I’m no doctor, but I think I can confidently diagnose my son’s current illness: Parker has a terrible case of the threes.
It is quite a change from the Parker we are used to. I was going back through some old columns, and found some snippets I wrote about Parker, and compare them to the Parker of today.
May 2004 — “He very rarely gets upset. We’re talking about a kid who, when he got a shot one time, stared at the nurse and ripped the Band-Aid off. The boy is solid.”
Getting upset is one of his hobbies now. And we know that he’s faking it, since he turns it on and off like a faucet. Can’t have a snack? WAAAA!!! Can’t have a toy? WAAAA!!! Can’t use Daddy’s power drill? WAAAA!!! Everyone’s left the room? Silence. Sneaky rascal.
So we combat this by not acknowledging the ridiculous tantrums. Sometimes, sure, he has legitimate gripes. (I would be upset if my sister put lollipops in my hair.) But for the most part, when he’s going on and on about nothing, we just, well, ignore him. My wife and I have no problem having a nice conversation about our day as Parker sits on the ground wailing “I...WANT...A...HORSE!!!!”
March 2004 — “Parker has this routine to go to sleep: (1) He waits until the clock strikes 7:00 (2) He drops like a narcoleptic on sleeping pills.”
Bedtime is now a super adventure. Three-year-olds are very mobile and very dexterous, meaning they are very good escape artists. You may think he’s asleep. You may think he’s down for the count. But then you turn around and find him standing in the middle of a kitchen saying, “Me want a bath.” You explain to him that he just had a bath, to which he responds, “NO!! A JUICE BOX!!!” It’s very hard to reason with this.
He also plays a game of parental tennis, in which he begs for Mommy, who takes him, at which point he immediately begs for Daddy, who takes him, at which point he immediately begs for the dog, who wisely pretends not to hear us.
February 2004 — “When it comes to Parker being a picky eater, there is more chance that Parker will be named starting center for the San Antonio Spurs this season.”
These days, regardless of what you feed him, he will want something else. And that “something else” is usually whatever is on his sister’s plate, even if it is the same thing. My wife and I make a point of not making Allie cave to every one of her brother’s requests, because there’s not reason she should have to give up something constantly just to avoid a temper tantrum from Parker. Or is there...wait, never mind. Bad precedent.
So here we are, a raging case of the threes swooping over the house. I know some of you out there are thinking that we should be bringing down the discipline hammer or be more firm with our decisions. And I am sure that most of you who say that do not, currently, have three-year olds. The thing is, he’s still, for the most part a really sweet kid. He’s a very huggy kid, and still has times where he just wants to curl up in your lap and snuggle with you. Every child goes through the stages of trying to find his boundaries and see how far he can get with the power of stubbornness.
My wife and I are trying differing approaches to weather the storm. And if this is the worst we have to deal with, it’s a breeze. Children being children is nothing to sweat. Sometimes, when he is sprawled in the middle of the floor wailing about, say, wanting to go swimming at 8:00 at night when it’s 40 degrees outside, I will get on the floor with him and wail about what I want (it’s usually a Corvette). He finds that absolutely hysterical. Similarly, when he is in the middle of refusing to eat, I will start eating his dinner. Usually only a bite or two into it, his primal instincts kick in and he shoves most of a peanut butter sandwich in his mouth.
His sister went through her trying times, too, and I am sure that there will be more. (I have been told that being the parent of a teenager is nature’s way of making sure you have no qualms about sending them off to college.) I am sure before we know it, he’ll be through this stage. A raging case of the threes does cure up on its own, usually when they acquire a case of the fours...
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Cell it to me
So recently, I was complaining about the high cost of cell phones.
“Way too expensive,” I said authoritatively. “And too many bells and whistles. Ridiculous.”
Shortly into my not-asked-for and ill-informed rant on the prohibitive cost of cell phones, someone asked how long I had been with my current carrier. Several years, I said. “You know you can upgrade your phone for free, right?” The tone in which he said this implied that I should have probably known this. Being careful not to tip my hand, I offered a “Harumph!” and went on my way.
So I went to the cell phone store to check out this whole” free phone” thing. I know that my wife and I both got free phones when we signed on. But we really were in need of new phones. For one thing, we got our phones around 1941. (They are actually corded and rotary.) Plus, they are the exact same model, so we invariably get each other’s phones. It’s not that anyone really exciting or secretive is calling. More than anything, it’s a pain to try and call her and have your phone bark at you that you can’t dial the phone’s own number.
