The princess diary

White dress. Fancy shoes. Tiara. Wow, did I look pretty.
Ha! Kidding, of course. It was my daughter, decked out in her favorite princess attire for a recent princess party. The princess party came about as a result of a charity auction we attended a while back. My folks and my in-laws teamed up to bid on the party, which would bring her and her princess friends together for an afternoon of very princessly activities.
Allie is very much in the princess stage, as is required by the Federal Disney Regulation, which states, “Any girl between the ages of 4 and 7 must at all times be within the presence of no fewer than 41,000 princesses. And not those cut-rate generic princess. Real, licensed Disney princesses. Failure to comply will result in forced ostracism and future therapy bills taller than Cinderella’s castle.”
We are certainly in compliance. We have princess plates, princess pictures, princess toys. Even the occasional princess son, which I have tried to talk to my daughter about, but find it difficult when my son is saying, “NOOOOO!!!! ME PLAY PRINCESS!!!” And most times, when I try and convince him that it would be far better to play fireman or space ranger or Hugh Hefner, he runs from the room, princess dress trailing behind him. But that’s an issue for another day.
So we are very into princesses in my house. When we told Allie about the princess party, she was very excited and showed this by not sleeping for 23 days and only saying, “Is it time for my princess party? Is it time for my princess party? Is it time for my princess party?”
Eventually, the day arrived. Donned in a perfect princess outfit, she joined 11 of her friends at a bed and breakfast, where they were greeted by four different beauty queens, including Miss Aiken County. Now, perhaps you are not a 5-year-old girl. And perhaps you have never been one. Allow me to equate this. To a 5-year-old girl, entering a room and being greeted by Miss Aiken County is comparable to my entering a room and being greeted by Joe Montana. (Granted, I doubt Miss Aiken County could have hit that pass to Dwight Clark, so I claim a slight edge.)
Once the princesses were seated, the Fairy Godmother made her entrance. And I can say that for 11 of the girls, the Fairy Godmother was an instant treat. And for one of them, it was a reason to run crying from the room. Eventually, after several of us chased Allie down the block, we coaxed her to return. I am not sure why, but she has always gotten frightened at the silliest things. Well, I consider them silly. My wife generally thinks I am being insensitive. I still maintain “Wallace and Grommit” is only slightly more frightening than a piece of carpet fuzz.
When Allie got back in, Fairy Godmother did whisper something in her ear, and Allie seemed calmed by it. (Granted, she may have said, “Sit down and behave and your Dad will buy you a car when you’re 12.”) They proceeded to play some games and sing some songs with the Fairy Godmother, including the chicken dance. If you have never seen a gaggle of 5-year-olds do the chicken dance, I highly recommend it. It looks like a giant octopus having a seizure.
After the games, the girls sat for their princess cakes. One nice thing about a 5-year-old princess is that certain table manners can be placed aside during such events as cake, meaning the girls were free to eat as though it was their first meal in days, and they only had 15 seconds to eat.
Next up was the princess lessons. Two of the beauty queens gave all of the princesses lessons on how to wave, walk, sit, etc. During the wave lessons, I drew some curious glances when I blurted out, “Elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist.” I am not sure why I know that or why I felt the need to share it. I promised my wife an answer soon.
The party concluded with a horse-drawn carriage ride, which I added a little excitement to by running alongside and screaming, “OHMIGOSH!!! IT’S TURNING INTO A PUMPKIN!!! JUMP!!!” OK, I would never do that. Not with my wife AND mother watching.
In the end, the party was a great success, and I am not sure how we will top it. Unless we can get Joe Montana.

