You say you want a resolution...

Seems like most every year I write about my disdain for New Year’s resolutions. You set yourself up for failure, I say. But you know what? I think it’s about time that attitude changes. I mean, personal improvement is a fine goal, and there is no time like the dawning of a new year to kick things off. So while I have passed on New Year’s resolutions in the past, I will make up for the past and make a whole slew of them this year. Of the 10 resolutions below, if I only keep four of them, I will be in Ted Williamsesque rare air.
1. I resolve not to use awkward silence as a response to my wife. It turns out that when my wife offers up a 10-minute discussion of something that happened while she was in line at the drug store, the correct response is, “Wow, how about that?” or something of that ilk. Staring at her – or, even worse, saying, “What’s your point?” – will go bye-bye in 2007.
2. I resolve to accept the fact that children have a force field around them that makes it difficult for sound waves to penetrate their ears. Thus, when I say, “Go make your bed,” I will have a good understanding why the child instead continues trying to fill Mr. Potato Head with Play-Doh.
3. I resolve to purge my dresser of clothes that I have not worn in several years. Perhaps I need to come to grips with the fact that if I am embarrassed to wear a fraternity party T-shirt out in public because of its racy content, it should probably be purged from the stock.
4. I resolve to continue my ever-continuing goal of convincing myself that it’s just sports, life goes on, the sun will rise tomorrow. As a Falcons/Braves/Bama fan, I am thankful for their assistance in this matter through repeated lessons of “life goes on.”
5. I resolve to stick to the grocery list. I will go to the grocery store to pick up milk and will instead come home with, essentially, Kroger. I am not sure how it happens. I just wind through the aisles and stuff just starts appearing in my cart. I am so tired of getting home and having my wife look at the bags and say, “Uh, why did you get four turkeys?” and not have an answer. I don’t know why. So now I will stick to the list. And if “four turkeys” is on the list, I will call my wife and verify that one.
6. I resolve to open the grill before pre-heating it. This may seem like a no-brainer. And I thought I would never have to make such a evolution until last week. I heated the grill up and came out to throw some steaks on. As I approached the grill, I noticed an awkward smell. Definitely not a delicious pre-heated grill smell. When I opened up the grill, I found that the smell was coming from the melting plastic and metal from the grill utensils sitting on the grill getting roasted a balmy 400 degrees. For what it’s worth, I was able to clean the grill so that the steaks were not marinated in melted plastic.
7. I resolve to fix the towel rack once and for all. There are two towel racks in our bathroom, and one has been targeted for destruction by, I can only assume, my children. Every time I put it up, I walk in moments later to find it on the ground. On occasion, I find it being incorporated into a sword fight, which I immediately stop the moment my wife appears or someone draws blood. But I am going to put the rack back up, and I will anchor it to a wall stud and put video surveillance on it and, if I have to, stake Murphy the Attack Dachshund to protect it.
8. I resolve to figure out how to sell things on eBay. Fact of the matter is I am not going to listen to a CD of some band I absolutely loved in college but can’t even stand at this point, so there is no reason to keep an enormous box of CDs hanging around. I admit it. I’m old. And I might as well make a coin or two for someone who is just dying to learn about the Icelandic sensation “The Sugarcubes.”
9. I resolve to clean my garage and keep it clean. Hey, sometimes you make resolutions you have no plan on keeping. I feel obliged to include one as well.
10. I resolve to stick with decaf. I love my coffee. But when I had to give up caffeine last year, I had to kick my old friend to the curb. I have finally found some decaf I can like, and am even starting to look forward to my morning cup. I miss my old friend caffeine, but at least the coffee is back.
So I wish you well on your resolutions in 2007. I recommend that you, too, make as many resolutions as you can so that you are all but guaranteed some success in the New Year. It’s not about the six you won’t keep, but the four that you will.
Happy New Year!

Millennium Falcon moment

When was your Millennium Falcon moment?
I was talking with some college buddies the other day, and we were recounting the single greatest Christmas moments of our youth. By my count, 140 percent of the respondents said getting a Millennium Falcon. For guys my age, getting Han Solo’s super cool space ship toy is the ultimate Christmas memory. It is the item we reflect back on that sums up the excitement, the anticipation, the magic of Christmas. (Most of us put the Death Star as a close second.)
I asked my wife what her Millennium Falcon moment was, and she told me that every year, her mother would give her a porcelain doll, and she could not wait to find out which one she would get for her collection. Porcelain dolls are fine and all, but it is nowhere near as cool as the Millennium Falcon. Does a porcelain doll have a trap door to hide Han, Chewbacca and Luke Skywalker? I didn’t think so.
Anyway it is with eager anticipation that I gear up for Christmas, hoping to find what my kids’ Millennium Falcon Moment will be. Parker is 3, so he doesn’t have a singular thing he is geared up for Santa to bring him. Ask him from day to day what he wants, and it will change. Often, he says he wants Superman. And I don’t think he wants an action figure. I think he actually wants us to bring him Superman. He’s either a big fan or Lex Luther.
He’s really into bugs, so I am sure lots of his Christmas presents will center around that. Given his druthers, Parker would rather be outside, turning over logs and finding things to put in his bug house. Odd side note: The other day, he was carrying around a dead beetle in his pocket. (Not a dead Beatle. That would be weird). Anywho, I asked him the beetle’s name. Without so much as a pause, he said, “Hoo-Hoo Lava Jam Jesus.” Figuring he was just stringing together words, I asked him about an hour later what the beetle’s name was. Hoo-Hoo Lava Jam Jesus. We are two days removed, and he still answers unequivocally, Hoo-Hoo Lava Jam Jesus. I have no clue what to make of the name. Just figured I’d share.
The other thing he really loves is riding his Big Wheel, so the next logical step will be to from three wheels to two. Or, four, I guess, since it’s not very nice to put a kid on two wheels and just let him fall over.
Regardless of what Parker finds under the tree Christmas morning, it’s a safe bet that he will not have that Millennium Falcon moment. He’s still young, and he still gets excited regardless of the manner of presentation when he gets gifts. To a 3-year-old, Christmas and birthdays are not reserved for gift giving. Rather, it’s that every day should be for that, and they really don’t totally understand why EVERY day isn’t a day in which Matchbox cars magically appear.
Allie, however, could be approaching her Millennium Falcon moment. If it’s not this year, it will probably be in the next couple. She is uber-excited about Christmas, and is counting down the days.
Her Christmas list is growing quite lengthy, and I am to blame for much of that. I made the mistake a few weekends ago of letting her turn the television on one Saturday morning. Normally, this is not a problem, because she usually watches Disney or PBS, meaning no commercials. Network Saturday morning? Not so much. It did not take her long to come sprinting to me, almost out of breath. “DADDY – I have GOT to get Barbie: 12 Dancing Princesses and a Makeover Magic Camera and ...” At that point, it became all white noise. For what seemed like about 11 days, she rattled off toy after toy after toy, complete with a description of just HOW AWESOME!!! it really is and how she has GOT TO HAVE IT!!!!
Finally, I stopped her. “Allie. You need to take a breath. It’s been all exhale.”
I managed to remember 40-50 of the things that she told me about, which I relayed to her mother, who is our household’s Chief Santa Liaison (CSL). I was CSL for my daughter’s first Christmas. When a football and a baseball mitt came down the chimney, I was stripped of my title.
It’s probably better that my wife handles the CSL duties at this stage, since I get a little overwhelmed when shopping for her. If you have never shopped for gifts for a 6-year-old girl, I will let you know this: Roughly 85 percent of the world’s commercial products are geared for this demographic. There will never be a time when someone can honestly say, “I just couldn’t find a thing for a 6-year-old girl.” There could, however, be a time when someone says, “I just kept adding and adding and adding until the cart was piled 42-feet high, and in a flash I was covered in an avalanche of Barbie and My Little Pony.”
Regardless of what Christmas morning brings, I know this much to be true: My children’s eyes will light up at the wonders under the tree, and that’s a Millennium Falcon moment for me.

Makeup Wakeup

I can honestly say it is the first time I have said to my wife, “Does my eyeliner look OK?”
But if I am going to do my Streisand show, by-gum I’m gonna do it right!
Ha! A little humor there to deflect my innate discomfort at wearing makeup! Just ol’ guy’s guy Mike joking with you!
Sigh. Yes, I am finally getting used to wearing makeup, as it is required for the play I am in. I was told that if I did not wear make-up, the stage lights would make my face look like a big white blob with two black dots. I was not sold. My wife then told me, “You have no choice.” Sold.
Truth of the matter is I didn’t so much have an issue with wearing it. The problem I had is that I have the artistic ability of a goat. Putting on make-up is, essentially, the equivalent of painting your face, and I am never going to win a “color inside the lines” contest.
I decided I would give it a go, though, because I am a trooper. That, and no one offered to help. I was told that I needed to put on base or powder or something like that on my face. “Get rid of the shine,” I was told. Also, I had to apply eyeliner around my eyes, which seems like a ridiculous thing to do. I have used pencils all my life and NEVER found a good reason to stick one right up under my eyeball.
When I emerged from my first makeup application attempt, I could tell by the reactions that I had not done a very good job. Most people kinda cocked their heads to the side and said “Awwww...” like they were looking at a 2-year-old who was trying to dress himself but was instead wearing a lamp shade and a pillow case.
Apparently, my big mistakes were (a) applying the base stuff WAY too thick and (b) putting on the eyeliner much the same way an athlete applies the black steaks under his eyes, except all the way around my eyes. I kinda resembled the love child of a raccoon and a half-baked gingerbread man.
It didn’t take long for someone to take pity on me. Several women, my wife included, decided to take on my makeup application. I’m not saying this was my plan all along, but I do note that on the times I have shopped for clothes for my wife, I have gotten a similar reaction. I walk up to a sales clerk, hold up, say, a shoe-shine kit, and say, “Do you think my wife will like this?” Bam – instant personal shopper.
So my wife was in charge of applying the base and powder, while the mother of a cast member took on the eyeliner task. When people asked why I had two people working on my makeup, I explained that as important as I am, I needed a makeup team. My makeup team would respond, “We’re not his team. He’s incompetent.”
On a couple of occasions, several other cast members would let me know that the base and eyeliner was not enough. “You need cheeks,” they would tell me. I was fairly certain I had cheeks, but they were not convinced, and before I knew what was going on, someone was coming at me with a brush and something they called “fig.”
Another fun little joke they would play on me was to tell me I needed lipstick. Yes, lipstick. “We can’t see your lips,” they would say. I think this is complete and total nonsense, and I was not going to be tricked into putting on lipstick. Never. Ever. At least not the stuff with glitter.
One of the toughest things about having to put on stage makeup was facing my friends afterwards. After one performance, I got home, scrubbed my face with Easy-Off and a Brillo pad, and decided to head over to my neighbors’ house, where several friends were enjoying a cold beverage. I walked into his garage bar, where guys were sitting around, playing poker, throwing darts. It’s our clubhouse, if you will. Our inner sanctum. And then someone looks at me and says, “Uh, you missed a little eyeliner there, beautiful.” Yes, nothing collapses the time-honored tradition of guys being guys like one of said guys coming in wearing eyeliner. I might as well have walked in made up like Tammy Faye Baker. I suspect I will be living that one down, oh, right about the time the earth crashes into the sun.
Truth be told, I know that it is a necessity of being on stage to wear makeup. The grief that I take comes with the territory of being a guy. And if there is one thing I know, it’s that I have given out my fair share of grief to my friends, so I really have to take it.
As the performances continue, I have the routine fairly down pat, and I am flinching far less when the eyeliner is being applied. While not something I will ever be completely accustomed to, I know it’s a necessity for being in a play. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some Christmas shopping to do. I am thinking my wife would love a shoe-shine kit...

