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.