. I tell you that because I think I have come up with Red Robin’s new slogan: “You will drive past a Fuddrucker’s and a Steak ’n Shake to get to a Red Robin.” And I don’t mean that as a slight to those two places, which are outstanding burger places. But at Red Robin, I ordered the Royal Red Robin – a burger topped with a fried egg and bacon. It’s like eating a delicious barnyard. Any place that offers an onion ring tower is OK by me.
The next day, we started our morning by heading to Ikea. I am sure most of your are familiar with the Swedish furniture company. But unless you have been to the store, you cannot fathom the awesomeness that encompasses an Ikea store. Sure there are tons of cool stuff for relatively cheap. But here’s the key part of an Ikea store – they have a place to check your kids.
Seriously. You just give ’em your kids, and they take them. No questions asked (not even “Do they bite?”)
Now I know some of you would be concerned with dropping off your children at a Swedish department store, but I assure you there is nothing to worry about, as the Swedish have a long and storied history of caring for children while people shop. I assume.
Once the kids’ allotted time in the care of the Ikea folks, I suggested that my father-in-law and I break away with the kids for some Atlanta adventurin’. Surprisingly, my wife and mother-in-law agreed to this, and they quickly disappeared into the Swedish landscape.
We decided that we would go to Yellow River Game Ranch, where Parker became lunch for a deer about four years ago. Yellow River is an animal reserve near Atlanta where you can mill about among deer, peacocks, rabbits, goats, etc. There are also bears, buffalo, cougars and foxes, but they have wisely opted not to have those mingle with the visitors.
On our previous visit, Parker was in a stroller. As we sat and oohed and awed at his adorable sister (“Awww – she said ‘wabbit!!!’” we shared with everyone around who kindly didn’t throw apples at us for extreme parental cuteness and fuzzy wuzziness.), Parker was not very verbal at that point, save for a series of grunts and squawks. After about two minutes of trying to get our attention, we turned to see a deer that had finished off his popcorn and had moved on to his hair. Now that he’s older, and quite the animal fanatic, we decided it was Parker’s turn. It was Yellow River II: Parker’s Reckoning. Parker didn’t actually have a memory of the game ranch, but rather had heard us tell the story on occasion, mainly every time we would see a deer and scream, “PARKER, COVER YOUR HAIR – THE DEER’S COMING TO FINISH THE JOB!!!” And then we’d laugh. Except for Parker.
Ha! I kid, I kid. Parker loves animals, and was in hog heaven milling about among the beasties. Even his sister, who is normally quite fine with watching animals from afar, enjoyed getting to pet the friendly deer. I was pleased that we were able to take back new memories of the animals and their interactions. And, as with any good interaction with animals, it’s always a bonus to be able to show the kids – up close and personal – all the things that were on your burger the night before.

