Me. A ladder. A chainsaw. Anyone else amazed I am here to write this column?
For some reason I decided I needed to clear back some trees in my yard. Now, there are two sensible paths I could have taken: (1) Hire someone to trim the trees or (2) Embrace my inner-tree and leave it be.
I opted for the road less sensible, which involved a large extension ladder and the exciting power of gravity.
My first few cuts were rather easy. I was on the ladder, safely secured by the OSHA-approved method known as “Wrapping Your Leg Around the Tree Next To You.” I am not sure I expected this to do, should the ladder fall. I am pretty sure I would not be able to hang onto a tree like some sort of one-legged koala bear.
But anyway, I was trimming away, and the limbs were falling gently to the ground. I even took the unusual step of NOT trying to move the ladder by the tried and tested method of grabbing the ladder and hopping to a new spot. Safety is key.
So after a while, I began to feel quite confident in my tree trimming abilities. I extended the ladder to its maximum height and went high into the canopy. I turned around, facing out from the ladder, which is generally the way chainsaw manufacturers encourage you to operate their devices. I reached up and began to saw a branch to my left.
As the saw got almost all the way through the limb, I heard it start to crack. It started to swing downward, and at that point my brain decided to wake up. “It’s gonna swing down and hit the ladder, you doofus,” it said.
Fortunately, I was thinking quickly, and I swung my leg back behind the tree, utilizing what I must think is some incredibly awesome gripping ability with my leg.
The limb did swing down and smack the ladder, but fortunately did not send me reeling to the ground as you were hoping. (Give it time, folks.) But what I did have was an enormous limb blocking the path of the ladder, so the only way to get down was to cut the limb that was now several feet below me, a little bit at a time.
And if you thought my method of chainsaw use was awesome before, you should have seen me on the ladder, facing out, bending over to cut limbs below me, using one hand to hang on and hoping like crazy that the saw didn’t go through the limb and hit the metal ladder.
Eventually, I made my way down the ladder. So naturally, this brought an air of invincibility, and I decided to move on to larger, higher limbs.
This time, I headed up to a tree right on the other side of my fence that had grown WAY over my yard, to the point that when it rained, the branches would almost droop to the ground.
So once up on the ladder, I fired up the chainsaw and began to trim the limb. When I was almost through the limb, I heard the familiar crackling of the limb breaking, and it began to fall to the ground.
As it turns out, this was a very heavy limb. And as it turns out, this limb was leaning the whole tree. And when the limb was no longer there, guess what? Tree doesn’t lean so much.
I felt the tree starting to move back to the upright position, and the ladder started sliding down the trunk. It was quite evident that this was taking a bad turn.
The tree inched back a little more, and I looked up and noticed the ladder was no longer touching the tree. This was odd. Then I realized that the ladder had fallen against my fence, and I now was standing on top of a very steep see-saw. And then the ladder began to tilt. Down goes the see-saw.
I would love to tell you what happened next, but the truth of the matter is I have no clue.
The next thing I knew, I was standing on the other side of the fence on what was now a bottom rung of the ladder. The chainsaw was on the ground beside me.
The only thing I can guess is that I did a fancy little circus walk as the ladder teetered over the fence and managed to ride it down. I remember thinking (a) I need to do something with the chain saw (b) I hope I don’t get impaled on the fence or a tree and (c) this will probably hurt. I accomplished (a) and (b), and I was partially correct on (c), as my neck and back apparently absorbed much of the landing.
My wife was as supportive as she always is in these situations, which was to sigh deeply and more than likely hope that some of my genetics had not been passed on to our children.
She also told me that I should not do that without an adult present, and I don’t think I was included in the count of necessary adults.
I informed her that would no be a problem, since I was retiring both the ladder and the chainsaw for good. If I can’t reach from the ground and tear it with my hands, it looks good right where it is.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Anger management
So the other day I was driving down the road looking for a parking place. I spied one right in front of the store I was going to, hit the turn signal and began slowing down. I was about three spots away when I saw a blur of white to my right. The blur zoomed past, cut in front of me and took my parking spot. Needless to say, happiness and joy did not overflow inside of me.
