Dishing the dirt

The next time you are in the market for a major appliance, I highly recommend you enlist my wife’s help. Do this, and you can make your entire appliance shopping time about 11 seconds.
I found this out recently when we decided to buy a dishwasher. Our dishwasher was not so much a washer of dishes anymore. It was more of a dishwetter. Plus, the springs that make the door open and close slowly snapped a while back, so whenever you opened it, if you weren’t careful the door would come crashing down on you, which would then make you say things that you wish you had not when children were in earshot.
The dishwasher was an older model, one from the 1820s, by my guess. I am fairly certain that the dishwasher was placed at the site of the house years ago, and the house was later built around it.
We have wanted a new dishwasher since we moved into the house. Somehow, we got distracted with things like raising children and forgot that our dishwasher was terrible. It finally came to a head one evening when my wife opened the dishwasher and discovered several previous meals.
“Did you run the dishwasher?” she asked.
Indeed, I had.
“Did you rinse off the plates?”
Indeed, I had not.
To me, a dishwasher has one singular purpose, and that is to clean my dishes. If I have to clean the dishes ahead of time, I am doing part of the dishwasher’s job. Where is a dishwasher’s self worth if I assist it with its sole purpose for being? Basically, if I put a live chicken in a dishwasher, I expect to be able to run a cycle and open it up to find shiny bones inside.
So we decided it was time. I shopped the way that I normally do for large appliances, which was to read advertisements and find one that looked cool. I pointed several of these out to my wife. She began asking questions. At that point, I said, “I think it looks cool and that’s really all I know. Perhaps you should take over the research.”
Armed with my criteria (looks cool, can blast dried lasagna out of a casserole dish), my wife embarked on her research. Several days later, she emerged from her Research Chamber (we also call it the playroom/office) with exactly what we were going to get. This sucker had adjustable shelves, a quiet purr when it was operating, and the equivalent of a gas-powered pressure washer to blast gunk off of dishes. It also had a delayed start, for those times when you’re just not quite ready to clean your dishes.
And then we waited. Again, this is where my wife came in handy. She had noticed that during my advertisement searches, there were occasionally deals on installation. (It was never even remotely a consideration that I install it. If I did try it, there would be a good chance rescue personnel would be summoned to extract me from the behind the dishwasher.)
Finally, the offer was on. Time to go buying.
We walked into the store and headed over to the dishwashers. My wife began surveying the selection, as though she were viewing a police lineup. She had armed me with exactly what I needed to know. No more, no less.
After a few minutes, a salesperson approached us. This is where my wife’s research and my subsequent training came into play. “Can I help you find something?”
“If you have the Whirlpool Gold with a black front in stock, we’ll take it,” I said.
A look of pride overcame my wife, who was most likely expecting me to have an appliance store spas-fit and blurt, “I want a flat-screen TV!!!!”
The salesperson gave me a quizzical look, probably not knowing what to do when a customer cut directly to the chase. “Uh....lemme check.”
In no time, we were heading out of the store, the wallet a little lighter but the dishwasher just days from being installed. Had I done this myself, I would have probably spent several hours in the store, and eventually found something that looked cool and I really, really hoped cleaned well.
When it was installed, I was excited about its inaugural run. I wanted to put it to the test right away. If it was a dirty dish, I was throwing it in, often to the cries of, “Hey, I’m still eating!”
As the first cycle was finishing, I stood by in nervous anticipation, illustrating perfectly how ragingly boring my life is. When it was done, I opened it and was pleased to find shiny, shiny bones.
Kidding. I don’t even know where to get a live chicken. (I tried, with no luck.) But I did find clean plates and bowls and cups and forks and knives and everything else. Shiny. No streaks. No stains. It was like, well, it was like my dishes had actually been washed.
So the appliance hunt is over, and I am thrilled with our new purchase. It’s nice to have a functioning appliance, and it was through my wife’s diligent research that it was so quick and painless. Now if I can just get her working on the flat screen TV.

Get the belt

Don't make me get the belt.

It's the phrase we have all heard, and when we become parents we all know at some point we will have to use.

It took us about five years to get to that point. And I have to say, it went about as well as trying to go bowling with a cinder block.

My wife and I have never been big on corporal punishment. (I'm not going to debate the pros and cons of it because, quite frankly, I don't feel like it. I think whatever side you fall on, you make great points. Nice view up here on the fence.) Sure, there has been the occasional swat on the little hand that is reaching for the sleeping dog's mouth, or the swat on the rear that gently moves someone who is standing RIGHT in front of the Bama game. But nothing that I think you would even put in the category of the mildest corporal punishment.

But how do you discipline, you ask? Simple. Isolation and deprivation.

Ha! Kidding. We don't do that. Any more. What we opt for varies with the children. With Parker, time-out seems to work. Although, in fairness, he's a bit solitary by nature, so sending him to his room is actually what he prefers. So if we catch Parker using a marker to redecorate the couch, we send him to his room, and he has a blissful good couple of hours. Maybe we should rethink that. "Parker, DO NOT eat the dog food. That does it young man - we're taking you to a social function!"

With Allie, we started off with distraction. If she was, say, brandishing scissors, we would gently trade out the scissors for something less pointy. But as she got older, we found that the best way of punishment was empty threats. "Allie, clean up your room or I'm throwing out every toy that's on the floor." "Allie, sit down and eat your dinner, or you will NOT get to watch a movie." "Allie, sit still in church, or we WILL put you in the circus." Standard stuff, and it seemed to work well

So a few nights ago, Allie was getting ready for bed. And, as usual, she was stalling. We kept telling her to brush her teeth, and she kept stalling. For various reasons, I was just tired of dealing with the particular stalling session, and I, quite frankly, had enough. And there it came: "Don't make me get the belt."

Allie continued stalling, and in one fluid motion, my belt was off and in my hand. She stopped and stared. I stepped toward her. And then, in a moment that will be indelibly inked in our family history, I pulled the belt back and in a flash, I threw it onto the bed where my wife was sitting and said, "You do it. I can't."

The look my wife gave me was if I had thrown her a dead squirrel. "I'm not gonna do it! You're the one who threatened her!"

Immediately, I fired back, "Look, we can't have empty threats any more. We need to follow through. Do it."

So there we were: My wife and I at the realization that we were just not equipped for old-school discipline. Allie was realizing this too, and pretty much thinking she had punched her fun ticket for eternity.

Finally, I called Allie over and had her sit down on the bed with us. "Allie," I said, "I know I told you that I would spank you with the belt if you didn't brush your teeth. But I'm not going to. I can't, and your mother can't."

Allie stared at me, and I can only wonder what she was thinking. Most likely, she was thinking her parents were weak-kneed and easily played. I knew this was a critical discipline moment, and had to salvage some shred of future control (and a smidge of dignity).

"So we won't spank you. But you need to brush your teeth ... or I take away your Barbie Christmas tree in your room."

Her teeth were brushed and she was in bed within 60 seconds.

