Friday, August 24, 2007

Bring the pain

Always nice to come up with a new and exciting way to injure myself.

Anyone who has known me for a while knows that I can injure myself in the most unorthodox ways, including:

1. Shooting myself in the hand with a BB gun

2. Extending a ladder only to have a nest of fire ants fall on my head

3. Breaking my hand on my headboard in my sleep

4. Smashing my shoulder while trying to "ski" down a very wet, steep road

5. Having a pet snake escape from his cage and then bite my finger while I tried to retrieve him from under a shelf, and having to get my mother to pry his mouth open with a screwdriver while the snake did its level best to wrap itself around the shelf.

So, in short, if there is a moronic injury to have, I'll get it. I figured at 34 years old, I was finally beyond some of the dumber ways of injuring myself. Sounds like a challenge, huh?

I was in the pool with my kids, and we were having a big ol' time. My daughter, Allie, was very excited because she had finally learned how to do handstands and underwater somersaults.

I was in the pool with her, watching her do her handstands, somersaults, and occasional gulping of water when she stopped the somersault while upside down.

She asked me how many somersaults I could do underwater. "Ten," I told her confidently.

Let's just say that at about spin number eight, I (a) had roughly a third of the pool in my nose and (b) had no idea which way was up, which is always a good thing in the pool. (Just to let you know, my wife was there, so an adult was present.)

"So," you say, "that doesn't sound like a bad injury, Mike!" And I say you are right. Because that was not the injury. That just illustrates to you that my judgment had already been turned off.

The injury occurred a while later. Allie was again doing handstands, and I asked her how high she could push herself out of the water. She looked at me with a puzzled look on her face, and asked what I meant. I told her that when she was underwater on her hands, she should do what amounted to a vertical push-up and see just how far out of the water she could push herself. Still a blank stare.

It was time to show her. "Watch," I said. I went underwater and into a handstand. As I lowered myself to the bottom, I prepared to push off, springing myself out of the water, upside down. No, I wasn't expecting to spring fully out of the water, but figured with a good push I could get my legs out, and maybe a little ways past the waist.

As I prepared to push off, I felt myself drifting back a little, so I adjusted my hands underneath me to make sure I was completely vertical. I did this a few more times, just to steady myself, and I was ready.

With a mighty push, I launched myself as hard as I could. And about one second later is when I had about as close to a blackout from pain as I recall. During my shifting, I had drifted toward the side and in brilliant fashion I launched myself up over the side of the pool, and my legs came crashing down on the concrete.

I hit the concrete just above my knees. I had a feeling similar to the one when I broke my ribs playing flag football. (You know how they say some athletes "leave it all on the field"? I left it ALL on the field that day.)

My wife had a look of horror on her face, and she started immediately apologizing to me. As I hobbled around, stifling the primal vocabulary trying to erupt from me, I said through clenched teeth, "What are you sorry for?"

Apparently, my wife sorta saw the whole thing unfold, and felt as though there was something she could have done from the other side of the pool.

Perhaps she could have shot some Aquaman-style rings at me, except that rather than calling fish, these would have somehow made me not an idiot. She later told me that she should have put a stop to it when I first thought of trying it, because she should have known that it would have played out like that. I concur.

So my legs felt GREAT for the next couple of days. When I woke up the next morning, it was a real blast getting out of bed. My wife asked me how my legs felt. "They feel like someone hit me with a concrete pool deck."

Pretty much everything I did hurt. I tried to kneel down to help my son get his bike helmet. I considered just staying knelt for the rest of the day. When I was sitting on the couch later and Parker jumped in my lap, he seemed quite perplexed by the tiny little whimpers I was letting out.

By the next day, the bruises had started developing quite nicely. A true badge of dishonor. The pain has pretty much gone away at this point, and I am guessing I will not have any lasting damage, save for the damage to my pride. Hopefully, this will be the last moronic injury I sustain. Assuming my wife stops me in time.

Contact Michael Gibbons at mgibbons

Friday, August 17, 2007

Gone fishin'