Bowling Allie

The time it takes you to ready this paragraph 41 times will be about the same amount of time it takes for a bowling ball released from the hands of a 5-year-old to reach the pins.
I learned this the other day when I took my daughter bowling. My wife has developed an incredibly intricate system of rewards for good behavior, and let Allie pick out some of the big scores she was working toward. I was pleased that one thing she wanted to earn was a bowling trip with Daddy. (She also wanted to earn “a trip to Daddy’s work to get Skittles,” but I think that shows more of an affinity to the snack machine.)
My wife and I have always tried to make sure we both made time for the kids individually as well as together, so that they can get some one-on-one time. (In the long-run, I think I will have the advantage, because you try and get a 15-year-old boy to spend a mommy-son day.)
So after several days of stellar behavior (good bedtimes, cleaning up, not packaging and mailing her brother), she earned the bowling trip.
So Allie and I headed off to the great bowling adventure. I told her that we would not only bowl, but get lunch at the bowling alley as well. Grilled cheese, she said, not even needing a menu. Focus. Pure focus.
We entered the alley and found that it was jam packed. Lots of kids. Lots of balloons. Lots of gift bags. Lots of squealing. Lots of slow-moving bowling balls.
We waited in line behind a gaggle of kids and approached the counter. “Got a lane for two?” I asked.
“Which party are you with?”
“Just us,” I said.
He picked up a clipboard. “Wow...” he glanced back up at us. “It’s probably gonna be about three hours until I get a lane. I’m booked solid on parties.”
At this point, I had a decision to make. I could tell Allie that there was no room, and we would have to bowl another day, or I could go against everything I teach my children and say, “I’m sorry, I meant to say we we’re with THAT party.”
Knowing I had to do the right thing, I turned to the man and said, “Here’s $50. Make it happen, chief.”
Kidding. I wouldn’t have given him more than $20.
Actually, I turned to Allie and said, “Sweetie, there’s a lot of birthday parties here, and I’m afraid there isn’t room here for us.” I kinda nodded back to the guy behind the counter so her potential disappointment would be with him, and she could bring him up 20 years from now in therapy.
I watched her reaction, waiting for the waterworks. Or perhaps a tantrum. Or perhaps just a sad, hangdog look and subsequent shuffling of the feet.
“Daddy, what about the other bowling alley?”
Focus. Pure focus.
In no time, we were at the other bowling alley, and there was ample room for us there. The first order of business was shoes. The man behind the counter asked me what size shoes she needed. “Uh, 5-year-old girl size?” At that point I realized I have no idea what size shoes my kids wear. Perhaps I should know this, but my mother has always been the “Shoe Grandma,” meaning she takes the kids to get shoes all the time. I can only tell you when kids’ shoes are too small. Generally, that is when they scream when you try to get them on.
Eventually, we got the shoes squared away and were ready to roll. Allie headed to the line with her bright orange six-pound ball. Taking the standard stance of a kid bowling, she stood facing the pins, feet shoulder-width apart. Grasping the ball with two hands, she bent over and rocked the ball a couple of times, bringing the ball back between her legs for the final push. And at that point, the ball got wrapped in her dress and sent her stumbling back and the ball clunking to the ground. We realized we needed to do some quick-change dress modification, lest she knock herself down on future throws. Dress out of the way, she launched her first roll. As the ball approached the pins, I went and got us a couple of drinks, did my taxes, watched the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy, etc. Eventually the ball reached the pins. I was somewhat expecting it just to come to rest against the head pin. Instead, it gently nudge the pin over, which was kind enough to create a domino-effect and take out six of its friends.
We ended up bowling two games, and despite the length of time for each game, we had a blast. Since there was not a restaurant at this alley, Allie even conned me into taking her to Chick-Fil-A afterwards, which is like Ruth’s Chris Steak House to a 5-year-old. I was glad that Allie chose me as a reward, and can’t wait to do it again soon. Even if she opts for other rewards, I’ll come out on top in the end. Let’s see Mr. Snack Machine take her to Chick-Fil-A.

