Fire. Fire on the legs.

So there we were, having a delightful time by the pool. Allie was swimming and singing, Parker was splashing around and laughing, and I was sitting on the side. Probably whistling. A bluebird may have even perched on my shoulder. Suburban utopia.
Parker decided to hop out and come over to where I was. He stopped about 10 feet from me and got a curious look on his face. It was a mix between confusion and fear. And then came the dance. It was a dance I know well. It was the dance of someone being mauled by fire ants.
In a blur, I went over to grab Parker, all the while he was speeding up the dance and swatting at his legs, screaming, “ANTS! DADDY! ANTS!!!”
I grabbed Parker by the arms and dipped him in the pool. Allie did a backstroke, making sure she was as far removed from any ants as possible. I was holding Parker by the wrists and had him in the water, and he was kicking furiously in the water, screaming in pain. I am fairly certain the bluebird flew away.
My wife wrapped him in a towel and took him inside. I told Allie it was time to get out of the pool, and she looked at me as if I told her it was time to cut off her own ear. “Uh, Daddy – there are ANTS over there.”
I assured her she would be fine, and that I would lift her over the ants in question. After some minor negotiation (“Fine. A pony. And you can get your driver’s license. Yes, and a tattoo.”) I got Allie inside. Parker was sitting on the couch with my wife, and it was clear the ants had not held back. All over his legs were huge welts, and the area around each welt was turning a bright red. And they hurt. Bad. For those of you who have never been bitten by a fire ant, I offer this comparable experience: Heat up a metal shish kabob to 1,000 degrees. Now jab it into your flesh. Repeat.
We tried to put ice on the wounds, but Parker wanted none of that. As bad as the bites felt, he said the ice felt worse. He had close to 20 bites, and his little legs looked just brutal. Eventually, we got him somewhat calmed down.
We gave him some Benadryl, which makes some children sleepy. Parker is not some children. If we could figure out a way to hook Parker up to an energy grid, we could easily power a city the size of Seattle. He was in fast forward mode. He would run to the den, hop on the couch, jump to the table, sprint upstairs, say something like, DaddycanIhaveajuiceboxIlovedinosaursweneedanotherpuppy!” Eventually, we were able to settle him down (I was amazed at my wife’s accuracy with a dart gun), at which point it was time to finish the battle the ants had started.
Sure, I’ve had run-ins with fire ants. The last major one I had with was courtesy of a nest that had taken up in an extension ladder. When I raised the ladder, the ants came raining down on me, bringing about their exceptionally unnecessary viciousness. But I’m a grown-up. I can take it. We settled it like men. Or, at least, one man armed with poison.
But NOBODY bites my kids repeatedly. Except my kids. But I think we have gotten through the biting phases. This was going to be more than straight up poison. This was going to be a message to the other ants.
I went out on the pool deck and found where they were coming from. That was easy because they were coming from, well, everywhere. In between the concrete slabs of the pool deck are these little white plastic spacers. They are apparently hollow, because streaming out of both ends were ants. There are eight of the spacers around the pool, and each of them had a steady stream of ants going from the pool area to the yard. I can only assume that they have a nice little colony underneath my pool area, which I also hope does not suddenly collapse in on itself as a result of their efforts.
So I armed myself with some ant killer and a thirst for vengeance. At each opening, I put a little bit of the powder in, filling the gap.
Normally, that would be enough to take care of it. But they attacked my son. They would pay.
As the ants returned to find their pathway blocked by a deadly white powder, they would begin to cluster around in little groups, clearly not knowing what to do.
So, I took the powder and made little circles around the clusters, trapping in groups of 20 or so ants in a little poison death corral. I then would scream, “NOT SO TOUGH NOW, HUH?” or “ They may bite our children, but they’ll never take ... OUR FREEDOM!!!”
I continued to taunt and isolate the ants, all the while lecturing them on coming in to my yard and disrupting our Rockwellian pool time.
After about an hour, my wife told me to come inside, as she needed my help. And the neighbors were unsettled with my warpaint.
Parker was pretty much healed up after a couple of days, and I think I have cured the ant problem. And hopefully any other ants in the vicinity got the message, leaving me to focus on other issues. Such as how to get Allie a driver’s license.