The Efficient

I try not to be nasty. I really do.
So that’s why with today’s column, I am not going to call out people for their inability to return a shopping cart or their complete disregard for the item count at the grocery express lane or their purchasing 11 meals – all paid separately – at a drive through window.
No, instead, we focus on the promise of a new tomorrow. A bright tomorrow. A tomorrow of … efficiency.
It is time we as a nation focus on the one critical oversight of attention that we need to work on: Rewarding The Efficient.
The Efficient are what keep the country humming along. The Efficient are the ones that make your life easier, because they are so … what’s the word … I’m gonna go with efficient.
I am proud to be a member of The Efficient. And I have decided that, rather than gnashing my teeth and having a four-digit blood pressure when trapped behind The Inefficient, it is time we as a nation step up and develop a federally mandated Efficiency Lane.
These lanes would be installed at countless institutions around the country. Those who have passed the federally mandated efficiency test are the only ones who would be allowed to use them. We’d even have a snappy – and dare I say efficient – ID card. Among the perks of being a card holder:
• An exclusive grocery store line, wherein you have proven that, not only do you have fewer than 15 items, you can check out without the help of the cashier, and you know the four-digit code for onions and bananas.
• A pharmacy drop-off window where you simply are dropping off your prescription. Date of birth? Oh, The Efficient have already written it on there for you.
• A convenience store line where you have sworn, via blood-oath, that you will not scratch off your lottery ticket in line or fish through your pockets to try to find that lone penny for the $4.01 purchase. The Efficient? Penny in hand, my friend.
• A fast-food lane for people who want the regular ol’ No. 1 or No. 3, with just a Coke and the usual fries. No pickles, extra mustard, a medium Sprite with half-ice? Oooh, sorry …
• A reward system in which you get 10 percent off of your purchase if you pull into the first parking place you come to, rather than circle the block and hold up traffic while you wait for a parking place a whopping 20 feet closer.
• A special lane at all schools when you can jettison your children – backpacks attached – by merely slowing down. No long goodbyes. No struggling to undo seat belts. Adios, amigos. See you this afternoon.
Now I am sure many of you are saying, “Mike, why so uptight?” To which I say, “Are you the one who had an overflowing cart of grocery items – enough to feed the Denver Broncos for two weeks – at the self check-out line, creating a backlog of poor members of The Efficient just wanting to roll through the line with a single pack of cheese?
Or perhaps the one who debated the cost of your prescription – and yelled at the clerk about the cost of the medicine, the clerk who is about as far away from setting those costs as Yogi Berra?
Ooh, wait, are you the one who arrived at the front of a McDonald’s line and seemed somewhat overwhelmed by the menu and even asked what’s on a Quarter Pounder?”
If you answered no to any of these questions, I suppose an apology is in order. But if you answered yes, sorry – out of The Efficient line.
The point is, I am The Efficient. It’s the closest thing to a superpower I have. I can breeze through a checkout line, if I am unencumbered by The Inefficient. I am lightning at a fast-food restaurant.
I am practically Rain Man when it comes to figuring out that giving the clerk $5.11 for a $4.61 purchase will net me 50 cents in change, rather than that cumbersome 39 cents of a simple, inefficient fiver.
Perhaps someday, The Efficient will be recognized for our contributions. That will be a good day.
I think I’ll reward myself, with a No. 1 with a Coke.

Everyboyd was Kung Fu fighting

Sometimes I like to reflect on the good old days.
You know, the times when bedtime didn’t involve the phrase, “NO KUNG FU!”

When my son was little, his bedtime was this:
1. Wait until 7 p.m.
2. Note that he had fallen asleep wherever he happened to be.
3. Put him in his bed.
4. Wait until morning.
This lasted until a few months ago.
For some reason, he decided that bedtime should now be part chase, part mixed martial arts exhibition.

Here’s how it now goes:
1. Tell Parker it’s time for bed.
2. Have him say, “NOOOOO!!!” and sprint from the room.
3. Stalk him from room to room until you eventually run him into the other parent.
4. See a detailed kung fu demonstration, complete with loud “HI-YAs.”
5. Dive into the kung fu storm, grabbing him and throwing him over shoulder.
6. Put him in bed.
7. Read 206 books.
8. Get water.
9. Read 145 books.
10. Tell him that if he does not go to bed Gus the Fish gets it.

Now, I know what many of you are saying – you are saying, “He’s 6 – you can take him in kung fu!”
But others of you are saying, “You should put him in his room, tell him it’s bedtime, and be done with it.” Some of you even added, “Harrumph.” Yes, that would be nice. Let me know what massive sedatives that requires.
We have tried that approach.
Just a hunch, our neighbors are not fans, as they get to hear him scream “LET. ME. OUT.” over and over and over.
Once we can get him settled in the bed, we usually can get him headed toward sleepyville.
My wife has developed an effective technique with him.
He will set rather unreasonable bedtime demands, and she counters with brutal bargaining tactics and his lack of a concept of time.
PARKER: I. WANT. A. ROCKET. SHIP.
MY WIFE: Parker, you can’t have a rocket ship until you sit still and be quiet for four minutes.
PARKER: Two minutes.
MY WIFE: 42 minutes.
PARKER: OK, four.
He will then sit still for a few minutes, and most often, being zapped from his air kung fu, will crash.
On occasion, he will exceed the set time allotment.
He will ask if it has been four minutes.
Answer? Always no.
Don’t get me wrong. He’s a good kid. But he has been diagnosed with being 6 years old, a chronic ailment that inflicts 10 out of every 10 children his age.
Fortunately, there is a cure for it.
I have to remind myself there is a cure when I am watching my son stand on the dresser announcing that he is not, in fact, going to get down until he has ice cream (not some of the ice cream, but all of the ice cream).
Until that time, we will simply endure the nightly ritual.
We went through this with our daughter, and she eventually got over it. I am guessing he will, too.
I mean, if he is doing pretend kung fu the night before his SATs, we’ve got a lot of bigger fish to fry than bedtime.
He’s only 6 once. And how bad can it really be, when bedtime only lasts four minutes?