I was on the phone with my wife at the time. And before you start in on me about talking on the phone while driving, let me assure that I can hold a conversation and not crash my car. I am firmly against banning cell phones while driving, simply because the cell phones are not the problem. It’s people not paying attention. If we are banning driving distractions, we need to add eating, putting on makeup, attempting to discipline children in the way back, changing the radio and shaving (especially legs).
And I know some of you will say, “But, Mike, you should only be driving while driving. Distractions are dangerous.” And to that I say, trust me. I know what I’m doing. Maybe not everyone can, say, write their column while driving on the interstate. But maybe my laptop rests quite nicely on the center console.
So anyhow, I pulled into a spot a few places down and could feel my blood pressure kicking up a couple of notches. After all, someone took my parking place. He might as well have slapped me.
My wife knows me better than anyone. “Stop,” she said. She didn’t have to finish. I sighed, and said, “I know.”
What she meant by “Stop” was:
“Stop, take a deep breath, and realize that it’s not that big of a deal.”
Or, perhaps, “Stop. Do not leave a note on his windshield that reads, ‘Due to your awful driving, something is now missing from your car. Try and find it.’”
Or, even “Stop. Do not approach the driver and say, ‘You took my parking place. It’s go time, tough guy.’”
She was right, of course. There was a time in my life when I would have said something. I would have spontaneously sprinted up to the guy and asked him what happened to the cactus. He would ask, “What cactus?” I would say, “The cactus you traded brains with!” And then whirl away with a triumphant victory dance, too blinded with rage to realize that the previous exchange not only was NOT an excellent put-down, but actually made very little sense.
But I said nothing. I watched him walk away, hoping that karma would be a good friend of mine. It truly brings me comfort to know that this guy, somewhere down the road, will, say, be bitten by a goat at a petting zoo.
The hands of cosmic forces aside, another reason that my temper has calmed over the years is my wife. When we first started dating, I was what some may call a bit of a hothead. Little things would set me off. I remember one time getting upset about some volleyball officiating in an intramural game. I was quite upset, had a few choice words, and stormed out of the gym. And, in a stunning display of idiocy, I tried to make a big showy exit, letting folks know what I thought, as I stormed through the turnstile exit. Unfortunately, I tried to exit through the entrance turnstile, so it did not turn, and I walked square into it, flipping over, much to the delight of everyone in the gym but me.
But over the years, my wife made it her mission to remind me when things were not worth getting upset about. On occasion, my natural tendency to get worked up over little things will come out, and she will remind me of the level of importance of said issue. For example, the other day I came home from work, and by my account, every possible light and electronic device in my home was operating. I head upstairs and find my wife giving the kids baths. Now, I don’t know about you, but when I am upstairs taking a bath, I have zero need for a television blaring “Go, Diego, Go” downstairs. I begin my well-rehearsed bit about “When you’re done watching television, you turn it off. And lights? The switches are by the door. You HAVE to walk past them to leave a room unless you go out a window and by my count no one is leaving through a window...”
My wife walked over to greet me. And was it a “How was your day, honey?” How about a “Look, it’s Daddy!”? Oh, no, you can assure yourself it was not. The greeting involved a recount of two tired kids, the end of a long day, a fight involving a peanut butter sandwich and a lamp, one chronically unpantsed little boy, and the calming salvation of a nice big bubble bath. It ended with “So I’m sorry if I didn’t run around and turn off all of the lights, but I was trying to tame wild children.” She also informed me that I had walked past all of the lights and televisions to let her know this, which was a valid point.
But the final point was this: Is it that big of a deal? In the grand scheme of things, yes. Yes it is. Wait — deep breath. OK, so it’s not. You can’t let the little things stress you. Instead, you go into the bathroom and take joy in your kids splashing you at bath time. And, as you’re putting them to sleep, you tell them that this weekend, you’re taking them to the zoo. There’s a goat daddy wants to see.