Life's a beach

It took us a while to figure out — it had been about five years since my wife and I had taken a weekend for just the two of us.
Time flies when you’re knee-deep in diapers.
True, most years we make a pilgrimage back to Alabama for a football game sans kids, but I think most people would agree that a weekend at a fraternity house does not constitute a romantic getaway.
The maid of honor at our wedding was getting married in Hilton Head, and we saw this as a perfect time to enjoy a weekend at the beach.
The wedding was going to be a small affair, with dinner Friday night and the wedding Saturday night, so we would have much of the daytime to spend doing things that did not involve finding a restaurant with a playground.
The wedding itself was to be at a very nice resort right on the beach.
I had made reservations several months prior, at a hotel I was told was “next door.” Apparently, I should have asked for them to be more specific, because “next door” was about a mile away.
Two days before we left, this came to our attention. Actually, it came to my attention via this message from my wife: “Do you know how far away we’re staying from the wedding?”
By her tone, I was fairly certain that she was not actually looking for a measurement.
Instead, I opted for the counter argument of telling her that the rooms at the resort were way more expensive. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. After all, why splurge a little since we get to go out of town every five whole years.”
Clearly, I had some work to do.
So I called the resort and spoke to a very nice woman in Texas named Lisa.
I know she was in Texas because I asked her. I always enjoy hearing someone cheerily answer the phone, tell me her name is something like “Janeane,” and then having her confess that she, in fact, was in New Dehli. I don’t have a problem with call centers being stationed overseas. I just always find it humorous.
So Lisa asked what she could do for me. I laid it out for her in plain terms: “I’m in the doghouse. We’re going to a wedding in Hilton Head, and I tried to book a room on the cheap. My wife is not very happy with me.”
Lisa told me that they did have rooms, but the wedding rate deadline had passed. I asked how much the rate would be. Way more than twice our current reservation rate at the Walk-a-Ways Inn.
I sighed. I was ready to bite the bullet when I figured it was worth asking: “Are there any rate discounts you might be able to give me? I am both cheap and in the doghouse, which presents a rather difficult dilemma.”
I heard her pecking away on her keyboard. “Let’s see.” Peck, peck, peck. When she came back with a new rate, I asked her to repeat it. Indeed, it was only a few bucks more than our current reservation.
She asked me if we wanted a king size or two queens. I told her that I felt confident a king would suffice.
Showing she had a good sense of humor, she told me that, as a precaution, she would have extra blankets sent to the room in case I needed to use the floor.
When we got into Hilton Head, we checked into our room and found that Lisa had done us right — we had a nice big balcony, overlooking the pool area and the ocean.
The dinner that night was nice, a cookout on a deck overlooking the ocean during which my wife got to catch up with lots of friends from high school.
That night, we both went to sleep looking forward to sleeping in as late as we possibly could. No alarms, no atomic elbow drops from a flying 4-year-old.
And cue 7 a.m. Apparently, we can’t sleep in like we used to.
After a nice breakfast (again, by the beach), we headed out to go shopping in Hilton Head. We went to Harbour Town and found that the Hilton Head approach to stores is to (a) make them as small as possible (b) fill them with as much merchandise as possible and (c) encourage people who like to stand still for 10-12 minutes at a time to block the entranceways.
I’m all for quaint, but I have no desire to be blocked in a tiny, round store just so that I get my son a shirt with an alligator on it.
The wedding itself was on the beach and was a beautiful and scenic affair. Another wedding had ended a while earlier and was holding their reception at a nearby pavilion.
It was a touching scene to see the bride and groom exchange rings as “Macarena” blared from next door.
After the reception, my wife and I concluded the evening in the most perfect way possible — we sat on our balcony overlooking the ocean for a while, and then retired inside and fell asleep to the soothing sounds of South Florida beating Auburn in overtime.
It was a well deserved and relaxing vacation, although we both were ready to get back to the kids by Sunday.
I think it’s important that couples on occasion take time for themselves. I can’t wait to do it again in 2012.

