Ten years ago this Friday, I got yelled at for not being in the church on time. I blame the folks who allowed my groomsmen and me to have access to a ping-pong table.
Yes, my wife and I are celebrating our 10-year anniversary. Much has changed in 10 years. A decade ago, I didn’t know how to change a diaper. I didn’t know that minivans were the greatest cars in the world. I didn’t know that it was a better idea NOT to stay out until 4 a.m.
Like anyone who celebrates their 10-year anniversary, we have changed over the years, hopefully for the better. Today, I figured I would share a few things about my wife and me that helped us reach 10 years.
1. First off, we have to keep reminding ourselves that it’s 10 years, because we actually dated for five years before we got married. My wife did the sensible thing and had me pass through a few phases of idiocy before we got married. She dated Fraternity Mike. She dated Fresh-Out-of-College Mike. She dated What Does He Want to Be When He Grows Up Mike. (For what it’s worth — a professional baseball player.) But five years of growth certainly did not hurt our chances at reaching the 10-year mark.
2. My wife does have a name. Someone pointed out a while back that I have never mentioned it in a column, but only referred to her as “my wife.” Her name is Jennifer, but I call her Jenn, as does her mother. Everyone else calls her Jen, which is clearly wrong, yet she will not even admit that. Her mother and I just sigh and shake our heads. She only calls me Michael. Well, that’s not ALL she calls me, but that’s the only actual, proper name she calls me.
3. I am very pleased with the progress my wife has made with animals. When we first met, she liked the following animals: newborn puppies. That is all. Since then, she has warmed up to big dogs and evil cats and snakes and turtles and flying squirrels and such. I think she finally came to the realization that the animals were going to keep on coming, and she might as well learn to, at the very least, not cringe when she sees them. (She’ll still take a pass on birds, however.)
4. She really means it when she says don’t get her anything for Valentine’s. Early on, we learned the key to a successful marriage: Don’t assume I can read minds. If you say, “Don’t get me a card” guess what — I’m not getting you a card. And for everyone who is fighting back the urge to say. “Oh, she SAYS that...” I assure you — she means that.
5. But, you’re saying, not wanting to leave No. 4, what about a 10-year anniversary gift? Well, first off, the traditional gift is tin or aluminum. Nothing says “I love you” like Reynolds Wrap. Second, I have a little confession — she handles all of the finances in the house. I used to, but apparently companies want you to send them checks EVERY month. I found it a hassle. My wife took over the finances, and in about 10 minutes had the vast majority of our bills online and automated. Granted, it’s not like I don’t have a checkbook, but it’s not really romantic or surprising to say, “Honey, I’d like buy you something extra special — which account should I write it out of?”
6. It’s nice to be at a stage when you can be honest with each other. If she asks me to pick between two shirts, I feel comfortable saying, “I really don’t care.” Rather than be offended, she will appreciate my candidness and say, “Seriously — pick one.” I will then offer my honest opinion (“The...blue one?”) and we move on. Similarly, she will offer suggestions to me, usually about how it was neat of me to spin around 1,000 times to the point of blind dizziness before picking out a shirt and tie, but how about I go with a different — and matching — combination.
With 10 years behind us, the natural thing for us to do is to look forward to the next 10 years and wonder what that will hold. On our 20th anniversary, our kids will be 17 and 15, so that is only slightly terrifying. Hopefully, the next 10 years will be rewarding, though, with more laughter than tears, more good times than bad. When we reach that milestone, I look forward to looking into my wife’s eyes and saying, “Can I have the checkbook? I want to buy you something special.”
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
What a chore
So it was Saturday morning, around 10. “Sit. Both of you,” I said to my kids. At that point, I proceeded to give a stirring lecture on teamwork, the need for all parts of a machine to function together, the integrated workings of a fine-tuned family unit. Blank stares.
Somewhat frustrated that they did not get my brilliant — and might I add inspiring — words, I summed up, “I’m making a chore list. You both get chores.”
Allie raised her hand. “But I don’t want to clean up any of Parker’s messes.” I explained that we all worked together, and sometimes we cleaned up messes we made. I reminded her that I clean her clothes, yet don’t recall wearing any of her dresses. “They wouldn’t fit you,” she replied, somehow thinking she justified not having to clean up Star Wars figures.