Dial-a-Dumpster

If you dial it, they will dump.
For those of you unaware, the City of Aiken has a new program called Dial-a-Dumpster, and I can safely say it if the finest addition to any municipality since running water.
The basis of the program is this: Round up four of your neighbors and all agree to have a big, hideous green trash bin roughly the size of a Great Lake plopped down on your street. That’s it. No charge. No heavy lifting. Just clear a spot in the street.
The Dumpster arrived on Friday morning, and was nestled snugly on the side of our cul-de-sac. The main reason I had wanted to get it is because I had a bunch of large items that could not be put out by the curb. Old pieces of plywood, a broken desk, my failed pool cover weight experiment consisting of numerous PVC pipes. That kind of thing.
When I first saw the Dumpster, I was amazed at its size. My first comment to my wife was, “It’s gonna be embarrassing if they come pick it up and there are only a couple of items in it.”
We quickly learned that would not be a problem. By Saturday afternoon, it was already nearing capacity. Everyone was heading into the deepest, darkest parts of their attics, garages and closets. Computer boxes. Skis. Stairs to a deck. A concrete rabbit. A foosball table. When someone made the comment as to how much money had been invested into actually accumulating the large amount of junk we were getting rid of, we all sighed. Some of us wept on the inside, realizing the number of mortgage payments now sitting in a giant pile of garbage.
Alas, it was not time for depressing reflection. It was time for cleansing. And cleanse we did. All day Saturday, soldiers marched from each of the neighborhood houses, a platoon of trash disposal. Said one neighbor, “I can walk in the garage now!” Said another neighbor, “Hey, what’s that you’re throwing away?” Said this neighbor: “What goes in the Dumpster stays in the Dumpster.”
Occasionally, several of us would meet at the Dumpster, peering in, proud of the quantity and quality of our trash. Often, we would exchange a King-of-the-Hillish “Yup” and then return to digging for stuff to dump.
On Monday, I found that the Dumpster can also provide a valuable service: It detects roof leaks. Having run out of things in the garage and attic to dump, I began to pilfer through some rarely used closets. I opened up one that I am fairly sure I have not been in since we bought the house. There, I noticed a box of old CDs. When I went to lift it, the sides of the box slid right on up. Amazingly, the CDs stayed perfectly still. Curious behavior for a box, I thought. I felt down below and noticed that where there was once a bottom of a box there was now just a moist, pulpy mess. I started checking around and noticed that about half of the floor was soaked. After a very short inspection, I looked and saw a quarter-size spot of daylight. I am no roofer, but I am fairly sure that one of the primary functions of a roof is to keep daylight, among other naturally occurring things, out of your house. I called my wife into the closet and had her stand in there while I went on the roof. I am not sure why I did this, but it seemed very necessary at the time.
Having only had the roof for a short while (previously it was open air), I called the roofing company, who came out and sealed the hole. He also suggested I rake my roof more often. I can safely say that is the first time I have been told that. I wonder if it is some roofing humor that they do, just to see how many dolts will climb on their roofs with rakes.
On the last day of our Dumpster, I was pleased to see that it was overflowing with stuff. I also hope that, when it is hauled off, they use some sort of tarp to cover it, lest the streets of our fair city be strewn with Styrofoam, broken coffee tables and dead trees.
I highly recommend you get together with your neighbors and Dial-a-Dumpster. When you think of quality of life improvements, you don’t think of Dumpsters. But you should. Because it will not only help you cleanse your home and your spirit. It will also fix your roof.