I was on the phone with my wife at the time. And before you start in on me about talking on the phone while driving, let me assure that I can hold a conversation and not crash my car. I am firmly against banning cell phones while driving, simply because the cell phones are not the problem. It’s people not paying attention. If we are banning driving distractions, we need to add eating, putting on makeup, attempting to discipline children in the way back, changing the radio and shaving (especially legs).
And I know some of you will say, “But, Mike, you should only be driving while driving. Distractions are dangerous.” And to that I say, trust me. I know what I’m doing. Maybe not everyone can, say, write their column while driving on the interstate. But maybe my laptop rests quite nicely on the center console.
So anyhow, I pulled into a spot a few places down and could feel my blood pressure kicking up a couple of notches. After all, someone took my parking place. He might as well have slapped me.
My wife knows me better than anyone. “Stop,” she said. She didn’t have to finish. I sighed, and said, “I know.”
What she meant by “Stop” was:
“Stop, take a deep breath, and realize that it’s not that big of a deal.”
Or, perhaps, “Stop. Do not leave a note on his windshield that reads, ‘Due to your awful driving, something is now missing from your car. Try and find it.’”
Or, even “Stop. Do not approach the driver and say, ‘You took my parking place. It’s go time, tough guy.’”
She was right, of course. There was a time in my life when I would have said something. I would have spontaneously sprinted up to the guy and asked him what happened to the cactus. He would ask, “What cactus?” I would say, “The cactus you traded brains with!” And then whirl away with a triumphant victory dance, too blinded with rage to realize that the previous exchange not only was NOT an excellent put-down, but actually made very little sense.
But I said nothing. I watched him walk away, hoping that karma would be a good friend of mine. It truly brings me comfort to know that this guy, somewhere down the road, will, say, be bitten by a goat at a petting zoo.
The hands of cosmic forces aside, another reason that my temper has calmed over the years is my wife. When we first started dating, I was what some may call a bit of a hothead. Little things would set me off. I remember one time getting upset about some volleyball officiating in an intramural game. I was quite upset, had a few choice words, and stormed out of the gym. And, in a stunning display of idiocy, I tried to make a big showy exit, letting folks know what I thought, as I stormed through the turnstile exit. Unfortunately, I tried to exit through the entrance turnstile, so it did not turn, and I walked square into it, flipping over, much to the delight of everyone in the gym but me.
But over the years, my wife made it her mission to remind me when things were not worth getting upset about. On occasion, my natural tendency to get worked up over little things will come out, and she will remind me of the level of importance of said issue. For example, the other day I came home from work, and by my account, every possible light and electronic device in my home was operating. I head upstairs and find my wife giving the kids baths. Now, I don’t know about you, but when I am upstairs taking a bath, I have zero need for a television blaring “Go, Diego, Go” downstairs. I begin my well-rehearsed bit about “When you’re done watching television, you turn it off. And lights? The switches are by the door. You HAVE to walk past them to leave a room unless you go out a window and by my count no one is leaving through a window...”
My wife walked over to greet me. And was it a “How was your day, honey?” How about a “Look, it’s Daddy!”? Oh, no, you can assure yourself it was not. The greeting involved a recount of two tired kids, the end of a long day, a fight involving a peanut butter sandwich and a lamp, one chronically unpantsed little boy, and the calming salvation of a nice big bubble bath. It ended with “So I’m sorry if I didn’t run around and turn off all of the lights, but I was trying to tame wild children.” She also informed me that I had walked past all of the lights and televisions to let her know this, which was a valid point.
But the final point was this: Is it that big of a deal? In the grand scheme of things, yes. Yes it is. Wait — deep breath. OK, so it’s not. You can’t let the little things stress you. Instead, you go into the bathroom and take joy in your kids splashing you at bath time. And, as you’re putting them to sleep, you tell them that this weekend, you’re taking them to the zoo. There’s a goat daddy wants to see.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Bugging out
The bugs have turned on Parker.