Fan-tastic

I am fairly certain that when I open my ceiling fan installation business, it will take off like gangbusters.
The main reason for that is that I can guarantee that not only will I install your fans with stunning efficiency, I will also guarantee that a whopping 75 percent of the glass domes will be intact when I am finished.
I base this business model on a recent afternoon of fun and excitement spent installing ceiling fans at my mother’s house. A while back, she bought four of them and made casual mention that she was going to pay to have them installed.
She said this in front of my brother-in-law and me, and the idea of having someone else come in and do guy stuff made our testosterone surge. Before we knew it, we had volunteered to do the fans, boasting that we could knock it out in a matter of minutes.
I am not really sure why we volunteered to do this. While my brother-in-law is more handy that I am, neither of us are exactly lighting up the Bob Vila circuit. And when you add in electricity, well, that’s just asking for trouble. I once tried to fix a broken light socket, and found out that there is a whole bunch of electricity in those little wires. (Note to self: If a light socket is broken, you will not know if you turned off the correct breaker. Well, there is a way you can know, but it hurts. Bad.)
So we geared up for an afternoon, figuring that between the two of us, we could piece together the installation. Fortunately, ceiling fan companies have realized that some people who install ceiling fans have the home improvement skills of a gecko and have made it fairly idiot proof.
I am sure you are surprised that the first fan took us a very long time. (That included a call to an actual electrician, who seemed to find our questions rather quaint.) As we sat there with all of the pieces spread out, we began trying to assemble the parts. After about 20 minutes of doing the world’s most difficult jigsaw puzzle, my brother-in-law said, “Hey, here’s an idea...”
I was thinking we would just go with what we have and hang it up there semi-assembled. Turns out, his idea involved following the directions that came with the fan. Risky, I thought, but worth a go.
Once we began to follow the steps, it was amazing how fast it went. Part A connects to part B. Part C to Part D. Wham, bam, thank you, fan.
After we finished the first one, we assumed that the others would go rather quickly. And we were pleased to find out that was, for the most part, pretty accurate. The one minor hiccup came when my wife decided to interject her opinions into the issue.
“Uh, why is the globe on that one hanging down?”
Looking up at the dome on one of the fans, I noticed that, in fact, it was hanging crooked. “It’s fine,” I said.
My brother-in-law, clearly no longer on my side, said, “Dude, that’s pretty bad.”
The dome was held by three little screws, and I had apparently missed one of them, so it was more or less dangling from the base of the fan. “Fine,” I said, grabbing the step ladder to put it up the way SOME people just have to have it.
Now this was the time that I think my brain took a quick hiatus. I reached up and unscrewed one of the two screws that was in correctly. And at that point, our good friend gravity paid a visit, showing us what he thought of an unsecured glass dome.
As luck would have it, this fan was right over a solid wood ledge by some stairs, so when it crashed, it not only obliterated but also spread glass down the stairs and throughout the hall. And, as an added bonus, it distributed several shards into my hands. Several of us began cleaning up the glass, at which my point my wife said for me to stop picking up the pieces. “I’m being careful,” I told her.
“It’s not that. You’re getting blood on the carpet.”
Duly noted.
Fortunately, the cuts were not that bad. They just opted to bleed a lot. And with the globe being solid white, it was easy to pick the pieces out of my hands. (Am I the eternal optimist or what?)
After several hours, we completed the installation of the final fan. By the fourth one, we were a well-oiled machine of fan installation. So call us when you need one installed. I’ll try not to bleed on your carpet.

Bedtime blues

It was another quiet evening in the Gibbons household.
My wife and I talked at increasingly elevated levels so that we could continue our “How was your day” conversation. The decibel level had to rise, so that we could top the growing list and growing volume of my daughter’s bargaining offers for watching a movie rather than go to bed.
Our son added to the serenity by doing somersaults around the room, screaming, “LOOK AT MY TICK!!!” I think he meant trick. I hope he meant trick.
Ah, life with children.
Once again, bedtime has reached a new level in child rearing. For a while, we had it all worked out. Allie would gently fall asleep as a book was read to her. Parker would take in a book, then climb in his bed and drift off by himself. That lasted, by my estimates, two nights.
Our children have now formed an unbreakable, tag-team insomnia alliance.
Allie has had trouble getting to bed for much of her life. By her second birthday, she had slept a total of 16 minutes. And those were done in the car.
But over the past few months, my wife and I have worked hard at getting her in a go-to-sleep routine. Actually, my wife has. My wife has patience. I have a screwdriver with which to turn the door handle so that the lock is to the outside. (My wife nipped that one in the bud.)
But on nights when she gets a little tired — and therefore a lot cranky — she has begun to put up resistance. And resistance comes in one of two forms: Bargaining or pain.
First, the pain. She begins to have all kinds of mysterious ailments. Her toe will hurt. Her leg will hurt. Her hair will hurt. One time, she told us her “escalator” hurt. We think she meant abdomen. Now I know what you’re saying. You’re saying “escalator?” But you are also thinking, “Hey, what if she’s really hurting?” Well, just take it on parental instinct that when a child is told to put on pajamas and suddenly develops a limp, there may be more to the story.
The bargaining is difficult to deal with, because it often leaves us doing our best not to start laughing out loud. “OK, OK, OK, how about this: I watch ONE movie, and then I go to bed in your bedroom, and when I’m seven I’ll sleep in my bed?” “OK, OK, OK, how about I watch TWO movies, go to sleep in your bed, and then have a sleepover at Grandma’s?” “OK, OK, OK, how about instead of bed, we make cookies and get a puppy?”
She drives a hard bargain.
Once we get her to her room, there is usually a series of back and forths to her room. She needs a water. She has to go the bathroom. She needs a hug. Yes, we do keep going back in there, but let’s not forget who put the skids on turning the doorknob around.
Parker, meanwhile, has just decided that he has no use for bedtime. It used to be relaxing to put him to bed. I would sit at the computer, turn on some music, and surf the web while he sat in my arms and fell asleep, usually in a matter of minutes. Now, he does not go to sleep. Rather, he comments on the Web sites I’m surfing. And his comment is either “FOOTBALL!!!” or “NO, FOOTBALL!!!” Show the kid a picture of football, he’s a happy camper.
So what inevitably happens is, after a while, I decide to put him in his room. He asks for me to pat his back for a few minutes, and then summarily dismisses me. Seriously. “Daddy, go.” Fair enough. But then comes the caveat. Leave the light on, and keep the door open. The light on I can deal with. But the door open? Yeah, tried that a few times. Wanna guess how long an antsy two-year-old stays in a room with an open door? Generally, after about four seconds, Parker will come bounding downstairs. “Good morning! Me wake up!” I find it disheartening that at that age, my son is already trying to con me. He knows quite well it is not morning and he has not just woken up, the little scammer.
So what invariably happens is I will end up doing a final good-night, and leaving him in his room to let us know just what he thinks about our decision to install those child-proof door handles on his door. I figure it’s only a matter of time until he cracks the code.
I suppose this cycle will end soon, and before we know it they’ll be easy to get to sleep again. Or my wife and I may just let it ride. And take them over to Grandma’s.