So I went to the store and asked them if I was eligible for a free phone. Indeed, I was, and had been for a while. “OK,” I said, “where are the free phones?” The cellular industry, continuing their long-standing tradition of playing puppeteer with the American people, has made a crafty little hurdle for us to jump through. “Oh, the free phones aren’t here. You have to do that online.”
Fair enough, though, what with “free” being the key word here. I went online and found out that there were about a dozen phones in the free range. I decided I would take charge of the situation and pick my phone out. My wife could then pick her phone out of the remaining ones. Leadership. Taking charge. That’s me.
ME: OK, I picked out my phone. Time for you to pick yours.
HER: But what if I want the one you picked?
ME: Then...I’ll...uh...
HER: Pick a different one?
ME: I guess so.
HER: Good boy.
Fortunately, she picked a different phone. We both got the flip phones, which means that for the rest of my time with this phone, I will hang up by flipping the phone closed, and then open it back up to make completely sure that the phone is, in fact, off. I am sure that I am not alone in this paranoia.
When the phone arrived, I was very excited. After all, it’s a new toy, and toys are meant to be played with. So I went and plugged the phone into the wall and let it charge for a couple of minutes, just enough time to get enough battery juice so that I could find out the colors, sounds, etc. of the phone. I turned it on, expecting it to magically know that it was my phone. Apparently, I did not order the magic model. Using my boring old home phone, I called a friend of mine who knows way more about technology than I ever care to.
ME: Hey, my new phone isn’t working.
HIM: You turned it on?
ME: Uh, yeah.
HIM: NO!!! RULE NUMBER ONE IS NEVER TURN IT ON FIRST!!!
ME: Whatever. If that were the case, they would have told me that.
HIM: Go look in the box.
Now, it is my contention that if rule number one is NOT to play with your new toy, it should NOT be put on some piece of paper that is thrown in with the useless stuff in the box, such as packing materials and user manuals. If you want to stop someone from playing with a new toy, the entire box should be plastered with warnings: “WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT TURNING ON THIS PHONE, LEST YOU CRIPPLE ALL CELLULAR SATELLITES AND CRASH THEM INTO THE SPACE STATION!!!”
Eventually, I had to sheepishly go back to the store and hope they would have mercy on my poor, dumb, free online soul. I brought my son with me, hoping that a doe-eyed 3-year-old would keep them from saying out loud what they probably thought about me. Fortunately, they did have sympathy, and fiddled with it for a few minutes and made it work.
So we now have our new phones, and I have to say they are quite snappy. And they work, which is an added bonus I rarely achieve when it comes to matters of technology. And you can’t beat the price.
“Way too expensive,” I said authoritatively. “And too many bells and whistles. Ridiculous.”
Shortly into my not-asked-for and ill-informed rant on the prohibitive cost of cell phones, someone asked how long I had been with my current carrier. Several years, I said. “You know you can upgrade your phone for free, right?” The tone in which he said this implied that I should have probably known this. Being careful not to tip my hand, I offered a “Harumph!” and went on my way.
So I went to the cell phone store to check out this whole” free phone” thing. I know that my wife and I both got free phones when we signed on. But we really were in need of new phones. For one thing, we got our phones around 1941. (They are actually corded and rotary.) Plus, they are the exact same model, so we invariably get each other’s phones. It’s not that anyone really exciting or secretive is calling. More than anything, it’s a pain to try and call her and have your phone bark at you that you can’t dial the phone’s own number.
So I went to the store and asked them if I was eligible for a free phone. Indeed, I was, and had been for a while. “OK,” I said, “where are the free phones?” The cellular industry, continuing their long-standing tradition of playing puppeteer with the American people, has made a crafty little hurdle for us to jump through. “Oh, the free phones aren’t here. You have to do that online.”
Fair enough, though, what with “free” being the key word here. I went online and found out that there were about a dozen phones in the free range. I decided I would take charge of the situation and pick my phone out. My wife could then pick her phone out of the remaining ones. Leadership. Taking charge. That’s me.
ME: OK, I picked out my phone. Time for you to pick yours.
HER: But what if I want the one you picked?
ME: Then...I’ll...uh...
HER: Pick a different one?
ME: I guess so.
HER: Good boy.