Light it up

So there I was, perched atop the ladder, when I looked out over my neighborhood and saw three other neighbors on their ladders. And all I could think to myself was, “We’re idiots.”
Yes, every year we trot out the ladders and the lights to decorate our homes for Christmas. We live in a cul-de-sac, so you can’t be the one house in the neighborhood that doesn’t decorate, lest you look like this enormous anti-Christmas black hole.
Several neighbors trimmed their roof lines with lights, something I did a couple of years ago. I no longer do this for a couple of reasons: (1) I have not developed the ability to hover and (2) I saw a neighbor fall off his ladder two years ago and break his ankle.
It was one of the surreal moments. Another neighbor and I were standing in our respective yards and heard that horrible sound of a ladder sliding against the roof. Anyone who has ever been on a ladder knows the sound. Even if the ladder shifts a millionth of an inch, it gives the little grating noise that immediately jump-starts your brain to thinking. ‘WE’RE GONNA FALL!!!!” (Same thing happens when you’re on the roof, take a step, and a little of the roof grit gives way.)
So we heard the sound and looked up just in time to see him go splat. We both sprinted over to him (we were both holding out kids, who were 1 at the time, so it was more of a brisk walk) to see if he was OK. I am not sure how much help we thought we could have been since we were both holding babies. Perhaps drool has a magical curing ability.
Several neighbors opted for a new approach this year, which required some ladder use, but not full-out extension ladder/plummet-to-your-death potential. Using a really long pole, they extended the lights up to roof and inserted a special clip under the shingle. While it took some effort to navigate a 30-foot pole, it seemed to beat the alternative, which was walking with a limp. Of course, you do have to be careful that the extension cord you use to test the lights doesn’t tug on the recently strung roof lights, lest your two hours of work come crashing down on you. I was not there when it happened, so when I heard about it my initial inclination was to laugh hysterically. But to the witnesses who saw it happen, there was nothing funny at all. No jokes were made. No eye contact was made. Everyone just kinda backed away. I talked to my neighbor about it later, and it sounded like he was moments away from actually tearing his house down just so he could stomp on his roof line.
Eventually, he got his lights back up, and I highly recommend the lights stay up, lest they get a Hulk-style smashing. Ah, Christmas joy!
As for our house, since we’re not doing the roof line thing, we do it pretty simple. I only had to get on the ladder to hang a wreath over the porch, so my time off the ground was minimal.
The main thing we do is to cover the bushes with net lights, which are one of the greatest inventions of all time. Each year after Christmas, I try and pick up a couple of them on the cheap. Eventually, I want my yard to look like a giant lighted safety net.
I always let the kids help me when I decorate, and it follows a fairly familiar script: (1) I pull all of the boxes out of the attic, and the kids get all excited about decorating, and (2) I turn around to close up the attic, and turn back around to see that, in four seconds, they have removed the contents of all of the boxes and spread the contents around the house. This year was no different, and after I corralled the lights and tried unsuccessfully to argue with Parker on some of his decorating choices (“Fine, the snowman cookie jar goes on the couch”), I headed outside.
While net lights offer a convenience that traditional strands of light do not (namely, you don’t have to deal with tangles and ultimately end up saying things that your children shouldn’t hear), there is one drawback. The first part in net lights is “net,” and when little hands and feet are involved, the net aspect works quite well. About a third of the decorating time was spent freeing children from the nets. It’s like trying to put up lights with salmon jumping at you.
After not too much time, my modest little attempt at lighting the house for Christmas was completed. Sure, it doesn’t compete with the grand displays of some of my neighbors. But, since my house is lighted to some degree, at least the cul-de-sac on the whole looks complete. And I didn’t get a limp in the process, so I’d say all is right with the season.

Act now

Prepare for my triumphant return to the stage.
You see, the curtain is about to be lifted on my moving performance as Jean Valjean in the Broadway production of “Les Miserables.”
Or I’m the dad in “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.” I get confused.
It all started a few months ago when my daughter decided she wanted to audition for a play. She was in a play last year and had a really good time doing it. When she mentioned wanting to do it again, I told her that would be a great idea, since she and her brother have until their teen years to financially support their parents. It doesn’t matter the career path you take, so why not try acting?
Tryouts were over two nights, and after the first night, Allie came home and asked me if I would try out for the play, too. “You could be the daddy!” she said excitedly. I explained to her that I would not be typecast, and that, thank you very much, I would try out for the role of the mother or perhaps a baby angel.
So fast forward to my getting the part of dad (Allie stole my baby angel role). I will be stepping on-stage for the first time in nearly 20 years, as my last performance was in 1989, in the Aiken Community Playhouse production of “A Merry Medieval Christmas.” The main thing I remember from that was that I played the part of God and got to sit atop a ladder and eat popcorn.
But I have not acted in years. Well, not actually acted. I was an extra on a television show when I lived in Orlando. But 20 hours sitting around in full alien makeup so that you can walk in front of Peter Deluise on “SeaQuest” does not an acting gig make.
For those of you not familiar with “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever,” it is the story of the Herdman family, the rough and tough bad kids of town, who take over the church Christmas pageant. It’s a great story and a great family play. It’s a huge cast, with nearly 40 people in it, most of them much, much shorter than I. I think it goes without saying that if you go see one play this year – check that, if you decide to venture out of your house just one time this year – go see this play. (Editor’s note: Not even putting a thin veil on that shameless plug, huh?)
At the first rehearsal I was really impressed with how well most of the kids knew their lines. I was sitting with a fellow actor, watching the kids sling their lines left and right. We looked at each other and gave an “Uh-oh, we REALLY need to be studying our lines more” exchange of glances.
On a few occasions, I would rehearse my lines at home with Allie. She doesn’t have a speaking part in the play, but certainly was eager to feed some lines to me. This was both good and bad. On the one hand, I had a good rehearsal buddy I could practice with. On the other hand, she apparently has a glue strip for a brain and has now memorized all of my lines, and, after each rehearsal, has a laundry list of where I missed a word here or a word there. She’ll turn to me and say, “Daddy, during the dinner scene, you said ‘two days.’ You’re supposed to say, ‘three days.’” This is from the little girl who can’t remember where she left her shoes. Don’t have room in your craw for where you keep the basic necessities in life, but plenty of space for my play lines? Yeah, that makes sense.
One of the things about memorizing lines that you learn quite quickly is that you don’t just memorize your lines. Kinda helps to know what lines yours come after. I know that seems like a no brainer, but there would be times during rehearsal where I would be sitting there thinking to myself, “OK, I know my line perfectly. Uh-oh, when do I say it?” Randomly blurting out a line for no reason is not only bad acting, it makes people think you might have a medical condition.
As opening night approaches, we are still working on our timing and costumes and props, etc. Each time we rehearse, the play gets a little more crisp and things come together a little more. I am sure by opening night we will be clicking on all cylinders, and it will go off without a hitch. There will be zero flubbed lines, no missed entrances and flawless prop transitions. It will be, quite frankly, “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.”
If it’s not, just pretend it was. You, too, can act.

The buzz on fireplaces

Ah, the first fire of the season — the embracing warmth, the comforting glow, the shrieks as your wife sprints away from wasps.
Yes, the first fire made for good times, as we discovered that a family of nasty little buggers had taken up root in our chimney. And, we found, they either really hated smoke or really loved what we were watching on TV.
Before you get an idea that it was like some B-movie with a six-foot swath of hornets streaming out, let me assure you — it was far worse. I am clearly the bravest man you have ever encountered.
OK, so maybe they kinda trickled out one or two at a time, but regardless, it was no joy.
It started he other night when my wife and I decided to sit down and watch one of our shows together. We don’t watch a lot of TV, but we do have a couple of shows we make a point of watching. This night was “Grey’s Anatomy.” The other show we watch is “Desper...Uh...Monday Night Football.” Yes, that is it.
My wife was in the den and I had just started the fire. It was a cold night, and what better way to top it than by a warm fire, a good TV show, and a big bowl of chili? As I was bringing dinner out, I saw a flash go by me. Trying to figure out what was going on, I turned to see my wife sprinting out the door and scaling the back fence.
Perhaps I am being a wee little bit overdramatic. Truth is, she came at a rather brisk pace and said, “MICHAEL!!! A WASP JUST CAME OUT OF THE CHIMNEY!!” And she said “MICHAEL!!!” in a way that implied it was somehow my fault, as though I had trained it to come out at just the right time.
So I put down my chili and went in to assess the situation. I turned to her and said, “Are you nuts? I don’t see anything. Are you sure you’re not hallucinating or going crazy or something?” Poetic justice would have been had the wasp stung me at that point, but instead I just got my wife coming in and pointing to where the wasp was on the ceiling.
I made several requests to the wasp to return outside, and he showed defiance at each request. Finally, I said, “Look, this is your final chance. Go outside, or I beat you to death with a rolled-up Sports Illustrated.” He just stared at me with his waspy eyes. Unacceptable. WHAP!
So after I dispatched the first intruder, we sat down and started dinner. When my wife climbed over the couch and threw the Sports Illustrated at me, I sensed something might be wrong. Indeed, another wasp had made an entrance. I didn’t make small talk with this one. My show was on and my chili was getting cold.
After about the 20th time this happened, I was pretty much at a loss. My first thought was, hey, why don’t I close the chimney flue? My second thought was, hey, why don’t I NOT fill my house with smoke since there is a fire going and it is kind of essential to have said chimney open?
The easiest course of action was to let the fire slowly burn out and send the death WHAPS! to any wasps that decided to head out in the meantime. Once the fire was out, I closed the flue to keep any more of them from coming out.
The next day, my wife asked me what I was going to do about it. We had this conversation:
HER: So should we call the pest control company or a chimney sweep?
ME: (rubbing my chin, looking thoughtfully at the fireplace): Hmmmm.
HER: Hmmm what?
ME: (turning to her, still rubbing my chin): I think I need to get a flashlight and take a look..
HER: And what happens if you see a big wasp’s nest?
ME: Hmmmm.
HER: ARRRG!!!!
For what it’s worth, this is not the first chimney animal encounter I have experienced. A few years ago at my parents’ house, my dad was preparing the first fire of the season when we saw him lurch back. Then we saw why — he was dodging an owl that flew out of the chimney. It flew right up past his face and proceeded to land on my mother’s china cabinet. We eventually used a butterfly net to get the owl out.
A second time, I was at my parents’ house when I stuck my foot in to jostle a log. I don’t know if I had super great timing or what, but just as I put my foot in, something plopped down on it. “Uh, Dad,” I said, pulling my foot out of the fire and extending it toward him, “there’s a mockingbird on my foot.” Sure enough, this thing fell right on my foot, and was apparently dazed enough from the smoke to just kind of hang on my shoe for a few minutes. I was able to get him outside before he flew off.
So I am sure you are wondering what my final decision is. Well, guess what — so is my wife. I have not done a thing, because, quite frankly, I’ve been busy. Maybe if I give it enough time, an owl or a mockingbird will take care of it.