So I went to the computer and made up two lists — one had everyday chores, such as putting dishes in the sink or making beds or figuring out what magic force field had covered the clothes hamper, keeping dirty clothes at least six feet away from it. Then there was the one-time chore list — put bikes back in garage, remove all small, plastic animals from underneath couch, undress dog, etc. I would assign them some chores from each list, set them free, and then have them wake me in my hammock when they were done.
In short order, I was told this was an idea only slightly better than a mesh boat. My wife informed me of its key flaws: (1) it was not color-coded and (2) there was no exciting game that went with assigning chores. Apparently, the only way for a chore list to be effective is to mate “Let’s Make a Deal” with the terror threat level.
In no time, my wife had bunches of slips of papers — some had blue writing (daily chore), some had green (one-time chore), some had red (combat terrorism chore). Color fun!
And there were hats to draw them out of — a Santa hat for Allie and a Spiderman one for Parker. Exciting game! We decided to let the kids take turns choosing chores. Figuring I could rig this like a third-world election, I gently guided Parker’s hand into the hat, fully expecting him to draw out what was supposed to be something appropriate for a 5-year-old, such as gather newspapers or put toys in toy boxes or dive from the back of the couch into the laundry pile. Allie, meanwhile, would get — in my crooked election — things geared for a 7-year-old, such as folding towels or gathering up dishes or staring hypnotized at “Hannah Montana” despite the fact that I am four inches from her saying, “Allie. Allie. Allie. Allie. Allie.”
Well, let’s just say that if any of the presidential candidates are looking for me to “tweak” this year’s election, look elsewhere.
Parker’s first three picks: Help make lunches; dust; vacuum upstairs.
Translation: Be covered in peanut butter; climb the bookshelves; lose a toe.
Allie’s first three choices: Trash bags upstairs; books on shelf in Parker’s room; sweep
Translation: Pass; pass; sweep
Eventually, my wife and I managed to switch some chores around to more appropriate places (which, for the record, would have been easily accomplished by my admittedly plain but astoundingly effective original list). Surprisingly, the kids embraced their chores. They would grab a slip of paper and run off and do their chore, and then come back when they were done. They kinda turned it into a game, seeing who could finish things faster. (And if there is one thing that is certain, the faster a 5- and 7-year-old cleans, the more clean it will be.)
After only a short while, the lists were pretty much done, and the kids were amazed at how much they had accomplished in a short period of time. I began my speech on WHY they were so effective and ways that we would be able to reduce our chore load in the future by a constant and continual diligence — hey, where are you going! Hey, come back! Man, my kids did the same thing. Fine. I’ll stop lecturing on the finer points of cleaning.
Anyway, I’m glad to see they have embraced the team concept. They are old enough to be integral members of Team Clean. Plus, it’s color-coded and therefore fun!
Somewhat frustrated that they did not get my brilliant — and might I add inspiring — words, I summed up, “I’m making a chore list. You both get chores.”
Allie raised her hand. “But I don’t want to clean up any of Parker’s messes.” I explained that we all worked together, and sometimes we cleaned up messes we made. I reminded her that I clean her clothes, yet don’t recall wearing any of her dresses. “They wouldn’t fit you,” she replied, somehow thinking she justified not having to clean up Star Wars figures.
So I went to the computer and made up two lists — one had everyday chores, such as putting dishes in the sink or making beds or figuring out what magic force field had covered the clothes hamper, keeping dirty clothes at least six feet away from it. Then there was the one-time chore list — put bikes back in garage, remove all small, plastic animals from underneath couch, undress dog, etc. I would assign them some chores from each list, set them free, and then have them wake me in my hammock when they were done.
In short order, I was told this was an idea only slightly better than a mesh boat. My wife informed me of its key flaws: (1) it was not color-coded and (2) there was no exciting game that went with assigning chores. Apparently, the only way for a chore list to be effective is to mate “Let’s Make a Deal” with the terror threat level.
In no time, my wife had bunches of slips of papers — some had blue writing (daily chore), some had green (one-time chore), some had red (combat terrorism chore). Color fun!