Fortunately, she picked a different phone. We both got the flip phones, which means that for the rest of my time with this phone, I will hang up by flipping the phone closed, and then open it back up to make completely sure that the phone is, in fact, off. I am sure that I am not alone in this paranoia.
When the phone arrived, I was very excited. After all, it’s a new toy, and toys are meant to be played with. So I went and plugged the phone into the wall and let it charge for a couple of minutes, just enough time to get enough battery juice so that I could find out the colors, sounds, etc. of the phone. I turned it on, expecting it to magically know that it was my phone. Apparently, I did not order the magic model. Using my boring old home phone, I called a friend of mine who knows way more about technology than I ever care to.
ME: Hey, my new phone isn’t working.
HIM: You turned it on?
ME: Uh, yeah.
HIM: NO!!! RULE NUMBER ONE IS NEVER TURN IT ON FIRST!!!
ME: Whatever. If that were the case, they would have told me that.
HIM: Go look in the box.
Now, it is my contention that if rule number one is NOT to play with your new toy, it should NOT be put on some piece of paper that is thrown in with the useless stuff in the box, such as packing materials and user manuals. If you want to stop someone from playing with a new toy, the entire box should be plastered with warnings: “WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT TURNING ON THIS PHONE, LEST YOU CRIPPLE ALL CELLULAR SATELLITES AND CRASH THEM INTO THE SPACE STATION!!!”
Eventually, I had to sheepishly go back to the store and hope they would have mercy on my poor, dumb, free online soul. I brought my son with me, hoping that a doe-eyed 3-year-old would keep them from saying out loud what they probably thought about me. Fortunately, they did have sympathy, and fiddled with it for a few minutes and made it work.
So we now have our new phones, and I have to say they are quite snappy. And they work, which is an added bonus I rarely achieve when it comes to matters of technology. And you can’t beat the price.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Magic Vacation, part 2
So last week the family hit Disney’s Magic Kingdom and Animal Kingdom. This week, we conclude the vacation with a blitz tour of EPCOT and MGM Studios.
EPCOT, which stands for something that I once knew, is most known for its giant silver ball, called Spaceship Earth. Spaceship Earth had been shut down for several years undergoing a much needed revamping. The ride inside takes you through the journey of communication, and the last time I went on it, the ride ended with you traveling through a scene they hailed the future, with the announcer boldly predicting, “In the future, phones will have NO CORDS!!! You will be able to RECORD FROM YOUR TELEVISION SET!!!”
I was pleased to see that the future now extends beyond 1978. And the kids enjoyed the ride, too. Allie liked it because it was interesting and informative. Parker liked it because there were (a) cavemen and (b) football.
After Spaceship Earth, we milled about EPCOT for a while when it occurred to us: EPCOT is about as exciting to a 5- and 2-year-old as a tax seminar, so we decided we would scoot on over to MGM Studios. Our main objective at MGM was to hit Playhouse Disney, a stage show of the popular Disney Channel morning block of kid-friendly programming featuring such stars as Winnie the Pooh, Stanley, Jo Jo and Goliath, Bear in the Big Blue House and Gigantor the Destroyer (that last one may not be one).
At Playhouse Disney, they herd hundreds of parents and kids into a big auditorium for the performance. And if there is room for one more person, they will let another 50 in. (There is actually a sign posted that reads: “We are Disney. No fire marshall can tell us what to do.”) Once the show began, the kids had a great time singing and dancing to the songs during the performance. And when those doors shut, every adult in the room officially abandoned any shred of maturity and dignity. I think I could make a small fortune by videotaping the adults and then charging them a fee to turn the tape over to them.
ME: Ma’am, I have a tape of you doing the Morning Mambo in public. This tape can be yours for $50.
MOM: Sold.
Granted, in some ways, that’s what makes it fun. I mean, I have no problem making a fool of myself in public (Note from Mike’s wife: Really? Shocker there.) But for others, I think it’s a time to let loose some inner child that needs to get out and, well, do the Morning Mambo with an eight foot bear and 500 kids. Let’s be honest, in your job, when is the last time you stood up in the middle of your workspace, spun in circles and stomped your feet and popped bubbles? Well, yes, you, sir, we know. And that’s why you are no longer employed as a surgeon. But for the rest of us, it was right therapeutic, in a strange, geeky way.
