Christmas time

Wow, just about a week left. No time like the present (Ha! Get it? Present!) for some random Christmas thoughts:
• Familiar with the Elf on a Shelf? Concept seems pretty neat to me: It’s a small elf that Santa sits down to keep an eye on everyone in the house. Each night, he flies back to the North Pole to report on everyone’s behavior and then flies back to a different spot, which the kids then search for each morning. I asked the kids if they wanted an Elf on a Shelf. Parker said yes. Allie said, “Uh, I don’t think we need that.” This is the child who, one night before Easter, asked us if the Easter Bunny could leave her basket on the porch, as she really did not want a giant bunny coming in her room. I think I need to stop reading her Stephen King bedtime stories.
• All of the lights are up, and I have sworn off adding any more. My neighborhood gets pretty well decorated, and my cul-de-sac is especially festively bright. How bright, you ask? I replaced my outdoor flood lights the other night when I thought they had both burned out. Turns out, the Christmas lights were bright enough to fool the sensor. Awesome.
• We continued our tradition of getting a real tree this year. By my count, we are one of 11 families in the country that still gets a real tree, which makes it all the more curious as to why it took us four stops to find the right one. I always want to go for the real one because I absolutely love the smell and the feel of a real one. Plus, the chance for a repeat of the cat versus Christmas tree battle from several years ago is worth it.
• You know what I love most about Christmas shopping? The fact that several years ago, my wife told me that a standing birthday present for me would be to have the Christmas shopping done before Thanksgiving. That, my friends, is the gift that never stops giving.
• Do you know what happens when you step on a plastic Smurfette on your way to the bathroom at 4 in the morning? You say things that will get you on the naughty list. And apparently, that crime is worse than the crime of leaving said Smurfette on the floor. At the very least, the Elf could have helped her up before he went to the North Pole.
• I heard on the radio an environmentally friendly way to wrap presents, and that is not to wrap them at all. Instead, the person said, hide the presents all around the house and have kids go find them. While that may be well and good, this brings the distinct possibility of uncovering a Transformer stashed under an end table about 11 years later. Additionally, without wrapping paper, I would not be able to periodically shout, “NO WRAPPING PAPER IN THE FIRE!!!” a time-honored tradition handed down from my father. I cannot wait until Parker can yell it at his own house.
• Now is the time of year when people start asking me what I am getting my wife. I think I am just going to start coming up with insanely off-the-wall things so that people will leave me alone. In the past, I have responded, “Well, we usually give each other a few small items, and some years go in on something for ourselves, such as a TV or a trip or something.” To that, people often respond, “Oh, she SAYS that she doesn’t want a big gift, but she REALLY wants a diamond/gold bracelet/date with Brad Pitt.” And like birthdays and anniversaries and all other gift-giving holidays, I have to say, “No, I know my wife well, and we have our gifting system rather defined and blah blah blah.” So, to avoid that, let’s go ahead and get it out there: This year, for Christmas, I am getting my wife a gold and diamond encrusted date with Brad Pitt.
• That is all for now. (Guess I will ... wait for it ... wrap it up! Ha! OK, I’ll stop.) Hope your final week of Christmas preparation is merry and fun. And never forget what this season is all about – keeping wrapping paper out of the fire.

Free ride

I don’t know much about cars. But I know that when my car can be heard from 11 blocks away, it might be time to get it looked at.
I learned this lesson in college. I had the most sporting 1984 Toyota Corolla that you could imagine. It was my grandmother’s car before my possession, so you know it was practically a muscle car. Toward the end of its noble life, the Corolla could limp to a whopping top speed of about 35 mph. Also, the driver’s side window was permanently stuck halfway down (or halfway up, if you’re an optimist). But the most delightful part of my four-wheeled stud machine was the loud grinding sound that came from the engine. To give you an idea of how loud it was, my wife and I were dating at the time, and if I was going to pick her up at her apartment, she could simply keep a window open. When she heard my car coming, she would start getting ready. By the time I arrived, she had already snuck out of her apartment and headed out with her car, so that no one would pair her with my awful contraption.
I definitively knew something was wrong with my Corolla many moons ago. And for the several months I drove it like that, I confirmed to most people that, yes, I did realize it sounded like an incredibly loud blender was under my hood. When I finally had someone check out my car, I was informed that I had a cracked mount. When I was told this, I said, “Hmmmm. A mount, huh? And it’s cracked, you say?” I still have no idea what that means, but I have decided it is bad.
So using the knowledge I gained in college, I had a fairly good inkling that something might be wrong when my current car started sounding like a very loud creaking box spring. I have several friends who know more about cars than I do (for example, they know what spark plugs do). I asked them what they thought was wrong. Someone suggested it was the bushings. “Hmmmm,” I said. “The bushings, huh? Do you think they’re cracked?”
Eventually, I took my car in for repairs. The bushings were somehow involved, but the needed work included replacing arms. I assume my car has these.
The repairs, unfortunately, were not free that day, so I opted to park the Creakymobile in the driveway and borrow my mother-in-law’s car. The car is a fine car, a large luxury sedan. And, apparently, I don’t belong in a large, luxury sedan. Every time I step out of her car, I get strange looks from people, as though I have an older person bound and gagged in the backseat.
People I know have even remarked things such as, “What’s with the car?” and “Did you get a new car?” and “Do you have an older person bound and gagged in the backseat?” (My responses: Loaner; No; You saw nothing.)
Driving the great big boat of a car reminds me of when I got my driver’s license when I was 15, which is the single worst law ever put into effect anywhere. I base this on the scientific study of having been a 15-year-old. It would have been safer for me to unicycle over a Grand Canyon tight rope. For me personally, I had several things going against me:
1. I was not even 5 feet tall.
2. I looked like I was 8 years old, causing other drivers to be distracted as to why a third-grader was cruising around town.
3. My mother’s car was a Mercury Grand Marquis, which was about the size of a Taco Bell.
I guess I shouldn’t complain too much about my current ride. I mean, at least I have a car to get me from point A to point B. And, as soon as I get my car fixed, I will be able to park the Grand Marquis, V 2.0. Besides, I don’t want to drive it too much. Something might crack.

Cinderella meets her match

We walked out of the tent and into the cold winter air. My 5-year-old son did not even notice the chill. He grabbed my coat sleeve and tugged. I looked down and saw the grin was still on his face. “Daddy,” he said, “she’s beautiful.”
And so began my son’s fascination with the Stone Mountain Snow Angel, a lovely young woman with whom children can have their picture taken. In fact, he was so fond of the Snow Angel that she has dethroned Cinderella as his No. 1 crush, a spot she held for two years. (Cinderella ascended to the top spot at Disney two years ago when, during a photo op, Parker and his perma-grin decided he would be quite content staying there hugging the princess.
We went to Stone Mountain for Thanksgiving to visit my inlaws. On the Wednesday before, we decided to head to the big ol’ hunk of granite to take in its Christmas display, which includes roughly 48 trillion lights and gobs of Christmas-related entertainment. Some would argue that the Wednesday before Thanksgiving is not, in fact, Christmas season, and would then go on to make the never-before made point that “Christmas season just keeps starting earlier and earlier each year,” and then spin the memories back to a simpler time – a time when Christmas apparently began around 4 p.m. on Christmas Eve.
For me, Christmas can be year-round. I’m a big Christmas nerd, and can’t wait for the season to start each year. Even when stuff starts going up in the stores around October, I find it not a reason to harumph the early start, but rather to chastise the other holidays for not being nearly interesting enough to hold their own month. And you call yourself a holiday, Halloween!?!?!? (Yes, I know that I wrote a while back that Christmas music cannot be sung until after Thanksgiving. That still holds true, but the decorations can stay up all the time. Hypocrite? Yes. Yes, I am.)
When we arrived at the park, it was clear they had the place dressed to the nines with lights. It was like a little winter Vegas. Lights. Everywhere. To show you what a Christmas nerd I am, as I stood in front of the illuminated entrance, I realized that I had pretty much left my entire family several rows back in the parking lot. Hey, Christmas might start without me.
Eventually, I took a deep breath and vowed not to abandon my family any more. Inside the park are restaurants and shops, and the pathways were all light-lined. We strolled a little ways in, trying to figure out which of the myriad of activities to take on first. And when you’re in a decision making pinch, there is one tried and true solution: Ask Mrs. Claus.
As we stood there looking at a map and generally appearing lost, Mrs. Claus just happened to be strolling by. The kids stared at her and back at us. Mrs. Claus greeted the kids and paused for a quick picture. She then said, “You probably want to head that way,” pointing to a side path, “and see Santa and the Snow Angel.” She leaned into my wife and whispered where the best spot to watch the fireworks was. Insider trading from Mrs. Claus. Nice.
Indeed, Mrs. Claus had guided us wisely, as we were in no time visiting with the Snow Angel, and then with the big man himself. When my daughter informed him that she would like the whole family to get a Nintendo Wii, Santa said that he had received that request quite a bit, and that his elves were having to put in a lot of time in the electronics workshop to fill all of those requests.
Toward the end of our visit, we prepared for the fireworks show, staking out a spot just where Mrs. Claus had directed us. The Snow Angel was going to make another appearance, we were told, which made the fact that Parker was two hours past his bedtime irrelevant, as there would be no fussing as long as the Snow Angel was coming back out.
Parker was perched on my shoulders when a bright light appeared above one of the buildings. And there she came. Flying. Yes, the Snow Angel can fly. Or, as Parker said, “And she can fly!?!?!?!” Not only did she fly, but she made it snow, too. Snow Angel – she’s practically a superhero?
As the Snow Angel wrapped up her snow-producing flight, the fireworks show began. Everyone turned their eyes to the mountain and the huge bursts of color. Well, everyone but Parker. His eyes were on the Snow Angel. He saw her zip to the other end of the park, and then descend down behind a fence, I guess heading off to her snow castle. Cinderella, you might want to start flying lessons.