And there were hats to draw them out of — a Santa hat for Allie and a Spiderman one for Parker. Exciting game! We decided to let the kids take turns choosing chores. Figuring I could rig this like a third-world election, I gently guided Parker’s hand into the hat, fully expecting him to draw out what was supposed to be something appropriate for a 5-year-old, such as gather newspapers or put toys in toy boxes or dive from the back of the couch into the laundry pile. Allie, meanwhile, would get — in my crooked election — things geared for a 7-year-old, such as folding towels or gathering up dishes or staring hypnotized at “Hannah Montana” despite the fact that I am four inches from her saying, “Allie. Allie. Allie. Allie. Allie.”
Well, let’s just say that if any of the presidential candidates are looking for me to “tweak” this year’s election, look elsewhere.
Parker’s first three picks: Help make lunches; dust; vacuum upstairs.
Translation: Be covered in peanut butter; climb the bookshelves; lose a toe.
Allie’s first three choices: Trash bags upstairs; books on shelf in Parker’s room; sweep
Translation: Pass; pass; sweep
Eventually, my wife and I managed to switch some chores around to more appropriate places (which, for the record, would have been easily accomplished by my admittedly plain but astoundingly effective original list). Surprisingly, the kids embraced their chores. They would grab a slip of paper and run off and do their chore, and then come back when they were done. They kinda turned it into a game, seeing who could finish things faster. (And if there is one thing that is certain, the faster a 5- and 7-year-old cleans, the more clean it will be.)
After only a short while, the lists were pretty much done, and the kids were amazed at how much they had accomplished in a short period of time. I began my speech on WHY they were so effective and ways that we would be able to reduce our chore load in the future by a constant and continual diligence — hey, where are you going! Hey, come back! Man, my kids did the same thing. Fine. I’ll stop lecturing on the finer points of cleaning.
Anyway, I’m glad to see they have embraced the team concept. They are old enough to be integral members of Team Clean. Plus, it’s color-coded and therefore fun!
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Tent city
We may be a ways off from actual camping. But we’re getting closer.
My wife got me a nice, big dome tent for Christmas, which at first I thought was a not-so-subtle way of kicking me out, as my wife is quite fond of the outdoors, so long as she can view it from, at the very least, a screened-in patio.
Turns out she truly was thinking a camping adventure would be a good family outing. I told my wife that we should find a place in the North Georgia mountains...no, wait, Smokies, up in North Carolina...no, better — to the beach!!!
She gave me a condescending “Easy there, Sparky” look. “How about we take it for a test drive in the back yard first?”
Fine, whatever.
A couple weeks ago, the weather was warm enough to go ahead and get the tent out. I asked a friend of mine — an accomplished camper — how long it would take to set up the tent. “Probably 10 minutes,” he said. “For you? An hour, maybe.” Ringing endorsement.
I unpacked the tent and decided to enlist the help of my kids, which is kinda like asking squirrels to help. Actually, it would be like asking squirrels to help if the squirrels kept running off with critical pieces of the tent. I finally convinced them that (a) they could not take any parts away and (b) they needed to hold onto a corner and not move, or the tent would blow away and would eventually land on and crush a puppy or a pony or perhaps a litter of adorable kittens.
Turns out, the tent was a snap to set up, and only took about 10 minutes. (Take THAT, doubters!!!) It has a divider in the middle so that it can be broken into two rooms. Allie immediately claimed one room, leading Parker to immediately claim the same room. When Allie conceded that room to him and went to the other room, Parker immediately claimed the other room, too. Being the Solomon – like father I am, I gathered them both together and said, “Pick a room or I sell all of your toys.”
They ended up playing in the tent for hours. They had lunch out there. Allie brought some books out to read. Parker brought out a box of toy animals and set up a little zoo. Even when some rains came, I was pleased that it stayed dry inside, at least on the parts where the flaps were zipped. Where they weren’t zipped? Not so much. But easily cleaned up.