After Playhouse Disney, I decided it was time to take Allie on her first Star Wars adventure. The Star Tours ride is a simulator that takes you cruising around in space (including a battle run to the Death Star). Allie is now tall enough to ride these rides, and seems to enjoy them. When we strapped ourselves into the Star Tour seats, Allie turned to me and showed a concerned look.
ALLIE: Daddy, promise this is pretend?
ME: Of course it is.
ALLIE: Daddy – PROMISE – we are NOT really going to space.
Of the few certainties in life you can provide your children, I felt confident that I could without a doubt promise her that, in fact, we would not go into space. (Although the 1986 Kate Capshaw masterpiece “Space Camp” did give pause for consideration.)
When we exited Star Tours, we were greeted by my wife, who informed us that the parade was about to start, and that some of the kids were being asked to be part of it. My wife decided to take charge and ask a Disney employee how one went about being part of the parade. “Here,” the woman said, handing my wife a blue index card, “I have one left. She’s in.” Simple as that.
Allie and about a dozen other kids would bring up the rear of the parade, carrying a velvet rope behind Mickey and Minnie’s car. Also, they had a peach seat right at the beginning where all of the characters walked past. Allie had very little problem becoming one with the parade, even showing a well-perfected princess wave.
By the end of the day, there were two very tired individuals moving at a slow pace through the parks. And the kids were pretty spent, too. That night, Parker and I bunked back at the room while my wife and Allie headed out for one last fireworks hoorah. Parker, bless his tired little heart, simply ran out of steam. When you are not quite 3 years old and log four Disney parks in three days, you get to the point where you just need to crash.
Allie’s highlight of her final night was meeting the princesses, which had been the goal of the whole trip for her so far. I did not meet any princesses, which in some ways is good, because it always seems like my daughter stands just far enough away so that I look like I am some creepy guy standing in line to meet princesses by myself.
By the time we pulled the car back in our driveway, we had logged a lot of miles and a lot of fun. We joke that this is our annual pilgrimage, and will hopefully keep going each year for years to come. And, for those of you who think the kids will outgrow it, you may be right. But I, for one, think you never get too old to drive far away from home, set aside your cares, and act like a fool in public. Now, if I could just remember the “drive away from home” part, I’d have it made.
EPCOT, which stands for something that I once knew, is most known for its giant silver ball, called Spaceship Earth. Spaceship Earth had been shut down for several years undergoing a much needed revamping. The ride inside takes you through the journey of communication, and the last time I went on it, the ride ended with you traveling through a scene they hailed the future, with the announcer boldly predicting, “In the future, phones will have NO CORDS!!! You will be able to RECORD FROM YOUR TELEVISION SET!!!”
I was pleased to see that the future now extends beyond 1978. And the kids enjoyed the ride, too. Allie liked it because it was interesting and informative. Parker liked it because there were (a) cavemen and (b) football.
After Spaceship Earth, we milled about EPCOT for a while when it occurred to us: EPCOT is about as exciting to a 5- and 2-year-old as a tax seminar, so we decided we would scoot on over to MGM Studios. Our main objective at MGM was to hit Playhouse Disney, a stage show of the popular Disney Channel morning block of kid-friendly programming featuring such stars as Winnie the Pooh, Stanley, Jo Jo and Goliath, Bear in the Big Blue House and Gigantor the Destroyer (that last one may not be one).
At Playhouse Disney, they herd hundreds of parents and kids into a big auditorium for the performance. And if there is room for one more person, they will let another 50 in. (There is actually a sign posted that reads: “We are Disney. No fire marshall can tell us what to do.”) Once the show began, the kids had a great time singing and dancing to the songs during the performance. And when those doors shut, every adult in the room officially abandoned any shred of maturity and dignity. I think I could make a small fortune by videotaping the adults and then charging them a fee to turn the tape over to them.
ME: Ma’am, I have a tape of you doing the Morning Mambo in public. This tape can be yours for $50.
MOM: Sold.
Granted, in some ways, that’s what makes it fun. I mean, I have no problem making a fool of myself in public (Note from Mike’s wife: Really? Shocker there.) But for others, I think it’s a time to let loose some inner child that needs to get out and, well, do the Morning Mambo with an eight foot bear and 500 kids. Let’s be honest, in your job, when is the last time you stood up in the middle of your workspace, spun in circles and stomped your feet and popped bubbles? Well, yes, you, sir, we know. And that’s why you are no longer employed as a surgeon. But for the rest of us, it was right therapeutic, in a strange, geeky way.