Get ready to Wiggle

As I walked toward the busy street, my wife called for me to be careful, as traffic was whirring by.
Unfazed, I continued at my pace, stepping off the curb and moving across the street.
“Honey,” I said, “I just survived 70 minutes of The Wiggles. Clearly, I am invincible.”
For those of you without small children, you have no idea what I am talking about. For those of you with young children, you are now saying over and over, “Do the monkey!!!!”
The Wiggles, for the uninitiated, is a musical group that is required cult-like viewing for any child 5 and under. They are four Australian men who sing such songs as “Fruit Salad, Yummy Yummy” “Toot, toot, chugga chugga, big red car” and “Mommy’s wallet is in her purse.” (Not completely sure about that last one. They all run together.)
The Wiggles’ North American tour visited Columbia recently, and my wife somehow caught wind of this, despite my efforts to limit any and all forms of Wiggles-related communication to enter our home.
This was not the first Wiggles concert for my children. They went to one a while back in Atlanta. I tricked my father-in-law into going by hyping them up, telling him what a special time it would be to spend with his grandchildren. He is still considering whether he wants to speak to me ever again.
This concert was to begin at 3 p.m., so we left with what we thought was ample time to get in our seats. This was before we found out that, in Columbia, there are approximately four parking spaces available for concert-goers. We sat in traffic for what I believe was 11 days. (Time tends to crawl when you have “Are we at The Wiggles yet? Are we at The Wiggles yet?” coming at you in stereo from the back seat.
Eventually, my wife and I decided to split up. (No, not that kind of split up. Trust me, if there is ever a time when a husband and wife need to be there for each other, it’s going to see The Wiggles.) My wife decided to take our daughter, Allie, to the ticket booth, while I would sit in traffic. Parker would assist me by screaming, “ME GO WITH MOMMMMMMMYYYYY!!!!’
When we finally got near what I thought may have been a parking lot, a man in a very official vest said, “Sorry, all lots are full.” I asked him where we could park. He helpfully said, “Nowhere. Lots are full.”
Well, turns out that a restaurant about eight blocks away was not full, and I was soon on my hike to the arena, really hoping that the “Customer Parking Only” was not a strictly enforced rule.
Eventually, we made it into the arena. Allie was bounding ahead, ready to dance and sing and do all of the stuff you are supposed to do at a Wiggles concert. Parker, meanwhile, was awestruck. When we walked down the tunnel to our seats, he saw The Wiggles’ set. He beamed wild-eyed, turned to me and screamed, “WIGGLES!!!!” OK, so even a cynical crab like me can admit that the excitement he was experiencing would make it worth it.
When The Wiggles came out, we were first informed that Greg, the leader of the Wiggles, was not on tour, as he was in Australia having hernia surgery. I don’t know about you, but I think a crowd full of kids would have been fine with being told Greg had a “tummyache.” Granted, my wife, being the kind of person who has no problem discussing clinical things over the dinner table, told Allie, “Remember when Parker had hernia surgeries? That’s what Greg’s having.” Tummyache, dear. Tummyache is fine.
I will have to give The Wiggles credit on one thing: They definitely become one with the crowd. All of the Wiggles run through the arena, stopping and chatting up kids and such. I guess when the worst thing an obsessed fan will do is spit up on you, you’re pretty safe heading into the masses.
At one point during the show, the four Gibbonses were going through the motions, doing the monkey, one of the Wiggles more popular dances. I looked around and saw thousands of other parents doing the same thing. I am sure there were scads of people who once considered themselves cool or hip or at least slightly with it. At that moment, there was not a cool one in the bunch, but rather a bunch of us waving our arms up and down hollering, “Ooooh-ooooh, eeeh-eeeh, ooooh-ooooh, eeeh-eeeh.”
Truth be told, it was actually a fairly tolerable event. The kids had a great time, which is the most important thing. And I have discovered I am, in fact, invincible.

Bring in The Funk

We try to be a sharing family. I now see this is a mistake.

I came to this conclusion around 10 p.m. Saturday night, curled up my bathroom floor, shivering and sweating at the same time, whimpering to my wife, "make...it...go...away..."

Yes, we have been passing around The Funk in my house, and I think the best way to stop the spread is to demolish the house and rebuild, possibly out of wood that has been soaked in Purel.

It started last week. My wife told me she wasn't feeling so great. I offered up this sage medical advice: Something must be going around. She countered that she works in a school, which is essentially the genesis of every funk on the planet, so something is always going around. For someone who works around kids to get sick, something extra special has to take hold.

I assured her she would be on the mend in no time. A short while later, I was being pushed aside, Heisman-like, as she sprinted to her new best friend, the bathroom, where she would spend the next few days.

Trying to keep the rest of the house blech-free, I did my level best to tend to kids without my wife having to leave the comfort of the bathroom mat. That evening, however, I found my daughter had contracted The Funk.

She came to me about 3 in the morning and said, "Daddy, by tummy hurts. And it's moving up to my chest..."

Immediately, I knew where the next move was, and I escorted her to the bathroom ("Step over your mother, sweetie...") and spent the rest of the evening holding her hair as she tried to turn herself inside out.

The next day was a hole-up-in-bed day for those two, while Parker and I continued our quest for continued health. We also shopped for bubbles.

By Saturday, my wife and Allie were both on the mend. That evening, however, I had the sneaking suspicion that The Funk had taken up residence in me. I base this on the fact that, every few minutes, my stomach would make a gurgling noise. It sounded as though I had a coffee pot inside of me brewing. And, in some ways, it felt like I had a coffee pot inside of me. A very pointy coffee pot.

By about 10 that evening, I had assumed my wife's well-worn spot on the bathroom floor. Oftentimes, my wife and I have epic struggles of competitive sicknesses. I will have, say, a backache, and will tell her it is more extreme than any pain she will ever know. She will point to our two children. I tell her that she gave birth with the benefit of epidurals, doctors, etc. I, meanwhile, have to endure on sheer toughness alone.

But this time was different. My wife, having gone through the same thing just days before, had gobs of sympathy for me. I think we can agree that true love is patting someone gently on the back as they uncontrollably heave and then whispering softly to them, "Hang on...there's some in your hair."

I spent the next 13 or so hours in a quasi-coherent stage. I would nibble on a cracker, sip some ginger ale, sleep a little and, I am told, babble quite a bit. At one point, my wife said I stood up in the middle of the bedroom and had this conversation:

ME: HURRY! HURRY!

HER: What!?!?!?

ME: Skribble rabble garble. Zzzzzzzzz.

By the next evening, I was able to eat something, and was pretty much feeling better. I had the day-after blahs, which are never fun. My wife is an unfortunate carrier of the migraine gene, and coming in a close-second in discomfort to migraines is the day after, which she calls the migraine hangover. Having never experienced a migraine, I am glad I don't know what that day after feels like. But I did have what can be described as The Funk hangover. I felt as though I had entered a sit-up contest, and later served as a pi & ntilde;ata at Albert Pujols' birthday party.

Hopefully, The Funk has made its rounds and has moved on. While I don't wish it on others, I do wish it out of my house. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work. The wood is done soaking.

Ice to see you

It has taken me five long years, but I have finally bested my foe.
For half a decade, we have waged an epic battle of wits, a struggle pitting cunning and wile.
As I celebrated my victory, performing a ceremonial victory dance that has been years in the making, my wife, sensing this great moment, said, “You outsmarted a 5-year-old. I don’t think taunting is in order.”
Yes, so I finally chalked up a win against Allie, who since birth has figured out ways to dupe me. She has always been the Queen of Technicalities, and has always figured out a way to get her way without me knowing. I’ll throw down the “Because I’m your father!” gauntlet, and before I know it, she has criss-crossed the board and nailed me with a checkmate.
I am not sure how she does it. I think it is something along the lines of the old “duck season, rabbit season” bit. Or perhaps chemicals. But whatever it is, the end result often tends to be my concession that she can, in fact, stay up and watch Shrek while having licorice and a milkshake for dinner.
And the beauty of her game is that she somehow makes me feel as though I have scored a major victory.
Now, I know that a lot of you are saying, “Why, I wouldn’t let some kid dictate how I run my household! I’m the parent, bygum, and what I say goes!” And I agree 100 percent, which makes it all the more frustrating to be having to admit defeat. For example, a while back I shared in a column an event in which Allie was helping me finish off my lunch, also known as stealing my potato chips. When she began chewing with her mouth wide open, I told her not to open her mouth when she chewed her food. She turned her Bambi eyes on and said, “But it’s not MY food. It’s YOUR food.”
Let me add the disclaimer that Allie is a great kid. It’s just that she’s 5, and that age tends to see the world differently. Our most serious squabbles are over insignificant things, and are usually wrapped up in a matter of moments. (Skittles having an amazing way of bringing opposing parties together.)
So our latest tussle occured a few mornings ago when we were getting the kids ready for school. Allie had a snappy little number set out, which was picked out by her mother, who guarantees snappiness with every number. Allie came into our room and began a Nancy Kerrigan-like sobfest. “I....want...to...wear...a....skirt....”
Apparently, the snappy number involved pants, and foregoing a skirt would possibly collapse the earth into the sun.
At first, I tried reasoning. “Allie, pants will not crash us into the sun.”
Cue blank stare.
She continued to plead for a skirt, which was obviously the difference in a happy childhood and a future in crime.
After several minters of back and forth, I decided to up the stakes. After a quick trip downstairs, I returned to the room.
“Allie, if you were to wear a skirt, how far down your leg would the skirt go?”
Another blank stare.
I pointed at her knee. “How far down would your skirt go?” I asked. She hitched up her pants leg to around her knee. At that point, I placed the freshly retrieved ice cube on her leg. She gave me a look that conveyed I was no longer operating on the same plane.
“Wh...what are you doing?”
“It’s cold outside. I just want to make sure you can handle the cold.”
She stared down for a brief moment, and then said, “Uh, pants are fine.”
Now, you may think that I am being mean by putting ice on her leg. But you would be wrong. Allie and I have a long tradition of unconventional father-daughter roughhousing that lends well to our relationship. She appreciates a goofy production. She expects it. Some of you may remember my telling of the game bumrush, in which I sprint into a room and go airborne, tackling her while screaming “BUMRUSH!!!!” Some may find this disturbing. Allie finds it hilarious. (Note to doctors, social workers, grandparents, etc.: I don’t go Ray Lewis on her. Give me some credit.)
So to make sure she knew that the ice-capade was just me being me, I concluded the lesson by taking the ice, and putting it down the back of my wife’s shirt when she entered the room. I think that illustrates quite well what my wife means when she refers to her three children.
So in the end, everything worked out. Allie got dressed with the pants. I won an epic struggle. And my wife got to experience life married to a third grader. I’d call that a win all around.