Toys R Me

It was me versus the toys. And I finally won.
For years, I have waged this war with the toys. They multiply. They spread out around the house. They attack you in the middle of the night (I am CERTAIN that a Buzz Lightyear was not in the middle of the hallway when I went to bed).
I often complain about the toys, and I often do it in one of the most annoying ways possible for a spouse. I mumble under my breath and start talking about the toys and kinda stomping around occasionally raising my voice enough so that my wife will hear me say, “...might as well just flush money down the toilet...” The first few times I did this, my wife would engage me in a conversation about the toys and what we could do to corral them. These conversations never went well, because it always culminated with my suggestion that we remove every toy from the house, along with ever other non-essential item in the house. We each get a bowl, a fork and a cup. And one towel each. Pick out a shirt you like, because THAT IS IT. (When you’ve got a Buzz Lightyear stuck to your foot, you tend to go for drastic measures.)
My wife ends these conversations by making this noise that, I think, might have been what small dinosaurs sounded like. Whatever it is, it is definitely the sound of exasperation. She will sometimes roll not just her eyes, but her whole head, and leave the room.
So the other night, my entire family was asleep. I’m a bit of a night owl, so I am often the last one up in the house. And there I was, standing in the playroom, looking at toys and toy pieces and thinking, “...might as well just flush...” when it occurred to me -- hey, everyone is asleep. No one can stop me. It’s me versus the toys, and they have NO ONE here to protect them.
After about 30 minutes, I had thrown every single toy that my kids had in the trash. Gone.
I will now pause to allow for you to offer me an apology for the nasty thing you just said about me. Of course I didn’t throw out my kids’ toys.
In our playroom, we have a closet with some shelves and also a large cabinet that holds a bunch of other toys. Over time, these storage areas have become less than organized, much the way homes become less than organized after a tornado tears through them. So the first order of business was to pull all of the toys out of both areas. After a few minutes, the room was knee-deep in toys. I am not sure where some of these toys came from. I know some were gifts, some were bought and some were hand-me-downs. But the only other explanation for some of them was that they randomly formed over time. Despite the debate that rages in the toy community over toyvolution, it is an undeniable fact. There is simply no way to explain how, in a closet cut off from the rest of the world, two-thirds of a train set that I have never seen in my life can suddenly appear.
As I surveyed the room, it occurred to me that I might have bitten off WAY more than I could chew. However, I knew it would be very bad form to go wake my wife up and say, “Uh, yeah, I pulled every single toy the kids have into the middle of the room for some reason. Could you clean them up?”
I decided the best approach to try and dig out of this mess was to start organizing things in piles. I had a pile for dress-up clothes, a pile for trucks, a pile for dolls, and a pile for puzzles. The final -- and largest -- pile was a pile for everything else. I quickly learned that this approach was not going to work, as the pile for everything else was taking up the better part of the room.
I shifted gears for a different approach. First up -- hang all the dress-up clothes up. If you have a daughter and cannot find a princess dress for her, I apologize, as it is clear that we own them all. My daughter could dress up as a different princess every 15 minutes and would MAYBE be done by the time she’s 40.
The next step was to tackle the trucks and trains. My son loves to play with trucks and trains, but he clearly likes tearing them apart more than driving them around. I weeded out the ones that were no longer functioning toys but rather awkwardly shaped stabbing devices and found we now had a much more manageable group that fit nicely on a shelf.
I continued to tackle individual section of the toy populace, and after a few hours, I noticed that the room was actually coming together. When I came to bed at nearly 2 a.m., my wife awoke and asked why I was coming to bed so late. I told her it wasn’t late, and that she’s dreaming. I was too tired to have to defend my toy tackling.
I awoke the next morning to my wife getting ready. “Hey, go check out the playroom,” I said. She looked at me with concern, as she immediately knew I had done something that could be very bad.
A few minutes later, she came back into the room. “Uh, do I want to know what you did with all of the toys?” I assured her that I had not thrown out anything that was not comparable to a homemade weapon, and gave her the grand tour of the new and improved organization system. She seemed pleased, as did the kids, who were able to find their toys and put them back where they belonged. I am sure this will only last a short while, and things will collapse back into toy chaos soon enough. But that’s OK, because I now know what I need to do. I’ll just throw everything out.

Safety last

So with the turn of the screwdriver, I left behind a stage in my life.
Yes, just one turn, and I closed the chapter known as the “OMIGOSH DON’T PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!!!” You see, I recently removed all of the safety latches from our cabinet hardware.
When I grew up, I am pretty sure the kid safety market consisted of those Yuckmouth stickers on bottles of things that you weren’t supposed to drink. Of course, having three older sisters, I thought it was far more entertaining to try and stealthily place one on their backs and run through the house shrieking “YOU’RE A YUCKMOUTH!!!” Hmmm. Wonder why my sisters would often tell me that Han Solo was outside and then lock the door when I went out to find him...
Anyway, the safety market today is a billion-dollar industry, based on a statistic I guess could be true. There are safety products for safety products. My wife and I stuck with the basics – cabinet locks, door knob locks and outlet caps. My mother once tried to get me to get the padding that goes around coffee tables. I told her that the kids live in a world with corners. Time to adjust. And I also asked her why she was so suddenly concerned with kids’ safety. Where were the corner pads when I was a kid? She responded by telling me Han Solo was outside.
The doorknob locks are these plastic caps that fit over the knobs, and you had to squeeze them to get the door open. Both kids mastered these around age 2. When Allie was little, she got around those by standing at the door and knocking over and over and over, saying, “LET ME OUT. LET ME OUT. LET ME OUT.” Pretty sure that after about 10 minutes of that, the neighbors might start to think you have caged your child, so you let them out of their room.
Parker, meanwhile, took the more guy approach. He just broke them apart. He would grab them and pull on them, hang on them, hit them with a book ... whatever it took. He would bash his way out, and then come out holding the two pieces, grinning, as if he was very pleased that he had solved the puzzle we had put forth.
The outlet caps always served a good purpose, namely countering that innate human inclination to see what happens when Mr. Fork meets Mr. Outlet. Be totally honest with yourself – you’re either very curious about it or already know what happens. There is something hardwired in us that makes us really want to do it. It’s like touching a hot plate or touching an electric fence. And it kinda makes you wonder how we managed to scramble to the top of the food chain. Eventually, you learn to control the urge. Even though most of our outlets still have the caps, we have pretty much convinced the children to stay away from them. My wife opted for the calm, discussion approach, explaining that you could really hurt yourself, etc. She rejected my plan, which started off with “Here, take this fork...”
So the last protection item in my house were the cabinet locks. The stated intent is to keep kids away from harmful products such as cleaners, which is noble. We, however, keep our cleaning supplies in a cabinet above the sink, so this is really not an issue. But the safety latches did serve two very valuable purposes:
1. They kept kids out of the food.
2. They kept kids out of the cabinet with the pots and pans.
The first issue was the food. We don’t keep a lot of junk in the house, because our children need something to complain about when they get older. (“We had the most horrific upbringing – not a Twinkie to be found...”) But, on occasion, we do allow for the occasional fruit snack or bag of Skittles. But let me tell you – those little critters are like raccoons when it comes to going through food. On the off chance there are fruit snacks or Skittles or something else in the pantry, you can believe they will find it. There is nothing like coming into the kitchen and seeing bread and peanut butter jars and canned goods strewn on the floor while a 3-year-old sits on a shelf and tries to gnaw through a Skittles bag.
As for pots and pans, those locks were used to keep the pots and pans safely stowed, rather than as part of a band ensemble. We are all for getting loud and having fun and throwing an impromptu parade, when the time is right. But it’s no fun to have to delay dinner because you have to go search behind the couch, under the bed, in the shower, etc. for the pots and pans. Also, those who suffer from migraines will tell you, pot-and-pan parades are only a notch above boxing on the desirability scale during a headache.
But alas, Parker has now mastered entry into the cabinets, meaning the locks serve little more purpose than to frustrate me when I try to open them. So, off they came.
Hopefully, the kids are now getting old enough that we don’t have to worry about pots and pans being spread about, or food being torn through as if they were starving bears. My wife and I will just have to remain diligent in making sure we teach them that they are not to enter the cabinets whenever they want, and that they need to ask Mommy or Daddy before getting something. And, if that doesn’t work, I’ll just tell them Han Solo is outside to see them.