After Playhouse Disney, I decided it was time to take Allie on her first Star Wars adventure. The Star Tours ride is a simulator that takes you cruising around in space (including a battle run to the Death Star). Allie is now tall enough to ride these rides, and seems to enjoy them. When we strapped ourselves into the Star Tour seats, Allie turned to me and showed a concerned look.
ALLIE: Daddy, promise this is pretend?
ME: Of course it is.
ALLIE: Daddy – PROMISE – we are NOT really going to space.
Of the few certainties in life you can provide your children, I felt confident that I could without a doubt promise her that, in fact, we would not go into space. (Although the 1986 Kate Capshaw masterpiece “Space Camp” did give pause for consideration.)
When we exited Star Tours, we were greeted by my wife, who informed us that the parade was about to start, and that some of the kids were being asked to be part of it. My wife decided to take charge and ask a Disney employee how one went about being part of the parade. “Here,” the woman said, handing my wife a blue index card, “I have one left. She’s in.” Simple as that.
Allie and about a dozen other kids would bring up the rear of the parade, carrying a velvet rope behind Mickey and Minnie’s car. Also, they had a peach seat right at the beginning where all of the characters walked past. Allie had very little problem becoming one with the parade, even showing a well-perfected princess wave.
By the end of the day, there were two very tired individuals moving at a slow pace through the parks. And the kids were pretty spent, too. That night, Parker and I bunked back at the room while my wife and Allie headed out for one last fireworks hoorah. Parker, bless his tired little heart, simply ran out of steam. When you are not quite 3 years old and log four Disney parks in three days, you get to the point where you just need to crash.
Allie’s highlight of her final night was meeting the princesses, which had been the goal of the whole trip for her so far. I did not meet any princesses, which in some ways is good, because it always seems like my daughter stands just far enough away so that I look like I am some creepy guy standing in line to meet princesses by myself.
By the time we pulled the car back in our driveway, we had logged a lot of miles and a lot of fun. We joke that this is our annual pilgrimage, and will hopefully keep going each year for years to come. And, for those of you who think the kids will outgrow it, you may be right. But I, for one, think you never get too old to drive far away from home, set aside your cares, and act like a fool in public. Now, if I could just remember the “drive away from home” part, I’d have it made.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Magic Vacation, part 1
There is nothing like going on vacation and having an African tribesman tell you that you don’t know how to dress your children.
No, we did not take a family vacation for a big game hunt. Rather, we headed for our annual pilgrimage to Disney, which goes to great lengths to bring authenticity to everything it does, including its parenting tips from a man with a bone in his nose.
But more on that later. We started our Disney adventure on Thursday, with our sights on the Magic Kingdom. And nothing gets you going like waking up at the crack of dawn to Parker, who is almost three, flinging open the curtains to the hotel room and screaming, “IT’S A PRETTY DAY!!!! LET’S GO TO DI-DNEY!!!” I, of course, responded to this by covering my head with a pillow.
Eventually, we got up and running and were ready to hit the park. Allie, who is five, was adamant that the first thing we would do was to ride Dumbo, the flying elephant ride. We got to the park shortly after it opened, and made a beeline to Dumbo. While Dumbo’s line was sort of long (about 30 minutes), I am pleased to report that it was the longest line we stood in all week. For those of you looking to find short lines at Disney, I have one simple suggestion – no diaper changes. It’s amazing how fast the lines clear for you.
After Dumbo, we hit the requisite rides, the main one, of course, being “It’s a Small World.” I am in the minority, in that I love the ride. That is because, in 1996, I was on it and it broke down, and I was subjected to about 30 minutes of the song, while the freaky little dolls were motionless. I have an extreme case of the Stockholm Syndrome, and must return to my captors’ beloved embrace whenever I can.
One of the most memorable moments of Magic Kingdom came when Allie and my wife rode Splash Mountain, a water ride that sends you barreling down a steep drop to be soaked. While I am sure that was fun for them, I enjoyed mine and Parker’s theater in the park production of “The Birds.” You see, as we were waiting for them to ride, I got Parker some popcorn. And birds, it turns out, LOVE them some popcorn. By the time it was over, Parker had a tremendous assortment of birds hanging around his stroller, begging for popcorn. And then the seagulls showed up. Party over, birds.