Garage redux

The phone call was brief:
MY WIFE: What are you doing?
ME: About to go into an interview.
MY WIFE: OK, call me when you can. The garage door exploded.
And click.
I don’t know about you, but I do not have a standard response for an exploding garage door.
Eventually, I finished with the interview and made contact with my wife. She informed me that the door had fallen off of the track and kindly dropped a huge pane of glass on the garage floor.
Fortunately, my wife was out of the garage when this happened. Unfortunately, it happened.
When I got home, I saw the damage. The top half of the garage door was just hanging there, looking like the world’s largest and ugliest accordion. Broken glass started in my garage and extended roughly to Minneapolis. If you have shards of broken glass in your yard, my apologies.
My first step was to see if I could get the door back down. The bottom was about 4 feet off the ground. Of course, as my wife pointed out, it was hardly a safety concern, as the enormous spread of broken glass would serve as a deterrent to anyone looking to enter our garage. It would certainly keep away the dreaded Barefoot Burglar, assuming he exists.
I began to sweep up the glass that was spread all over the place. I noticed that there were still large chunks of glass stuck in the window. Apparently, the jarring dislocation broke the pane of glass first, sending the bulk of it to the concrete. The rest stayed in the door, hanging over me in a way that said, “If you were smart, you wouldn’t keep standing there.”
Once the bulk of the glass was removed from the door, I went on to the next task, which was to fix the door. I grabbed my tools and went to work.
Ha! Anyone who knows me knows that had I done that, I would not be writing this column, but rather one titled, “How I became trapped in a garage door spring.”
I called a garage door repair company, who sent someone out. I was under the assumption that he would be coming out to give me estimates for a new door, as our current door looked very much unlike a garage door, and I was not sure that it could be repackaged in such a manner. Oh, me of little faith.
The man told me the door was in need of some TLC. He then said, “You realize you’re missing a bunch of screws in the door, right? That’s why it wobbles and shakes and falls off the track.”
Now before you shake your head in condemnation, I have to ask, when is the last time you went out and did a screw head count on your garage door? You may have a garage door just waiting to crash down on you. So there.
He replaced a bunch of screws and a wheel here and a part there. It went up and down, and, while still a little wobbly, it was better than the collapsed, spraying-glass version of recent.
Apparently, the TLC wore off after about two weeks, when the garage went back into accordion mode. Because I am a slacker, I had not gotten around to replacing the glass. Thus, the Barefoot Bandit could have snuck in.
The company came back out, and the guy repairing it did some things with the track itself, and tightened this bolt and that screw and what not. It seemed to work better than it had in some time.
I have no clue how long the current repair will last. I suppose we should start a household garage replacement fund, should the TLC approach no longer be effective.
Of course, should it break again, at least I can be almost certain of one thing – I probably won’t have gotten around to replacing the glass, so I can at least avoid that.