He has been good to the bugs. My son is a bug huntin’ maniac. Loves him some bugs. Given the option between hunting bugs and, well, anything, Parker opts for bugs. He turns over logs. He digs in the dirt. We have even buried milk jugs part ways into the ground for little bug habitat – his bug jugs – so he can check his bugs out whenever he wants.
And then, the other day, the bugs turned. They had never been harmed. Parker was always very careful with them, making sure they had plenty of leaves and dirt and such. Apparently, this message did not get through to all of those in the bug realm.
We were at my parents’ house, and Parker was helping my dad fill a bird feeder. I was inside, trying to get my little nephew to sleep. We were strolling around the downstairs, my heart filled with the warm and soothing feeling of knowing that, there in my arms, was a child who could start crying at any minute and – this is the part that kinda chokes me up – I could simply return him! He sleeps, I’m a hero. He cries – “Do you need Mommy?” Sorry. Tangent.
Anyhow, my nephew and I were chilling out when I heard Parker scream. I am well in tune to my children’s various cries of panic, and usually I can sense when the blood curdling yelp is because someone won’t share the green crayon.
This was not a crayon scream. I made my way to a window and saw Parker flailing his arms, screaming at the top of his lungs. My dad was standing over him swatting the air. I immediately threw my nephew onto the couch and ran to help. (Ha! Just a little joke there to see if my sister’s reading.)
Actually, I contributed by opening the door as Parker ran inside, a horde of concerned folks trailing him.
“What happened?” I asked.
“AHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!” Parker wailed through tears.
“Uh...”
My dad stepped through the door and translated the incoherent scream was apparently an attempt to tell me that a wasp had stung him. He pulled the top off of the bird feeder for my dad and a wasp zipped out from its brand new nest and planted one on Parker’s hand. After some ice and some Benadryl (it’s quite delish on the rocks), the pain began to subside and the swelling on his hand went down. He did convince his sucker aunt that mini Hershey bars would make it feel better, too. Well played, Parker, well played.
So the next day, the sting was behind us. My wife and kids were swimming, and I was inside. I noticed a rather big commotion and everyone sprinting to get out of the pool. “AHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!” I heard Parker scream. Uh-oh.
This time, a yellow jacket had zipped down and zapped him on his thumb. And, as anyone who has ever come in contact with them knows, yellow jackets were created in a dark cosmic vortex where pure evil mated with burning hatred and the offspring grew wings, a stinger and an incredibly bad disposition.
For what it’s worth, for my daughter Allie, who has never been a huge fan of the creepy crawlies, this pretty much sealed the deal on her stance. That stance, of course, is that bugs live under logs and are perfectly fine there. It didn’t help matters that at the start of the weekend, we were at my parents’ house and there was a great big click beetle in a jar. Click beetles are these really cool beetles that, well, click. They snap their body when you hold them, and they’ll flip over. I was trying to get Allie to hold it, and she was a little tentative. “It won’t hurt you. I promise. Look, even Grandma will hold it.”
My mother shot me a rather nasty look, but extended her hand regardless, knowing I had committed her to this little life lesson for Allie. About the time the click beetle hit my mom’s hand, we learned that the normally kind click beetle has pincers and, when they opt to use them, can draw blood. Grandma was not too happy about having a click beetle attached to her hand or the blood now dripping down. I also found that laughing hysterically does not, in fact, make a beetle let go of human flesh.
But back to The Dude. Parker is still, amazingly, a big fan of bugs. He’s not going to let a couple of stings slow him down. In fact, he even told us that he still likes all bugs, but just doesn’t want to touch the “pokey ones.” I think that’s fair enough. We’ll keep up our bug hunts and just make sure we avoid pokey ones. And probably click beetles.
He has been good to the bugs. My son is a bug huntin’ maniac. Loves him some bugs. Given the option between hunting bugs and, well, anything, Parker opts for bugs. He turns over logs. He digs in the dirt. We have even buried milk jugs part ways into the ground for little bug habitat – his bug jugs – so he can check his bugs out whenever he wants.
And then, the other day, the bugs turned. They had never been harmed. Parker was always very careful with them, making sure they had plenty of leaves and dirt and such. Apparently, this message did not get through to all of those in the bug realm.