We spent the bulk of the day at Magic Kingdom, and cut out around dinner time to head back to the hotel. My wife and Allie went back to the park for the fireworks show, while Parker and I opted to stay back at the hotel room and argue the definition of “crabby.”
Day two was Animal Kingdom day. Animal Kingdom is essentially Disney’s version of a zoo, except that they have the amazing ability to make it rain whenever you are there. I have now been to Animal Kingdom five times, and it has rained every time. My guess is that their gift shop sales are lagging behind other parks, and they use their Disney powers to create rainfall to force you into gift shops. We were there with another family, and when the rain started, the father of the family said, “Listen – you can hear the sound of the ponchos being marked up!” True indeed.
But the rain was fleeting, and we were able to see lots of cool animals. Hippos, gorillas, tigers, international tourists who believe that clothing was intended to merely drape the body, not actually cover things.
As we were strolling through the park, we heard the sounds of drums, which we soon saw were coming from an authentic African tribe performing a fantastic routine. We watched for about 10 minutes, up to the conclusion, at which point Allie decided she wanted to meet the performers. Fair enough.
As we’re mingling amidst the folks – decked out in traditional African tribal garb – one of the drummers comes up to my wife and, in full African accent, says, “Excuse me, ma’am, but your son’s shoes on the wrong feet.”
Indignantly, we cut a look down at Parker. And saw his shoes on the wrong feet. So there you go. But before those without children pass judgment, I feel confident that any parent who has ever tried to dress a squirming child who is gearing up for a day at Disney is thrilled that both shoes end up on feet. Right/left is just gravy.
As we concluded Day Two of our Disney adventure, the kids were still having a great time. We had two parks to go. And one day to do it. We were up against the clock. We would have to move swiftly on our final day. No time to waste.
Join us next week for the conclusion of our Disney vacation, where we are fairly sure we put our kids’ shoes on the correct feet.
No, we did not take a family vacation for a big game hunt. Rather, we headed for our annual pilgrimage to Disney, which goes to great lengths to bring authenticity to everything it does, including its parenting tips from a man with a bone in his nose.
But more on that later. We started our Disney adventure on Thursday, with our sights on the Magic Kingdom. And nothing gets you going like waking up at the crack of dawn to Parker, who is almost three, flinging open the curtains to the hotel room and screaming, “IT’S A PRETTY DAY!!!! LET’S GO TO DI-DNEY!!!” I, of course, responded to this by covering my head with a pillow.
Eventually, we got up and running and were ready to hit the park. Allie, who is five, was adamant that the first thing we would do was to ride Dumbo, the flying elephant ride. We got to the park shortly after it opened, and made a beeline to Dumbo. While Dumbo’s line was sort of long (about 30 minutes), I am pleased to report that it was the longest line we stood in all week. For those of you looking to find short lines at Disney, I have one simple suggestion – no diaper changes. It’s amazing how fast the lines clear for you.
After Dumbo, we hit the requisite rides, the main one, of course, being “It’s a Small World.” I am in the minority, in that I love the ride. That is because, in 1996, I was on it and it broke down, and I was subjected to about 30 minutes of the song, while the freaky little dolls were motionless. I have an extreme case of the Stockholm Syndrome, and must return to my captors’ beloved embrace whenever I can.
One of the most memorable moments of Magic Kingdom came when Allie and my wife rode Splash Mountain, a water ride that sends you barreling down a steep drop to be soaked. While I am sure that was fun for them, I enjoyed mine and Parker’s theater in the park production of “The Birds.” You see, as we were waiting for them to ride, I got Parker some popcorn. And birds, it turns out, LOVE them some popcorn. By the time it was over, Parker had a tremendous assortment of birds hanging around his stroller, begging for popcorn. And then the seagulls showed up. Party over, birds.
We spent the bulk of the day at Magic Kingdom, and cut out around dinner time to head back to the hotel. My wife and Allie went back to the park for the fireworks show, while Parker and I opted to stay back at the hotel room and argue the definition of “crabby.”
Day two was Animal Kingdom day. Animal Kingdom is essentially Disney’s version of a zoo, except that they have the amazing ability to make it rain whenever you are there. I have now been to Animal Kingdom five times, and it has rained every time. My guess is that their gift shop sales are lagging behind other parks, and they use their Disney powers to create rainfall to force you into gift shops. We were there with another family, and when the rain started, the father of the family said, “Listen – you can hear the sound of the ponchos being marked up!” True indeed.