Kneed to know

Gotta say – not a fan of walking with a limp.
I have been doing so for about a week, after I injured my knee doing ... well ... I woke up last week and noticed an intense pain in my knee. I considered my previous activities and how I could have hurt it. My recent physical activity:
1. Lie in bed for about five days with the flu.
2. That is all.
OK, so not the most strenuous calendar.
My wife told me I needed to go to a doctor, mainly because she was tired of me falling to the ground and moaning every few steps. I have had sore knees like most anyone, but this was different, so I conceded I should probably have someone check it out.
When I arrived at the orthopedist’s office, I had to fill out my paperwork. One of the questions asked me how I had treated my injury. I answered “Limping, complaining.” I don’t think they were impressed.
I was sent for X-rays on my knees, which came with the added bonus of getting to take off my pants and don an awesome paper gown. I asked the nurse if I could just pull up my pants leg. She told me no. I asked her if this was just a little game to see how goofy they could make me look. On the second X-ray, would they say, “OK, we’re gonna need you to put on this Cher wig, too.” She admitted nothing, but I am on to her.
When the doctor came in, he told me the X-rays were fine. He asked me what physical activity I had done recently, and I told him about my aggressive bed lying. He did not think that was a common cause of knee injuries.
More than likely, he said, I have a torn meniscus, albeit a minor one. For those of you who are not doctors, a meniscus is part of your knee that, when torn, turns into a large buck knife that stabs the inside of your leg every time you move it.
In some ways, I was a little disappointed that there was nothing hugely obvious to see on the X-ray. I kinda wanted him to come in and say, “Clearly, you have been mauled by wolverines. How are you still alive? This is the most serious knee injury ever. I would like to submit your case to the medical journal ‘I Survived an Unsurvivable Knee Injury, Possibly from Wolverine Attack.’”
The doctor gave me a prescription and some exercises to do. The prescription is, I am told, a steroid, so I expect to lift a car and throw it angrily at someone any day now.
After the first couple of days of taking the medicine and doing the exercises, I did notice an improvement in my knee. And then I found an awesome way of setting back any progress I had made. On day three, my knee was feeling better than it had felt before the wolverine attack. I was making sure that I was treating it gingerly and not putting any undue strain on it. And then the rains came. When I was walking to my car, there was a nice puddle in the parking lot. I could have walked around it. I could have stepped in it and gotten my shoe wet. I could have gone back inside and waited until the rain eased up. No, those are sane responses.
Instead, I went into uber-guy mode. I leaped. Gotta clear the puddle. Somewhere about midjump, my brain said, “Hey, remember how you can hardly walk up stairs right now? And you’re about to land on that leg. Good call, genius.”
And so my leap started to end, with my left leg planting on the asphalt. My knee and my brain had a quick conversation. “Ouch,” my knee said, adding, “I quit.” And so my knee began to buckle, and it appeared I had only two choices: 1) Limp and scream and wail at the pain or 2) fall onto the wet asphalt and scream and wail.
Finding neither of those preferable, I opted for the wildcard option, which was to limp to my car, drive home and complain to my wife. She asked me what happened. I told her I jumped a puddle. She sighed.
So it’s clear that my knee needs some TLC to get better, and I will have to make an effort to ensure that happens. I am tired of limping everywhere and tired of having a hard time getting up stairs and such. (Although this does help my case for installation of a fire pole at home.) Hopefully, this will all be healed up soon. Of course, if it’s not, I can always rely on the time-honored medical tradition of limping. And complaining.

A real chore

So I'm working on a chore list.

My kids are 6 and 9, and my wife and I decided it was time for them to take an active role in the upkeep of the house.

We have always had expectations that our kids would take a part in the household upkeep.

We might as well have had expectations that they would turn into aardvarks because it was as likely to happen.

It's not that my kids don't help. It's that kids don't see a messy house the same way adults do.

For example, when I walk through the house in the evenings, I will often say things such as:

* "Why is there a shoe in the den and another one in the microwave?"

* "Who eats cereal in the bathroom!?!?!?!?"

* "Why are there dinosaurs in the dishwasher?"

So my kids aren't the best housekeepers. But we sat them down the other day and explained to them that we were going to start having chore lists. They expressed their excitement for this by, in unison, saying, "NOOOOO!!!!!"