To diet for

I’m on a diet.
I’ve never been on a diet before, because for the past decade, I have maintained my strapping weight of around 165.
So the diet is not a weight issue, but rather a sleepy issue. You see, for the last few weeks, every day after eating lunch I would get incredibly sleepy. Rip Van Winkle sleepy. Want to curl up under my desk like George Costanza sleepy.
Normally, to counter this, I would take a brisk walk around the office and tell everyone how tired I was. Perhaps my subconscious was driving that bus, and it was thinking that if I got hit in the head with a stapler from an annoyed co-worker, it would wake me up.
So one day at home, I was telling my wife how sleepy I kept getting after lunch each day. Her first suggestion was not so much a suggestion, but a lengthy discussion of how she operates on a mere 10-15 minutes of sleep each night, and still works and volunteers and takes care of the kids and if I would stop for two seconds and realize that sometimes – SOMETIMES – making the bed is the LAST thing on her mind and quite frankly, I could make it myself that morning.
About half-way through, she stopped and realized I was just talking about how it set in just after lunch, and was not waging a “Who’s More Tired?” contest.
She asked me what I was eating for lunch. I told her a handful of Ambien and a bottle of gin. She did not find that funny.
Most days, my lunch is something pretty standard, usually, a couple of sandwiches, some chips, a dessert and a milk. Same basic lunch I have been having since I first cut teeth.
“Well there’s your problem,” she said. Apparently, for three decades sandwiches and chips and Little Debbie peanut butter bars had been my friend, but had suddenly turned on me.
She began to lecture me on carbs and blood sugar and such, and made a less-than-kind face when I said, “So busy, yet you still had time to go get a medical degree?”
At that point, she conducted a doctoresque reflex test which showed I am still quick.
My wife, or Dr. Wife, as I guess I should call her henceforth, suggested I stop eating a couple of sandwiches and the dessert each day, and opt for more protein. The blank stare I gave her led her to say, “Just meat. No bread.”
Immediately, I saw what she was doing. “You’re trying to put me on the Atkins Diet!”
Although I have never been on a diet, I can certainly tell you that I am not a big fan of diet crazes. I am sure some have their merits and such, but the big problem I have – in particular with the Atkins – is the major side effect is creates, which is an inability to go four seconds without telling someone you’re on the Atkins Diet. While some of you out there may have quite fine upstanding low-carb dieting folks, several of your fellow dieters ruined it for you by constantly making bullhorn proclamations, especially in restaurants: “Yeah, I’ll have the bacon burger with extra bacon, BUT HOLD THE BUN – ATKINS! Oh, and throw a pork chop and a wheel of cheddar on top.”
Sensing I was getting a little testy on the subject, my wife informed me that (a) the Atkins Diet was about as much of a craze these days as a Rubik’s Cube and (b) I should just give her suggestion a try. Take some meat, maybe some fruit, some cheeses, and see how I feel.
So the next day, I did as she advised. I had some steak left over from the night before, some onions I had cooked, a side of green beans, and a chunk of cheddar, which, quite frankly, should be served with every meal.
After lunch, I waited for my near-narcolepsy to kick in. And I waited. And I waited. And I waited. And sure enough, I stayed quite alert.
I called my wife and told her that I felt great, and that I would try it again the next day. She said, “Try some peanuts and an orange juice for a snack later.” I think she may just be messing with me, slowly building up how much she gets me today. After a couple of days, she’s going to say, “OK, around 11ish, you need to drink the blood from a baby sparrow, and eat your left thumb. Do it. Now.”
So the results seem to be working. I have actually enjoyed my lunches of late, particularly because I don’t have a desire to put my head down and nap in the cantaloupe halfway through. I guess as I get older, my metabolism is changing. To counter that, I suppose I will need to alter some of my dining habits. I hope I can still type without my thumb.

Halloweens of half a painting

I would be hard pressed to come up with a favorite all-time Halloween costume, but I think it’s a real comment about who I am that my most memorable ones were as an adult.
As a kid, I opted for the standard stuff: Monsters, superheroes, baseball players, Cher, etc. Like most people my age, one of the most memorable things about trick-or-treating as a kid is getting snapped in the face by that weak little elastic string that was used to hold a flimsy plastic Casper mask on your face. Fortunately, my mother would usually intervene with tape before my dad got to us with a stapler.
As I moved into my 20s, Halloween costume parties became more of a creative exhibition, and my wife and I always tried to come up with costumes to amuse and entertain. The two most memorable ones were tandem get-ups.
A friend of ours used to have a huge Halloween party every year upstate, and we would make the trek, costumes in tow, to join the festivities. This was a real showcase of imaginative costumes, so we had to be on our a-game for this one. I am not sure how we came to this particular costume, but I was a lost person on a milk carton. My wife designed the carton, which was a giant cardboard box with a place cut out for my face. And the brand of milk? Holy Cow. My wife’s costume? A holy cow, complete with wings, halo and udders. And if you have ever tried to eat or drink while wearing a cardboard box, I assure you it is not easy.
The next year, we again opted for a joint costume, this time selecting the famed painting American Gothic. I don’t mean the people in the painting. I mean the actual painting. Again, my wife was in charge of costume construction, since she is far more talented in that arena than I. If I were to try and do it, it would end with me being superglued to the garage floor.
My wife recreated the painting in two parts, frame and all, and made cut-outs for our faces. She hooked up some rigging so that we could slip our respective half painting on, put our face in the cut-outs, stand together and boom -- instant masterpiece. While we looked great standing together, we looked somewhat odd when we were apart.
PARTYGOER: What are you supposed to be?
ME: Gothic. American’s in the den.
PARTYGOER:
But once my 20s became more defined by parenting rather than partying, we have shifted out attention to our kids’ costumes. This will be the second year in a row that my wife has opted for matching costumes for our kids. I think this is because she has found resistance from me when trying to dress them in matching outfits in their everyday attire. The resistance comes from my ignorance, because I am afraid that if I were in charge of matching outfits, my son would end up in an oversized dress. Matching is for gamedays, as far as I am concerned.
Last year, they went as Raggedy Ann and Andy. My son, Parker, didn’t particularly care one way or the other what he wore at that age, so it was pretty easy. When you’re one-and-a-half, every day presents new things, so he probably just assumed that a spot of red on his nose was just something you did. Allie, meanwhile, insisted on wearing her outfit until around March.
This year, they are going to be Mickey and Minnie Mouse. Parker is showing that he is his sister’s brother, and has, for the most part, worn a Mickey Mouse outfit for the past week.
I think I may have to return to my costume roots this year and find something to don when I take them trick-or-treating. (Commence Goofy jokes.) Maybe I’ll enlist my wife’s help, so I can avoid damaging myself and possibly the house.
There are scads of possibilities that I am sure I can come up with. Even though I don’t go to big Halloween parties any more, I suppose that’s no reason not to enjoy the evening and have some fun with the kids. Plus, if I dress up, I won’t feel as bad taken a cut of the candy haul.