I left the tent up overnight and even offered the kids the chance to sleep in it. You would think I offered them a chance to sleep in a haunted house. The next morning, they were thrilled to see the tent was still up, as if tent bandits were going to creep into our back yard or something. They asked if they could have their breakfast out there, which was fine. Sprinting with their wholesome, well-balanced, Dad-approved breakfast of chocolate chip cookie dough Pop-Tarts, they sprinted through the drizzle to the tent. I sat and watched at the sheer joy and carefree happiness my kids had. I think some soft piano music played in the background.
They unzipped the flap and both turned on a dime. The sheer joy was now the look of sheer terror, and they sprinted back at double-time to the porch. I could only assume there was a crocodile or a homeless person or something. I flung open the door. “What’s wrong!?!?!?!”
“There’s....a....” Allie was trying to catch her breath.
“A what?”
“A....a....” she had to stop for a bite of Pop-Tart. Parker filled in. “A cat!”
Seriously? A cat? A cat? A regular cat? Not a tiger or a puma or Cat Stevens? A house cat? I went out to the tent and looked inside. Sure enough, a terrifying house cat that looked me right in the eye and said, “Meow.” It then walked over and rubbed against my leg while purring. The horror.
Eventually, I convinced them to head back to the tent (I think my words were, “It’s a cat, for crying out loud!”). When they were done, we packed it back up, which was pretty much as easy as putting it up. I have put the tent out one other time, again with relative ease. That time, there was no rain, but we found out that it could endure pretty substantial winds. That is, after you stake it down. Prior to that? Kind of a big, warped beach ball.
I am sure that we will need a few more test drives before we dive into the wild with the tent. Probably our first night will, in fact, be in the back yard. I would love to head out into the mountains and rough it for a few days, but let’s be honest — the woods aren’t always safe. Think of how many cats could be there.
My wife got me a nice, big dome tent for Christmas, which at first I thought was a not-so-subtle way of kicking me out, as my wife is quite fond of the outdoors, so long as she can view it from, at the very least, a screened-in patio.
Turns out she truly was thinking a camping adventure would be a good family outing. I told my wife that we should find a place in the North Georgia mountains...no, wait, Smokies, up in North Carolina...no, better — to the beach!!!
She gave me a condescending “Easy there, Sparky” look. “How about we take it for a test drive in the back yard first?”
Fine, whatever.
A couple weeks ago, the weather was warm enough to go ahead and get the tent out. I asked a friend of mine — an accomplished camper — how long it would take to set up the tent. “Probably 10 minutes,” he said. “For you? An hour, maybe.” Ringing endorsement.
I unpacked the tent and decided to enlist the help of my kids, which is kinda like asking squirrels to help. Actually, it would be like asking squirrels to help if the squirrels kept running off with critical pieces of the tent. I finally convinced them that (a) they could not take any parts away and (b) they needed to hold onto a corner and not move, or the tent would blow away and would eventually land on and crush a puppy or a pony or perhaps a litter of adorable kittens.
Turns out, the tent was a snap to set up, and only took about 10 minutes. (Take THAT, doubters!!!) It has a divider in the middle so that it can be broken into two rooms. Allie immediately claimed one room, leading Parker to immediately claim the same room. When Allie conceded that room to him and went to the other room, Parker immediately claimed the other room, too. Being the Solomon – like father I am, I gathered them both together and said, “Pick a room or I sell all of your toys.”
They ended up playing in the tent for hours. They had lunch out there. Allie brought some books out to read. Parker brought out a box of toy animals and set up a little zoo. Even when some rains came, I was pleased that it stayed dry inside, at least on the parts where the flaps were zipped. Where they weren’t zipped? Not so much. But easily cleaned up.
I left the tent up overnight and even offered the kids the chance to sleep in it. You would think I offered them a chance to sleep in a haunted house. The next morning, they were thrilled to see the tent was still up, as if tent bandits were going to creep into our back yard or something. They asked if they could have their breakfast out there, which was fine. Sprinting with their wholesome, well-balanced, Dad-approved breakfast of chocolate chip cookie dough Pop-Tarts, they sprinted through the drizzle to the tent. I sat and watched at the sheer joy and carefree happiness my kids had. I think some soft piano music played in the background.
They unzipped the flap and both turned on a dime. The sheer joy was now the look of sheer terror, and they sprinted back at double-time to the porch. I could only assume there was a crocodile or a homeless person or something. I flung open the door. “What’s wrong!?!?!?!”
