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.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Thursday, August 17, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
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.”
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.”
Thursday, August 03, 2006
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?”
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?”
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