But the rain was fleeting, and we were able to see lots of cool animals. Hippos, gorillas, tigers, international tourists who believe that clothing was intended to merely drape the body, not actually cover things.
As we were strolling through the park, we heard the sounds of drums, which we soon saw were coming from an authentic African tribe performing a fantastic routine. We watched for about 10 minutes, up to the conclusion, at which point Allie decided she wanted to meet the performers. Fair enough.
As we’re mingling amidst the folks – decked out in traditional African tribal garb – one of the drummers comes up to my wife and, in full African accent, says, “Excuse me, ma’am, but your son’s shoes on the wrong feet.”
Indignantly, we cut a look down at Parker. And saw his shoes on the wrong feet. So there you go. But before those without children pass judgment, I feel confident that any parent who has ever tried to dress a squirming child who is gearing up for a day at Disney is thrilled that both shoes end up on feet. Right/left is just gravy.
As we concluded Day Two of our Disney adventure, the kids were still having a great time. We had two parks to go. And one day to do it. We were up against the clock. We would have to move swiftly on our final day. No time to waste.
Join us next week for the conclusion of our Disney vacation, where we are fairly sure we put our kids’ shoes on the correct feet.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Clean Sweep, part 2
As you may recall from last week, my sisters and I (and spouses) had begun a clean sweep of my parents’ house. At the halfway point, we had succeeded in, essentially, turning my parents’ house into massive piles of quasi-organized rubble. Calling it off at this point was not an option. We were in too deep.
My sisters decided that one thing that needed to be done was to switch around some china cabinets. And, as is usually the case, the cabinet in need of the longest move was the one that weighed approximately the same as a Ford pickup truck. Fortunately, it was two pieces, so it was only like moving a couple of Ford Escorts. Once we had the gargantuan piece moved, my sisters opted for 40-50 new locations to try out, just to ensure that my brothers-in-law and I had ample chance to bang our knees, crush our hands in doors, etc. We appreciate the spreading of pain wealth.
The next big issue was the consolidation of all of the stuff that we had pulled out of closets, drawers, etc. My mother’s collectibles (owls and turtles, if you recall), were in need of sorting and filing. I sort and file things thusly: If it fits on a shelf, it goes there. Apparently, my sisters have a different approach to decorating, and ordered me (along with my brothers-in-law Jim and Keith) to the garage to, in their words, “do something out of the way.”
In the garage, we decided we should probably take on the most sensible task for guys relegated to the garage, which was to begin drinking beer. When we realized it was 9:30 in the morning, it occurred to us that we might want to pursue a different endeavor.
We decided to split up on some different projects. Jim took on the garage. Keith went in to hauling items as directed. And I complained about the line for sausage biscuits at the fast food restaurant. (Everyone has a niche.)
By lunch time, we were starting to see glimmers of progress (however fleeting they may have been.) At one point, I stood in the den, the bookshelf halfway put back together, and noticed that my one sister, who had been working in there, had moved on to a different room. At this point, Overbearing Mike had to make a stand. “CAN WE NOT FINISH ONE ROOM BEFORE MOVING ON?”
Based on the convergence of angry sisters and wife who immediately appeared before me, I quickly realized the answer was “no.” It turns out, Saturday was still on the sorting and disassembling mode. Sunday, I was very firmly informed, would be for finishing.
By evening, we were starting to see real progress. My wife and sisters decided they would set off to various stores to track down rugs. Jim, Keith and I were instructed to begin plans for the “Message Center.” The message center was a shelf placed over a table in my parents’ den. Below the shelf would be a plywood + wood frame + corkboard contraption that would be secured beneath the shelf. Someone with design talent (read: not us) would affix a calendar, notepads, pens, etc. And the crowning achievement would be a hidden window shade that pulled down to conceal the message center. It’s actually a very cool contraption. Although, upon seeing it, my parents first made a face that made us quickly say, “No, we didn’t put a window into the bathroom on the other side of the wall.”
So when the rug hunters came home, they entered the garage, where we had been working on plans. Thinking they would be pleased with our detailed planning, imagine our shock when we were greeted with, “We leave you alone for two hours and all you do is drink beer!?!?!?!” Imagine the reaction had we started at 9:30. We tried to explain that the beers in hand were simply a reward for detailed planning session, a comment that was met with a disapproving “Hmmph.”