“There’s....a....” Allie was trying to catch her breath.
“A what?”
“A....a....” she had to stop for a bite of Pop-Tart. Parker filled in. “A cat!”
Seriously? A cat? A cat? A regular cat? Not a tiger or a puma or Cat Stevens? A house cat? I went out to the tent and looked inside. Sure enough, a terrifying house cat that looked me right in the eye and said, “Meow.” It then walked over and rubbed against my leg while purring. The horror.
Eventually, I convinced them to head back to the tent (I think my words were, “It’s a cat, for crying out loud!”). When they were done, we packed it back up, which was pretty much as easy as putting it up. I have put the tent out one other time, again with relative ease. That time, there was no rain, but we found out that it could endure pretty substantial winds. That is, after you stake it down. Prior to that? Kind of a big, warped beach ball.
I am sure that we will need a few more test drives before we dive into the wild with the tent. Probably our first night will, in fact, be in the back yard. I would love to head out into the mountains and rough it for a few days, but let’s be honest — the woods aren’t always safe. Think of how many cats could be there.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Come on in. The water's fine
My daughter decided that pool season has begun. I have decided she’s nuts.
It happened last weekend, when I was working in the backyard. Allie and Parker asked if they could come into the pool area with me and help. By “help,” they mean, “Constantly have Daddy say, ‘I am serious – do NOT do that or I will back a dump truck up and fill the pool in.’” Normally, the offenses at the pool are:
1. Running. I am still waiting to find out what age children develop a speed other than “sprint” and “asleep.”
2. Playing with the cleaning supplies. A 10-foot net in the hands of someone 4 feet tall is begging for someone to get smacked in the head.
3. Digging things out of the pool filter and throwing them at your sibling. Not surprisingly, these usually are thrown by a brother at a sister.
So they were “helping” when Allie asked if they could get in. I told them they could stand on the steps. The pool water was 62 degrees, so I figured this would not last long. Allie stepped on the first step, and then the second step. “Feels good!” she remarked. Her brother then followed her to the second step. I probably should have suggested he pull up his blue jeans. He didn’t seem to care.
I told them it was time to get out, and they both protested the point, saying the water felt just perfect. Bluff calling time – “OK,” I said. “If it feels so good, go get your swimsuits on.”
I figured that would nip it in the bud. I now figure I am a dolt for figuring that.
With shrieks of excitement, they began sprinting to the house, ready to go. “NO RUNNING!!!” I said to no one in particular, since they were already well inside.
(Oh, quick answer to your probable question -- of course my wife was not home. Do you think we’d have even made it to the steps if the voice of reason were there?)
In a few minutes, Allie came downstairs wearing her swimsuit. Parker came down wearing his birthday suit, since he could not find his swimsuit. Probably not the best choice. After a few minutes, I found a swimsuit for him, a hand-me-down from a friend that should fit him perfectly when he’s about 22.
We got out to the pool, and I bet the kids they wouldn’t stay in for more than 30 seconds. Allie said 30 seconds would be no problem. Parker said, “No! Forty hundred seconds!!!” Time isn’t his strong suit.
I told them I would count to three, and they both would jump in. When I got to three, Allie sprung off the side. Parker started to go, and then hesitated. “I don’t wanna go.” Forty hundred seconds, my eye.
Allie surfaced, and told me that the water felt GREATTTT! “Come on in!!!!” Yeah, right. She turned to Parker and told him that it was the best water EVER. For some reason, he believed her. He jumped in, went under water, and immediately broke the surface and began hurriedly swimming to the side. “IT’SCOLDIT’SCOLDIT’SCOLDIT’SCOLD.”
When he got out, his teeth were already chattering and he was shivering like crazy. I wrapped him in a towel and told him to head inside. “Allie, the water’s too cold. Come on out.”
She didn’t hear me, because she was busy doing somersaults and diving to the bottom and swimming around. I am fairly certain that she is part halibut.
I eventually got her attention, and we had this conversation:
ME: Allie, time to get out.
HER: Why?
ME: Because the water is freezing.
HER: It’s not 32. I checked the thermometer.