Birthday baffled

So let’s keep today’s column just between you and me. You see, I’m trying to figure out what to get my wife for her birthday, and, quite frankly, I’m stuck.
My wife is one of the hardest people in the world to shop for, and it’s not because she’s selective or picky. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. She’s just giddy about anything you get her. Seriously. She is one of the last hold-outs of the “thought that counts” cliché, which makes it a lot tougher, because you have to put incredible scrutiny into what you buy. If it was all about flash, that problem’s easily solved. But when your thoughts and motivation are analyzed, you have to be careful: “Uh, why would you think I want a set of men’s golf clubs?”
And I know what you are thinking. And you are wrong. She is not just saying that. I have known my wife for a very long time, and trust me – I can tell when she’s mad. Plus, one thing my wife and I agreed on long ago was that management of expectations was key to a happy coexistence. For example, Valentine’s Day. My wife does not care about Valentine’s Day. How do I know this? Because she told me she does not. She has said before, “If you want to go to dinner or something, that’s fine, but don’t spend $75 on flowers for a made-up holiday.” And you may think she’s just saying that. However, I know she is not, because I have gone against her Valentine’s wishes and gotten her something, which usually resulted in a lecture on fiscal responsibility. (If you would like for your children to be fiscally responsible, I highly encourage you have my wife come and talk to them. She can go on and on and on about how you should pay the bills each month and balance the checkbook and blah blah blah. It’s boring, but eventually you just say, “Fine, I’ll send the power company a check if you’ll JUST STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.”)
Pretty much the only time we exchange gifts is for birthdays and Christmas. For our anniversary each year, we usually have take-out Chinese food, because that’s what we started doing when we were newlyweds, and, quite frankly, we like Chinese take-out. For Christmas, we will usually agree on one big thing for the house. Nothing spreads Yuletide joy like a new dishwasher.
Birthdays have always been the wildcard. Sometimes we get wild and crazy and get each other big whopping gifts. Other times, we play it low key. We have birthdays fairly close together, so sometimes we simply opt to split the difference and go have a nice dinner between the two dates. This year, for my birthday, my wife got pneumonia. I told her that I had not, in fact, asked for my wife to have a debilitating illness for my birthday, something she found funny until she began coughing to the point that she almost fell out of bed.
At one point that day, my wife, partially woozy from cough medicine, began to apologize profusely for not doing anything on my birthday. I reminded her that, based on the medications currently in her system, any attempt to try and do anything for my birthday would have probably been a very bad idea.
My wife and I did go shopping a few days ago, and she pointed out numerous things that she liked. My wife and I rarely go shopping because we have different shopping styles. Her mission is to slowly absorb everything in the store and memorize its placement on the shelf and compare prices at other stores. My method is much like Jim Brown in “The Dirty Dozen” – sprint in, take care of business, and get out of there as fast as you can. Unlike Brown, I have completed each mission and have not been shot on my way to the car.
She did give me some hints the other day when we went shopping. With four new stores in one shopping center, I figured I needed to get out and see where my wife would be spending much of the future. As we strolled the aisles, my wife would point out this item and that item, and say what a nice addition this would make or that would make. Here’s the problem – the whole time she was talking, I was busy looking at other things. One of the main areas I found myself focusing on was – and hold off the creepy factor for a minute – the girl’s clothes. My daughter is six, and I looked at a lot of the young girls’ fashions, and all I can say is, “I sure hope muumuus are fashionable when my daughter is a teen, because that’s what she’ll be wearing.”
Sorry, got sidetracked. So the bottom line is I really did not pay much attention to what she pointed out. An even if I had, the list was rather extensive. I don’t think my wife was actually expecting to get all of the stuff, but rather just casually telling me what she found appealing. (Remember – this column is between us. Don’t tell her I wasn’t listening.)
So over the next few days, I will figure something out, I suppose. I may go to those stores that we went to and hope that I randomly hit on something that she had pointed out. I, of course, am open to suggestions. And please don’t suggest I get pneumonia. But whatever it is, if I put solid, earnest thought into, I am sure my wife will be thrilled. Who knows – maybe she’s always wanted a new set of men’s golf clubs.

The old college try

The best thing about going back to college is I get to relax and be myself. A lottery winning emu rancher.
Yes, my wife and I made our annual pilgrimage back to college, and yes, I am still hoping my voice returns in the next few days. Each year, we head back to the University of Alabama for a fraternity reunion. Since she and I dated during my fraternity days (I know, lucky her), it is a reunion for her, too, as she gets to see not just her husband but plenty of other college friends as we revert back to idiot phase.
This year, we traveled with a full van of folks. My wife and I were in the front, and three guys from college were in the back. Because the van was not loud enough, we stopped in Birmingham to pick up another person. My wife merely rolled her eyes as we went through story after story of pranks and parties and, of course, road trips (One was recounted thusly: “It was akin to a Viking raid: We came for their food, drinks and women.”)
Of course, this trip would be far more tame. We’re grown-ups now. We have families and jobs and responsibilities. And, in my case, a chaperone.
The first night we were there, there was a lot of catching up with people, some of whom I had not seen in more than a decade. We also got to know some of the current house members and their friends, which is how I came upon my $8 million in lottery winnings.
You see, if someone I am never going to see again is going to ask me what I do for a living, I find it far more entertaining to find memorable occupations. Steamboat pilot. Emu rancher. Professional fencer (for the pride of Luxembourg, no less). Or even independently wealth, courtesy of a correct lottery pick. When I spin the yarn, the reaction is one of two things: (1) A roll of the eyes, followed by a “Seriously, what do you do?” or (2) The wide-eyed look of amazement at ACTUALLY meeting a someone who tests zero gravity suits for a living.
My wife says I am an idiot, but I think she means that in a loving way. She did enjoy this exchange as well.
CO-ED: How old are you?
ME: How old do you think I am?
CO-ED: Ummm....24?
MY WIFE: Ha!
CO-ED: Are you his sister?
MY WIFE: Uh, yes, his twin.
CO-ED: I can tell.
MY WIFE: 24, you said? Yes, I am definitely his twin. (Under her breath: Bless you, you poor little dumb child.)

That evening, there was a band party at the house. And that evening I made a deal with myself and the world – I am going to stop trying to dance with any rhythm whatsoever. I have no soul. My wife, bless her heart, has worked with me for 13 years trying to make dancing a possibility, but I just always have this look like I am about to sit down and then decide against it. Basically, I do this over and over and over and consider it dancing. I also occasionally put my fist in the air for some odd reason. I am a mess. But I have to come to terms with it. This, ladies and gentlemen, is my dancing. Don’t tell me it stinks. I already know that. It’s what I can do, it’s what the music drives me to do. It’s sad and pathetic, but, quite frankly, it’s me.
The next day, we opted out of going to the game, even though they were giving away tickets. Seriously. Around kickoff time, three Ole Miss fans (representing roughly half of the Ole Miss contingent), asked us where the Bear Bryant Museum was. That’s how excited they were about the game.
We opted to head to the stadium and see the new Walk of Champions, featuring statues of the coaches who have won national championships at Alabama. There, with the years of their titles, were Wallace Wade, Frank Thomas, Bear Bryant and Gene Stallings. And just to make sure the pressure is on, there was a fifth spot reserved for the coach who brings home Alabama’s 13th national title. Bear, of course, drew the biggest crowd, although we stopped for a moment of reverence for Ol’ Bebes Stallings, since he won his title when we were in school.
We returned to the house to watch the game, where a cooler, a bathroom and a huge buffet of Big P fried chicken were at our disposal. Big P has been the cook at the fraternity house for roughly 800 years, and I have to say – I weep for you, knowing that you have never had Big P’s fried chicken. Think of the greatest fried chicken you have ever had. Now think of that ss roadkill squirrel. That is how good Big P’s chicken is. I am not positive, but I am fairly sure Big P’s fried chicken, if you asked it nicely, would loan you money. It is that good.
We had a band party that night as well, and we all stayed up WAY past our bedtime. The next morning, most everyone had very little voice left. Unlike our college days, when it may have been from screaming at the top of our lungs, this was from trying to shout above the band, “MAN, THIS IS LOUD.”
After a very long ride home, we were happy to be back in the present. We missed our kids, our pets, our home. I love going back to college. I love getting home even more. Guess that’s what happens when you’re old. And an emu ranching millionaire.

Sick days

I made it through one of the most difficult weeks of my life. You could not begin to understand the pain, the difficulty, the hardship I endured.
My wife probably had it kinda rough, too, since she was the one with pneumonia.
It started on the weekend, when my wife woke up and started to say that she felt warm, but instead began coughing to the point I was pretty sure she was about to expel major organs. I tried to get her to relate, explaining to her that launching her pancreas across the room could leave a nasty stain on the wall.
When she finally stopped hacking, I felt her forehead and it did, indeed, feel warm. Actually, it felt like the hood of car in the summertime. She asked me to get the thermometer. I told her that would not be necessary, since I was aces at gauging this type of thing. I put my hand to her forehead again. “163,” I said. She began to tear up a little, most likely because she was so proud of my medical skills.
She spent much of the day in bed, and I did the sensible thing, which was to clear out of the house with the children. Bless their hearts, when a parent is sick, kids try their best to make you feel better, but have not quite honed that nurturing skill. Our son, who is 3, made an attempt to make Mommy feel better by licking her. He looked a little hurt when I explained that we do not, in fact, lick people, and that goes double for sick people.
That night, I kicked my nursing skills into high-gear, which was to ask her every four minutes if she wanted some NyQuil, which is the single greatest product America has ever made. Fever? NyQuil. Sniffles? NyQuil. Stubbed toe? NyQuil.
OK, so I am not actually a NyQuil junkie. I just know that when I have had a cold in the past, if I take some NyQuil, I generally wake up four days later feeling great. Eventually, I convinced my wife to take some (“Yes, dear, the label says two bottles at bedtime”) but she was still hacking to the point that even the vaunted NyQuil could not knock her out.
After a very restless evening (I kept waking up because SOMEBODY kept coughing and coughing and coughing), my wife made her way to the doctor. She still had a fever and wicked cough. And she had that sick person look about her that people get when they just have this defeated my-cat-just-got-run-over look.
The doctor gave her some cough medicine, which, judging by the warning labels, was NyQuil on steroids. Alas, this was not going to do the trick either. Another night like the one before. The next day, my wife called the doctor again, who called her in another prescription. This one came in a black bottle with a little skull and crossbones on it. OK, so it didn’t but the warning labels were far direr that most (“Prior to taking the medication, tell your family you love them, and apologize in advance for things you may say. Do not operate heavy machinery while taking this medication. In fact, do not even think of heavy machinery, as this medication gives you the power to control dump trucks with your mind. Do not mix this medication with anything, including oxygen or water. Do not think about this medication, as opening the pathways of your brain to it will allow it to use you as a conduit to conduct its evil bidding.”)
The morning of this ubermedicine, the kids were at school, and my wife was entering her semi-coma for the first sleep she had gotten in days. After a few hours, my phone rang. “Can you come home? I feel like I’m going to faint.”
I got there as fast as I could, and when I entered the bedroom, I saw my wife, sitting in the middle of the bed. The TV was on, but she was kinda staring at the wall. “Uh, you OK?” I asked.
“No. This medicine makes me feel really weird,” she said.
“Uh...where are the sheets? And the comforter?” I asked.
“In the wash. But I got dizzy.”
At that point, it was clear that this medicine needed to work quick, because prolonged use of it might result in the police finding my wife wandering down the stream babbling about her days as a Navy man.
The next day, she was somewhat on the mend, which was a relief, because it meant that she would be able to go back to the warm embrace of Dr. Q.
We’re more than a week removed from the initial sickdown, and she is feeling much better, which is a good thing. It’s a lame feeling to see your spouse sick as a dog and not be able to really do much for her. Oh, and for those of you who think laughter is the best medicine, I can assure you that, when you have pneumonia, laughter is not only not a good medicine, it is ill advised. On the rare occasion you can eke out a laugh, it results in a 20-minute fit of convulsive coughing.
So the house is coming out of quarantine now, and we can get back to the routine of living our lives. I am just thankful she’s better. I was getting tired of being woken up all the time.