Idontwanna hear Iwanna

I have banned the “Iwannas.”
No, not the want-ad magazines. You are free to shop for a used car. But you are not allowed to tell me over and over and over how much you want an Iwanna, which would amount to saying “Iwanna Iwanna” over and over. Follow me? No?
The problem has arisen because my children have taken to adding “Iwanna” as major parts of their vocabulary.
Case study No. 1: The Zaxby’s incident. We were heading home the other day, and I asked the kids what they wanted for lunch. Allie said, “Iwanna go to Zaxby’s.” I told her that we were going to eat at home, as our last 423 meals had been at Chick-fil-A and Zaxby’s, and I was fairly certain we were about to turn into chickens. For the duration of the car ride home, I was informed that a Zaxby’s destination was desired. Again. And again. And again.
At this point, there are a couple of options:
1. Announce that not only are we not going to Zaxby’s, we are never going to Zaxby’s again, and in fact, we are not even allowed to have Z words in the house anymore, so your brother has to get rid of his plastic zebras.
2. Clench the steering wheel tightly, lean forward, staring intently at the road, until you pull in the garage, get out of the van, walk inside, find your wife and say, “Yours.”
I opted for No. 2, which I am sure made her consider packing up the kids and going to Zaxby’s, just for chuckles.
Later that day, when the dust settled, I sat down with my children and informed them that the Iwannas were going to have to go. I then had them watch “Apocalypse Now” for perspective on how good their lives really are.
Ha! Little war movie humor. I would never have them watch that. It was “Full Metal Jacket.”
Just as bad, of course, are the “Idontwannas.”
Case study No. 2: I was getting ready to take Parker to school the other day. I told him to get his lunch box out of the fridge. He slumped his head, groaned and said, “Ohhh ... Idontwanna ...”
Now, keep in mind the laborious efforts that go into getting a lunch:
1. Opening the fridge
2. Grabbing a Transformers lunch box
3. Closing the fridge
And that effort gives you lunch, with a Fruit Roll-Up, thank you very much. Seems a small amount of effort for lunch. But the instinctive “Idontwanna” kicks in, and he doesn’t even stop to think, “Wow, I am spending more energy with this little display than I would actually getting my lunch.”
Don’t get me wrong. My kids are good kids, and they are, fortunately, not chronic whiners. Sure, they have their moments, but my wife says that I do, too, which I think is completely untrue, but I allow her to say it because it makes her feel better. I have never, ever shown a bad mood or whiny nature, and if I did, could it possibly, just possibly, be because I was tired? Or hungry? Or just generally fussy? Can’t a guy have a bad day!?!?!
Oh, wait, got sidetracked.
So we are going to work on the Iwannas and Idontwannas, especially as we head into the holiday season. It is very important for my children to grow up appreciative of what they have. It’s not that we live like kings, but I do want my children to be thankful for what they have and understand that you won’t get everything you want in life, and that’s not only OK, but pretty much a law of nature. I think each day, I need to remind them how important it is that they value things. I think I will follow them around saying “Idontwanna hear any more Iwannas.”
Michael Gibbons is the managing editor of the Aiken Standard.

Sell sell sell!

Admit it. You’ve been there.
You look out your window see a neighbor walking with child in tow.
The child is carrying a sheet of paper as they head to a house a few doors down.
Returning a borrowed magazine, perhaps? Maybe dropping off a few pages of a recently penned manifesto?
The door opens, and the little hand raises up the sheet of paper and a pen. Uh-oh. It’s fund-raising season.
FAST FACT: One provision of the No Child Left Behind Act is that every American child must participate in at least 11 fund-raisers each week.
Back to our story. You now have only a moment to decide your course of action. No one NEEDS wrapping paper, a pizza kit, cookie dough, etc.
You think about making an emergency grocery store run. You consider the “No speaka the English” routine that you tried on the telemarketer.
You even think about saying, “Sorry, Timmy. Burglars stole all of my money.”
And then you turn and see your kids. Immediately flashing before you is the memory of all the times you stood at a neighbors door, hawking wares.
And you remember how your neighbors never once told you they didn’t speaka the English, but instead dutifully bought a make-your-own pretzel kit that, no doubt, still sits in their freezer.
FAST FACT: No American has every actually eaten an entire box of oranges – and lived to tell about it.
The latest sales pitch that came around was a 2-year-old from across the street. (His mom even turned his ball cap around backwards to make it extra hard to resist. Well played, Mom. Well played.)
Seeing that helped me remember the first time we had to make the rounds with our kids to shake down the neighbors.
I don’t even recall what we were selling, but I took an almost embarrassed and sheepish approach as I went to each house.
Of course, neighbors with older kids understand you are simply going through your initiation.
FAST FACT: Of the cookie dough we bought, I will eat roughly 2/3 of it raw, only stopping because I am caught in mid-act, scooping it out with my hand.
At least the stuff that they sell these days is getting better.
I remember when I was a kid playing T-ball, and we had our door-to-door fund-raiser.
And what is the best thing to have little boys go around selling? Why shampoo, of course.
My parents ended up buying this industrial sized keg of strawberry shampoo that lasted for about 11 years.
Throughout my childhood, the only thing I remember using that shampoo for was to wash the dog, because what German Shepherd DOESN’T want to smell like strawberries?
FAST FACT: It is estimated that 90 percent of a child’s exercise comes from walking house to house selling things for fund-raisers.
But, so it goes when you have kids or when you live in a neighborhood with them. It’s just part of the rent.
If it makes you feel better, use this simple formula: Add up the number of children within a two-block radius. Multiply that by 12. Set that dollar amount aside at the beginning of each year, and your wrapping paper, cookie dough and pizza kit funds will be covered.
FAST FACT: $12 is a magical number required on all school fund-raisers.
So, the next time the doorbell rings, and you see neighborhood kid with paper in hand, don’t plot your exit strategy and grab the checkbook.
Just do your duty.
And you’ll know if it’s my kids selling stuff. They’ll be the ones with their hats turned backward.

Carpet country

It’s carpet season, and we are on the hunt for the finest carpet in the land.
Our current carpet was originally installed when we first moved in, when our daughter was a baby. She’s 8 now, and she has a 5-year-old brother. Combine three dogs and one cat (7 years, 8 years, 3 years and 8 years, respectively, in the house), and that adds up to 39 years of carpet nastiness.
Now, don’t get me wrong. We have tried to keep our carpet clean. We vacuum it. We have had it professionally cleaned. We even encouraged the kids NOT to grind Pop-Tarts into it.
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that the first rule should be NO FOOD UPSTAIRS! And I agree. Because that rule is there. Food is not allowed upstairs. Or in the van.
Slight problem: You have to actually enforce the rules. And the kids don’t even have to try to weasel around the rules. It goes like this:
MONDAY: The week always starts off easy. Lunches were made the night before, and school clothes were set out. The kids ask to have some Corn Pops upstairs. “Oh, kids, you know there’s no food upstairs!” And the whole family chuckles together. I am pretty sure this scene is shot in black and white.
TUESDAY: The wheels have come off. While trying to find a matching hair band and the other shoe as well as figure out how someone could lose a bright yellow Transformers lunch box – IT’S BRIGHT YELLOW! – you and your spouse are busy running laps past each other saying things like, “Well, you drove the car home, so the keys HAVE to be here somewhere” and “I thought YOU were taking her to the orthodontist.” At that point, one of the kids asks if they can have Corn Pops upstairs. They could have asked if they could use the power drill on the computer, as the answer would have still been, “Whatever, where are the keys/hair band/lunch box?”
And so the food rule is broken. Same thing happens in the van. You are on your way to school – awesomely on time for a change – when you put your child in the car and hear, “Daddy, I’m hungry.” Then it occurs to you that, as a parent, breakfast would be a nice addition for your child. So you convince yourself that Pop-Tarts are practically fruit salad, whip one in the back seat, and pick out the crunchy remnants a week later.
So over time, carpets can get nasty. Ours has reached that point. My wife decided that she would embark on the carpet quest alone, as she knew I would be zero help.
HER: Do you like this style?
ME: Sure.
HER: How about this one?
ME: Sure.
HER: This one?
ME: Sure.
HER: I just showed you a baloney sandwich.
ME: Sure.
Fortunately, she knows that, when I tell her I really don’t care, I do mean I really will be OK with whatever her pick is. I also am worthless with colors. It’s not that I’m colorblind. But I am definitely color indifferent. Case in point: I am still pretty sure our first house was gray. My wife has shown me pictures in which it is very clearly tan. Yet I still remember it as gray. So when she brought home a selection of different color samples, you can guess how helpful I was. It was especially confusing since they all appeared tan to me, meaning I had to wonder if my wife was getting gray carpet, since they are apparently interchangeable.
As we move forward with the carpet process, we are in the one phase that is actually a part I am liking: The purging. This is where you go through every room, and put every thing in it in a big black trash bag to throw out. Then, you wait until your wife comes in and says, “Uh, we are not starting from scratch, and also I am pretty sure that one bag has the cat in it.”
But we are going room to room and seeing what things can be relocated to a different home (namely a landfill home). We are also finding some things that we have not seen in ages. I am not sure why one of my favorite T-shirts was wedged behind a Harry Potter book in the playroom, but it’s great to have Ol’ Blue back in play.
So in a few weeks, the process will be complete. It will be nice to have clean, crisp new flooring, and I am sure we will work hard to keep the food downstairs. After all, we want to preserve its original color of tan. Or gray.