Tragically unhip

Apparently, I am unfashionable.

I know, I know. I was shocked, too. But the guilty verdicts came at me from a variety of sources.

The first shot came from some of my younger co-workers. I am not really sure how the conversation started, but it somehow got around to how incredibly unhip I am. The main reason for this? Pleats. I apparently missed the last fashion newsletter, but according to my 20-something fashionistas, wearing pleats is the fashion equivalent of wearing a Carmen Miranda hat.

They also attacked my choice of socks. Apparently, your socks are supposed to match your shoes. Or not. I can't remember. But whatever the correct choice was, I had done it wrong. I generally opt for this method of selecting socks: Reach in drawer. Grab socks. Find out later if they are, in fact, a matching pair.

I didn't realize socks were supposed to be a fashion issue. I thought they were a functional item, much like a coffee maker. A coffee maker's job? Make coffee. A sock's job? Be a sock, right? Apparently, it is also tasked with "tying the outfit together," whatever that means. I for one do not consider anything I wear an "outfit." I consider it pants, a shirt, some shoes, etc. An "outfit" is what my wife has 46,000 of in her closet.

The next hit came from my wife. We were getting the kids ready for school, and I was on Parker duty. Whenever I get the chance, I opt to dress Parker because he is (a) two and (b) a boy. The combination of those two factors mean that I can dress him in pretty much whatever I can grab. I could send him to school wearing a blanket and a baseball cap and he would be perfectly content. Allie, on the other hand, is becoming fashion conscious, and is also really into dresses. And the few times I have tried to match her up with a dress, her mother raises the Eyebrow of Disapproval, and then asks why I have dressed Allie in a Little Mermaid outfit.

Additionally, there is the hair issue. I don't do hair. Not that I don't want to. I can't. My one attempt at putting Allie's hair in pigtails resulted in many, many tears.

I used to enjoy dressing Allie, back when she was too small to object. A quick check of pictures when she was a toddler makes it very easy to see who dressed her each day. Cute little dress, matching hair bow? Mom. Overalls, T-shirt, shoes that may or not match? Yours truly.

But I digress. So I dress Parker one day, and I actually am somewhat proud of my choice for The Dude. Looks pretty sharp, I'm thinking. We march downstairs, and the first thing my wife says is, "He doesn't match."

Now, my first reaction was to argue with her. After all, he had some snappy pants on and a slick looking shirt. Add to that his favorite shoes ever (really cool, really small work boots). To me, he looked like he hopped off the cover of Hipster Toddler Monthly. (If there is such a publication, help us all.) But rather than argue, I opted for a learning experience. After all, as far as I could tell pants + shirt = match. Not really sure how you can go wrong.

"He's got green pants and blue in his shirt," my wife said, as if she were explaining the most basic foundations of the world.

"But his shirt his red," I countered.

"With blue in it."

At this point, we just had to accept that we were at an impasse. I did the only thing I could at this point: "You know where his shirts are if you don't like it." This was not the best choice.

So I guess I will continue to go through life clueless. I don't particularly care about fashion (clearly), so I don't really feel like expending the energy to learn all of the nuances. I am happiest in a worn pair of blue jeans, a T-shirt from college, and my well-broken-in tennis shoes. But on the occasions where I have to go beyond comfort attire, I will be unfashionable. As I write this, I am wearing pleated slacks. Strike one. They are green (or olive or whatever that color is). My shirt has blue in it. Strike two, apparently. My socks? No clue. Haven't checked to see if they match yet. Strike three. I'm out. Of touch.

Happiness is chugging syrup

They call them the Terrible Twos, and frankly, I think that's just wrong.

For one thing, anyone who has had children knows that the "terrible" stage starts well before the second birthday. I guess "Terrible Nineteen Months" just doesn't have a good ring to it.

My son, Parker, is now 2-and-a-half, and he is anything but terrible. Sure, he has the occasional fits and spurts that any child has, but more than anything, I think a good adjective to describe him, like most two-year-olds, would be, well, insane. But not in a clinical way. It's in a funny way, as Parker has developed a personality that I applaud: Do things that amuse you. If it's fun, do it.

Among some of the things Parker has done for his own amusement:

1. I came over to pick him up from my parents' house the other day, and when I came in, my mother said, "I swear I did not put him in there." Yet there was Parker, perfectly content sitting in a pet carrier. (Don't worry; he had a water bowl.)

2. My wife summoned me from the den recently with, "Come look at your son." I turned the corner to find Parker seated at the table, a bottle of pancake syrup turned upright. When he saw us staring, he pulled it back (letting it drip all over of himself) and said, "YUM!!!"

3. Parker is at the age where he likes to help get dressed. Most times, he opts to put his pants on his head, and then sprints around the room laughing.

4. If it moves, it can growl. If Parker ever approaches you with a stuffed animal, it will, without a doubt, growl at you. Snakes growl. Birds growl. Fish growl. Cows growl. Old McDonald's farm, I assume, would be very growly in his world.

5. Around bedtime or naptime, Parker will often go in his room and lie down. On more than one occasion, we peek in to find out that he is not sleeping, but rather singing. While standing on his head. Sometimes naked. But when you let him know you are there, he will look over at you, say, "Hi, Daddy," and get back to his upside down naked singing.

6. Parker does not see why adults cannot have fun. For example, Parker thinks cardboard boxes are fun. Great forts. (Great place to store your growling items.) But he also finds no reason not to expect, say, Grandma to play in the cardboard box.

7. Parker can make fun out of the most mundane tasks. Laundry time? Why, the faster you get the dirty clothes into a pile, the sooner you have a landing pad for your Couch Diving exhibition. (For the record, the adults in my house were split 50-50 on whether Laundry Pile Couch Diving was acceptable.)

For some reason, as we get older, we start to become very aware of our surroundings, and very conscientious when it comes to doing something that might make us look bad in the eyes of others. Words such as "immature" and "juvenile" and "childish" are used in a derogatory manner because we adults have lumped all of this behavior as something uncalled for.

Sure, I can see why folks wouldn't want to see me chug a bottle of syrup next time I'm at breakfast. But when is the last time you sang in a grocery store? Waved at a flock of birds? Said hi to the person next to you at the stoplight? Asked your grandmother to climb inside a cardboard box? (OK, maybe the last one is crossing the line.)

In a lot of ways, I think grown-ups might be a little better off if we took some cues from this kind of behavior. After the Braves' 18th inning heartbreaker of a loss on Sunday, I was sharing misery with a couple of neighbors who are also Braves fans. As we were leaving, one said, "And Parker is just happy either way." Nice to not care about the things that don't really matter, and just enjoy life. I, for one, am going to try and adopt more of this in to my life. I hope you like how I wear my pants from now on.