A big sign out front of the building said “Live Bait,” but that was the only thing giving the slightest hint that the ramshackle building was anything more than an abandoned storage shed.
I slowed down, to the point where a motorist behind me honked his horn, probably cursing at the stinking South Carolina tourist who was always ruining his beloved Emerald Coast. “No way that’s it,” I told Parker. He didn’t care, as we had just stopped at the drugstore for a few items, and he had scored a box of Tic-Tacs. Tic-Tacs — half mint, half maracas. Double score.
I pulled into the parking lot, which was more of a carved-out corner of the lot where the building sat. The sign on the door told me they were open. Guess this was the place my mother-in-law had sent me.
Inside were three guys who looked as though they ran a bait shop. And I actually mean that in a nice way. They were somewhat rough around the edges, but in a manner of men who had spent a lot of time in the elements. They were courteous to me, but especially chatty with Parker, asking him what he planned to catch. (“Shark or gator” was his answer.)
The oldest man behind the counter approached me. It became evident quickly that I had very little idea what I was doing.
HIM: So what are you looking for?
ME: Bait.
HIM: UH, yeah, what kind?
ME: Worms.
HIM: OK, what kind?
ME: There’s more than one kind of worm?
HIM: Yeah, we’ve got wigglers, earthworms and nightcrawlers.
ME:
HIM: What are you fishing for?
ME: Look, it’s for him and his sister, and we’re looking to bait a Shrek fishing pole and a Barbie fishing pole.
HIM: Then wigglers it is.
He handed me a blue tub with some holes punched in the lid. Parker opened, grabbed a few worms out and examined them. Parker approved.
We got back to my in-laws’ house and readied for our fishing trip. My father-in-law prepared the rods for the trip, and we headed out on the dock, about a hundred yards into the bay. We baited both of the kids’ hooks, and they dropped their lines in the water. Parker, on occasion, got a little distracted at what his sister was doing and would wander over to where she was fishing, dragging the line behind him, so that the only fish he would be able to catch would be one that flopped up on the dock and got snagged by the hook.
Allie, however, was very focused. She stood, her eyes glued to the bobber. A couple of times it moved a little, a sure sign something was down below checking out he very tasty wiggler offering. Then — poof! It was gone.
There are several things someone might utter when their bobber goes under. “I got one!” Perhaps, “Caught a fish!” Maybe even, “Here we go!” Allie, opted for, “AHHHHHH!” And then she dropped the fishing pole and looked at me and her granddaddy. “Get it,” she said, to either of us in particular.
I picked up the Barbie fishing rod and went to lift the line to the dock. And what did I find at the other end? A six-hour fight that would yield a 400-pound marlin.
Oh, wait, my mistake. It was about a 4-inch fish that I will say was a bluegill. Allie showed her enthusiasm by standing behind granddaddy, clutching his legs, because if there is one thing to be scared of, it’s a 4-inch fish with a hook sticking through the top of its head.
Parker, a lover of animals, rushed over to check out Allie’s catch. I had to keep him at bay because I did not want him to get stabbed by the fish’s fin or the hook.
When I finally got the hook out of the mouth, I held it up for Allie to see. “That’s nice. Now put it in the water.” I am not sure, but she may have been bullied by a fish at some point in life.
She ended up catching a couple more fish over the next few days, and Parker found that fishing required a patience that he had not quite mastered. He found his evening hermit crab hunt was far more rewarding. Not only were the catches frequent and easy, but you could also chunk your catch back into the water in a way that was not only satisfying but, as we convinced ourselves, harmless to the crab.
So while my kids may never be the weathered old souls at the bait shop, it is good to know they have a little bit of water loving in them. Next time we head down there, we may upgrade Allie to a less Barbie-themed fishing pole. And Parker? It may be time to graduate from wigglers to something more designed to snag shark or gator.

Thursday, August 09, 2007

Lucky number 7

There will only be one day in my life where I am woken up by my daughter saying this: “I’M SEVEN!!!”
Ah, the vault-you-out-of-bed power of your seventh birthday. Better than coffee.
Allie embraced her day and was quick to remind everyone that it was HER birthday:
– “Daddy, it’s my birthday, so I want cake for breakfast.”
– “Mommy, it’s my birthday, so I’ll wear what I want and you can’t say it doesn’t match.”
– “Parker, it’s my birthday, so go draw on the walls and don’t tell anyone I told you to do it. And give the dog a haircut.”
We asked Allie what she wanted, party-wise, and she said that she wanted a family picnic. Yes, yes, cue the “Awws.” But I think this was thought out. Allie knows how big her family is. Remember – this is the child who has a photograph from when she was 20 minutes old with her six – SIX – grandparents lined up behind the proud parents and new baby. A family picnic can mean a good two or three dozen people. I think this was calculated, the little weasel.
Her seventh birthday was, of course, pause for reflection for my wife and me. For one thing, it was seven years ago to this day, I said the dumbest thing I have ever said: “I have GOT to get some sleep.” You see, it was that day, Aug. 8, 2000, that we brought home Allie from the hospital. And guess what – Mommy was a little tired. And Mommy made it pretty clear that the previous couple of nights, when I was at home in my bed, NOT being woken up by nurses every few hours to be poked and prodded and have a little wiggly creature thrown in my lap, I could have banked a few hours of shuteye.
But before we knew it, we were in a routine. And the sleepless nights are distant memories at this point. Rather, I reflect on some fond memories of the past seven years:
1. Convincing my daughter that we were not going to be eaten by sharks. We were in the Florida Keys, and for some reason my wife let me take my daughter parasailing. “Are there sharks down there, Daddy?” “God I hope not,” I replied confidently.
2. Seeing my daughter enjoy the effects of anesthesia. After roughly 43,000 ear infections, Allie had her adenoids removed. After they gave her something to relax her before the surgery, she laughed at how the nurses were twins. (There was only one nurse.) And Daddy? Three hands. (I am pretty sure I have only two.)
3. Seeing her first haircut. And the look on her mother’s face when she saw her first haircut. Oh, did I mention that I gave her the haircut?
4. Having the realization that children will mimic their parents, which is very flattering, until you realize how they will mimic without discrimination, including when Daddy is working on the pipe under the sink and bumps his head.
5. Seeing her reaction to her new baby brother, which was one of extreme joy and pride, rather than what it could have been, which was to test her skills at hiding things.
6. Realizing that she thinks Daddy can fix ANYTHING, as she hands me a Barbie doll with a missing leg and no hair.
7. Realizing that I can still do a sleight of hand with a different Barbie doll and make her think I can fix ANYTHING.
8. Having to relinquish any responsibilities I have for picking out my daughter’s clothes because, as she put it, “Daddy, I want to wear something pretty.” Well excuse me if a pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt isn’t pretty. It’s all I know.
9. Realizing that, even though they may scrap on occasions, she loves her brother. I base this on the fact that whenever he hurts himself (which is far more often than Allie does), she tries to drown out his crying by singing at the top of her lungs, often making up such song lyrics as:
Parker, please stop crying
I wish he would stop
I don’t like it when cries
Mommy, Daddy do something
Stop crying. Stop crying.
If you don’t make him stop you have to get me a pony.
10. Knowing that, even though she – as she is quick to remind us – is already 7 years old, there is still a lot of little girl in her. Take, for example, the look on her face when she saw her new bike. That will forever be etched in my memory – the eyes wide open, the mouth agape, the sheer and utter shock at what she saw. Come to think of it, it’s the same look her mother gave when she saw Allie’s first haircut.