Dumb-ocracy

Well, it’s that time again – the time where I think to myself, “Democracy – is it such a great idea?”
Now, now, settle down. And remember that mob violence flies in the very face of democracy. I, of course, love democracy. Yea, democracy! It’s just unfortunate that it spawns one of the most vile, despicable creatures on earth – political campaigns.
I am not sure when political campaigns evolved into their current unsavory status. My guess is that they have always been dirty, underhanded efforts (“Abe Lincoln: A man of values. Unlike Stephen Douglas, who once ate a kitten”). With the Internet and television, of course, the campaign weaselness has been catapulted to new highs (or lows, as it were).
That’s why this year, I challenge each and every one of you to take charge of our political system. Let’s stop letting people whose moral switch is set to “evil” fill us with the skewed knowledge when we elect our leaders. So let’s change a few things this year. Who’s with me? I call this the Mike Gibbons Election Year Challenge. I challenge you to:
1. Question everything. Next time a commercial comes on that says, “Bob Crabapple voted against small businesses...” don’t let them get away with it. Call up the offending campaigner and say, “Yeah, when exactly did Congress hold a thumbs-up/thumbs-down on whether people were for small business?” When they say, “Bob Crabapple wants to take away your right to...” call and ask for the bill number, and, if it exists, go read it and see what it really says. We have got to stop letting these people get away with saying ridiculous generalizations about their opponents.
2. Accept that things change. If you step out of your partisan shackles, you can logically see a couple of things. First, someone can vote for something and, later on down the line in the legislative process, vote against it. Happens all the time, since politicians change a bill more times than most people change socks in a lifetime. Second, someone can have you read his lips that he won’t do something, but then have to go back on his word. Plenty of fine people on this planet said “till death do us part” and went on to part ways. Things happen.
3. Accept that your guy is not perfect. You should not agree with everything your guy says. If you do, there is a problem. You should never agree completely with something another person says. My wife will attest to that.
4. Accept that the other guy is not pure evil bent on your destruction. For the most part, pure evil stays out of the political spotlight, instead lurking in the shadows, feasting on the flesh of freshly killed goats that have been snatched up from fields that the campaign bus travels by.
5. Your demographic is not under attack, so don’t let them convince you it is. Sure, as a nation we face a frightening enemy in terrorism. But the vast majority is far too busy to make hating a subset of society a priority. And don’t get me wrong – I know there are pockets of hate and prejudice in the world. But I feel confident that most people are just like you and me – just trying to make it through the day. We have some common enemies that we can all agree on. After that, people are just trying to scare you into voting for them.
The simple fact of the matter is that we are an incredibly uninformed group of voters, and we keep getting worse off by avoiding the hard part of doing the research. Instead, we let our politicians or talking heads tell us what to think. Let me prove my point. Take this little quiz. Be completely and totally honest with yourself:
1. Should stems cells be used for medical purposes?
2. Is global warming occurring?
3. Should we be in Iraq?
Now, do the same with these questions, without citing a politician, Rush Limbaugh, Michael Moore, or agenda-driven entertainer or politician:
1. What is a stem cell and where does it come from?
2. What is global warming?
3. How many troops (and from how many nations) are currently in Iraq?
Now, I am sure some of you out there scored a whopping 6-for-6. However, I would argue that vast majority, deep in your soul, can admit that you have very strong opinions on some things you know nothing about. And if you think I am being condescending, I can tell you that I, too, have very strong opinions on some stuff that, when I am being totally honest with myself, know very little about. And I have no one to blame but myself. It’s amazing that we can get passionate about things we have no hard, factual data on.
Think of it this way: Suppose my 6-year-old daughter suddenly approached you and began giving you her take on why the designated hitter is ruining baseball. You might be convinced by her argument. But if you stopped and said, “Allie, what’s a designated hitter?” and saw the blank look on her face, you would probably stop listening to her argument. So let’s stop listening to people’s hollow arguments, and let’s stop making them ourselves. Let’s start being informed. Look, we’re not going to agree on a lot of things, but at least let’s get all the information before we solidify our opinions. And we have a very simple reason why you should do this: Because I wouldn’t lie to you.

Hat-a-boy

Once again, it took a kid to make me not take myself so seriously.
A few months back, I told you the story of walking into the kitchen and seeing my son sitting at the table, happy as could be, chugging a bottle of syrup. When he saw my wife and me staring at him, he put down the bottle, looked at us and said, “YUM!”
Sure, he was sticky and nasty and didn’t sleep for the next 11 days, but by gum, it felt good, so he did it.
My wife and I on occasion remind each other to chug syrup when the other is being a little too caught up in the insignificant things in the world. It’s not in one of those cheesy, new-wave manners, either. It’s usually me going to the cabinet and getting the bottle of syrup and offering to pour for her, which she finds just hilarious. (Let’s just say if there is ever a pillow dodging competition, I will be an early front runner for the gold.)
But anyway, I have found the concept of syrup chugging to be a solid one. Recently, my son tacked on a new one that definitely led to a good day. And when I am having a bad day, I think back to this and realize there is enough seriousness in the world. Lighten up once in a while.
Parker and I were getting ready to leave for school. I was in the kitchen and called for him to come downstairs. I went to the stairs to help him get his shoes on, when I saw him start down the stairs. While wearing a sombrero.
We then had this conversation:
ME: Uh, what you wearing?
PARKER: A hat.
ME: That’s a sombrero.
PARKER: And a hat. I’m gonna wear it to school.
ME: You can’t wear a sombrero to school.
PARKER: Why?
I started to answer, when it occurred to me, I have no idea why you can’t wear a sombrero to school. I mean, they may have rules about hats and such in the school, but why can’t you throw on a sombrero and wear it on the way to school?
ME: You know what, Parker? Wear the sombrero.
PARKER: I am. To school.
When we got to school, Parker hopped out of the car and adjusted his sombrero. He had a little spring in his step, what with his fancy new topper. As we prepared to cross the road, a car passed by. I noticed the driver glanced over at Parker and had a nice little chuckle. Way to pay it forward.
When we got to school, Parker went past his classroom and to my wife’s classroom. (I suppose it goes without saying that she teaches there. She has not been held back in kindergarten for three decades.)
He strolled into her room and said, “Look, Mommy, a sombrero.” My wife looked at me. I shrugged and said, “Why not?”
Parker left his sombrero with Mommy, and I headed off to face the day, certainly taking myself a little less seriously than I normally would.
Maybe it’s something that just fades as you get older. I can see my daughter starting to care on occasion what people think. She’s six now, and we sometimes have lengthy debates on what clothes should be worn or what shoes go with what. Allie hates it when I’m in charge of getting her dressed in the morning, because I am always pushing the one outfit I can do: blue jeans, sweatshirt, ballcap. She prefers these incredibly complicated dresses that require bows to be tied and hair clip-thingees to be put in and matching shoes. Let’s be honest – as I type this, I am not sure if my socks match. No clue. I am not the best choice to be coordinating accessories.
But then there are the other times when she exhibits some of the carefree nature that feels so liberating. Can you recall the last time you were in a store and decided it was the perfect time to sing “Under the Rainbow”? And most of the people who see this find it refreshing. (Granted, some people grumble and stomp and curse under their breath about how kids today don’t behave and a kid should be seen and not heard and how back in their day, when they went to the store, so much as a peep would result in a trip to the switch aisle. Hopefully, these people were on their way to the syrup aisle.)
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating strolling through the store in a Cinco de Mayo get-up while belting out show tunes. I will admit that would be somewhat disturbing. But consider a quick ride on the back of the grocery cart. High five your drug store clerk. When someone catches you singing in the car, roll down your window and say, “Come on, you know the words! Sing along!”
Sure, being goofy once in a while may elicit stares. But don’t worry about that. The people with a little bit of life left in them will feel something stirring. It’s the fun side of you. And it’s wanting to see daylight, just every once in a while. And the people who don’t feel it? They just need some syrup.