Can it

Do you know how hard it is to find a cool trash can?
Based on the blank stare, you do not, in fact, even have a good idea as to what a cool trash can is. You and the entire retail world.
My quest for a cool trash can came the other day when I was helping Parker clean his room. And by “help” I mean “clean,” as a 5-year-old set off to clean often gets distracted by Matchbox cars, toy dinosaurs, air, etc.
I noticed some trash behind his door. I held it up to Parker and we had this exchange:
ME: Why didn’t you put this in the trash can?
PARKER: I don’t have a trash can.
ME: OK, but there are plenty of trash cans in the house.
PARKER: But I don’t have one in my room. And the trash was there.
ME: But ...
PARKER: If I had a trash can, I’d put it in there.
ME: Let’s got get a trash can.
So we set off on a quest for a trash can. I asked Parker what kind he wanted, and, as I have rather obviously foreshadowed, he said “a cool one.” I, of course, knew exactly what this meant, as I am clearly one of the four coolest people in my house. We were looking for a trash can adorned with Alabama football, Spider-Man, or, ideally, Spider-Man playing football for Alabama.
The first store we went to was very lean on cool trash cans, unless you consider white or silver to be cool. I asked an employee if they had cool trash cans. She stared at me blankly. I said, “Cool to him,” pointing at Parker. She said, “Oh, for kids!” and directed me to a nearby aisle. There I found a trash can sporting Troy from “High School Musical.” There are several reasons why this was not a cool choice.
The next store we went to is a store that specializes in items for your bed, your bath and even places beyond that. I asked a salesperson if they had cool trash cans. She told me they had quite a few cool trash cans and began to walk me toward the section. I added, “You know, like Spider-Man kinda-cool.” A very apologetic look came across her face. Unfortunately, the “beyond” did not reach cool-for-kids trash cans.
We hit several more stores, each time striking out. (We did ease the pain with an ICEE at one store, but I have to say that while the blue ICEE is a fine ICEE of which I have no major issues, the absence of Coke ICEEs is a sad state of America. I want my children to grow up in a world where the ICEE machine churns Coke ICEE.) I finally decided to head to the mall, figuring we could strike out much quicker with the stores closely grouped.
We went into a sporting goods store, and I asked the employee if they had trash cans. She quite politely extended her hand and said, “I can take it for you.” I told her that I was actually looking to buy a trash can. She looked at me as if I were odd. No, they did not have those.
Our final stop was Sears, where we did not find any trash cans, cool or otherwise. I did buy a new telephone system, since the battery on our current phone has a life span of about four seconds. Plus, one of the handsets has mysteriously disappeared, which I am sure was the result of cosmic forces. The clerk was ringing me up, and when I told her that I was using a debit card, she kindly told me that her register did not ring up debit cards and directed me toward a different register. When I got there, the clerk suggested I pay for the phones at the register I had just returned from, as there was apparently commission involved. I appreciate (a) the first clerk not making the commission an issue and (b) the second clerk trying to help a co-worker out. I walked out to my car to get my checkbook so that I could pay at the commission register. Nothing to do with a cool trash can. Just thought I’d share.
After several hours of shopping, I told Parker that it did not look like we were going to find a cool trash can. He was a little disappointed, but he handled it in a very mature fashion. “Maybe they have them at PetSmart.” I told him they do not have cool trash cans at PetSmart. He countered with, “Yes, but they have cool animals at PetSmart.” Hard to beat that logic.
My wife and I have decided that the best solution is probably to buy a white trash can and decorate it with a big sticker. Hopefully, I can find a sticker of Spider-Man. Playing football. For Alabama.

A new way to travel

I am learning the Heckman way of travel. And it’s not easy.
Heckman is my wife’s maiden name (yes, you now may steal my children’s identity in a decade), and when she was growing up, Team Heckman would travel in a way that goes WAY against my style of travel.
To me, the travel part of a trip is a burden. The destination is the goal, and the faster you can get there the better. No bathroom breaks. Eat in the car. Everyone lean forward to make sure we get there at the first possible moment. Onward!
When you travel Heckman-style, there is a considerable amount of moseying. She has told me tales of getting up on a summer morning and piling in the car. She’d asked her father where they were going, and the response would be a shrug. And off they would go. I am not quite sure how you are supposed to figure your trip-completion percentage when you do not know your destination.
And they would take side trips. See something interesting on a billboard? Let’s pull off. Again, that completely throws off the 60-mph average goal. We keep these stats for a reason, people!
Our most recent trip was to North Carolina to take the kids on the Great Smoky Mountain Railroad. They have a “Great Pumpkin” theme right now, so we took a fantastic ride to a Peanuts-themed pumpkin patch. The kids had a great time, and I was especially impressed with the apple bobbing station. I personally find it less than desirable to dunk your head in water with other people and trying to bite an apple they may have just been nibbling. At the patch, they had these long tubes that you swiveled around in the water, trying to scoop the apples up. No bite swapping required.
We also learned an important grandparenting tip by watching another family on the train: If a two-year-old has had a looooooong day on a train and at a pumpkin patch, and she has done it wearing a fairy princess Halloween costume, and she is walking behind her grandfather with her hands up, tears strolling down here face, screaming, “Car....reeeee....me..... Car....reeeee....me..... Car....reeeee....me.....” please, Gramps – pick her up. At one point, we were standing near the tired tot when I turned to my wife and said, “Should I just go and pick her up?” My wife agreed that would definitely be odd, and possibly criminal. Amazing factoid: Once off the train, when Gramps picked her up, guess what she did? That’s right, she poked him in the eye.
Ha! Kidding! She quit crying, of course. Why? BECAUSE SHE’S TWO!
So anyway, wailing princesses aside, the trip was a great time. When I was really tested was the next morning. We woke up bright and early. Glancing at my watch, I estimated that, by the time we threw on some clothes and ran through a drive-through, we’d be up to our 60-mph average in no time. Then my wife said, “So what do you want to do today?”
Resisting every urge in my soul, I said, “We should find a nice local place to eat breakfast...right?” Baby steps.
Indeed, we found a great place (try the egg sandwich at Jimmy Mac’s in Bryson City). As we finished breakfast, I had to fight the call of the interstate. It was clear that our day was just beginning. We were Heckmaning it.
We ended up taking a drive up into the mountains and found a trail to hike up to a waterfall. The trail was only 3/10 of a mile and the waterfall resembled more of a leaky spigot, but for two kids, I consider that ample. After winding on a narrow dirt road up to the top of one of the mountains, we soon found ourselves back on one of the highways leading into town. My wife said we should probably start heading back, and that we would stop if we saw something interesting. I jumped at this opportunity, as nothing is interesting at 75 mph on the interstate, right? Homeward bound.
I will just say this: I was as surprised as anyone when I found myself pulling off the interstate in Hendersonville, flagging down a sheriff’s deputy, and saying, “Can you point me toward an apple orchard?”
You could tell my wife had a little sense of pride in seeing the king of anti-spontaneity do anything that broke from the schedule. It’s not that I am rigid and uptight. I prefer goal oriented. While pulling off an exit to pick apples may not seem that radical to you, keep in mind that I have eaten oatmeal for breakfast almost every weekday since I was a kid. Change does not come easy for me.
All in all, I will admit that it was a little liberating and refreshing just to pull off into uncharted territory and see what you see. We may have to do it again next time we travel. I should start planning it in great detail right now.

Brace yourself

If there is one thing I can say with certainty, it is that I do not want to have someone stick a metal key in my mouth and crank a device that makes my mouth wider.
But go ahead and do it to my daughter twice daily.
Yes, she is in the beginning stages of braces, and I have been immersed in a world I know nothing about. And it’s not a world I like very much.
I was fortunate in that I never needed braces. All of my sisters had them, and plenty of my friends donned the mouth metal, too. But I never got up close and personal with them. Sure, I saw what happens when a basketball hits a braced mouth. Yes, I saw people climbing through Dumpsters trying to find a retainer that was left on a lunch tray. And I took great joy in watching my sister wear a gigantic headgear that looked like a patio umbrella without the fabric.
But that was as close as I had to get. I never got to experience personally what seemed like a nightmare. Now I get to go up close.
We knew Allie was going to need braces, but I was not aware that they put them on as early as third grade.
And it’s a multi-step process, designed to incorporate many acts into this exciting play.
The first step of the process was the spacers. These were little green rubber bands placed in between her teeth so that every time she smiled she looked like she had a mouthful of spinach. Those were in there for a couple of weeks in an effort to, well, I guess space things out.
That was pretty tame compared to her current addition, her “appliance.” My wife had one of these when she was a kid, and relayed some really fond memories. She said that the appliance fits snugly into the roof of the mouth. Twice a day, you stick a key into a little hole in the appliance and turn it, slowly widening the mouth.
The night before getting the appliance, I took Allie on an Internet adventure to show her what she would be getting. After showing her pictures of Hannibal Lecter, the man in the iron mask, and the James Bond villain, Jaws, my wife informed me that I was not funny. Brilliant social commentary is clearly dead.
So the next day she got the appliance, and the first thing I noticed is that this did not sound like my little girl. Rather, she sounded like the babysitter from “The Incredibles.” (If you have not seen “The Incredibles,” you may be excused from this column to go and do so.) It is starting to get a little more normal as she adjusts to having the roof of her mouth covered. (In case you are curious, she refuses to say “Sufferin’ succotash!”)
When it came time to turn the key, I will say that I was not the most helpful person in the room. For starters, I was expecting my wife to pull out this great big gothic key that we would put in her mouth and turn, the sound of cracking bones filling the room. When she opened a small envelope and pulled out something about the size of a sewing needle, it was clear that I was perhaps in need of a reality check. “But the sound ...” My wife told me that this was not a brutal pry bar that forced her jaw open, but rather a gradual and quite painless way to prep the teeth for braces.
Allie and I conferred and decided we did not believe her. While I tried to be encouraging, I think I subconsciously sabotaged the turning process so that I would not have to be part: “OK, Allie, here goes – your mother is going to turn the key. I feel confident she will not turn the key too many times, thereby shooting your teeth through your cheeks.”
After several attempts, we decided there would be no turning. She had an orthodontist appointment the next day, and he explained to her the need for the painless turns of the appliance, and, I am guessing that for this life event, ignore her father.
So it appears we have cleared the hurdle; and the month-long road of having an appliance is being traveled. Next will be braces, and then I guess a retainer (and possible trip into a Dumpster). Of course, she could have had it a whole lot easier had she just taken my approach and not needed them in the first place.