I told them that we all have to take a part in keeping the house up because we all live here. They responded, "NOOOOO!!!!!"

Not the best cheerleaders for Team House Clean.

I explained to them that taking care of your house showed respect for your house and that everyone in the family played an integral part in making sure that we lived in an environment we could be proud of, one that we wanted to invite others to be a part of. Their blank stares were an inspiration to blank stares everywhere.

My wife saved the moment. "We'll give you an allowance," she said.

Amazingly, they were suddenly on board.

So the first thing to do was to come up with the chores that would comprise the list.

The kids began offering up their suggestions of how they could best be utilized in the new chore list/allowance world they lived in.

Allie said that she would really like to be in charge of the den. "Uh, Allie," I said, "is that because that's the room where the TV is?"

She began a detailed explanation of how, while TV was in fact in that room, that would actually help her clean BETTER.

Parker opted to clean the driveway. On his scooter.

Clearly, my wife and I needed to drive this bus.

We decided that we will come up with a handful of standard to-dos - make beds, put dirty clothes in hamper, get cereal bowl out of bathroom. The other chores would rotate.

The kids asked us what kind of chores these would be.

The first I offered up was rounding up all of the toys each day and making sure they were put in their proper places.

"But what if they're Parker's toys?" Allie asked.

It was at that point that I launched into my well-rehearsed soliloquy about how there was NOTHING downstairs that was mine, yet I clean it up, and how I was pretty sure that I had not worn ANYONE'S Barbie tennis shoes, yet they still find homes, and how I don't recall wearing Star Wars pajamas, yet I put them in the hamper...

And then my wife stepped in, moved me to the side, and, possibly, slipped me some medication.

My wife, who as you can see is the sane parent, explained to the kids that there would be a rotating list of chores that we would all take part in, and some days you may take your brother's shoes upstairs and some days you make take your sister's books upstairs, but in the end, we would all be a better household because we were all working together. I stood by and twitched a little bit.

Hopefully, our chore plan will go smoothly, and the kids will, in no time, feel that they are an important part of keeping a house running.

In the long run, our house and our kids will all be better for it. And maybe we can keep the dinosaurs out of the dishwasher.

The flu

I'm sick.

I know what you're saying. Oh, hangnail? Sniffles? Blister?

No, I can tell you that I am actually sick this time, and prove it to you: I am not complaining, and I've stayed home from work for two days.

As I am sure you have read over the years, I am a bit of a wimp when it comes to the minor ailments in life. I moan and groan and act like a giant baby, which my wife just simply loves.

But this time is different. I am sick, sick, sick. There is no complaining. Can't complain when you are unconscious for 54 of a consecutive 60 hours. I have the flu or a flu-like virus.

Doesn't really matter because it has laid me out with a major league haymaker.

It's kinda like the guy who is standing there in front of the pile of rubble that used to be his house, and the reporter asks, "Do you think it was a tornado?" Does it matter?

I went to bed Saturday night, not realizing what was in store for me. I woke up around 5 a.m. and noticed I was soaking wet. I mean soaking.

I reached up to my forehead and felt sweat just streaming off my face. I was sweating like Louie Anderson in a cranked-up sauna. Not my typical Sunday morning.

I stood up at the side of the bed, sweat dripping down my face. I took a step. Wow, who knew someone was waiting to hit me in the left hip with a baseball bat.

Took another step. Right hip. I sat on the edge of the bed and decided to pass the time by coughing for the next hour, occasionally holding onto the dresser so that I did not hurl myself out of the window.

My wife woke up. "Are you OK?" she asked. "I'm finACKACKACKACKACK." I said.

I changed clothes and climbed back into bed. I slept off and on for a few more hours. Soon, the kids were up, and they apparently want breakfast every morning.

I opted to get up, hoping that being vertical would help.

It didn't.

I downed some medicine and headed back to bed. I woke up a few hours later, soaking wet again. This wasn't going to be good.

I decided to take my temperature. I don't remember the exact number, but it was somewhere around 120.

The rest of Sunday was pretty much the same - cough, sleep, sweat, medicate, repeat. It was the least enjoyable afternoon of Sunday football I can recall.