On Sunday, we were ready for the homestretch. Things were really coming in to place. Pictures were back on the wall. Shelves were inhabited by turtles and owls. Life was good.
About 5 p.m., my parents pulled in the driveway. The look on their face was priceless, mainly because I can’t put a price on the look of sheer helplessness and terror my parents tried to mask, wondering what their insane children had done inside their home.
Once they got inside, I am pleased to say they were thrilled with what we had done. Or I am pleased to say they are terrific actors. We did assure them that we had not thrown out anything of consequence. (We could tell they were concerned about that. One of my dad’s first question: “Hey, where’s my dog!?!?!” Some trust he has.)
In all, I think the weekend was a success. The house is clean swept, my parents have their home back and, hopefully, the dog will turn up soon.
My sisters decided that one thing that needed to be done was to switch around some china cabinets. And, as is usually the case, the cabinet in need of the longest move was the one that weighed approximately the same as a Ford pickup truck. Fortunately, it was two pieces, so it was only like moving a couple of Ford Escorts. Once we had the gargantuan piece moved, my sisters opted for 40-50 new locations to try out, just to ensure that my brothers-in-law and I had ample chance to bang our knees, crush our hands in doors, etc. We appreciate the spreading of pain wealth.
The next big issue was the consolidation of all of the stuff that we had pulled out of closets, drawers, etc. My mother’s collectibles (owls and turtles, if you recall), were in need of sorting and filing. I sort and file things thusly: If it fits on a shelf, it goes there. Apparently, my sisters have a different approach to decorating, and ordered me (along with my brothers-in-law Jim and Keith) to the garage to, in their words, “do something out of the way.”
In the garage, we decided we should probably take on the most sensible task for guys relegated to the garage, which was to begin drinking beer. When we realized it was 9:30 in the morning, it occurred to us that we might want to pursue a different endeavor.
We decided to split up on some different projects. Jim took on the garage. Keith went in to hauling items as directed. And I complained about the line for sausage biscuits at the fast food restaurant. (Everyone has a niche.)
By lunch time, we were starting to see glimmers of progress (however fleeting they may have been.) At one point, I stood in the den, the bookshelf halfway put back together, and noticed that my one sister, who had been working in there, had moved on to a different room. At this point, Overbearing Mike had to make a stand. “CAN WE NOT FINISH ONE ROOM BEFORE MOVING ON?”
Based on the convergence of angry sisters and wife who immediately appeared before me, I quickly realized the answer was “no.” It turns out, Saturday was still on the sorting and disassembling mode. Sunday, I was very firmly informed, would be for finishing.
By evening, we were starting to see real progress. My wife and sisters decided they would set off to various stores to track down rugs. Jim, Keith and I were instructed to begin plans for the “Message Center.” The message center was a shelf placed over a table in my parents’ den. Below the shelf would be a plywood + wood frame + corkboard contraption that would be secured beneath the shelf. Someone with design talent (read: not us) would affix a calendar, notepads, pens, etc. And the crowning achievement would be a hidden window shade that pulled down to conceal the message center. It’s actually a very cool contraption. Although, upon seeing it, my parents first made a face that made us quickly say, “No, we didn’t put a window into the bathroom on the other side of the wall.”
So when the rug hunters came home, they entered the garage, where we had been working on plans. Thinking they would be pleased with our detailed planning, imagine our shock when we were greeted with, “We leave you alone for two hours and all you do is drink beer!?!?!?!” Imagine the reaction had we started at 9:30. We tried to explain that the beers in hand were simply a reward for detailed planning session, a comment that was met with a disapproving “Hmmph.”
On Sunday, we were ready for the homestretch. Things were really coming in to place. Pictures were back on the wall. Shelves were inhabited by turtles and owls. Life was good.
About 5 p.m., my parents pulled in the driveway. The look on their face was priceless, mainly because I can’t put a price on the look of sheer helplessness and terror my parents tried to mask, wondering what their insane children had done inside their home.
Once they got inside, I am pleased to say they were thrilled with what we had done. Or I am pleased to say they are terrific actors. We did assure them that we had not thrown out anything of consequence. (We could tell they were concerned about that. One of my dad’s first question: “Hey, where’s my dog!?!?!” Some trust he has.)
In all, I think the weekend was a success. The house is clean swept, my parents have their home back and, hopefully, the dog will turn up soon.
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