Game on

Over the years, I have written numerous times about the various injuries I have suffered at the hands of sports.
I have always been active and played sports, but my brain sometimes forgets to fast-forward the calendar, and I sometimes try to play with the same intensity and zeal that I did when I was a teenager. The difference, of course, is that when you are a teen, you can simply stare for a few moments at the big patch of raw skin where your shin used to be and just watch it heal before your eyes. For some reason, that ability tends to fade some time around your mid-20s.
But I continued on, logging injury miles with basketball, soccer, softball and flag football. The recovery periods became longer and longer, and the walks up the stairs became slower and slower. Eventually, I told my wife I had no choice but to retire from sports. She told me she had no choice but to do a happy dance, as she would no longer have to hear my whine and watch me limp.
So I took about a year off from playing sports, and then heard the siren-like call of competition. With great fanfare, I announced my un-retirement. I am much like Brett Favre and Michael Jordan. Only without the talent, money, fame, etc. But Jordan and I do have the same first name.
I ended up playing flag football last season and suffered only a few minor dings. I was especially pleased that I had finally slain the “play through the pain” component of my brain. There was a time when I would gladly limp up to home plate and try to bat using my freshly severed leg. Last year, I felt a pull in my hamstring and said, “You know what, I think I’ll sit this one out.” It’s not that I don’t want to play. It’s that I want to be able to walk over the next week.
So this year, when the option for playing flag football again arose, I initially said yes. As the first few practices approached, various scheduling conflicts arose, and it was becoming more and more complicated to try and work yet one more activity into the rather full family calendar. I made the decision that I would pass on this season. Then, last week, a friend of mine asked if I could come out and scrimmage on Sunday. They were a few people down, and said they needed one more to have a full squad. Fine, I said. My afternoon was open, and I could use a little physical activity.
I was feeling pretty good about the game. I had a touchdown catch and an interception, and can now honestly say that I was playing against people half my age and holding my own. (That was less impressive when I was 20.) And then came the play. I went out for a pass, and the quarterback threw what amounted to a jump ball between the cornerback and me. Somewhere in my ascent, I took an unintentional cleat to my calf, and also got hit so that I was horizontal to the ground. I am not sure how high up I was, but I do know it was high enough for my brain to process the thought, “We’re falling more than we normally do. This could hur...THUD!”
Fortunately, I didn’t get the wind knocked out of me. Unfortunately, when I went to take a step, my right leg buckled like a wet spaghetti noodle. I had the mother of all charley horses, and my leg was taking great pleasure at making me walk around like a newborn colt.
When I got home, my wife was less than surprised to see me hobbling in. I went and got an ice pack and opted for sitting on the couch watching football, which seemed safer. After about 15 minutes of ice, I switched over to a heating pad, because I once heard someone say you should do that, and that’s good enough medical advice for me.
That evening, I went to bed with some more heat and a few Motrin. My calf was still hurting and navigating the stairs was less than pleasurable. I was gearing myself up for the morning, when I would wake up, forget about my leg, step out of bed and fall to the ground, possibly making a shrieking yelp on my way down to the floor.
Morning came, and, in a medical event more shocking than anything you will see on “House,” I stepped out of bed and was able to walk relatively normally. It still ached a little bit, but I could even use the stairs without baby steps or whimpers. While some may credit my post-game injury treatment regimen as the reason for my fast recovery, I think the real reason is clear: I am again invincible. Let’s play. Nothing bad can come from this.

Clean up

My children and I have different definitions of “clean.”
My definition is a fairly standard one. It’s, well, it’s clean. I actually don’t feel a need to define it. It’s like if someone says, “Hey, throw me the ball.” You know what a ball is. You shouldn’t have to say, “Hey, throw me the ball, and by ‘ball’ I mean that round thing on the ground. No, not that -- that’s a mushroom. The other thing. White. With stitches. There you go.”
My kids are 5 and 8, and I think they have pretty good vocabularies, certainly ones that should house “clean.” But a recent study of their room cleaning habits leads me to think this is one word that somehow got skipped.
Let’s start with Allie. I am fairly certain that if she is ever taken prisoner in combat, the way to get her to spill national secrets will be by putting her in a room and asking her to make a bed, complete with Princess comforter. Apparently, the 10-second act of pulling a sheet and a bed spread onto the mattress is only slightly less painful than a shark attack. At one point, she tried to use the old argument of “But I’m just going to sleep in it again tonight.” Quick solution: Pull out a dirty plate when you’re getting ready to make her dinner.
HER: Daddy, what are you doing?
ME: Using the plate we used last night. I figured no point in cleaning it, since we’ll just be using it again.
HER: Ewww.
ME: Victory is mine.
(Quick word of caution: Allie does not even like her food touching, so this was a suitable bluff tactic. Be careful if your son is like Parker, and would merely shrug and see what from last night’s meal he could scrape off for flavor.)
Clothes are a tricky one for Allie, too. She is perfectly content with a laundry basket in her room, rather than moving the clothes to the dresser or closet. She will be a perfect hotel traveler one day. Now, I know you may ask why I don’t command and demand that she put that laundry up NOW! Well, mainly because I don’t live in her room, and as long as it doesn’t get to the point where raccoons are taking up residence in there, it doesn’t occupy a huge portion of the “things that actually affect my world” portion of my brain.
Parker, too, has an aversion to cleaning, but his is less from a pain threshold stance and more from the fact that he is the most elaborate player I have ever seen. Case in point: The other day, I walked past his room and noticed it was prime raccoon roosting territory. Things were EVERYWHERE. Jack Sparrows and plastic lions and race cars covered every inch of his room. I found Parker in the depths of his room, and told him that he needed to clean it up
PARKER: But I’m still playing with stuff.
ME: Well, pick up the stuff you’re NOT playing with. You can’t even walk through your room.
PARKER. OK.
Fast forward about 11 seconds, and he’s proclaiming his doneness.
ME: I thought I said to clean up what you’re not playing with.
PARKER: I did. It was just a shirt. Everything else I’m playing with.
Clearly, I was not going to accept that, in a room that looked like an exploded Toys R Us, only a shirt needed picking up. And then Parker showed me his “zoo,” which is approximately the same size as most metropolitan zoos. He had a quite full parking lot. He had stuffed rabbits greeting visitors at the door. He had Woody and Buzz Lightyear training zebras. The works. Indeed, he was still playing with them. All 8 billion of them. That night, I did have to convince him that we had to at least put a walking path through the zoo, lest Daddy end up stepping on Superman in the middle of the night and screaming out an un-Daddy-like word.
Eventually, when the kids were not home, I ended up putting up Allie’s clothes and disassembling Parker’s zoo. Sure, you can chide me for not making a 5-year-old and an 8-year-old do their chores. I will make sure I line up some extra wood chopping for them this winter so they don’t grow up soft. In the meantime, toss me that...round thing over there.

Fence in

I finally got my fence fixed, which was damaged by that doozy of a storm, which sent a large tree branch crashing onto it, creating a lovely V-shape.
I am sure you recall the storm. “Sure, Mike – I remember the rain, the lightning but mostly the wind!” To which I say, yes, that was a doozy. But I am a ridiculous procrastinator when it comes to home improvement projects, and the storm I am referring to was kinda, sorta, uh … well, it was the 2004 ice storm.
OK, so four years to repair a single fence panel MAY be a little much. I am going to argue that the trauma of the storm kept be from doing it. After all, I was one of the many in town who lost power. When I was coming home from work, my wife called and said the power had gone out. By the time I got home about 10 minutes later, the power had been restored. But it was harrowing nonetheless. (My folks, who lost power for 10 days, fail to see the humor in this.)
But a big branch had dropped on the fence that goes around the pool. The fence is aluminum, but made to look like wrought iron. I priced wrought iron and found that I would have been able to afford to a lovely two- or three-foot fence. So I opted for aluminum, which looks black and shiny, but doesn’t do well against a large pine branch.
The fence is comprised of panels, so it was going to be fairly easy to simply pop another one in. Of course, each time I went to do it, something came up. (Say, winter. Or summer.) I was able to bend the fence back up enough to where it still served its original fence purpose. It just did it with a less horizontal approach.
For some reason the procrastination bug died and I decided to move forward. I went to the home improvement store where I originally bought the fence. I told them I wanted to buy a single panel. He told me they didn’t do that. I assured him they did. He told me I had to buy a whole fence. I told him I already had. I encouraged him to call the company and see what we could make happen. He told me the person who does the ordering was out, having had surgery, on “either his heart or his knee.” Seriously.
I was a little frustrated, but, hey, sometimes heart/knee surgeries happen. I went back a few days later and tried to order it again. I would have had as much luck ordering a pastrami sandwich. I told my wife the fence was fine the way it was, and we would continue to live with it. She told me to calm down, as it was not worth a heart/knee attack.
A few weeks later, I got a call from the store. They told me I had an open order for a fence panel, and asked if I wanted to get it rolling. I told them I would very much love to, and did several times before. They assured me that the system was well-oiled at this point, and they would get it done.
Indeed, they had figured out how to get me my panel, and it arrived a few weeks later. I decided this would be a good Saturday morning father-son experience, so I wrangled Parker out the door along with a few tools. The bent panel came out quite easily – just a few zaps with the electric screwdriver and the panel was free. Parker’s job was to hold the screws. He delegated this job to a nearby chair, which was fine. When it came time to reattach the brackets that held the panel in place, I called Parker and asked for his assistance. I told him I needed him to hold the fence panel very still for me. After I attached four of the six brackets, Parker looked at me and said, “Daddy, can I stop now? I’m tired and I want to go fishing.”
Now, I’m not sure about your backyard, but I do know that mine isn’t great for fishing. But I figured he had a plan, so I relieved him of duty. He went and picked a willow branch off the ground, went to the diving board, and began “casting” into the pool. Based on his mannerisms, he reeled in quite a few big ones.
The panel was soon secured in place, and the fence looks nice and even and unbent. Since most of the trees that were damaged in the ice storm have been removed, there is very little chance another branch will fall on it. But should it happen, I will make sure I get right on the case this time. I’ll wait two years, tops.

Zoo creatures

Another trip to the zoo, another chance to treat the people there as their own zoo-wide exhibit.
I love going to the zoo, and every time I go, I spend as much time watching the people as I do the exhibits. I have written several columns over the years about some of the curious behavior of the people-beasts that inhabit the outsides of cages. I figured it was high time I began to classify some of them, so that someone who has an interest in Latin can begin assigning them scientific names:

The Animal Hater
This person would rather be anywhere but at a zoo. The Animal Hater we saw uttered this memorable phrase at a meerkat exhibit: “Who wants to see a &*$% rodent?” I hadn’t the heart to tell him they weren’t rodents. You know who would? This person:

The Animal Lover
The Animal Lovers don’t just appreciate wildlife. They’ve got a rather odd attachment to them. It really comes out in the reptile house, when the AL will stand, face pressed against the glass, waxing eloquent about the beauty of the animal. But it gets almost to the creepy point, where you feel there is a really strong possibility, were the cage open, they would reach in and try to bond with their new animal soul mate. And be subsequently bitten by a Gila monster.

The Lounger
The Lounger is most often a teen male. He is far too cool to be at a zoo. He must sit with his back to an exhibit, texting his friends expressing how uncool the zoo is. His texts will consist of such insights such as “Sup” and “dude z00 lame.” Oftentimes, he will sit at a key viewing point, not even realizing he is blocking people’s views, causing them to try and will the grizzly bear to just make one honest try.