College days revisited

Like many of my friends from my college, I awoke last Sunday and said, “How did I do this every weekend in college?”
Yes, I returned from a weekend visiting my college friends, and I think the word that most sums up the trip is, “Ow.”
But, it’s not the “Ow” you are probably thinking. I am more than a decade removed from college, and let’s be honest here — I think I have matured somewhat. That and my wife was there to chaperone.
My wife and I met at Alabama in 1993, and this was to be one of the biggest reunions since we left. A college fraternity brother of mine decided what we all really needed was a band party after an Alabama football game. Since he lives in New Orleans and, along with several other New Orleans brothers, is picking up the pieces of his town, we figured the guy could use a party, and it was our duty to oblige.
We rolled into town Friday night, and headed over to the fraternity house. We don’t get back to campus very often, so it’s always good to catch up with old friends. And it’s always nice to revert back to the time-honored fraternity tradition of abandoning birth names and referring to people by names such as Otter, Sloth, Biggun, Ogre and Opie. Why college students find a need to produce nicknames for people is beyond me. (Back when we first met, the first time my wife ever got my answering machine, she thought she had the wrong number, as she had never heard anyone call me Mike.) But it is strange that regardless of how big of a family someone has, how good of a job they have, how far removed from college they are, they will always be known by said nickname to their college colleagues. And it’s even stranger how easy it is to revert back to introducing yourself by a name you haven’t been called in a decade. (In case you’re wondering my nickname, keep wondering.)
That evening was spent mainly catching up on old times, and telling the stories from our day in college, I am sure to the boredom of the current house members. Granted, they exacted their revenge on at least one alumnus with an introduction to beer pong, which, based on the way he looked the next morning, he lost. (No, it was not me. Chaperone. Remember?)
We ended that evening fairly early, heading out by midnight or so. After all, the next day was the big day. Alabama versus Florida in the afternoon, followed by a band party that evening.
The game was phenomenal, with the Tide putting on a show for the ages. For those of you who watched the game, I think we can all agree that the repeated replays of Tyrone Prothro’s hideously disgusting injury were unnecessary.
The evening of the band party was one of the most anticipated alumni events in a long time. The band that was to play, Dash Rip Rock, was a favorite in college. When the first cords were struck, I, like, many others in attendance, had the same thought: Man, that is really loud.
I don’t go out very often, and when I do it is to rather subdued and quiet spots where I can hear other people talk. This was not a place where you could hear people talk. But that was not the point. The point was to revert back to college days, screaming “Roll Tide” while the band sang “Sweet Home Alabama” and doing my fine impression of dancing, which actually looks more like someone trying to balance on two bad knees and nod aggressively over and over. My wife, not surprisingly, stands far away from me on the rare occasions when I try to dance.
The band played until around two in the morning, at which point someone was kind enough to announce that it was my birthday. Several of those in attendance celebrated my birthday in the way that seemed most fitting for a fraternity party. Fortunately, I had a change of clothes in the car.
We finally got in around 4 a.m., which was WAY past our bedtime. When we woke up the next morning (or, more accurately, later than morning), neither my wife nor I had much of a voice left, some from screaming and cheering the Tide, but mostly from the band party. My throat felt as though I had tried to swallow an apple whole and it got stuck halfway down. Add to that a six-hour drive home, and you could now understand my “Ow.”
While it was great to see everyone and great to party, we commented on the way back that we were probably glad we only did this once a year. It takes a while to get geared up for this. I can’t quite do it like I could in college. I’m Mike now. That other guy only comes out once in a while.

For your viewing pleasure

You know how, when you buy things that need some assembly, they tell you what tools you would need? Well, I recommend the good folks at Sony edit their TV manuals to read, “Installation may require utility knife, skilsaw, hammer and two friends far smarter than you.”
OK, so maybe that should be just penciled in on my manual.
The need for a TV began a few months ago. My wife noted that, whenever someone was wearing red on the screen, they left this long trail whenever they moved across the screen. As a fan of Alabama football, this made games all the more interesting, especially when Bama was wearing the Crimson jerseys, as most plays turned into a psychedelic swirl on my screen.
My wife kept insisting that we need to fix it. I, of course, saw a bad television as a sign of weakness, an outright challenge to my masculinity. It would be like saying I had a bad lawn or slow car. (Wait. Crab grass + 1994 Honda Civic = bad example.)
Anywho, for weeks I denied that anything was wrong. “It’s probably just the show,” I would say. The only way that would have been the case is if we had been watching “Seizure-Inducing Red Swirl Theater.”
Eventually, I agreed to go shopping for a new TV with my wife. When we walked into the store, I tapped on the model that we needed and told my wife I would pay while she waited in the car. She then began to explain to me why we were not getting an $8,000 television, and that this is why she came shopping with me.
One factor that my wife kept in mind was size. I, of course, simply wanted the biggest possible one that could get through the front door. My wife, however, pointed out that the TV has to go in a cabinet that is built into our den wall. There is a wooden frame across the front of the opening, which gives us about 23 inches of clearance. The frame itself is about an inch high, so there is actually abut a 24-inch space, once you get past the frame. (If you follow that, more power to you. Simple terms: 23 inches, until you get INSIDE the cabinet. Then it’s 24 inches.)
The TV we picked out measures just a smidge over 23 inches tall. I assured my wife that we could wiggle, shimmy and finagle the TV into the spot, and it would be a perfectly snug fit.
When we got home, I enlisted my neighbor to help haul the TV in. Technology, it turns out, is very heavy.
When we got the TV inside, we lifted it out of the box and went to set it on the shelf. Clunk. Top of TV meet bottom of frame.
“Uh, did you measure before you go this?” my neighbor asked. I assured him I did. His look told me that he was not quite sure why I would measure, find it was too big, and still purchase the TV.
It was then I told him of my grand plans to tilt the TV and slip it under the lip. Apparently, he seemed amazed that I had no concept of living in a three-dimensional world, since I failed to consider the depth of the TV, and whether tilting it would be an option. As it turned out, it was not.
Another friend who had since been enlisted began to assess the situation. At this point, I opted for onlooker, because they were using phrases such as “load-bearing” and “support dowel” and “Mike’s a moron.”
The ultimate plan was to use a utility knife to break the glue seal and then use the saw to cut a thin slice where the frame piece connected, severing the dowels that had it secured in place. The frame would pop off, the TV would go in, and the frame could be replaced. They also insisted on taking off the doors of the cabinet. I think they were just showing off at that point.
When the frame popped off, I was amazed that the cabinet did not collapse into a pile of rubble, as it surely would have had I been helming the saw. The TV slid right in, and in no time I had a clean, clear picture streaming from my cabinet, with colors going where they are supposed to. It was a sight to behold.
The television is a nice upgrade from what we had, and I am definitely pleased that we were able to get it in place. When you get a new TV, you often don’t realize how bad the picture had been. It’s like I’m watching all new shows. Of course, “Seizure-Inducing Red Swirl Theater” is no longer must-see TV.

Me and the kinkajou

Animal control officials in Aiken nabbed a kinkajou today. It was on the lam for several hours before being collared. (It's fairly easy to catch something when it tries to climb up on anyone it sees.) When I went down to animal control to snap some pics, he hopped up to say howdy. Very cute little critter.


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Pulling the rug out

Oh, well played. Well played.
Once again, my wife has duped me into an afternoon of doing her bidding, and I didn’t even realize it until I was knee-deep in furniture rearranging.
She’s very good at this, and usually I see it coming, but still comply nonetheless. My reasoning is twofold: (1) The missions she chooses for us to embark on are usually worthwhile, such as cleaning out closets or having children and (2) resistance is futile.
It happened last weekend when my wife and I were in the playroom and she made the passing comment that she wondered if the couch would look better in a different part of the room. Moving a couch is easy enough, and she just wanted to slide it a few feet forward, so no problem, I thought. Well, when you move a couch in a playroom normally utilized by two small children, the following chain of events unfolds:
1. You move the couch from the wall, and discover 94,000 toy parts behind it.
2. You go to put toy parts in closets, shelves, etc. only to find that said spaces are already full, meaning you must...
3. Clean out the toy closet, which leads to...
4. Cleaning out other closets, which leads to...
5. Leaving an “Escape from Alcatraz”-style dummy while you try and climb out of a window.
After several hours of playroom overhaul, you could see one main difference: The couch was about three feet from its previous spot. “But all the toys are cleaned up!” my wife remarked. True, but had we kept the couch in the previous spot, the toys would have still been out of sight, and therefore out of mind. For the record, I once again was vetoed when I offered up the idea that, if a toy can live behind a couch for six months and not be missed, it could easily be removed from the house entirely and not be missed.
Once we finished the playroom, we went downstairs, when my wife struck again, commenting that she did not like the way the den was set up. The rug was too small, she said. “You know what look nice in here? The rug from the dining room.”
Not even thinking, I said, “Yeah, it probably would.”
Time to start moving rugs.
Normally, moving area rugs is a fairly easy task. Roll one up, making sure you haven’t caught a kid or a dog in it, and start hauling. But before I agreed that the rug change was a must-do, I didn’t stop and think that the dining room rug had on it a dining room table and a China cabinet. When we walked in the room, my wife noticed this, too, and immediately realized she had made a misstep. She has seen me move furniture. I take the approach that sheer force and the occasionally assistance from gravity is the way you move things. (You should hear the sound of a washing machine sliding down stairs.) “Uh, why don’t I get someone to help me move the cabinet.”
Well, that right there is a challenge. I told her that it wasn’t necessary, and that I would simply tilt the cabinet while she pulled the rug out from under it. (Note to potential china cabinet movers: If you are like me, you have a habit of resting furniture on your foot between moving. Do not do this if you are barefoot. It is both stupid and painful.) After a few minutes of lifting, tilting and occasional yelping in pain, my wife was able to shimmy the carpet free. I don’t think she intended to sound as surprised as she did when she remarked, “It worked!”
Once the rug was free, I switched the den rug with the dining room rug, and my wife moved furniture two inches this way and an inch that way making it perfectly to her liking. She also recommended I no longer sit on couches she was trying to move.
When we were all done, I reflected on the rooms, expecting to see minimal impact. However, I was pleased to see that the simple change of rugs had made a nice difference, and I was quite happy with the improvement. And, upon further reflection (and repeated questioning) I conceded that the playroom was better, too. (I stopped short of agreeing that it was “cozy.”)
In the end, it was a solid day’s work that made our house look nice and my wife happy, so I guess it’s considered a success. The only thing that would have made it more of a success is if I had made it out of that window.