A swimming success

Victory is mine. Parker can swim.
At the beginning of the summer, I told my wife that I would have him swimming by the end of the summer. And we both stuck to it and accomplished our goal, meaning he can start having dinner again.
Ha! Little parenting humor there! Moving on...
Having a pool in our backyard is a tremendous amount of fun. It is also tremendously terrifying. When we bought the house, the pool was just sitting there, a 20,000-gallon rectangular pond in my backyard. When Allie was about two, we were walking around the side of the pool, and, despite the fact that I was holding her hand, she was doing one of those staggering, leaning walks that two-year olds do, and stepped right off the edge into the pool. We were at the shallow end, and I immediately pulled her out, but the split second shot of her looking up at me from under the water terrifies me to this day. The next day, my wife and I were shopping for fences to put around the pool deck.
Despite the comfort of the fence around the pool, we still had very strict rules on pool use. They can only go out there with adults, no running, keep the jet ski under 40 mph, etc.
Allie is a very good swimmer which is a comforting fact. However, at the beginning of the summer, Parker was, well, not. He wore a little life vest when he swam, which we referred to as his “bubble” for some reason. One thing that always disturbed me about “bubbles” and the like is that it gives the kids the false confidence they can swim. The bubble is a lot of fun, though, because he can just paddle around the pool, floating here and there. However, it’s not swimming, and it was key that we get him in fish mode.
In order to wean him off the bubble, I started with a rule: He could not go in the deep end unless he had his bubble on. He could touch at the shallow end, so he would sometimes opt to go without the bubble and just hang in the shallow end. But the allure of the deep blue deep end was great, and he would yearn to travel out there where his sister was swimming around. In order to encourage him to swim, I would stand down at the deep end and say, “WHAT’S THE MATTER, LITTLE BABY – CAN’T SWIM!?!?! BOO-HOO, BABY!!!” And then Allie and I would point and laugh.
Ha! A little more parenting humor there! (I cannot vouch for whether or not Big Sister may have mocked just a smidge.)
So when Parker said he wanted to swim to the deep end, I told him he had to start swimming on his own before he could go. We started in the shallow end, where I would stand about five feet away, and he would stand on the steps. He would launch himself toward me, flailing his arms and legs, slowly sinking underwater. He would stand up, spewing water, hacking and snorting as he emerged. Not exactly a stellar beginning. We kept trying and he eventually got to where he would go for about 8-10 feet, although he always concluded with sinking to the bottom at the end. Fine at the shallow end. Not so fine for someone wanting to go to the deep end.
When Allie learned to swim, there was a point when it just sort of clicked. All at once, everything fell into place for her, and she started gliding across the water. I kept waiting for that moment with the Parker. Then, one day, he was standing on the steps and he said, “Daddy, watch this!” I was about 10 feet from him, expecting him to have that click-on moment. Instead, what he did is, well, odd. He dove underwater, belly almost touching the bottom, and swam, kicking his feet together like a dolphin all the way to me, and popped out of the water still holding his breath. Sure that it was an accident, I put him back on the steps and told him to do it again. Again, down underwater, and he just dolphined on over to me, not coming up for air until he reached me. Perhaps this is normal, but it sure seems odd to me that he could swim UNDER the water, but not ON TOP of the water.
We kept working on the above water swimming, but every time he would start to sink, he would just go into Flipper mode and go torpedoing underwater. Again, all well and good when you can stand up when you get done.
So the other day, he asked if I could carry him on my back into the deep end. We swam to the other side, and he grabbed onto the wall. Just to see what happened, I pushed back way from the wall and told Parker to swim to me. CLICK. He pushed off and starting furiously paddling toward me, his head high above water. I kept swimming backwards, and he kept swimming toward me, until before he knew it we were in the shallow end. The next step was to master jumping into the deep end and swimming. I told him to jump and swim to me, as I treaded water in the deep end. “Will I sink?” he asked me.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I told him.
He jumped and, with a few quick strokes, was on top of the water, swimming furiously toward me. He could swim.
While I will never feel comfortable letting children swim without an adult present, it’s nice to know that both of them are at the level where they can hold their own. Next summer, Parker will continue to improve, and the pool will be more and more fun. For one thing, he’ll now be able to take the jet ski to the deep end.