The Jockey
This person has got to see that exhibit. If they do not get in there right then, they will miss the sea turtle that only swims by every 40 seconds or so. In order to jockey for position, this person will utilize various contortions and twists to slide around people and will also commit what should be a felony – placing a hand on my shoulder to balance themselves while stepping in front on me, muttering, “skyoozmee-skyoozmee.” Hi, welcome to Mike – thank you for not touching.

The Over Educator
I suppose I get lumped into this category on occasion. “Look, kids, a Scolopendra!” I say gleefully. “Daddy, that’s a big centipede.” “Yes! A Scolopendra!” They politely resist the urge to chant “nerd.”

The Speed Freak
This person is looking to get through the exhibit in about 11 minutes. And you are a mere speed bump on their path to a new world record in the 100-Meter Monkey House Dash. He will duck, spin, peer over you or even skip an exhibit to keep moving. It is possible that the Speed Freak is part shark and must keep moving to survive.

The Escaped Exhibit
These are only found in their juvenile state. Their parents fall into one of two subspecies: The Exasperated Wit’s Enders or the Oblivious Don’t Cares. I noticed one Escaped Exhibit showing a fantastic display of what happens when you are not allowed to get your own ketchup. He was wearing one of those backpack/leash things, which it turns out can turn into a dragging rope. I was informed that you are not supposed to laugh at a kid flailing his arms and legs as he is towed across a restaurant floor by his monkey backpack.

The Statue
This is usually some Brad Garrett-sized behemoth who finds an exhibit he likes and just turns to stone. You may want to see the tiger. But you will do it when he is done. And he will not be done for a long time. He is not intentionally doing this to hurt you. But you try moving along when you’re made of stone.

I am sure there are many more species (and countless subspecies). I look forward to going back and finding them. And then over-educating my kids about it.

Crape of wrath

A few months back, I shared my confession with you. I was a murderer.
A crape murderer, to be exact.
I had chopped down an enormous crape myrtle in my backyard, something that drew ire from some of the plant lovers of the community.
I tried to assure them that this was self-defense. The tree had grown so large, I had carved out a tunnel that you could drive a small car through.
OK, so not that big, but WAY bigger than a crape myrtle needs to be. (Oh, and a quick sidenote: It’s “crape,” not “crepe.” I had some spirited debate with some folks last time, some even pointing out that there is a Crepe Myrtle Court. So be it. But the tree I murdered was a crape. The pastry I just finished? A crepe. And delicious.)
Sorry, got distracted. Where was I? Oh, tree attacks, that’s right. Anyway, this thing got so big and unruly that when it rained it would droop down and cover my back door. Some of the branches would also scratch against my daughter’s window, making it sound like something was clawing at the screen, which is a fantastic lullaby. (I did offer to let her watch a movie to drown out the sound, but apparently “The Shining” just didn’t do it for her.)
So I murdered the tree one morning when my wife was gone and could not stop me. I managed to do so without losing any fingers or breaking any windows. I was left with a gigantic stump in the backyard, which I had planned to get to eventually. I asked some people who remove trees what’s the best way to get stumps out of the ground. Apparently it involves chains and the occasional backhoe. I have neither. And I can safely bet that should I try to get a backhoe into my backyard, it would not matter where my wife was. Her idiotdar would start beeping like crazy and she would be home in no time, standing in front of it like a Tiananmen Square recreation. (The idiotdar has previously gone off when I was stuck on the roof; when I tried to give our daughter a haircut; and when I decided to drive to a hurricane.)
The stump became a bigger issue when I noticed that the crape myrtle was growing back. Fast. All around the giant stump were these shoots that started spiking up. At one point, they were taller than my 5-year-old, and he used them as a super cool hiding place, which made me all the more the bad guy when he saw me bringing the hedge trimmers out.
After I leveled the first resurgence of branches, I began to seek other ways to get rid of the stump. I went to a home improvement store and asked a guy if he had chemicals that could kill a stump once and for all. He looked over both shoulders, then leaned in to me, “You didn’t hear this from me,” he said, and proceeded to detail a complicated, fiery plan to dispatch the stump. The idiotdar would have gone nuts.
I opted instead for a chemical that you pour into the stump and then pour hot water on top. It also says to light charcoal briquets on top. Seriously. I think they may just be seeing how much crazy stuff they can get you to do.
Now, before you get on to me about my abuse of this tree, you have to remember: (a) it’s out of control with growth, (b) it never should have been planted where it was and (c) it angered me by rapidly growing back to the point where I actually tried to mow the tree.
To complete the lethal injection, I had to drill a hole four inches deep into the stump. When I went to do this, I learned that crape myrtle stumps are actually made of solid lead, and no drill bit on the planet can bore into them.
So that’s where we stand. The stinking thing is still there, routinely sprouting up new branches just to mock me, the deadly chemicals sitting ineffectively on the sideline.
I have no idea how I am going to get the stump out of there. But if you hear a loud beeping, you can bet I got a backhoe.

The sting

Hey, did you know that yellow jackets can fly almost as fast as a grown man sprinting around a swing set? I do. Now.
It all started last week when I was having a fence installed in my backyard. The existing one did not resemble wood so much as it did thick cardboard. General rule: If a 10-pound dog scratches at a fence board and it comes apart like shredded wheat, it may be time to get some new fencing.
I considered doing the fence myself, but then it occurred to me that I did not want the top to look like an EKG line, so I should hire professionals.
As they were preparing to rip down the current fence, I glanced out the window and saw them standing about 15 feet from the fence. One was on a cell phone. This didn’t seem like the best way to put up a fence, so I went outside to see what was going on. Turns out, they had found a yellow jacket nest right near one of the fence posts. Angry yellow jackets. Angry yellow jackets who were quite content with the fence where it was. Both of the guys had already been stung. Not a lot of joy in the backyard.
I went and retrieved some wasp spray from the garage. It’s one of those ones that shoots a stream of chemicals about a quarter mile, so you can stand safely away and attack. “Fellas, your problem is about to be solved.” I located where the nest was and proceeded to empty the can. Take that, you winged devils!
Pitching the can aside, I began to stride inside, a little cowboy swagger in me, knowing I had just ruled this duel.
I headed on to work, confident that my picture may very possibly go up at the fence company’s HQ, under a banner that read “Our Hero.”
A little while later, I swung by the house to check on the status. Both men were getting in the truck. They told me they were going to the store to get some stuff to kill the yellow jackets. I reminded them that I had bravely launched a chemical attack on them. That, it turns out, only made the yellow jackets angry. Or, angrier, as it were.
Fast forward to lunch. I stopped by to check again. They had tripled my attack efforts, and made them triply mad. I peered over at the fence and could see a small cloud of yellow jackets. I told one of the guys that it was clear the nest was in a leaf pile, and if I could just dig some of that out, we’d be fine. He looked at me in much the same way as my wife when I say to her, “You know what would be awesome? A pinball machine in the kitchen.”
I decided it was time to armor up and take the fight to the ground. I went inside and put on a heavy winter coat. In the garage, I found a pair of work gloves and safety goggles. I donned the coat’s hood and pulled the draw string tight, leaving no skin exposed. When I walked out, pitchfork in hand, I glanced at the fence guy. I was expecting a slow clap for my bravery. I even considered walking in slow motion, like I was heading to the space shuttle or something. “They stung through blue jeans,” he said. I think the implication was that I was somehow not in the ideal protective gear.
Never mind. This was clearly foolproof. I went around the fence and approached the nest. There was still an angry posse hovering above the ground. I figured a quick thrust and pitch would open up the nest’s mouth, thereby clearing the path for an easy and final assault.
I drove the pitchfork into the ground and went to heave a huge chunk of leaves and dirt. I have no idea where the leaves and dirt went, as a giant plume of yellow jackets came billowing from the ground, an incredibly loud buzzing soundtrack accompanying it. Instinct took over, and before I knew what was going on, I was sprinting the other direction.
“THEY’RE ON YOUR COAT!!!” I heard him shout.
So there I was, sprinting across my backyard, trying to knock yellow jackets off my back with a pitchfork. (Haven’t we all been there?) Eventually, I dropped the pitchfork and shed my coat and goggles, still shooing away some that are still in pursuit.
Eventually, I made it clear of them, and the fence guys pretty much decided I had ended that day’s work. I ended up going to a professional, who wisely assessed the situation wearing a beekeeper’s outfit. When he went to treat it, he hit the nest a little, and the yellow jackets – who are in serious need of some psychological treatment – began to swarm again, leaving plenty of stingers in his outfit. He had to wait for about an hour for them to settle down before he could complete the mission. When he finally dug the nest out, he found it was four layers deep, and contained, by my estimate, every yellow jacket on the planet.
When the fence guys returned the next day, they were pleased to see that the nest was gone, and they could complete the job without risk of death by a billion stings. While I did have to call in some backup, I’d like to think my picture will still go on the wall.

Troll attack

Curious thing, the Internet.
Perhaps most curious is the notion that every single thing on it must be for every single person’s interest and entertainment, and if somehow it does not appeal to you, you should lash out with unfettered anger and criticism, the likes of which you would dare not do if someone knew who you were or, much less, was within arm’s length.
I base this on a few comments I have read of late, in particular some directed at me. Now, first let me tell you this: I have incredibly thick skin. You don’t get into this business and stay for long if criticism is your kryptonite. But it still struck me as odd when someone decided to line me up in his sights. For a couple of weeks, someone who is a clearly big fan of the newspaper and me has posted some commentary on our website regarding my column. I can’t print the quotes in their entirety, as SOMEBODY uses words not fit for a family newspaper. But I will address the main point: I don’t recall my column ever running on the front page, nor do I recall asking the reporters to stop gathering news so we could gather ’round the campfire and hear Uncle Mike spin a yarn or two ’bout the young’uns.
Another comment was on a YouTube posting of my kids on Christmas morning. The post read: “Y do I wanna watch ya’ll on christmas day.”
Now, I am not sure who asked this. However, I am fairly certain it is not Grandma, Grandpa, Nana, Pop, Gran or Granddaddy, for whom the video was intended. The main reason I am sure of that is my parents and in-laws know spelling and capitalization and crazy things such as that. (You + all = Y’all. Proper apostrophe placement is key. Otherwise, it appears you are doing a contraction of “Yay” and “Ill,” which I guess means you are celebrating someone’s poor health.)
The grandparents liked being able to see their grandkids, at the time ages 4 and 7, open what Santa brought them. I should hope you would not want to watch this if you do not know them. There are no doubt thousands of Christmas morning videos online, and I can safely say I have watched one: my own. Should I come across someone else’s Christmas morning video, I will simply, gee, I don’t know – maybe not watch it? I certainly won’t take the time to comment on it. A quick keyword search on YouTube reveals plenty of videos I will neither watch nor comment on:
-- How to make butter
-- Paint drying
-- Jerry Lewis impersonations
-- Eating Ramen noodles
-- Bea Arthur singing in the Star Wars Holiday Special from 1977. (OK, that one is worth watching.)
The amazing thing is each of those videos have plenty of comments from people who sat and watched them and then shared their very personal feelings. What in the world is it about the Internet that drives someone to watch or read something they don’t like and then make their feelings so known? I have a few theories:
1. It’s finally a chance to throw out a controversial opinion, when you know that in real life offering up silly (or profane) commentary would get you publicly rebuked, privately chastised or, most likely, sensibly ostracized.
2. You haven’t the courage of your convictions. Otherwise, you’d have no problem attaching your name to something.
3. You’ve been on the receiving end of countless wedgies, nerples, swirlies and noogies, and you are finally channeling some of that anger in a new and unhealthy avenue.
Whatever the reason, it sure seems like people could do better things with their time than watch or read things they don’t like. I could sure think of something better to do. Such as watch Bea Arthur sing.