Ice to see you

My parents insist I ice skated when I was three. Since I have no memory whatsoever of it, I hardly think that qualifies me as being good, or even capable of it.
So imagine my surprise when, at an ice skating rink, my son told me he wanted me to go ice skating with him, and, without missing a beat, I said, “Sure!” Immediately after my mouth blurted that out, my brain said, “What are you doing? You don’t know how to ice skate.” My mouth responded, “I am sure I can learn,” which caused several people nearby to move a few steps away.
It all started when my wife enrolled my son in a beginner hockey program. It’s a six-week deal, and he learns the basics of hockey. My neighbor, who plays in an adult league, suggested we get Parker involved, since he, well, likes running over people and hitting things with sticks. “He’s got a hockey mentality,” my neighbor said. I think he meant, “Let’s channel the aggression,” but he could have meant, “He should only be around people in body armor, because he’s going to hurt someone.”
When we arrived at the ice rink, the folks there told us it was time to get Parker dressed. There were boxes and boxes of shin guards, hockey pants, helmets, etc., and we moved down the assembly line turning Parker into a heavily-protected Michelin man. He loved the fact that, when he fell, he just kinda bounced and rolled.
Once Parker was fully suited up, we noticed Allie watching him closely. She looked over and saw a little girl her age putting on her hockey gear, and my wife and I immediately knew what she was thinking: She was thinking she wanted a pony.
But she was also thinking she might want to try hockey. In a flash, she joined her brother, ready to go as the three-foot Granatos. (You see, Tony and Cammi Granato were brother and sister, and they played hockey, and ... oh, nevermind.)
When it was time to hit the ice, the coaches for the clinic helped them onto the rink. They divided the kids into two groups: Those who could skate, and those who couldn’t. It was easy to tell which group was which: One group was skating, and the other group was on the floor looking like a bunch of awkward turtles.
To teach the kids how to skate, they start with plastic chairs. The kids put their hands on the seat of the chair for stability and move along, using it kind of like a walker. After a few tries, Allie got the hang of it and was moving at a pretty good clip. Parker? Not so much. He really had no desire to go anywhere. He was perfectly content. My wife and I watched across the ice as several coaches tried to convince him to skate. At one point, they got him grabbing the chair and we saw him gliding across the ice. We then noticed his legs weren’t moving. He was basically getting an escort around the ring. Another coach carried him for a lap, at which point he had decided he had had enough.
He came off the ice and told us he didn’t want to skate anymore. I sat him down, gave him a hug, and said, “Quitters don’t get lunch.”
Ha! Kidding. My wife and I both tried to encourage him to get back on the ice, to no avail. As the clinic began to come to a close, Parker had an apparent change of heart, at which point he said I would be his on-ice guide.
My kids are still at the age where they think Daddy can do anything. Daddy can make it stop raining. Daddy can bring a squished ladybug back to life. Daddy can reattach Elmo’s severed head. It’s amazing what good timing, a little sleight of hand and a lot of distraction can do for your credibility. But I figured there was no way to fake my way through this one. I told my wife what the plan was, and that I would need a few minutes to, well, learn how to ice skate.
As I was lacing up my skates, the woman at the rink asked me if I was a good skater. “I don’t remember ever having skated before,” I responded. She chuckled, which did not bode well for me. “Just remember to march,” she said. I nodded, although I still have no idea what she meant.
When I got to the ice, I saw all of these little kids zooming about. I am sure they would have loved to see a grown-up sprawled on the ice, flopping around like an octopus as I tried to avoid a concussion. I set one skate on the ice, and then the second. I stood for a moment, took a deep breath and ... wanna guess what happened next?
I skated. Just glided across the ice. Fortunately, I have roller bladed for years, and that skill apparently translates quite easily. I took a few quick laps and got Parker on the ice, who was now just thrilled about going skating. (Allie opted to go eat some lunch, saying the hockey clothes were “smelly.”)
Our first couple of laps were done with me standing behind Parker, holding his hands while he skated. When it became evident that continued skating while hunched over and holding a 3-year-old would most likely send me to traction, I opted for the chair approach. Parker held on, moving his little legs as best he could, sometimes going four or five steps before faltering. After about an hour, he had shown a lot of improvement, and within a couple of clinics, I bet he will be skating on his own.
I’m glad he got back on the ice, and he has shown excitement about going back and trying again. When the kids take on any activity, I only have two requirements: Try your hardest, and have fun. If you do that, you’ll do fine. And you’ll get lunch.

Fairy Tale

My wife and I recently completed one of the more difficult financial transactions we have ever had to endure: We negotiated with the Tooth Fairy.
It was an exciting time leading up to the my daughter’s first tooth coming out. (Yes, “exciting” is relative. When you’re married with kids, wiggly teeth tends to get you all riled up.) My wife first noticed it and showed it to me. I immediately cringed and looked away. I don’t like seeing loose teeth, and for this I blame one of my sisters.
You see, one time when I was a child and had a loose tooth, one of my sisters decided she would help me get it out. The tools she would need: Some thread from Mom’s sewing cabinet and a doorknob.
I am not sure who actually came up with this idea, but it was clearly an older sibling. I wonder if such an extraction has ever actually worked. She sat me down in a chair and, for some reason, I let her tie the string around my tooth and then to the doorknob. And slam went the door. And nowhere went the tooth. What she WAS able to accomplish was to shred my mouth up with the door-slam speed of thread zipping across it.
I am not sure how that tooth (and any others) came out, but I assure you it was done without breathing a peep of it to my sister.
But ever since then, the idea of teeth coming out of your head? Just not so pleasant to me. But my wife insists that I take part in all of these defining moments. Since we have had kids, I have looked at more unpleasant things at my wife’s behest than I care to imagine. And I am not sure why. The conversation usually goes like this:
HER: Hey, take a look this.
ME: Ewww.
HER: Oh, quit being a dork. It’s your child. Does it smell funny?
ME: Ewww.
HER: Yeah, I thought so, too. Hmmm. We’ll keep an eye on it. So, what should we do for dinner?
I finally mustered up the courage to wiggle Allie’s tooth a little. Partly, I did this because in addition to my wife informing me that I was a scaredy-cat, my daughter was chiding me, too. There is just so much emasculation you can take from a 6-year-old before you belly up to the bar.
Once I confirmed what we already knew – yes, it’s loose; congratulations – I removed myself from the process. “Let me know when it falls out,” I told my wife.
A few days later, we were getting the kids ready for bed, when I went in the bathroom and saw my wife and daughter up close to the mirror, my wife looking as though she was trying to fit her entire hand in my daughter’s mouth. “Uh, what are you doing?” I asked.
“Grabble frobba toof,” Allie said.
“Trying to get the tooth out,” my wife translated.
I just left the room, thoughts of thread racing through my mind.
Apparently the tooth was still hanging in there, so they decided to let nature and gravity take its course. A few mornings later, we were awoken VERY early to a very excited girl, showing off her brand new gap-toothed grin. She was excited about the tooth finally coming out, but even more excited about the Tooth Fairy’s pending visit.
Later that day, it occurred to my wife and me that it had been many moons since the Tooth Fairy had paid us for our used body parts. (She is undoubtedly the inspiration for the kidney thief urban legend). Way back in our day, I believe the Tooth Fairy dealt in coins.
I considered setting the stage for coins by explaining to Allie something like, “Back when your mother and I were kids, the Tooth Fairy didn’t give us money. Instead she put us to work in the tooth mines. For every tooth we lost, we had to log 40 hours, breaking big rocks into smaller rocks and smaller rocks in new teeth. And if we stopped working for even a minute, she’d have the Easter Bunny come over and punch us in the small of the back. So be thankful for whatever you get, because it will undoubtedly be better than getting kidney punched by a giant rabbit.”
I was shocked when my master plan was vetoed. Instead, we started asking around, and found that inflation had driven the tooth industry well into the paper money realm. Anywhere from a buck on up to $5. The Tooth Fairy has apparently had some investing luck to be able to turn around that kind of dough.
We went back and forth on the issue (“Two dollars? Three?” “How about we go back to the tooth mine/Easter Bunny story?” “Why do I bother including you?”) and finally came to terms with the Tooth Fairy. She would be offering up $2 for each tooth. Allie was very pleased with the trade (although she did tell her aunt that she was hoping for something in the $5 range; good luck with that).
She is now checking her other teeth on a regular basis, since she has realized she can get straight up cash for her teeth. I need to remind her that it is a one shot deal, and getting her brother to knock out permanent teeth is no way to make cash. When the next one comes loose, I know she will be eager for it to fall out. I hope she doesn’t call my sister.

Fading fantasy

For the first time in 15 years, I will not be participating in fantasy football. And I could not be more thrilled.
For those of you not familiar with fantasy football, it is a colossal waste of time and one of the biggest drains of human production in the history of mankind. And painfully addicting.
Essentially, with fantasy football, sports fans get together and everyone picks a team made up of various NFL players. The players’ individual performances during that week translate into your team’s performance. If your guys put up better numbers than your opponents’ guys, you win. Simple as that.
The first year I played fantasy football was in college, back around 1991. We would all get together in a room and spend a few hours drafting players. I cannot say for certain, but I would assume beer was somehow involved, too.
Now, Old Man Mike will share something with the kids out there: Back in 1991, we had to wait until the next day to get our complete football stats. Someone had to go and get the Tuscaloosa News each Monday for the updated information. I know what you’re saying: Why not check the Internet? Well, son, because the Internet was in its beginning stages, and only one person in our fraternity house had a connection. He had a service called Prodigy, and it took about 11 hours to find out how many rushing yards Barry Sanders had. And since back then you had a limited number of free minutes, he was not real keen on having us rack up a $32,000 online bill.
I also know what you’re saying: But Old Man Mike, why not watch the crawl on ESPN or ESPN2 or ESPN the Ocho? Well, son, because back in my day, we only had ONE ESPN, and there was no crawl with continually updated stats. We survived on a bare-bones 56 channels, and if we wanted satellite, the dishes were the size of a swimming pool. Life was tough, but we somehow made it through.
But over the years, I continued to play fantasy football. The Internet certainly made fantasy football far more widespread. It also made people with no lives far more evident. When we used to pick players pre-Internet, we would usually have one football magazine that had done a little blurb for the fantasy geeks. I recall one season where there was an argument because one of the players refused to let anyone look at the magazine, since he had bought it. He learned a very easy and simple rule of life: Not sharing can result in wedgie rash, administered by an angry mob who will, by the way, get your magazine.
But the more the Internet stats became real-time, the more into it some people got. And from interest like that sprung a fantasy football cottage industry. There are now magazines. And websites. And books. And talk shows. And radio shows. I knew I was not long for this ride when an entire 30-minute radio show could field calls from people asking who they should “start” in their pretend football league.
My dwindling interest in the game was pretty evident last year, when I was chided on several occasions for being a ghost manager, one who never swaps out players or trades or, basically, plays. The fact of the matter, I was just not interested in spending hours and hours pouring over stats and digging into injury reports and the like. My time is so fractured these days that I simply could not muster the desire to care about the Chiefs’ back-up running back. My evening hours are few and far between to begin with, and I have ventured into such foolish areas as kids’ bedtime and sleeping.
So, with little remorse, I threw in the towel this year, deciding not to play fantasy football. I told my wife this, and when I said it, I was a little embarrassed at how I sounded. I made it sound like I had opted to have my left arm removed. I went on to tell her that it had been a big strain on me to try and keep up with the stats and the players and I just think that this is the best choice.
“Oh, honey,” she said. “I don’t care. I didn’t care about fantasy football when you did play, so why would I care about it now? Please, stop talking about it. I really, really, truly do not care.”
Clearly, she felt my pain.
So this year, I will just enjoy the games that I feel like watching, and peruse the standings and box scores on Mondays, just like in the olden days. That was a simpler time, one that I am more accustomed to, I suppose. In fact, all this talk of the good ol’ days has me yearning for more of the days of old. I’m thinking wedgie.