A deflating experience

So today’s helpful home improvement lesson: Super glue will not fix a flat tire.
Now, I know most of you, upon hearing this brilliant truism, would say, “No kidding, genius. Who would think it WOULD fix a flat?”
Well, I will tell you who: Acclaimed writer Saul Bellow, that’s who.
OK, so it was me. The upside to this, of course, is that it was not a car tire, but rather a wheelbarrow tire. Granted, I did have my entire family in it at the time of the flat.
Ha! Little joke there. There are no rides in the wheelbarrow. Not anymore. Nosirree. Apparently, SOME people in my house have a problem with children pitching in and, say, making sure nothing falls out of the wheelbarrow. And what better place to keep an eye on wheelbarrow contents than on top of the debris being hauled? Exactly. Defies reason, really.
I have actually known about the flat tire for a while. And I had dealt with it thusly: I would pump up the tire with air and try and use it as quickly as possible to before the tire went flat. Sometimes I would get two or three trips out it. And then I would pump it up and scurry about with it again.
So I had used my wheelbarrow like this for about two years when I called on it for some heavy duty action. Last year, I had six very large trees cut down in my backyard (thanks, ice storm!), and for some reason I asked the tree guy to leave the biggest oak for me to chop up for firewood. Do you realize that the bottom part of an adult oak tree is roughly the size of Vermont? Well, this immense pile of wood has stayed in my backyard since then, and my wife and I decided it was time to move it to a better place. For one thing, it was right next to the kids’ playground, and let’s be honest – a mountain of unstable logs beats a swing any day of the week, something my wife decided was just on the other side of unsafe.
So I started chopping what I could into stuff for the fireplace. After about two hours, I had filled up two very large wood piles. And the original pile of wood appeared to have actually grown. So at that point I decided I would move all of the wood to a spot in the yard where it was less enticing to children, and more easily accessible to anyone who wants firewood.
Most of the logs were big enough that I could carry them, but not exactly the things you’d want to haul across a yard all day long, so I decided to pile up the wheelbarrow with a heap of logs and cut the workload down.
When I placed the sixth log in the wheelbarrow, I looked down and saw that the wheel was flatter than usual. Apparently, the weight exceeded what I usually put in there, because even a sorta-flat wheelbarrow wheel works somewhat. I got out an electric air pump and turned it on. Odd, I thought, that it was taking so long to fill up. I turned off the pump and heard, “Sssssssssssssssssssss.”
When I moved my head closer to see if I could pinpoint where the air was coming from, I felt air blowing on my face. Pretty good sign that it was not how the tire was designed.
Turns out, there was a big roofing nail sticking through tire, which I guess is a better alternative than it sticking through my foot. Based on the amount of rust on the nail, I should probably get my wheelbarrow a tetanus shot.
I took the wheelbarrow into the garage to begin surgery. The nail was in pretty tight, so I decided that the nail was a fine addition, and I just needed to seal around it, making a permanent plug. My first choice was to use some plumber’s cement, which for some reason I own. I do not recall ever doing plumbing, so I am not sure why I own it. I opened the plumber’s cement and pulled out the stopper. When a big glob of solidified goo came out, I decided this stuff had seen its last day. Next stop – super glue. Hey, if this stuff can glue a guy in a hard hat to a steel beam, surely it can seal a little space around a nail. I dabbed the super glue around the nail and waited a few seconds. When I flipped on the air pump, the rush of super glue smell shot up towards me, and the air continued to ease out. OK, so this was a bad idea, too. I tried several other options, including my final failed attempt, which was to remove the roofing nail and replace it with a larger nail. After about an hour of trying to repair the wheel, a little voice deep in the recesses of my mind said, “Hey, genius – you can buy replacement tires.”
Sure enough, for about $20, I had a new tire, and even installed it myself with little fanfare. I guess I could have saved myself time and gone that route from the start. Of course, then I would have never known I had plumber’s cement.

Back pain gives pause to consider somersaults

Once again, I find myself in immense pain. And once again, I find myself receiving a grand total of zero sympathy.

A few months back, I told the story of a wicked back pain I had. When I went to complain to my wife about the severity of my ailment ("A hundred times worse than child birth!!!"), she reminded me that perhaps my stand-on-the-head competition with my daughter was the cause of it, and therefore the reason I was deserving of as much sympathy as someone who licks a moving fan.

But this time would be different, since I was blessed with two hurting spots in my back. My lower back felt like someone had hit me across it with a bat, while my neck felt like someone had taken the same bat, whittled it down to a fine point and stabbed me with it.

Actually, the pain did not start all at once. I woke up with the neck pain, probably because I slept hanging over the edge of the bed, which is not the ideal way to sleep, I have found. Spending six hours as if I were looking for something under the bed will generally be bad news for your neck.

The lower back pain took place on a walk I was taking with my son. Parker and I were cruising the neighborhood, having a nice time. Our walks are always fun, because I encourage him to find animals. I point out squirrels, dogs, etc. He points out tigers, alligators, etc. He either has very good vision or a very vivid imagination.

At one point during the walk, I made the foolish mistake of trying to take another step. As I stepped, my back kind of seized up, and I had three options: (1) Continue walking, and show my son that it is OK for a grown man to cry (2) stop where I was and hold this freeze-frame or (3) fall to the ground.

I opted for No. 2, which Parker thought was some pantomime performance for his enjoyment. Ah, the joys of parenting -- frozen in time, afraid to move lest knee-buckling pain overwhelm you, while your son claps and laughs and points.

After a few minutes, the pain began to ease up. Either that or the endorphins started kicking in. Either way, I as able to start creeping home, shuffling like Tim Conway's storekeeper. By the time I made it home, Parker had grown tired of my hunched-over shuffle, and was now trying to climb out of his stroller. And 2-year-olds rarely take the conventional path when getting out of a stroller. Rather, they will arch up and try and slink backwards over the top of the stroller. I decided the best way to stop him from doing this was to reason with him. Clearly, I was not thinking straight, since reasoning with a 2-year-old is comparable to reasoning with a chipmunk.

ME: Parker, please sit down. We're almost home, and Daddy's back is really hurting.
PARKER: OUUUUUUUTTTTT!
ME: Please?
PARKER: OUUUUUUUTTTTT!
ME: Just a few more...
PARKER: OUUUUUUUTTTTT!