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Hannah vs. Elvis

Children are always going to say embarrassing things in public. It’s what they do. Among some of my children’s finest moments:
At the grocery store: “DADDY!!! Let’s get beer!!!”
At Lowe’s: “Why can’t we go to Home Depot?”
At a department store: “Daddy, I forgot underwear.”
But the one that truly had me anticipating odd looks of other patrons was in the grocery store when my daughter, without prompt, announced, “Dad, Hannah Montana is WAY cooler than Elvis.”
I looked around and saw several people staring at me, probably wondering what in the world led to this conversation. What led to the conversation was a mistake I frequently make: I tried to teach my kids something.
Earlier in the day, we were cleaning the house. I had some music playing a random disc of songs. My music choices are rather wide-ranging, so the songs may go from Marshall Tucker Band to Pearl Jam to George Strait to Metallica. When Allie came into the room, the Elvis Presley song “In the Ghetto” was playing. As you know, “In the Ghetto” is an uplifting song about a young man getting shot and killed after stealing a car, so what better song to sing to your 6-year-old.
She asked me who was singing, and I told her Elvis. I told her that Elvis was one of the most popular singers ever. I showed her some pictures of him online, and told her how Grandma had seen him in concert years ago. Kinda fun to show your kid concert clips of Elvis and the crowd going nuts, and watching her try to picture Grandma in the mix.
She didn’t seem to grasp just how big Elvis was (insert your own later-years Elvis joke here). I tried to relate, so I went the Hannah Montana rout. For those of you not familiar, Hannah Montana is a show on the Disney Channel about a ninth-grade girl who has a secret life as a pop singer. It’s actually a well-done show, and I have probably watched more episodes of Hannah Montana in the last year than anything I would opt for on my own. The show stars Miley Cyrus, the daughter of Billy Ray Cyrus, who plays her dad on the show as well. The show writers obviously keep in mind parents are watching, because they throw in a mullet haircut joke just for us once in a while.
Anyhow, Hannah Montana is the hot thing right now, at least as far as 6-year-old girls go. She is SOOOO cool, probably the coolest thing EVER. So we had this conversation:
ME: Allie, do you think Hannah Montana is cool?
HER: She is the coolest!
ME: No, I am, but let’s stay on track here. Elvis is about a thousand times cooler than Hannah Montana. THAT’S how cool he was.
HER:
ME: Understand?
HER:
ME: Look, Elvis is the coolest. Or one of the coolest. Along with Frank Sinatra, Han Solo, Rick Blaine, Chili Palmer, John Wayne and George Clooney’s character in “Out of Sight.”
HER: Uh, can I go play now?
So I figured we were done with our pop culture lesson until the grocery store. I tried to remain calm, understanding that she is a child, and she cannot expect to grasp such things. I tried to explain again. I held my hand about waist level. “Allie, if this is Hannah Montana’s level of cool, Elvis’ level would be somewhere up in the sky. It’s not a knock on Hannah. But you’ve got to understand how cool Elvis was.”
“I think Hannah’s cooler.”
“Allie, he wore jumpsuits — and made it work.”
(For what’s it’s worth, Parker’s on my side. Granted, he’s 4, so if you just present it in an excited manner, you can get him on board: “Parker, you know what’s cool — OATMEAL!!!! YEAH!!!!!”)
Perhaps I should just let her have her icon of Hannah Montana. Hannah Montana could, I suppose, grow to super celebrity status one day. (Please, please, please, in the name of Disney teen stars, take the Hillary Duff route, rather than the Lindsay Lohan one.) Who knows, one day she may be explaining to her kids about the iconic status of Hannah Montana. All the while explaining to other shoppers that she does not, in fact, plan to get her kids beer.