Cart conversion

It was a shameful confession. She wouldn’t even make eye contact with me. A friend of mine, head bowed, said that she was “that person.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant. Vampire? Cannibal? Auburn fan? No, far more shameful. She admitted that, on occasion, she was one of those people who leaves the grocery cart sitting in the middle of the shopping center parking lot.
She decided to plead her case. Sometimes you’re juggling kids and the weather looks rough and it’s just a harried day and you have to just get in the car and get rolling, leaving collateral cart damage behind.
Donning my powdered wig (what, you don’t have one?) I ruled swiftly: GUILTY!
She again tried the argument, which had been previously struck down in the Court of Mike: The argument that returning the cart would be next to impossible, as the children were acting like jackrabbits on speed. It seems valid at first. One child is busy trying to take off a diaper while the other one is trying to eat through your recently purchased loaf of bread.
The weather is clouding up, and the heavens are going to open up any second now. You’ve got a small window to tether your children and throw the groceries in the back. No time for marching all the way over to the cart corral, right?
However, the reason this argument does not allow for cart abandonment is that you should have strategically parked from the get-go. Immediately upon entering the car lot, pull right up beside a cart corral. That way, when you leave, your cart is already home.
You can even give it a cool little hip bump to send it the final few feet, just to show what kind of happenin’ person you are.
And I know the counter arguments to this:
1. “What if it’s raining? Don’t you want to park as close as possible?” Answer: If you are a parent, you are most likely covered in drool, Cheez-It crumbs or the remnants of the melted Nerds you just sat in, so a hardy downpour might do you some good.
2. “What if it’s hot? That’s a long walk.” Answer: Let’s be honest – if we were to find the largest parking lot at a grocery store and park at the very end, it would never be considered a long walk. Consider it your daily cardio.
3. “But what if I am pregnant and want to park in that parking space with the little stork sign that reads, ‘Expectant Mothers only’?” Answer: I have never had that problem.
4. “I am special. Little people will gather the carts for me.” Answer: No you’re not. Put your cart back.
I know that I harp on this one issue a lot, but I have to be honest with you: This affects each and every one of us far more than something like social security or a natural disaster in a country we are not entirely sure how to pronounce.
But, Mike, you say, how is that? To which I answer: Stress. It is estimated by me just now that 95 percent of all deaths in the U.S. are stress related. And think about the number of times you go to pull into that prime parking space, only to have to slam on the breaks when you see the lone cart (or, even worse, several of them, huddling together in a “Lord of the Flies” grocery cart commune).
And think about what you mutter under your breath. (Nice language, by the way.) I don’t want you to become a statistic. Imagine a world in which every prime parking spot is just that – a wide open swath of asphalt, just waiting for your SUV to ease into. What’s that? Bluebirds chirping? Sounds like serenity to me ...
Alas, I will conclude with some good news. Shortly after my friend’s confession, I received an e-mail from her. It read “At least for today, I am not ‘that person.’ I strategically parked and returned my cart to the corral!!!”
One convert. A billion to go.

A few random thoughts

Not so much a regular column today but rather just a few musings I felt like sharing. I know, I know – and break from the usual coherent stream of logic?

— I think my crusade for making people return their shopping carts to the proper locale is gaining steam. The other day, I was able to eye someone across a parking lot who was clearly considering abandoning it in a perfectly good spot. Sensing my stare-down, she went and ahead and took the cart the extra 20 feet to the corral. Success through stinkeye.
— I read a column by P.J. O’Rourke recently, and one part resonated with me. In regard to the world being fair, O’Rourke wrote: “I’ve got a 10-year-old at home. She’s always saying, ‘That’s not fair.’ When she says this, I say, ‘Honey, you’re cute. That’s not fair. Your family is pretty well off. That’s not fair. You were born in America. That’s not fair. Darling, you had better pray to God that things don’t start getting fair for you.’”
If you are a parent, prepare to paraphrase that 43 billion times a week.
— Yes, it is hot. It’s the summer. We live in the South. And I have bad news for you: My grandmother, who lived through eight decades in the South, once confided in me a secret: You never get used to it. Ever. That’s why God invented air conditioning.
— A neti pot is one of the grossest things I have ever seen. And, I have to admit, one of the most awesome. For those of you not familiar, Google it. As someone who has some of the worst sinuses on the planet, I’m willing to try anything. While it’s not something I suggest breaking out at the dinner table during a first date, if you’ve considered using one, take the plunge. After the date, of course.
— My son added to his bite list. When a carpenter ant got hold of him the other day, he was quite proud. Between bites and stings, he has been tagged by a yellow jacket, a hornet, a wolf spider, four snakes, a lizard, a dog, an alligator and an Allie. (The spider and Allie bites were in self-defense.) I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry: Only the lizard and alligator were voluntary.
— My children are at the age where they hear EVERYTHING Mommy and Daddy say. We certainly try to set a good example but, as I argued to my wife, I maintain that I was perfectly justified the other day in the car when I said, “Yes, ‘stupid’ is not a nice word. But sometimes, grown-ups have no choice but to ask out loud, ‘What are you, stupid?’ This is often said to someone who stops for a green light.” My wife says I am teaching them road rage. I don’t think she meant that as a compliment.
— Wendy’s should be the model of setting up a fast-food line. Building on the brilliance of Disney’s line-standing strategies, Wendy’s has queue lines. I cannot stand when there is just a chaotic blob of people milling around, hoping to dart into the next available spot. And you always have that one person who is acting like Rickey Henderson, looking to spring into the first available spot before anyone notices. Queue lines cure the Ricky Hendersons.
— My daughter was being pestered by her brother the other day and complained to me about it. I told her to go into a different room. She said that he was being the pest, so why did she have to leave? I explained to her that he was a little brother and that’s what little brothers do. They annoy big sisters. The best defense mechanism is to lock yourself in a little brother-proof room. Trust me, I said, I know – I have three older sisters. Allie said, “But Daddy, you didn’t do that to my aunts when you were a kid, did you?” My sisters and I had a good chuckle over that one.
— Quite a few readers have remarked on the frozen T-shirt column from a few weeks back. And the verdict is split on whether I cheated in the competition. Since it was not unanimous, clearly there was a reasonable doubt, and I therefore declare myself not guilty.
Well, I guess that is all for today. And remember to enjoy your life. It’s quite unfair. Fortunately.

Check it out

By my estimate, there were two of us who should have been in line. Everyone else should have been … elsewhere.
It was a Sunday at 1:40 p.m., and I ran to the store to pick up a few items. When I entered, I was amazed to see every open register line 10 deep with people. Apparently, the store was having a super-duper sale on some stuff, and everyone had flooded the place to get a hold of great deals.
I grabbed my two items and found the line that was the least brutal looking. There was a guy in front of me, looking as exasperated as I felt. “I’m not really sure why all of these people had to be here RIGHT at 1:30 p.m.,” I said.
“The sale,” he said, holding up a flyer.
I looked around the store. There were still plenty of sale items left. The 1-cent folders? Enough to crush a buffalo. The erasers? You could make a life raft out of what was left. There was no need to have clogged the arteries of the store.
He turned to me and asked a fair question: “So why are you here then?”
I gave him my answer: Kit Kittredge. He stared at me and probably considered moving to a different line. I explained that I was getting a printer cartridge for something my wife had to print that afternoon. My wife was taking my daughter to see “Kit Kittredge: An American Girl,” and it started at 2:45 p.m. I had to get the cartridge ASAP.
He nodded, giving his approval for my being there. “What about you?” I asked.
“I’m not from here. I’ve been waiting since 10:30 a.m.” Ah, a blue law casualty. (Granted, he could have killed the time by going to a grocery store, grabbing a six-pack, a lottery ticket and a carton of smokes. That should have kept him busy until he was able to buy … a stapler.)
Anywho, as we surveyed the crowd, we both came to the conclusion that we were probably some of the few shoppers who had a justifiable reason to be there at that time. I was working on a deadline, and he had just been paroled from blue law prison. Everyone else? Just snapping up a Trapper Keeper.
That’s when we decided stores should have the Expedited Shopping Lanes. First, you go to a store mediator and present your case as to whether or not you should get to go to a speed line. It’s sort of the carpool line of checkouts. For example:
MEDIATOR: State your case.
SHOPPER 1: My daughter’s hair bow just broke, and her dance recital is in 15 minutes.
MEDIATOR: Approved. Next.
SHOPPER 2: I figured I’d stock up on these 10 for $10 jars of relish, since I was out and about.
MEDIATOR: DENIED! To the long line.
Now, to any of you who were in that line the other day, I am doing this for your own health. There is no need to stampede a store right when it opens just to get a good deal on school supplies. (A) They aren’t going to run out. (B) If they do, and you have to pay about a dollar more, ask yourself what your time is worth. Personally, I’ll gladly pay a little extra to avoid having to stand in a long line or lock horns with a mom over the last Spider-Man backpack. On a similar note, I remember years ago when my wife took me out people-watching on the day after Thanksgiving. We were in a mall in Florida, and we walked passed a toy store having sales of up to 25 percent off. A line snaked around the store and out into the mall. There, at the back of the line, probably an hour away from checking out, was a woman holding a Monopoly game. I don’t know about you, but I’m not standing in line for an hour to save $4, especially to buy a game that is federally required to be in every game cabinet in America.
While the day may never come when my brilliant idea is embraced by the masses, I will keep a glimmer of hope alive. Until that day comes, however, I know one thing is certain: I’ll just avoid Sunday matinees.