We were at my parents’ house, and Parker was helping my dad fill a bird feeder. I was inside, trying to get my little nephew to sleep. We were strolling around the downstairs, my heart filled with the warm and soothing feeling of knowing that, there in my arms, was a child who could start crying at any minute and – this is the part that kinda chokes me up – I could simply return him! He sleeps, I’m a hero. He cries – “Do you need Mommy?” Sorry. Tangent.
Anyhow, my nephew and I were chilling out when I heard Parker scream. I am well in tune to my children’s various cries of panic, and usually I can sense when the blood curdling yelp is because someone won’t share the green crayon.
This was not a crayon scream. I made my way to a window and saw Parker flailing his arms, screaming at the top of his lungs. My dad was standing over him swatting the air. I immediately threw my nephew onto the couch and ran to help. (Ha! Just a little joke there to see if my sister’s reading.)
Actually, I contributed by opening the door as Parker ran inside, a horde of concerned folks trailing him.
“What happened?” I asked.
“AHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!” Parker wailed through tears.
“Uh...”
My dad stepped through the door and translated the incoherent scream was apparently an attempt to tell me that a wasp had stung him. He pulled the top off of the bird feeder for my dad and a wasp zipped out from its brand new nest and planted one on Parker’s hand. After some ice and some Benadryl (it’s quite delish on the rocks), the pain began to subside and the swelling on his hand went down. He did convince his sucker aunt that mini Hershey bars would make it feel better, too. Well played, Parker, well played.
So the next day, the sting was behind us. My wife and kids were swimming, and I was inside. I noticed a rather big commotion and everyone sprinting to get out of the pool. “AHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!” I heard Parker scream. Uh-oh.
This time, a yellow jacket had zipped down and zapped him on his thumb. And, as anyone who has ever come in contact with them knows, yellow jackets were created in a dark cosmic vortex where pure evil mated with burning hatred and the offspring grew wings, a stinger and an incredibly bad disposition.
For what it’s worth, for my daughter Allie, who has never been a huge fan of the creepy crawlies, this pretty much sealed the deal on her stance. That stance, of course, is that bugs live under logs and are perfectly fine there. It didn’t help matters that at the start of the weekend, we were at my parents’ house and there was a great big click beetle in a jar. Click beetles are these really cool beetles that, well, click. They snap their body when you hold them, and they’ll flip over. I was trying to get Allie to hold it, and she was a little tentative. “It won’t hurt you. I promise. Look, even Grandma will hold it.”
My mother shot me a rather nasty look, but extended her hand regardless, knowing I had committed her to this little life lesson for Allie. About the time the click beetle hit my mom’s hand, we learned that the normally kind click beetle has pincers and, when they opt to use them, can draw blood. Grandma was not too happy about having a click beetle attached to her hand or the blood now dripping down. I also found that laughing hysterically does not, in fact, make a beetle let go of human flesh.
But back to The Dude. Parker is still, amazingly, a big fan of bugs. He’s not going to let a couple of stings slow him down. In fact, he even told us that he still likes all bugs, but just doesn’t want to touch the “pokey ones.” I think that’s fair enough. We’ll keep up our bug hunts and just make sure we avoid pokey ones. And probably click beetles.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Phase in
So a friend of mine from college is on month two of being a dad. I asked him what he had learned so far, and, among the many things, he said, “There is nothing in the world that compares to your child looking at you for the first time.”
Clearly, he is still in the AWWWWW!!! Phase. Being the cynical old coot that I am, I informed him that this adorable phase for new parents is, indeed, a time of deep and meaningful sentimental milestones. But it will pass. Sure, it still tugs at the heart strings when your kids go through signature events in life, but let’s be honest here – there are many more phases than your run-of-the-mill sitting up, taking a step, vomiting on a relative for the first time, etc. Among some of the phases parents will pass:
1. The “Crying? Don’t really hear it” Phase – It is emotionally wrenching for new parents to hear their new baby cry. You know what cures that? Having a second child. It used to tear me up to hear Allie cry. Parker? Not so much. There was no pacing the hall by his door, reaching for the door knob, trying to stop the compulsion to run in and grab him. Rather, my wife and I would have this conversation:
ME: Is he fed?