ME: Stupid science class.
Eventually, I convinced her that it was time to get out. She asked me for two more minutes, and I conceded, figuring surely the cold would catch up to her any second now. When two minutes were up, she reluctantly swam to the side and climbed out, throwing a towel on as if she had just climbed out of a hot tub.
Since that day, she has wanted to go swimming most every day. We have not yet been back in, mainly because the times when it would have been good for swimming have either been rainy or filled with roughly 5,000 events we were going to.
It’s good to know that her immunity to cold water will lengthen the season for the pool. I mean, most people are still a month or so away from swimming regularly. And that’s like, forty hundred days away.
It happened last weekend, when I was working in the backyard. Allie and Parker asked if they could come into the pool area with me and help. By “help,” they mean, “Constantly have Daddy say, ‘I am serious – do NOT do that or I will back a dump truck up and fill the pool in.’” Normally, the offenses at the pool are:
1. Running. I am still waiting to find out what age children develop a speed other than “sprint” and “asleep.”
2. Playing with the cleaning supplies. A 10-foot net in the hands of someone 4 feet tall is begging for someone to get smacked in the head.
3. Digging things out of the pool filter and throwing them at your sibling. Not surprisingly, these usually are thrown by a brother at a sister.
So they were “helping” when Allie asked if they could get in. I told them they could stand on the steps. The pool water was 62 degrees, so I figured this would not last long. Allie stepped on the first step, and then the second step. “Feels good!” she remarked. Her brother then followed her to the second step. I probably should have suggested he pull up his blue jeans. He didn’t seem to care.
I told them it was time to get out, and they both protested the point, saying the water felt just perfect. Bluff calling time – “OK,” I said. “If it feels so good, go get your swimsuits on.”
I figured that would nip it in the bud. I now figure I am a dolt for figuring that.
With shrieks of excitement, they began sprinting to the house, ready to go. “NO RUNNING!!!” I said to no one in particular, since they were already well inside.
(Oh, quick answer to your probable question -- of course my wife was not home. Do you think we’d have even made it to the steps if the voice of reason were there?)
In a few minutes, Allie came downstairs wearing her swimsuit. Parker came down wearing his birthday suit, since he could not find his swimsuit. Probably not the best choice. After a few minutes, I found a swimsuit for him, a hand-me-down from a friend that should fit him perfectly when he’s about 22.
We got out to the pool, and I bet the kids they wouldn’t stay in for more than 30 seconds. Allie said 30 seconds would be no problem. Parker said, “No! Forty hundred seconds!!!” Time isn’t his strong suit.
I told them I would count to three, and they both would jump in. When I got to three, Allie sprung off the side. Parker started to go, and then hesitated. “I don’t wanna go.” Forty hundred seconds, my eye.
Allie surfaced, and told me that the water felt GREATTTT! “Come on in!!!!” Yeah, right. She turned to Parker and told him that it was the best water EVER. For some reason, he believed her. He jumped in, went under water, and immediately broke the surface and began hurriedly swimming to the side. “IT’SCOLDIT’SCOLDIT’SCOLDIT’SCOLD.”
When he got out, his teeth were already chattering and he was shivering like crazy. I wrapped him in a towel and told him to head inside. “Allie, the water’s too cold. Come on out.”
She didn’t hear me, because she was busy doing somersaults and diving to the bottom and swimming around. I am fairly certain that she is part halibut.
I eventually got her attention, and we had this conversation:
ME: Allie, time to get out.
HER: Why?
ME: Because the water is freezing.
HER: It’s not 32. I checked the thermometer.
ME: Stupid science class.
Eventually, I convinced her that it was time to get out. She asked me for two more minutes, and I conceded, figuring surely the cold would catch up to her any second now. When two minutes were up, she reluctantly swam to the side and climbed out, throwing a towel on as if she had just climbed out of a hot tub.
Since that day, she has wanted to go swimming most every day. We have not yet been back in, mainly because the times when it would have been good for swimming have either been rainy or filled with roughly 5,000 events we were going to.
It’s good to know that her immunity to cold water will lengthen the season for the pool. I mean, most people are still a month or so away from swimming regularly. And that’s like, forty hundred days away.
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