I sawed that

It’s the same predicament you’ve all been in – standing on the top of the roof, chain saw-on-a-stick in hand, when you pull the extension cord and knock over the gas can right where the kids are drawing with their chalk.
Really? Just me? Hmm.
It happened the other day when I decided to break my sworn vow to stay away from ladders and chain saws. But I had noticed that a few limbs had grown to the point where they reached the roof-line and, in some instances, were leaning against Parker’s window, meaning when the wind would blow it sounded like badgers were trying to get in.
So I decided to cut them down. I retrieved my chain saw-on-a-stick, affectionately known around the neighborhood as the “bad idea on a stick.” Some of you may recall that I swore off chain saws and ladders last year after nearly killing myself by cutting the tree that my ladder was leaning against. I am skilled that way.
But, a year later, I guess I assumed I was somehow immune to that kind of foolishness. Also my wife was inside and couldn’t see what I was doing and therefore could not stop me.
So I put the ladder up on the tree and headed on up. I was about 12 feet up, and the pole extended out about six feet. At this height, if I jumped I might be able to trim a little of the branch before I crashed to the ground. Even I knew that was a bad idea.
I surveyed my options. The easiest way to get to the limbs would be to get on the rooftop. While I am not scared of heights, I am very much afraid of falling off my second-story roof, which has a pitch at about 80 degrees by my estimate. The next best option would be the roof over the front porch. I would be able to climb up there and extend the saw to my side, trimming the limbs. No sweat.
I perched the ladder up against the house and began my ascent. My wife’s special “My Husband’s an Idiot” sense kicked in and she came outside. I got to the top of the roof and was standing there, straddling the peak. I extended the chain saw and fired it up. It breezed through the first branch, which crashed into the bushes below. Awesome. Perfection. For a second.
The next branch was a little farther away, and I figured I needed a little more extension cord. I gave the cord a quick tug. Little did I know the cord was behind the gas can, which I had failed to put up after gassing up the mower. The cord hit the can, tipping it over, spilling some gas on the driveway. My wife said, “MICHAEL!!!!” And she has mastered numerous inflections to my name, where all she has to say is “MICHAEL!!!” and I will immediately say, “Gas? Where?” (Other “MICHAEL!!!!” calls result in such diverse responses as “I wasn’t looking at her. I was looking at … something behind her” and “But he needs to learn how to use an ax at some point!”)
I looked down and saw the can on its side. It then occurred to me – I am standing on a roof with a chain saw-on-a-stick. I am not really in first responder mode. “Uh, I don’t really think I’m in a position to help right now.”
My wife agreed that she would have two big messes to clean up if I tried to hustle down to our little chemical spill, and instead opted to stand the can upright and move the kids to a different slab of concrete. There wasn’t much spilled, so she and a neighbor were able to serve as warning tape until it evaporated.
Eventually, I was able to finish my trimming without causing any more hazardous situations, on the ground or the roof. I even managed to get off the roof without a hitch. In fact, aside from the gasoline spill, I’d say it was one of the more successful chain saw-on-a-stick plus ladder days I’ve ever had. I should do them more often.
I have a hunch my wife’s special sense just kicked on.

WALL-E to WALL-E fun

It’s always nice to have something of a reward to hang over the kids in exchange for good behavior. My latest was a trip to see the new Pixar movie, WALL-E. (Rewards such as “dinner” and “getting to sleep inside” no longer have the shine.) So the kids were golden throughout the day, as they were jazzed to see the movie. And I know some of you say that being good should be its own reward, and that children should not be bribed for good behavior. To that I say: HA! Good stuff, there.
Anyway, we bought tickets online, which was a first for me. I lag behind lots of things in terms of online convenience. Back when I was in charge of household finances, I wrote checks for every bill, some of them even on time. My wife saw this as a less than ideal way to manage your budget/keep the electricity on, so she opted to do most of our banking online. Should my wife decide to run off to Tahiti, it will be only a matter of time until creditors descend on me, as I will have no clue when/how/where to pay any bills.
When we got to the theater, I was glad that I had ventured into the online world, as I saw person after person being turned away at the box office. I overheard this conversation:
PATRON: Two tickets to WALL-E.
BOX OFFICE: It’s sold out.
PATRON: Sold out?
BOX OFFICE: Sold out.
PATRON: Completely?
At this point, I mentally awarded the Medal of Restraint to the box office worker who simply nodded, rather than saying, “No, it’s sold out, but not completely sold out. It’s just a ruse to trick those who are not clever enough to ask.”
When we got in the theater, I had to do some serious strategic planning. There were quite a few issues at play:
-- The movie was sold out, meaning we had to scramble to find three seats together
-- Concessions were a must
-- Parker was doing an interesting little dance/hop, which meant somebody needed to get to the bathroom quickly.
Fortunately, both kids are at the age where they are a little more independent and responsible. It’s nice to get to the point where you don’t have to actually stand in the stall when your child is going to the restroom, doing that over-the-top conversation that lets other people know that you are a perfectly normal adult standing in a stall talking about potty time. It also helps to know that you can have your eyes off of your kids for three seconds and know that they will not, say, eat a rock.
Because of these two developmental milestones, I was able to put Allie at our seats while Parker went to the restroom and I stood in line at the concession stand. I am still somewhat paranoid, and did make a point of standing where I could see our seats and the bathroom door. I probably looked like someone with a nervous tic, or perhaps someone watching a tennis match, as I swiveled my head back and forth to keep an eye on things.
When Parker was done, he came to assist me at the concession stand. After explaining to him where his college fund went (“You HAD to add Skittles...”), we settled into our seats. Parker, showing the gentle sensitivity of a child, announced, “That man’s head is big. Can I sit in your lap?”
After moving away from Mr. Big Head, we were settled in. One nice thing about going to a Saturday matinee of a G-rated movie is that you are surrounded by families, and people understand that it is not exactly a quiet zone. While you don’t want it to turn into a Chuck E Cheez, some chattering will go on. Actually, truth of the matter is, the most common thing you hear during a movie is the parents talking to their kids, saying “SHHH!!!!” and “Stop talking!!!” and “You have to pee again!?!!?”
The movie itself was fantastic. I rank it was my new favorite Pixar movie (booting the first-place tie between Finding Nemo and Monsters, Inc.) and one of the best films I have seen in a long time. While kids can certainly enjoy it, it’s just a beautifully done movie that any fan of film will enjoy. In fact, I found it so entertaining, I may take the kids to see it again. If they behave.

Gauging your clerks

There were a mere three things on my shopping list: Outdoor thermometer, rain gauge, bug spray.
Seeing as how I am the most awesomely efficient shopper in the history of mankind, this would be a task almost too easy for someone of my caliber.
I needed the rain gauge and thermometer to replace my outdoor weather station, which never quite worked the way it was supposed to. And by “the way it was supposed to,” I mean “at all.”
Part of the unit was a canister that sat outside, supposedly taking weather readings. It then relayed them inside to a digital display. Of course, the display never quite worked, and would give me temperature readouts of, say, the letter B and an upside down seven.
I think it has something to do with the energy sphere over my house. I call it that, as that is the only sci-fi kind of name I can figure out for the way wireless devices tend to act (or rather, not act) at my house.
Several years ago, my wife got my inner child a gift, the most awesome Dukes of Hazzard remote control car ever. And I could never get it to work. I returned it, got a new General Lee, and had the same result.
After about four remote control cars, I sat my inner child down and told him it wasn’t meant to be. He was disappointed, but it will make him stronger and more able to handle inner bullies when he’s an inner teen.
Anywho, since the energy sphere appeared to affect my weather station, too, I was going to go low tech and get a plain old rain gauge and a plain old thermometer.
The bug spray was because I am simply the most delicious person on the planet, and mosquitoes come from miles around to taste me. They also feast on my son, yet have never bitten my daughter. I told her that is because (a) she is sour and (b) they don’t like monkey meat. She finds neither of these very funny.
So back to my shoptasticness. I loaded up the kids and headed to the store, pretty sure I would be so efficient that I may actually go back in time. I went into the first store and quickly found the bug spray and a thermometer. I figured the rain gauges would be nearby, but saw nothing.
After a few minutes, I opted to ask a clerk for help.
“Rain gauges are over by the thermometers,” I was told, the clerk motioning to where I had just come from.
I went back, scoured the shelves, and found nothing. I returned to the clerk and told her I could not find the rain gauges.
“Oh, we’re out of them. But that’s where they would be.” I stared at her for a second, I guess waiting for her “Gotcha!” moment. No. No Gotcha! moment.
She had honestly just told me where a product I was shopping for would be if they had it, even though they didn’t, as if routine product placement tests were being done by shoppers.
Resisting the urge to delve into this one, I put the thermometer and bug spray back and headed out to the next store.
Much like the previous store, I quickly found the bug spray and a thermometer. I spied a clerk and asked him where the rain gauges would be.
“Rain gauges are over by the thermometers,” he said. I stared at him for a second, thinking there was no possible way this could happen again.
I went back to the thermometers. Nothing. I returned to the clerk. “Oh, we’re out of them. But that’s where they would be.” Seriously. At that point, my daughter asked why people didn’t just tell us they were out of them. From the mouth of babes…
Beaten down, I headed to a third store. I vowed that I would speak to no one. I would not be led astray again.
I found the thermometers tucked away in a corner. Knowing full well that if rain gauges existed they would be here, I scanned the shelf. And there it was, tucked away in a corner, a small orange plastic gauge, all $2.49 of it begging to go home with me, a thermometer and some bug spray.
I am glad that I finally found the items I needed, but can’t believe it took me as long as it did. On the upside, if I ever need a rain gauge again, I know where they’re kept. If they have them.