Hot about the A/C

A few weeks ago, I wrote about how I keep up my home warranty for the peace of mind it brings me.
Wow, how a few weeks can change things.
Our A/C, which was manufactured around the McKinley presidency, had been misbehaving. Something was causing it to drip water onto our ceiling, which caused a little brown spot near the return vent.
We positioned some buckets down below the vent, cut off the A/C and then called our warranty company. In order to get someone out immediately, it would have to be an emergency. This was not an emergency, they said, since our downstairs unit was working. Fine, whatever.
About two days later, a repairman came out. And guess what he found? That’s right. Nothing. Everything was working fine, he said.
Week later, drip, drip, drip. More spots on the ceiling. Let me just save everyone some time and let you know that we went through the exact thing again this time, as well as the next time. The only difference was that, on the third visit, the water stains were getting much larger, and the repairman made the comment to my wife, “Now, I’m not saying you’re lying about the leaks ...”
I am fairly sure it is by the good grace of deep breaths and happy thoughts that he did not take the express trip down the stairs. I think he was implying that we were trying to get a new air conditioner unit out of this. Well guess what, genius – we just want our current air conditioner to work, and not create nasty brown stains all over our ceilings. Yes, it’s an old unit, but plenty of old things work fine, including Roger Clemens and Paul Newman. Yet, neither Roger or Paul has damaged my ceiling. My A/C has.
So the fourth time this happened, I called my home warranty company and told them to get someone out there and it had better not be from the same company. They told me I would have to pay an additional service fee to get another company. I made it very clear that, in fact, I would not be paying a fee.
The fourth guy gets out there and, big shock, can’t find anything. He tells me that he would really have to be there when it was leaking to see what was happening.
It’s now a Saturday afternoon, about 4:30. Drip. Drip. Drip. Here it comes again. I call the home warranty company, and tell them it is now officially an emergency, and to get someone out NOW. She starts to tell me about “guidelines.” I cut her off and say, “Look, here’s the deal – it is now an emergency. You will get someone out here. And you will pay for it. If you do not feel you can do that, you can transfer me to your supervisor.”
By about 5, I had wrestled with the supervisor enough to win the “it’s an emergency” battle. I was told they would dispatch someone right away. Well, about 8:30, I called them back, and spoke with someone who, I can only hope, is not planning a career in customer service. She tells me that it’s a Saturday night, and there’s no one who can come out. I tell her hogwash, that the phone book is full of 24-hour places. She tells me that I can call one of them and get reimbursed. “Outside authorization,” she tells me. That’s what I have.
So I finally line up a local company (which I should have just called from the get-go), and he’s set to come out at about 10:30. I call back the home warranty company – as I was instructed – to tell them that someone is coming out, I will pay them up front, and they will reimburse me. “Sir, you can’t do that. You don’t have outside authorization.”
At this point, I began to develop that loud, heartbeat pounding sound in my temple that means I am about to possibly implode with anger. I mumbled something into the phone. “Excuse me?” the person on the other end of the line said. I said it again. My wife tapped on the shoulder and whispered, “Unclench your jaw.”
“SUPER... VISOR... NOW...” I said. A few minutes later, the world’s most deserving wedgie candidate got on the phone and began to tell me about how they don’t do that (they do) and they wouldn’t have done that (they did). I asked for the name of his supervisor. When he told me, I said, “Get him on the phone. Now.”
“Sir I can’t do that, it’s 10:30 on a Saturday. That would be unprofessional.”
“I’ll find his number. Get him on the phone or I will.”
He puts me on hold, and comes back a few minutes later. Amazingly, they suddenly DO do that, and DID give me authorization. Shock.
The local guy arrives and he diagnoses the problem, and sees about 800 other issues that the other guys – shock – missed. I had found the leak in the attic, and had placed a bucket up there, too. I kept about five gallons of water from seeping onto my ceiling.
I am in the process of getting reimbursed for my after-hours call, which I only hope I receive in a timely fashion. At that point, I will set my sights on getting them to pay for my ceiling. Sure, the fine print is in there about not paying for secondary damage. But the secondary damage was a little speck. Had it been fixed the first, second, third or fourth time, I wouldn’t be looking at an entire ceiling replacement.
I know that I have a long road ahead of my to wage war with the home warranty people. But I am diligent in these matters. I don’t like getting mistreated. When I do, it makes me angry, and I have no choice but to fight. I am ready to lock horns for what is right. I just need to remember to unclench my jaw.

The mean dad

Apparently, I am a mean father. I base this on a co-worker’s comment, who hinted at this by saying, “You’re a mean father.”
To her, not letting one of your children sleep and leaving the other stuck in a tree constitutes being mean.
Well, I guess when you phrase it like that, I do not come across as exactly father of the year. But delve deeper, and you will see that I am not as awful as some believe.
Parker and I had been out cruising the town, running a few errands. In case you ever feel that you are going to the store and not identifying enough merchandise to purchase, I will let you borrow Parker. He will point out tons of stuff you missed and that you really “NEEEEEEDDDDD!!!”
Anyhow, I decided to stop into work for a minute. As I was pulling in, I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw that Parker was fast asleep. And that is not allowed.
I pulled into the parking lot and began tickling his feet and calling his name loudly. Over and over. Until he makes this scrunched-up looking face and glares at me through squinty, angry eyes. We then have this conversation:
ME: Wake up.
PARKER: I’m not asleep.
ME: You were.
PARKER: No I wasn’t.
ME: Then why were you eyes closed.
PARKER: My eyes were asleep. I was awake.
Tough to argue with this. But I continued to pester him to make sure he was good and awake. And why would I do such a thing, you ask? Because I think sleep deprivation is hilarious!
OK, that’s not it at all. The reason is because I want him to go bed before midnight, and if he takes a nap, you can forget about a normal bedtime. When I got into work, he was still a little cross with me, and even tried to nap on someone’s desk. I tickled him some more, and he gave this sad look as if he were the most mistreated child in the world, which of course some suckers buy into. Well, I’m no sucker, and when all the “Awwwws” start kicking in, I quickly inform them that I will let him nap, if they will plan to come over to the house and sit with him for the rest of the evening. I have yet to have anyone take me up on that.
But anyone who has tried to wean a child off of naps knows that it’s not easy, and you do feel like a bit of a heel doing it. But you have to do it. And even if they get tired during what used to be naptime, they snap out of it pretty quick. (I find two sodas and a bag of Oreos does the trick.) And when The Dude gets to bed at a decent hour, he gets a better night’s sleep. I’m not mean. I’m practical.
The other incident that labeled me as a mean dad was when I told someone about my daughter getting stuck in a tree. We have a big weeping willow in our backyard, and she has been eyeing this tree for years, hoping to climb up to a little crook in it where you can sit on a branch. Finally big enough to tackle it, she set off on her mission and, after a couple of failed attempts, was able to complete the ascent to the branch. Now, mind you, this branch was about four or five feet off the ground. It was low enough we could high five on her climb.
So she sat up there for a few minutes taunting her brother. “Hey, Parker, guess what – I can climb and YOUUUUUU CAN’T!!!!” That was followed by ducking to avoid a tennis ball. Ah, siblings.
So after a while, she called over to me. “Daddy, can you help me get down.”
I was quick to respond. “Of course not.”
She looked at me with a rather stunned expression. Daddies are supposed to help their kids out of jams, right? Well, sometimes. But not this time. So we had this conversation:
ME: Allie, you tried so hard to climb that tree, and you finally did it. Didn’t that feel good?
ALLIE: Yeah...
ME: But that’s only half the process. You have to learn to climb down, too. Won’t that feel good if you learn that!
ALLIE: No. Get me down, Daddy.
Because I believe that tree climbing is one of the basic rites of passage of children, I went on to explain to her that I knew she could do it, and she would need to have the tree descent knowledge for future tree climbing excursions. She was prepared for that. “But I don’t want to climb this tree again.”
I wouldn’t budge. I even told her that I was fairly certain no child had ever had to grow up in a tree because of an inability to climb down.
Now, I know you may be thinking that I am cruel and was maybe even putting my daughter in danger of falling and hurting herself. And you would be wrong. She has about the same descent getting out of bed in the morning. I went about my business in the backyard, and about eight seconds later she said, “DADDY!!!! I DID IT!!!” By “it” she meant climbed higher, necessitating a call to the fire department.
Ha! Kidding. She was down on the ground, and was pleased as punch at her accomplishment. In fact, she was excited enough that she did climb the tree over and over, and I did not have to assist her in getting down at all.
So you see, at first blush, what may sound like me being mean is actually my way of making better people out of my kids. Life is full of challenges, and I am here to help them be prepared for them. Imagine, as adults, how well adjusted they will be when they are at a job interview and need to stay awake or climb down from a tree. I’m building for the future.