HER: Yep.
ME: Dry?
HER: Yep.
ME: Any wolves, cheetahs, griffins, etc. in the room?
HER: Nope.
ME: ’Night.
2. The Oatmeal Badge of Honor Phase – This comes shortly after the mini phase of “Spit is a Good Face Cleaner.” While you may have at one point cared about walking out of the house with a big streaking drool line down the back of your shirt, you know there is no point in changing clothes every time a baby leaves a little surprise on you. And sleeping kids? Love them some drooling. Walk into any store and check out the shoulder of most any parent of a small child there. Drool marks. And if you mention it to a parent in this phase, they will more than likely be happy to turn over the laundry duties to you, Mr. No Spittle on the Shoulder.
3. The Why Fight It? Phase – This is when you realize certain battles are not worth the fight. It is during this phase when you say things like:
“Fine. Smear it on your head. Some might actually get into your mouth and that will constitute breakfast.”
“Sure, you can wear a princess dress to school. But you do realize that GIRLS are princesses, right, son?”
“Hey, if that’s what you want to use for a pillow, fine. But your bed AND your head will smell like ham.”
4. The “You’ll Be Fine” Phase – When you are first a parent, the idea of your child hurting is gut wrenching. After a while, you realize that children are some of the clutziest creatures on the planet, and if you invest emotional involvement in every bump, scrape and ouchee, you will have nothing but worry. Case in point: The other day, Parker came to my wife and me and said, “I’m bleeding.” Both of us, without even looking, said, “You’ll be fine.” Guess what? He was fine. In fact, once we looked at it, we even debated with him whether you can technically even call a hangnail bleeding. (He says yes. We say no.)
5. The Defensive Posture Phase – This is also known as the “LEG SWIVEL BLOCK!!!! Phase” This is a phase that only the dads enter, and we learn it quickly as soon as our children become mobile. One solid headbutt will make you realize there is a definite design flaw in humans.
6. The “Love Me All You Want, But You’re Not Getting a Pony” Phase – Allie is 6, and has decided to turn affection into a bargaining chip. Yes, it’s all sweet and good and nice, but she has turned “I love yous” and “I want a hug” into the biggest manipulation tools. She will get out of bed or come out from her room that she’s supposed to be cleaning. When you ask her what she’s doing, she bats those Puss in Boots eyes and says, “I just wanted to give you a hug, daddy...” For what it’s worth, it no longer works. My response is usually something to the effect of: “You want a hug? Make your bed. Then come talk to me.”
7. The “Oh, It’s Fine. Just eat it” Phase – Much like the crying phase, having a second child helps you to enter this phase. I am not saying we rub everything in dirt before feeding to the kids, but some Crunch Berries bouncing onto the counter do not disqualify them from being put back into the cereal bowl.
8. The “Don’t Make Me Sell You” Phase – By the time your children get to be 4 or so, they are well versed in the ways of the world, and certainly know that parents cannot, in fact, return kids to the spaceship that brought them here; make a child sleep in the neighbor’s shed; serve them roasted possum for dinner. So, you can serve up threats that make you feel better, but that your child knows are so hyperbolic they are almost certain that you will not, in fact, mail them to the circus if they do not get off of the back of the sofa.
Sure, there are tons of phases in the same genre as the AWWWWW!!! Phase. But let’s be honest here – what do you have more instances of – first steps or first time your child tries to hide behind a couch and eat a whole can of Vienna sausages? Same here. Welcome to the Parental Acceptance Phase.