Time heals all wounds

If guys were in charge of giving birth, there is a fairly good chance that babies would not be born in hospitals very often. Rather, they would be born in bowling alleys, on the golf course, at work. Basically, wherever the baby decided, “ENOUGH! I’m outta here.”
That is because most guys are like me, and find that the best medical treatment is to not think about it, and engage in something healthy and distracting such as going to a football game.
I know I do it. And I know the guy who came to my house to fix a leaky pipe did. The line from under the sink that goes to the ice maker had decided to no longer work, and after two feeble attempts at plumbing repair, I called in someone to do it for me.
When he arrived, he told me that I was his last stop for the day. Since this was about 10 a.m., I said, “Half day?”
“Yeah, I think I’m gonna head to the emergency room when I’m done here.”
He proceeded to tell me that he had cracked a tooth up under his gum, and he had developed an abscess in his sinus, and he was in intense pain. I was in intense pain listening to it, so I can only imagine what it actually felt like.
Now, a sensible person would have said, “Hey, I have a searing pain in my face – I better go see a professional.” But guys are not sensible, and so he said, “Well, since I’m on this side of town, lemme knock this one out.”
I have a similar track record. I am the one who drove myself to the doctor prior to being admitted to the cardiac ward with an irregular heartbeat a few years back. The off-beat had been going on all day, but I was under the assumption that ignoring it would make it go away.
And then there was my friend Joe who had a terrible pain in his ear a few years back. Did he go to the doctor? No, he went golfing, because you don’t miss a tee-time. He later found out he had, wedged inside his head, a spider. Yes, an actual spider that came out with a little help from some baby oil.
A couple of weeks ago, my wife noticed that I had been grimacing on occasion. She asked what was wrong. I told her that my stomach had been hurting. She asked for how long. I told her about 10 days. Based on her reaction, I feel it is safe to say that 10 days is slightly beyond the length of time you should let a stomach ache linger.
So I went to the doctor and told him what the problem was. He ordered a series of tests, scans, pokes, prods and such. One concern that he had was a gall bladder issue. He went over some signs to be on the lookout for, and told me to call him or go to the ER if my eyes turned yellow. If there is one thing that does not need to be said, it is “Call a doctor if your eyes turn yellow.” Even I can figure that one out.
So all of my tests and scans came back and it basically said I was fit as a fiddle, healthy as a horse, quick as a wink. OK, not the last one. Speed was not measured. But everything else seemed fine.
At that point, I was given a series of medicines to make my stomach feel better, which had now been hurting for about two weeks. Some of the stuff seemed to help, at least easing the time between when it would hurt.
So I woke up the other morning and told my wife that my stomach was hurting again. She asked if I had been taking my medicine. I told her yes. She asked if I had been taking it like I was supposed to. I said nothing.
She then went on what can only be described as an hours-long rant about how I needed to take the medicine, and how I felt better when I took it, and there was a reason they said to take ALL of the medicine.
“I tried,” I told her.
She wasn’t buying.
So I go back to the doctor soon, and I will sheepishly confess that the medicine seemed to be working, that I possibly did not adhere to it in the strictest of regimens. I am fairly sure I will get a bad mark on my permanent chart. But honesty is the best policy. Well, second best policy. The best, of course, is to hope it magically goes away between now and then.

It will get better

Imagine you are asleep. You are gently nudged awake, and roll over. There you find me, standing there, and I say, “My pants fell down.”
Kinda creepy, yeah?
Well, for some reason, when a two-year-old does it, it’s hilarious. I awoke this way the other morning, and, because I am in the routine of having kids, I simple leaned over, hitched up his drawers, and sent him on his way. In no time, I was back to sleep.
Having two kids, the older being five, I am quite used to the daily hustle and flow and occasional pants falling incident. And no amount of explaining that you get used to the routine and that they eventually sleep is a bit of help to my neighbors, who are about a week into the having-a-kid thing. Surprisingly, they are finding things are slightly different than they were a couple of weeks ago.
The other night, I was taking my trash out to the curb. I saw my neighbor doing the same thing. Well, not the same thing. He was taking HIS trash out. We met in the street, and I commented that he looked somewhat tired. I believe my exact words were, “Dude, do you own a brush?”
Guys don’t sugarcoat things.
But he had this look that all new dads have. The slumped shoulders. The ruffled hair. The bags under the eyes that could be used to smuggle VCRs. And he also had that look of, “If one more parent tells me how it will get better, I will possibly beat them with a bottle warmer.”
I, of course, did not tell him that. As a guy, it is my job to be supportive to my friends, and let them know that I am there if needed. So I made repeated jokes. “Hey, and when the baby goes down, maybe you can put your shirt on right-side-out.” or “Man, I don’t know what to do with the next 10 hours, what with the kids asleep and all.” He was sleep deprived enough that I could easily get away from any attempted bottle warmer assaults.
I remember those days. When Allie was born, I quickly found out that sleep deprivation makes you really, really cranky. Nasty cranky. Yell at the dog cranky. Mumble to yourself cranky. At three weeks, she finally decided to start sleeping. The first night we got a decent night’s sleep, we awoke in a panic. It’s like we had forgotten what it was like to get a real night’s sleep.
Another thing my neighbor is experiencing is that new parent sensation of sheer terror whenever you hear a peep out of the baby. This usually happens right as your drift to sleep. The baby will say what babies say, which is not much, but it is enough to send you lurching out of bed, heart pounding, trying to collect yourself. It’s weird, because your brain is saying, “He’s OK. Babies cry. Be calm. Be cool.” But then the heart says, “BABY CRYING!!!! RUN!!!! COULD BE WOLVES!!!” The heart does not play well with others sometimes.
This phenomenon passes, too. With Allie, I was springing out of bed every few minutes, as was my wife. With Parker, he would have had to play a trombone to get me up. (For the record, this did not go over well with a certain other parent in my house, who insisted I was faking being asleep. For what it’s worth, I was not.)
Another interesting thing that my neighbors are finding out is that babies, well, they don’t do much. They sleep. They eat. They poop. Pretty much a full day’s work. I know that when we first had a child, I kept asking my wife when she would, well, do something. She would begin to give me the timeline for when babies crawl, stand, etc. I would cut her off, and say, “No, I mean do something cool. Like throw a curveball. Or not cry when I jump out from behind a door and scream ‘BOO!’” This is why my wife sighs a lot.
But I did find that a child’s firsts – be it crawls, steps, or laughing at being scared – are all pretty cool. And they will find this, too. And before they know it, they will be able to pass on the wisdom to other parents. The wisdom that it will get better. And it won’t matter a bit to the new parents they are trying to convince.