The first of first

The first day of first grade – an emotional roller coaster of fear, excitement, nervousness and anticipation, right? Whatever.
For Allie, this was a pretty routine today. Sure, she was excited. But we’re talking about the kid who is easier to get to bed on school nights because you can have this conversation;
ME: Allie, you really need to go to bed now. You know what tomorrow is?
ALLIE: Tomorrow? What?
ME: Thursday!
ALLIE: So I get to go to school again!?!?!?!
ME: YEAH!!!! (under my breath) sucker.
As the first day approached, she did seem to wonder what all the fuss was about. Grandparents and aunts were calling to wish her good luck and ask her questions about her school. With each phone call, she had a look of “It’s just school – what’s wrong with you people?”
When the big day came, my wife and I were well prepared. We always try to get everything ready the night before, with lunches packed and clothes set out. My wife has yet to embrace my brilliant time and money saver, which is to have the kids sleep in their clothes. Not only can they spring out of bed and be ready to go in seconds, think of the money you’ll save on pajamas.
The hardest part of the first day of school for many people is getting up early. Now, early rising has never been a problem for me. (My wife? Not so much.) But with the exception of special occasions when I had to get up extra early, I haven’t used an alarm clock in years, specifically six years, since that is how long I have had children.
For the past six years, when morning comes, I am woken up by the pawing of a small child, who wants a drink of water, a Pop-Tart, to take the dogs out, to read a book, to play trains, etc. I always gently lean in and whisper, “No, you want Mommy... Mommy. Go.”
Alas, the average life expectancy of a child-based alarm clock is three years, so when Allie reached three and began to find out how awesome sleeping in could be, my wife had two choices: Buy an alarm clock or have Parker.
Well, now Parker is getting to the age where, on occasion, he will sleep in. And I am pretty sure that it would be bad form for Allie to tell her teacher, “Sorry I’m late. My little brother forgot to wake up Daddy.”
So we have begun setting the alarm again. This is how the alarm scenario goes:
6:15 a.m. – First alarm goes off, set to NPR. I lie in bed listening to the news. My wife sleeps.
6:16 a.m. – I can listen to news later. Hit snooze. My wife sleeps.
6:22 a.m. – More news. Snooze. My wife sleeps.
6:29 a.m. – WE GET IT, NPR!!! TROUBLE IN THE MIDDLE EAST!!! CAN I PLEASE GET SOME SLEEP LIKE MY WIFE!?!?!?
6:30 a.m. – Second alarm goes off, this one a series of loud, horrific beeps that were designed by the Torture Institute of America. I spring from bed, ninja-like, hit snooze and start to go to partial panic mode because we are slightly behind schedule. I go to wake my wife, only to see her standing in the bathroom, dressed and blow drying her hair. I am not sure how she does this, but I am starting to think she can control time. Or she may be using one of those papier-mâché dummies like in “Escape from Alcatraz.” Either way it’s kinda freaking me out.
We have mastered the art of waking up sleepy children. Rather than asking them over and over to get out bed, we simply walk in, pull back the covers, and dump a huge bucket of ice water on them.
Ha! Kidding. We would never do that. My wife has assured me of that. No, all that you do is pick them up gently and stand them up. I have yet to see one of them fall down. They do this kind of jelly-legged groan, but eventually their brain says, “Yeah, we’re tired, but the legs are heading out. We better go with ’em.”
OK, so I have rambled way off topic. Not that that’s an uncommon occurrence. But back to the first day of school. It was just no big deal for Allie. She had a great first day, and was very excited about being in first grade. One thing I have noticed is that I have to fight the urge to say, “I can’t believe she’s in first grade.” It’s really not that big of a leap of faith to assume your child makes it there. It would be one thing if we were saying, “I can’t believe our little six-year-old is going to med school!”
So I do believe that she is in first grade, and I am glad that she is enjoying it. It’s an exciting time, where she meets new friends and has tons of new experiences. It’s fun sitting back and watching her grow up, and seeing her become a little more independent each year. Sure, it’s kinda scary to think that each year that passes puts her a little closer to being a grown up. But just think, years down the road, she may be coming home to visit us with her own kids. Which means I can finally turn off the alarm clock.

The New Addition

We certainly weren’t looking for a dog. We’ve got two dogs. Big, old cranky dogs. So the last thing we were planning on adding to the family was a little Dachshund that weighed about what one of our dog’s meals does.
But sometimes, life plays by weird rules, and this was one of those times. His owner passed away, and I was trying to find homes for his two dogs. The first I found a home for in a matter of minutes. The second was Buddy, a sweet and gentle little dog that just loved being loved.
We had a couple of possibilities lined up, and for various reasons the chips never fell in place. We brought Buddy back to the house, certain that the next day we could easily find him a good home. That night, it became evident that my wife had found him a very good home.
“You know,” she said, “if we DID decide to keep him, we should probably give him a new name. We could keep Buddy as his middle name, but I think Murphy would be a good name for him.”
My wife maintains that this pronouncement did occur, but insists that I was the one who was really convinced to keep him, and that she was trying to offer up her approval. We decided that we would offer one final test to see if Buddy/Murphy would fit into our household. Enter the gauntlet of big cranky dogs.
Montgomery and Maggie have lived together for the past decade, and have very set rules and routines. Any time something throws off the balance, things get a little dicey. So I was curious to see what would happen when this dog smaller than our cat would finally meet the resident canines. Montgomery, the purebred Alabama Dumpster Hound, gave one sniff, and then went to the water bowl. That would pretty much sum up how much he cared. Maggie, our Basset hound, was a little more interested. But only a little. It took only one growling snort to send the message that romantic interludes were not welcome in her world, a message that rang loud and clear. It seemed clear that the resident dogs really did not care whether or not we added a Murphy to the mix. And so we did.
Murphy did not take long to get acclimated to his new home. He pretty much operated on this premise: Wherever someone was, he would like to be there, quietly curled up and just hanging out. He is the most unobtrusive creature I have seen. On numerous occasions, I will realize I have not seen him for while, and set off to find him. I usually get about two steps when I hear him stand up under my chair, where he has been sitting, just enjoying being there.
I’ve never had a small dog before, and up until Murphy never thought I wanted one. I always assumed small = yappy. Boy, was I wrong. Murphy hardly ever barks, and when he does, it’s at least at something. Montgomery is prone to barking at the air, which, by my count, is not something.
We were also wondering how the kids would get along with him. Turns out, a little too well. A few nights into his residency, I was reading my daughter a bedtime story. Murphy had hopped up on the bed and was enjoying Angelina Ballerina. (Or, at least pretending to. He’s polite that way.)
My wife and Parker stopped in to say goodnight, at which point Parker decided it was woefully unfair for Murphy to get to read bedtime stories with Allie, demanding that Murphy get a Bob the Builder bedtime story. Murphy is now a time-share bedtime story dog, which he finds to be quite acceptable.
And while I consider myself a manly man, I have found that I really like having a dog that likes to hop in your lap and just hang out there. However, I cannot in good conscience have a lapdog. So, I was fortunate to discover during a recent baseball game that, if I doze off, he will hop up on me on the couch and fall asleep, thereby qualifying as a napdog, which is certainly acceptable.
While I wish I never had to be in the situation to take Murphy, I am glad I have been able to give him a good home. He was obviously cared for and treated well, and giving him a good home is something that is important to me. He has acclimated well, and has even started to have the occasional conversation with the other dogs. I think he’s content with his new home, and I know we’re content having him here. Plus, he’s great for excuses. “Honey, I HAVE To take a nap. Murphy needs to rest.”

Beach bash

Two hours before the wedding, I started to wonder how good of an idea this was.
Parker and Allie were set to be the ring bearer and flower girl on the beach, and we were there for pictures. It seemed simple enough: Show up at the beach, take some pictures, and then wait around for a while until the wedding began.
Allie was decked out in a smart little white dress, while Parker would match the groomsmen — khakis and white button-down shirt. My wife tasked me with a simple mission: Keep them clean.
The wedding was to be a small affair. Our friend Missy, who had technically been the kids’ baby-sitter but had become part of the family, wanted the kids to be part of her wedding. The kids were ecstatic, and had been practicing for weeks prior to the day. My wife and I kept our fingers crossed that their extensive practice would translate into a few minutes of good behavior for the wedding. It got off to a rocky start.
When we arrived, the groom, his family and the groomsmen were there. The kids were thrilled to see Adam, and immediately figured, “Hey, let’s play!!!”
Adam was your typical groom — somewhat distracted a couple of hours before he gets married. I, for one, was the same way. In fact, at my wedding, the coordinator came to a room at the church we were getting married and scolded us for not being in the sanctuary on time. I countered that anyone who wanted us to be on time should not have put us in a room with a pool table.
I think Adam somewhat welcomed the distraction, because he let the kids drag him around the boardwalk and show him such things as the two dead fish they found.
After a few minutes, it was time for the groomsmen to take pictures. It was there we found a curious part of human nature: Most people have no regard for other people. When there are five guys all dressed alike and a photographer lining up to take their pictures, maybe – just maybe — this is a signature event in life, and they don’t want a fat, hairy guy in a Speedo in the background. This, apparently, does not occur to most fat, hairy guys in Speedos, who see nothing wrong with leisurely strolling into the picture, despite the fact that there is an entire beach in which he could roam.
Parker was in a few pictures, which was enough to keep him fairly occupied. Then came the downtime. Combine downtime and a beach and a 3-year-old, and you can pretty much guess what happened next.
First came the digging. Then came the sand kicking. Then came the rolling. Parker was quickly a sand-coated ringbearer, and thought this was far better than any other attire he could have. His mother, however, disagreed. And she made this clear by saying. “MICHAEL!!!!”
That was all she had to say. She can say, “MICHAEL!!!!” about 42 different ways, and each tone means a different thing. This one meant, “Get your son, get him out of the sand, or I will hold you accountable.”
I went to get Parker, who realized he had MILES of sand to play in. I know I am faster than my son. I also know that breaking into a dead sprint after him might draw some eyes, so I opted for that parent speed walk that you do, trying to convey your message that, if I do in fact have to run, it will be bad news.
Parker saw this as a challenge. The beach decided to lend an assistance and tripped him up. A brief struggle ensued with Parker proclaiming to everyone that he was going to PLAAAAAAYYYYYYY. I am fairly sure Castro heard his cries. I finally got him off the beach (where I found several folks had enjoyed the chase), and tried to get him settled. Allie, fortunately, is at the age where, when you dress her up nicely, she will sit quietly and make sure she doesn’t get dirty. I don’t think boys reach that age.
We made a couple more trips down to the beach, each time ending the same way. (Yes, I should have learned my lesson.) When the wedding approached, my wife and I strategized on how we would handle Parker’s inevitable collapse during the wedding. Shortly before the wedding began, Missy called Allie and Parker over to tell them what they would be doing. I don’t know what she said, but I can only guess that both kids sensed a bride on her wedding day was no one to trifle with. When game time arrived, they were golden. Parker stood at Adam’s side and resisted the urge to dig, kick, etc. I highly recommend you hire Missy out for pep talks to ringbearers prior to weddings.
The wedding itself was a beautiful affair, with the Gulf of Mexico serving as a picturesque backdrop to the beginning of a new life for a couple. I was pleased with the ways the kids performed, even if it was a little touch and go early on. Perhaps we were being a little overly concerned. I mean, you put a kid on a beach and he’s gonna dig, right? In the end, it all worked out, and years from now, they will flip through their wedding album, fondly reminiscing, when they pause and say, “Who’s the fat, hairy guy in the Speedo?”