Somehow, we managed to carry on this brilliant dialog for the last few blocks of our walk. When we got upstairs, I decided that the best way to let the pain subside was to lie on the ground in a manner than eased the pain. Because I was trying to ease two pains, I was twisting my body in a way that, when my wife walked in, I can only guess looked like the chalk outline of someone whose parachute had not opened.

Now, most spouses would immediately be concerned. "What's wrong?" they would ask. Mine, however, has come to expect this, and asked instead, "What now?"

I explained to her my back woes, and, without so much as stopping to consider the baseball bat theory, she said, "Well, maybe you shouldn't have been doing somersaults with Parker yesterday."

OK, so my son is learning how to do somersaults, and I felt his form was a little lacking. And once I get started, I have no choice but to show off my back-somersault-into-a-headstand. Drives the kids wild.

So looking back on this, I guess I have learned a valuable lesson. The older I get, the more it hurts to do things like headstands and somersaults. Oh, that's not the lesson. The lesson is only to do them when my wife isn't looking. And then tell her I was hit with a bat.

Football season is ready to roll

Oh, we are tantalizingly close to football season.

To me, college football season is the greatest of all sports seasons, because it is the only one in which my wife will not pull rank when I open the windows at 9 in the morning and blare "Sweet Home Alabama."

Yes, as many of you know, I went to the University of Alabama, and football season to me is as important as water is to a fish. (These last few years, Alabama has taken it easy on the rest of the country to lull them into a false sense of security.)

While football is fun in and of itself, rivalries are what make the difference. And for the last few years, I have lived next door to an Auburn fan, which means that beginning this Saturday, we cannot speak to each other for the rest of the year.

Kidding, of course. We speak even more during football season, since he and I both love to argue the truly important matters of the world, such as whether or not Brodie Croyle is the world's greatest quarterback. (He is.) Also, I still owe my neighbor. Big time. A few years ago, I looked out my window and saw that, butting up to my yard, he had planted rye grass that had come in just as he had planted it, printing a big, bright green "WAR EAGLE" facing my house. Well played, Auburn fan. Well played. (I applaud his knowledge of rye grass, since it sprung up right before the Iron Bowl.)

I still have not figured out a good comeback to his grass attack. (One college friend of mine's suggestion: "You have no choice. You have to burn down his home." I think that's a little much. But I am not opposed to painting it a nice crimson color.)

My brother-in-law also looks forward to the upcoming season, but he's a South Carolina fan, I try not to listen to him. This is not easy, since he refers to me as his "good luck charm." He says Alabama lost to South Carolina the last two times they played, and that I was there with him for both losses. I don't recall this, and am pretty sure he is just making up stuff. Nothing this catastrophic could possibly happen in the world.

I am also fortunate that, unlike some husbands, I do not have to work to secure football free time. My wife went to Alabama, too, and she is one of the more rabid fans you will meet. Doubt me? Tell you what -- walk in front of her during a game. Do it. I dare you. Our first date was an Alabama game. Actually, I would bet about 75 percent of our dates have been Alabama games. She doesn't want flowers or diamonds. She wants a spot where she can watch the game and the Bear Bryant portrait straightened. And she wants Dennis Franchione to lose every game for eternity. Bless that woman.

Because things have changed just ever so slightly since college, we don't make it to many games these days. Truth be told, even we do go to games, we usually don't actually go to the game. "But, Mike," you're saying, "why would you drive all the way to Tuscaloosa to watch a game on TV?" Simple: (1) Tickets are not free (2) We spent roughly 80 percent of our college life a the Houndstooth sports bar and (3) bars have bathrooms without lines and waitresses who bring you beer.

This year, we are heading up to the Alabama-Florida game, and we again will not be attending the game. You see, my fraternity is having a bit of a reunion that game, and a band that was popular in college is going to play the fraternity house. They're going to have a big-screen TV at the house, and we plan on securing a couch spot early and hanging out with people I haven't seen in a long time. And my wife and I get to go back to the time we met, in that very house, many moons ago. It was a beautiful time of serendipity: Boy meets girl. Boy asks girl out. Girl says she's got a boyfriend. Boy asks again. Girl says, "No, seriously, I've got a boyfriend." Boy continues for next six months. Girl finally stops going out with boyfriend. Girl gives boy phone number. Boy loses phone number. Girl gets very, very mad. Boy says he SERIOUSLY was going to call. You know, that old tale.

Bama kicks off the season this Saturday against perennial powerhouse Middle Tennessee State. Amazingly, this game is not on television. But I will no doubt find a station on the Internet to tune in the Tide. Come on over and listen with me. Just don't block my wife's view of the speakers.

School's in, and the fun begins

An unbelievable sense of pride overcame me as I looked at my son, Parker, decked out in his new school clothes. His backpack seemed oversized for his 2-year-old body, and resembled a green mattress strapped to his back. He held his caterpillar lunch box in front of him as we walked, almost like he was carrying a basket of Faberge eggs.

We walked in the door of his new school, and I could tell he was taking the new surroundings in. His ear-to-ear grin stretched even more when he turned the corner and saw his mother, poking her head out of her classroom and waving.

My wife was clearly filled with pride, too, as evidenced by the big smile on her face, watching her son stroll down the hall toward his classroom. And then, her smile disappeared, and her gaze turned to me.

"You do know that school doesn't start today, right? He's just here to meet his teacher."

I explained to my wife that, yes, I did in fact know that it was not the actual first day of school, but you try to explain to a 2-year-old that he can't take his new backpack and caterpillar lunch box. A caterpillar lunch box! You don't play around with that kinda stuff.

When we took him into meet his teacher, he quickly showed us the concern he would have for being in a new environment. And that would be no concern whatsoever, since he immediately rode a rocking horse and then pulled every toy off of the shelf in some manic toy inspection frenzy.

The teacher told us that every day around noon, all of the kids in his class go down for naps. And before we could register our extreme doubt on this, the teacher told us that every parent doubts it can be done. Well, several days into school, I have to say that the teachers in Parker's room could make lottery-style money if they took their Noontime Nap Show to people's houses and charged big money to get kids down to nap in a flash. It's like they have this Crocodile Dundee-like control over 2-year-olds and can make them sleep at will.

This was also a big start for our daughter, Allie, as well, since she started 5K this year. One great thing about 5K is that it is, in a 5-year-old's eyes, a step that puts her tantalizingly close to being a grown-up. She would often remind us that she was about to be in 5K, usually when she was trying to do something she shouldn't be.

ME: Allie, what are you doing with the scissors?

ALLIE: I'm going to cut Parker's hair.

ME: WHAT!?!?!?!

ALLIE: Daddy, I'm almost in 5K.

But we utilized this to our advantage, too. Bedtime? "Hey, if you wanna be in 5K, you have to go to bed on time." "Hey, if you wanna be in 5K, you have to clean up your room." "Hey if you wanna be in 5K, you have to cut your brother's hai..." Wait. Bad example.

Anyhow, Allie took to her new class as well. She, like Parker, found a section of the room that could be easily dismantled, and proceeded to try on every outfit in the dress-up box.

By the time the first day of school arrived, both kids were very excited. And by excited I meant spastic. I feel fairly confident that if there is one Constitutional amendment that is needed, it is one that bans sprinting through the house screaming "WE'RE GOING TO SCHOOL!!!!" before Daddy has had a cup of coffee.

Eventually, we got everyone settled down long enough to take the obligatory first day of school pictures. I remember a first-day picture I had taken when I was a kid, and I had a giant construction paper name tag on. (No point there, just thought I would share that I remember a picture from when I was a kid.)

So we're now a few days into school, and the kids seem to be having a blast. Allie is very excited about homework, something that will easily be cured in a few years. Parker is very excited about a ball, apparently, because every time I ask him about school, he laughs and says, "BALLLLLL!!!!" Oh, and he said what sounded an awful lot like "Me paint wall," so I am concerned that he has either been marking up the school or taking on some side job handyman work.

I am sure each day will be better than the one before since this is a great age to be in school. After all, it's a time of fun and playing and discovery. And naps.