By late Sunday, I tried to eat something. Four saltines and I was stuffed. Back to sleep.

Sunday night/Monday morning was one of my more exhilarating night's sleep, because time had become a swirling warpzone of reality and NyQuil-based visions.

Several times I woke my wife up to ask her if various scenarios were taking place. ("Hey, did I just see Chevy Chase head to our kitchen to cook us eggs?")

Monday morning played out much the same way that Sunday did - sweaty, coughy, fevery and drowsy. It's like I was four rejected dwarfs.

One thing I noticed: I was told by a doctor to stay away from crowds, including work.

He told me the kids could stay at the house because, as he said, "You don't have bubonic plague."

But he said to avoid contact with them until I was better.

Turns out, when you sweat your clothes soaking wet four or five straight times, it's quite easy to have people avoid contact with you.

My wife, being as kind as possible, said on a few occasions, "So wouldn't a shower feel nice?" "Why not go take a hot shower?" She finally dropped subtleties. "Hey, you kinda smell like Peyton Manning's shoulder pads. Into the shower, stinky."

So I'm told that this thing can go anywhere from three to seven days. Seeing as how I am writing this on day three, I would greatly prefer it to be on this side of the estimate.

I'm going to continue trying to do this without complaining, because I need to be a soldier and brave my way through this.

Besides, I can't use up all my complaining. What happens if I get a hangnail?

Chronic nice

I often spend time in my column complaining about people who commit major societal infractions.
While not criminal acts (unfortunately), they are acts that are violations of the laws of civility, such as not returning a grocery cart to the proper spot or taking too many items to the express checkout or not waving a courtesy thanks when you someone lets you in traffic or conducting a 6-hour bank transaction at the ATM. That kind of thing.
So I feel I should give credit when credit is due, and it is certainly due after my trip through my kids’ school car pick-up line.
The kids get out of school at 2:15 p.m., and there is usually a pretty good line waiting to pick up kids by about 2 p.m.
I was midway back in the pack, having arrived for line about 2:05 p.m. (Side note: On Fridays, I help out in Parker’s class. I usually get there about 1ish, and there are often quite a few cars lined up, waiting for school to let out at 2:15 p.m. Personally, I think if you are going to get in line before 1:45 p.m., park the car, head to the office and say these words, “How can I help?” Just a hunch there is probably a volunteer task or two at the school that could be assigned. I’m just saying ...)
Anywho, I was in line around 2:05 p.m. and was using my time productively.
Because I was going to be sitting still for 10 minutes or so, I opted to work on cleaning my car. There was a substantial amount of trash in the backseat.
The reason for this is simple: I have kids, and clearly they fill their backpacks with refuse so that they can hide it on my floorboard when I am not looking. Of course, I could not go about my car cleaning task without some entertainment, so I cut the car off to where the engine was not running, but I could still play the radio. And it was kind of warm out, so I went ahead and cranked up the air to get some circulation going. I think you see where this is heading.
As I saw the first batch of cars heading out of school, I hopped in the driver’s seat and cranked the key. My car responded, “click click click click click click click click click click click.”
I said a word under my breath so that no one at the elementary school would hear. I shut off the air and the radio, as if this would somehow magically charge my battery. “Click click click click click click click click.”
I rolled up my back windows and tried again. “Click click click click click click.”
Admittedly, I have no idea what that was supposed to do. I could have tried it, say, with my shoes off. Same correlation to a dead battery.
At this point, time was of the essence. I had a matter of moments until the line started moving, and there was going to be a big block of an SUV sitting dead in the middle of the road, stalling the flow of the car line. I figured I would try and push the car out of the road so at least the line could keep going. I hopped out, and Nice Person No. 1 appeared.
The woman behind me saw what was happening. She began backing up as much as she could to give me room to back my car up. I pushed my car back a few feet so that I could get clearance to push it forward. When I started pushing forward, I made a stunning realization: SUVs are heavy.
Then, Nice Person No., 2 appeared. I caught the attention of a guy walking across the street. “Hey, can you give me a hand?” I called.
He jogged across the street and helped me push the car out of the way. He then offered to help me jump start the car, since his car was parked right there. Wow, two nices in one.
In a matter of seconds, our cars were hooked up by jumper cables. I gave one turn of the key, and my car started right up.
Of course, I was now out of the car line, set back a good 10 minutes from where I had originally been. I backed up the car, and enter Nice Person No. 3.
As I sat perched at an awkward angle on the edge of the road, the driver made a kind of pointing motion, asking if I would like to cut in front of her. I am guessing she saw me with my hood up moments prior and could deduce I was not just gaming the system.
When I pulled back into car line, I made sure to extend my arm and give a great big thank you wave, just to make sure she saw.
It was pretty amazing to have one of those daily headache experiences and still come away actually feeling pretty good about the day.
Some nice folks helped out and showed a little kindness to their common man.
Hopefully, someone will do something nice for them. Like take their grocery cart back for them.