Bringing Christmas to light

Now that the big day has passed, I can tell you what I got my wife for Christmas: an idea.

Yes, an idea. A big ol' heaping helping of brain surging, topped off with an imaginary bow.

Perhaps some explanation is needed. (Editor's note: You think?) It all started when I went shopping about a week before Christmas. I do my shopping thusly: I postpone, postpone, postpone and then decide to bite the bullet and go on a mad Christmas shopping spree that takes about two hours but gets everything done.

I was in a store, browsing about for that perfect something, when I found exactly what my wife would want: lamps. Now before you award me Romantic of the Year, let me present my defense: A while back, my wife said she wanted lamps. And these were fine lamps.

For some reason, I decided to call my sister, who is a voice of reason. Something inside me said, "Mike, call a voice of reason."

So I had this conversation:

ME: I think I need you to go Christmas shopping with me.

HER: Why?

ME: I'm about to buy lamps.

HER: Don't buy her lamps.

ME: They're nice lamps.

HER: Stop. Now.

So I passed on the very nice lamps and agreed to meet my sister later for something less lampy. That evening, my wife asked me how my shopping went. At that point, I had to tell her about the lamp almost purchase. Little did I know that I had just given my wife her Christmas idea.

The next day, my wife came in beaming. "Guess what I got!?!?!!?"

"Uh, ESP? Tuberculosis? Scurvy?" (I'm terrible at the guessing game.)

"Lamps!"

I stared blankly back at her, because as nice as lamps may be, they've never actually made me giddy.

"Lamps! I got some lamps! Do you want to wrap them or can I go ahead and put them up?"

Far be it from me to ruin the Christmas miracle of new lamps. "Oh, go ahead and put them up. And Merry Christmas!"

Now, I know that many of you out there think I am about the worst husband/gift-giver on the planet. And you may be right. But my wife and I settled on something very early on: Honesty. If my wife wants something, expects something, needs something, she tells me. She doesn't assume that I can read minds or guess emotions. I can't. I don't even try.

One of the last things you will ever hear my wife tell me is "You should have known." She knows I don't know. Maybe she is thinking, "Tonight, I'd like to curl up on the couch and watch a movie." And there is absolutely no chance that I will pick up on that. Why? Because the one thing that is playing in my head at the moment is the blurb in Sports Illustrated about the passing of Negro League star Double Duty Radcliffe, who had "Thou Shalt Not Steal" written on his chest protector. I don't know why, but it struck me as funny, and is on continuos loop. And the only way to get it off the loop is for her to make eye contact with me and say, "Tonight, I'd like to curl up on the couch and watch a movie."

So I feel fairly confident that if she wanted, say, jewelry, she would say, "I want jewelry." And when she said she wanted lamps, she really meant that she wanted lamps. (My sister later told me the main reason she wanted me not to buy the lamps was that she feared I would be buying something akin to the leg lamp in "A Christmas Story." So she was questioning my taste, not my judgment.)

And in answer to the inevitable question, yes, I did get her something besides a self-selected lamp set. And upon seeing the ear rings I got her, she asked who picked them out for me. Apparently everyone thinks I have bad taste.

In all, it was a fine Christmas with some fine lamps, and I am just happy that my wife is happy. And that's a good idea.