Swing town

Allie's eyes lit up when she opened the birthday present and saw the multi-colored wooden swing, which we told her we would hang at Grandma and Grandpa's house.

I am fortunate in that my kids love the basic toys. Fire trucks, swings, blocks, etc. I am sure they would love video games given the option, but since I told them video games do not exist and that anyone saying they had one was telling lies seems to have stemmed that tide.

When we got over to my parents' house, my dad and I pulled the swing out of the box in preparation of finding the perfect tree to hang it from. Unfortunately, the swing only came with an 8 foot rope, and anyone who knows anything about swings knows that 8 feet is nowhere near enough rope to be able to get you to a dangerous - and therefore fun - height.

So my dad went into the garage and found some more rope, and then we set off to find the perfect tree. We stood there in the backyard, and we were both thinking the same thing - man, I wish that tree was still there.

My parents' backyard has a nice, gentle slope. There are woods in the back, and when I was a kid, there was a path right thorough the middle of the woods. About halfway down the path was a great big tree that towered up into the canopy and gently arched over the pathway. I remember vividly as a kid when my dad shimmied to the part of the arching tree just over the path - easily 40 feet up - and tied a rope to the tree. At the other end we attached a tire and had the quintessential makeshift American swing.

The beauty of the swing is that you could get a nice running start and swoop down the hill, so that at the apex of the swing, you were quite high up. (I would give an estimate, but someone far better at geometry than I would probably correct me based on my guess of the tree height.) Regardless, you were quite high up, high enough to break my sister's arm when she plummeted from the tire swing as a kid. Good times.

But alas, Mother Nature had taken that tree down, and the path has grown up somewhat, so that even if you DID manage to swing through there, you would be playing a rather painful game of woodland pinball.

My dad and I agreed that we would consider clearing a new path in the near future, but for now we would find a slightly less awesome tree branch to attach the swing to. We found one close to the house, probably about 15-20 feet high. We attached the swing, and Allie was swinging away in no time, having an absolute blast. Of course, then my wife and mom had to come out and ruin the fun by asking, "Why is she jumping from a ladder onto the swing?"

Clearly, they aren't even trying to enjoy the swing experience. "To get more air," I responded casually. You see, you back the ladder up, climb up a few steps, and launch - a good enough swing and you can even come back and hit the ladder on your return flight.

I tried to calm my wife by explaining to her that our swing when we were kids was even higher and more dangerous. Apparently, she doesn't accept the argument that the one we had as children actually broke children's bones, so this was safe.

Of course, plenty of the playground stuff we had as kids was awesomely dangerous and, in fact, tire-related. I remember in elementary school when two of the most coveted playground toys were giant tractor tires. We would curl up in them and push each other around the playground. Occasionally, we would line up and roll into each other. Last tire standing won! Ah, nothing like the fun of spinning inside a tractor tire that, if it fell on you, would probably crush you.

Oh, and if memory serves, one of the first things you learn in giant tire spinning was to check for water. Most everyone at some point hopped in, tucked in their arms and legs, got a push from a friend and - SPLASH!!! - about 10 gallons of nasty, fetid mosquito-infested water dumped on your back.

My dad and I are still scouting out some new locations for the swing. We may end up leaving it where it is now, but we may try to track down an old tire and maybe have two swings. Who knows, maybe we can get a good deal on a couple of tractor tires while we're at it. The key thing is to make sure the kids get good, wholesome tire experience, just like we had as kids. Except for my sister. We'll try to avoid that.