The Worminators

I have written on several occasions about how my children on occasion, oh, what’s the right way to say it -- lock horns in an epic battle royale with the sole goal of annihilation.
They’re siblings. They fight sometimes. I did with my sisters, and I am sure you did with your siblings, unless you were an only child, in which case you never got to experience the emotion of having to have the exact same thing that someone else had all of the time. Case in point: When my kids go swimming, the only pool toy they want is the one the other one has. There are roughly 500 various floats and noodles and balls and such out there, but rest assured, if one grabs the Finding Nemo kickboard, that is the ONLY toy around.
So anywho, I was pleased the other evening when I finally found something to bring my children together. And you can have all of your fancy parenting magazines and coping techniques and generous bribery moments to bring harmony into your house. But if you really want to find a new blissful sibling union, ask yourself this: “Have you gone worm stomping?”
We were sitting at my parents’ house, enjoying a nice evening on the deck. My dad noted that it had rained earlier in the day, and that the ground was damp. “You know, I wanna try something,” he said, standing from his chair and grabbing a broom. Sweeping, I thought. Not the most over-the-top daredevil attempt, but try away.
Instead, he took a few steps into the yard, turned the broom upside down and began pounding it on the ground. After about 10 seconds, the earth began to move. Big, long worms started to break the surface, wiggling around in the moist soil.
Most of us had heard of some variation of bringing worms to the surface, but we had never actually tried it. My guess is that this is probably something that plenty of folks know, and that somewhere there is an old farmer who would have eyed us with an amused look, whistled for his trusty horse to come up to commence stomping its hoof, bring the bait to the surface.
I decided to take a turn. Same results. Parker was having a field day, grabbing the worms and putting them in a small box nearby. Allie was being a cautious observer and occasional worm spotter for Parker. After find success with the broom, we tried several other techniques, such as (a) putting a metal pole in the ground and taping it with a hammer, (b) stomping my foot and (c) yelling “COME HERE, WORMS!!!!” The metal pole and worm calling were ineffective. The stomping method brought worms up, but you can guess what happened a few stomps later.
Although we had seen successes, we were not totally sure how we could quantify our results. Ten worms? Twenty? Clearly, this needed some scientific study. We picked out a nice little plot that was about one square foot. I began pounding with the broom, and the worms came gushing. At this point, there were so many, everyone was grabbing worms and putting them in a small mason jar, which was soon full. We transferred the worms into a cigar box and decided it was time to figure out what our haul was. Allie and Parker formed a worm counting team. Parker would take one worm out and transfer it to another box, and Allie would record the tally.
She gave us updates throughout the count, usually on the tens, but occasionally other intervals (“We’re at 27 — TWENTY SEVEN!!!!”) When they were done, Allie and Parker came over to announce the tally — 71 earthworms. Or, as I told them, enough for breakfast AND lunch.
Now, you may think that the idea of grabbing 71 earthworms is not your cup of tea. And you may be right. Of course, to me, filthy, slimy hands mean you’ve had some fun. The kids definitely have a new hobby, and we have tried out hand worm stomping a few other places. You will be able to tell quickly if they are around, because they come right out to greet you. Keep at it, and when you find a place where the soil is moist and loose and crawling with worms, you’ll be amazed at the ease of bringing them up. It’s enough to make you forget about the Finding Nemo kickboard.

Summer fun sleep over time

My daughter has gotten to the age where she is starting to have sleep-overs with friends. Which means my son has begun his intense Little Brother training.
Allie is 7, and Parker is 5, which means (a) Parker really wants to play with Allie and her friends and (b) Allie and her friends really don’t want Parker to play with them.
I know this well, as I am the Little Brother. I have three older sisters, so I had three times the opportunity to torment them and their friends. I recall one of my sister’s less tolerant friends responding to my delightful hijinx by spitting a mouthful of milk in my face. Crude, but effective.
To be fair to Parker, he just wants to be part of the action. And to be fair to Allie, there is no reason she should have to include him in the action and have said action be on his terms.
For example, I made dinner for everyone, and being the super awesome cool dad I am, I told them they could eat their pizza in the den and watch some TV. I told Allie’s friend she could pick what they would watch. Because it is genetically hard wired in 7-year-old girls, she is limited to only choosing “Hannah Montana” or “High School Musical.” (I currently have the song “Fabulous” from “HSM2” stuck in my head. For those of you with young daughters, I apologize unleashing that earworm on you. For those of you without young daughters, I recommend you not try to figure out what I am talking about. Think of dentist’s drills or Rosie Perez cackling or anything. Trust me.)
So anywho, Parker decided they should watch “Diego” (which, ironically, stars Rosie Perez). I told him no. He told me, through his subtle body language, that this was not exactly the answer he was looking for. (Said language including lying on the floor, stomping his feet and then barking, “I...WANT...DIEGO.”)
The urge is always there to say, “Girls, just switch to ‘Diego.’” That’s a problem on numerous fronts. First, you’re rewarding a temper tantrum. Second, you’re going back on letting the girls have their choice of shows. And third, you’re inviting Rosie Perez into your home, which is a tremendous “Lost Boys” style mistake.
So I did what any good parent would do. I locked him out back and turned the music up loud. Ha! Little abandonment humor there.
Actually, I took Parker to his room, where he continued to plead his case. For what’s it’s worth, if he’s ever to be an attorney, he really should work on a better delivery. Pounding your fists, clenching your jaw, wrinkling your brow and saying, “I..JUST...DON’T...WANT...MY...CLIENT...TO...GO...TO...JAIL...” probably isn’t that effective.
Once I calmed him down a bit, we had this conversation:
ME: Parker, has anyone ever gotten their way in this house because of a temper tantrum?
PARKER: (staring me down, taking a deep breath) No.
ME: Do you think today is the day you START getting your way with a temper tantrum?
PARKER: Um...yes?
ME: Try again.
PARKER: No.
ME: So, what should we do?
PARKER: Not watch “Diego.”
We didn’t even get into the fact that “Diego” is Tivo’d and can be watched whenever. I figured not to push the issue. In a matter of a few minutes, he was downstairs, watching TV and enjoying some pizza, taking a few minutes out of his busy sister-harassing schedule.
As Allie continues to have friends over to play, I am sure the dynamic will continue to be interesting.
They will play with dolls. He will take one hostage.
They will put on music for a “dance party.” He will replace it with a CD of insect sounds.
They will try to jump rope. Parker will tie them up.
Ah, the joys of little brothers. Here’s hoping none of her friends likes milk.

Tips for travel

For those of you not familiar with traveling with a small child, I suggest this easy experiment:
1. Go to four or five yard sales
2. Buy everything at all of them
3. Cram the recently purchased items in your car.
4. Head on your way
I am not sure how something so small as a child can require so much stuff. I remember the first time we traveled after our daughter was born. Our Ford Explorer was filled for a two-day trip to Atlanta. There was a stroller, a portable crib, a second stroller (just in case), another portable crib, a portable playpen, that toy with the flashing lights, that toy with the shiny wheel and roughly 65,000 diapers, as the possibility of your child contracting dysentery had somehow snuck into your sleep-deprived brain.
We also took three huge suitcases of clothes. Of course, for some parents that is necessary, as some babies, such as our daughter, throw up for the sheer sport of it.
As the kids gets older, I am glad to report that the amount of stuff we travel with has diminished greatly. There are numerous reasons for this:
1. As children get older, they usually stop expelling disgusting things at mind-blowing rates. This is a very nice stage to reach, almost as nice as the “can blow their own nose” stage.
2. It doesn’t take long for parents not to care very much about their clothing. Not that we resort to donning burlap sacks or anything, but you can be sure that it didn’t take much for me not to care about the Shoulder of Drool.
3. You realize that strollers the size of forklifts don’t always have to go. I am fairly certain that most umbrella strollers are purchased, taken on a trip and then abandoned before returning home. My wife and I even took to not taking strollers if we were going somewhere we could rent them. (Hint: Two kids? Get two strollers. NEVER get suckered into the double. Tired kid + tired kid + double stroller = Someone getting kicked, pinched, bitten, ejected from the stroller, etc.)
But the best improvement we made in traveling with kids is adding movies in the car so that they stare hypnotically at Shrek through four states. I have heard people comment numerous times how “we didn’t have DVD players when WE were kids, and we used to take road trips – eight of us in a tiny clown car with no AC – and drive to Brazil.” Yes, you are a trooper. And I am pretty sure that if I got into a time machine and took a DVD player to your parents just before one of these trips, they would say, “So, let me get this straight, Future Man – This little screen opens up, and the kids can just watch cartoons on the whole drive to Brazil? And they won’t ... talk? And they might even fall asleep? Wow, the future really is a wonderful place.” Or they might be kinda freaked out by me showing up in my future outfit and handing strange technologies to them. I don’t know your parents.
We first added the moving pictures to our vehicle when we took a fantastic drive from Florida to South Carolina – eight hours – with a little background music I like to call “Child Screaming So Loud Cars Were Pulling Over Thinking It Was a Police Siren.” Finally, we simply gave in and let her drive.
Ha! Kidding. But for the next trip, I took a small TV we have in our kitchen and fastened it to the console with bungee cords. I got a little converter so that we could plug it into the car. Our next trip: Five hours of Elmo on constant repeat. And it was beautiful.
Eventually, we upgraded to one of those VCR-TV units that hangs from the back of the seat. That was good for a while, until someone learned that little toes could reach it and mess with the buttons.
By the time Parker was old enough to care about watching something, we had bought one of those little DVD players that we could just sit on the console. This was much nicer than the original TV because I didn’t have something the size of a cinder block strapped in next to me.
We have since added a van, and it has the DVD player built into the car. And I think that’s a more important purchase than seat belts. For what it’s worth, I have heard quite a few movies that I have never seen. I can quote “Cars” for you. Never seen it. I saw about four seconds of it when SOMEBODY in the car suggested I move my seat back from the fully reclined position, despite the fact that (a) she was supposed to be asleep and (b) it was a very straight and empty road. And to keep harmony in the car, my wife gave each of the kids a little DVD holder, and they take turns picking the movie. If we can just figure out a way to agree on who picks the first movie, we’ll be fine.
Again, I know plenty of you think those dadgum kids today with their spoiled ways and their movies in cars.
But really, what is the difference? We all had diversions when we were on road trips. Just because ours were a little lamer than watching “The Incredibles,” it doesn’t mean they’re spoiled.
It means they just may not ever know the joy of finally – FINALLY!!! – seeing a Hawaii license plate.