Clearly, he is still in the AWWWWW!!! Phase. Being the cynical old coot that I am, I informed him that this adorable phase for new parents is, indeed, a time of deep and meaningful sentimental milestones. But it will pass. Sure, it still tugs at the heart strings when your kids go through signature events in life, but let’s be honest here – there are many more phases than your run-of-the-mill sitting up, taking a step, vomiting on a relative for the first time, etc. Among some of the phases parents will pass:
1. The “Crying? Don’t really hear it” Phase – It is emotionally wrenching for new parents to hear their new baby cry. You know what cures that? Having a second child. It used to tear me up to hear Allie cry. Parker? Not so much. There was no pacing the hall by his door, reaching for the door knob, trying to stop the compulsion to run in and grab him. Rather, my wife and I would have this conversation:
ME: Is he fed?
HER: Yep.
ME: Dry?
HER: Yep.
ME: Any wolves, cheetahs, griffins, etc. in the room?
HER: Nope.
ME: ’Night.
2. The Oatmeal Badge of Honor Phase – This comes shortly after the mini phase of “Spit is a Good Face Cleaner.” While you may have at one point cared about walking out of the house with a big streaking drool line down the back of your shirt, you know there is no point in changing clothes every time a baby leaves a little surprise on you. And sleeping kids? Love them some drooling. Walk into any store and check out the shoulder of most any parent of a small child there. Drool marks. And if you mention it to a parent in this phase, they will more than likely be happy to turn over the laundry duties to you, Mr. No Spittle on the Shoulder.
3. The Why Fight It? Phase – This is when you realize certain battles are not worth the fight. It is during this phase when you say things like:
“Fine. Smear it on your head. Some might actually get into your mouth and that will constitute breakfast.”
“Sure, you can wear a princess dress to school. But you do realize that GIRLS are princesses, right, son?”
“Hey, if that’s what you want to use for a pillow, fine. But your bed AND your head will smell like ham.”
4. The “You’ll Be Fine” Phase – When you are first a parent, the idea of your child hurting is gut wrenching. After a while, you realize that children are some of the clutziest creatures on the planet, and if you invest emotional involvement in every bump, scrape and ouchee, you will have nothing but worry. Case in point: The other day, Parker came to my wife and me and said, “I’m bleeding.” Both of us, without even looking, said, “You’ll be fine.” Guess what? He was fine. In fact, once we looked at it, we even debated with him whether you can technically even call a hangnail bleeding. (He says yes. We say no.)
5. The Defensive Posture Phase – This is also known as the “LEG SWIVEL BLOCK!!!! Phase” This is a phase that only the dads enter, and we learn it quickly as soon as our children become mobile. One solid headbutt will make you realize there is a definite design flaw in humans.
6. The “Love Me All You Want, But You’re Not Getting a Pony” Phase – Allie is 6, and has decided to turn affection into a bargaining chip. Yes, it’s all sweet and good and nice, but she has turned “I love yous” and “I want a hug” into the biggest manipulation tools. She will get out of bed or come out from her room that she’s supposed to be cleaning. When you ask her what she’s doing, she bats those Puss in Boots eyes and says, “I just wanted to give you a hug, daddy...” For what it’s worth, it no longer works. My response is usually something to the effect of: “You want a hug? Make your bed. Then come talk to me.”
7. The “Oh, It’s Fine. Just eat it” Phase – Much like the crying phase, having a second child helps you to enter this phase. I am not saying we rub everything in dirt before feeding to the kids, but some Crunch Berries bouncing onto the counter do not disqualify them from being put back into the cereal bowl.
8. The “Don’t Make Me Sell You” Phase – By the time your children get to be 4 or so, they are well versed in the ways of the world, and certainly know that parents cannot, in fact, return kids to the spaceship that brought them here; make a child sleep in the neighbor’s shed; serve them roasted possum for dinner. So, you can serve up threats that make you feel better, but that your child knows are so hyperbolic they are almost certain that you will not, in fact, mail them to the circus if they do not get off of the back of the sofa.
Sure, there are tons of phases in the same genre as the AWWWWW!!! Phase. But let’s be honest here – what do you have more instances of – first steps or first time your child tries to hide behind a couch and eat a whole can of Vienna sausages? Same here. Welcome to the Parental Acceptance Phase.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)