New addition

It’s a girl!
Yes, the Gibbons family has a new addition, and she weighs in at ... I am guessing about the same weight as a golf ball.
Our newest addition is a red-footed tortoise that my parents gave my daughter for her birthday.
While her brother is the go-gettingest animal kid around, Allie has always been more reserved around animals, usually content to watch them from 10 to 12 rooms away.
So you can imagine our surprise when Allie came in contact with a small tortoise a while back (they met on the Internet), and she developed an intense love for tortoises.
The appeal of tortoises versus other reptiles is pretty easy to see.
For one thing, tortoises move at a speed comparable to that of a rock. Plus, they have these looks on their faces that say, “Hey, I’ve got no beef with you. Let’s just chill out and eat lettuce.”
When the tortoise arrived, Allie was immediately smitten. Her face lit up as she held the tortoise, examining her all over. “It’s a girl, isn’t it?” Uh, sure ...
The next step was to name the new tortoise.
After all, you can’t have a family member without a name. (Just ask our son, You There.)
Without hesitation, Allie said, “Her name is Glissa.”
Glissa, as you know, is the Icelandic goddess of merriment, who, in ancient lore, did battle with Frogoff and came to victory with the use of a lightning bolt made from a ram’s horn. Or it was a name my daughter pulled out of the air. I can’t remember.
One of the first things we had to do was find a suitable home for Glissa.
Allie suggested we construct an elaborate pen out back for her, as she would need room to roam. I reminded Allie that Glissa could roam three feet and it would be a long journey, so an aquarium would suffice for now.
Once we got Glissa set up in her new home, we had to find a suitable place to put it.
Allie wanted her on her dresser, but that was somewhat high up.
As I explained to her, she would not be able to feed her and visit with her up there.
Thus, Glissa lived in our kitchen for her first few weeks as a member of the Gibbons household. Rather fitting for our family, I suppose. “Hey, come on over for dinner. You’ll be seated next to the tortoise.”
I am pleased to report that Glissa has since made it to the dining room table. I anticipate her being on the den coffee table by Thanksgiving.
Glissa is an interesting creature.
I told my wife that Glissa has a personality akin to Maggie the Attack Basset. She is low-key, yet interested in those around her.
Glissa will come and check you out, and is certainly interested if you are bringing food. (I recommend grapes.)
She also has a habit of climbing up on her little house, making an about face and rolling off. I am guessing that accounts for excitement in a tortoise’s world.
So Glissa has settled in quite nicely.
Both of the kids – Allie and You There – like to get her out and let her roam around and explore.
One nice thing about having a tortoise – you REALLY have to be asleep at the switch to let one get away.
They are in no hurry to get anywhere. I have had bath towels conduct more aggressive escape maneuvers.
We are told that Glissa could live 50 years, and that she will eventually grow to more than a foot long. It’s kinda cool to think that my grandkids could have the opportunity to grow up with Glissa being part of their lives.
And if Glissa has always been part of their world, they will no doubt have a love of animals from the start. Just like Uncle You There.