Ah, summer. It’s almost here. And as I look back on the summers of old, I realize that I am about to embark on a new era of summers for me. I think pretty much everyone’s summers are packaged into convenient blocks of time that change as you go through life. Here are mine:
SUMMER ERA 1: Do nothing. This is when I was a first born and up until I was 4 or so. I have no recollection of this. Plus, I wasn’t in school and couldn’t hold down a job, so I guess I just kinda sat around. My parents could have had a chimp for four years and it would have been the same. Except they could have probably taught the chimp to vacuum.
SUMMER ERA 2: Awareness. This is the time you start to become aware of summer. It also the time you are still unaware of sunburn and dehydration. My mom started most every summer morning this same way:
MOM: Kids, come on! It’s a beautiful summer day!!!
KIDS: (running out the back door) YAY!!!!
MOM: (SLAM. Click.) Suckers.
We would pretty much spend the entire summer outside, tromping through the woods around my house. I would let my kids do that, but those woods are now subdivisions, and I am guessing some of those folks wouldn’t appreciate a tree fort like the days of old.
SUMMER ERA 3: Hello, driver’s license. That made summer infinitely more fun even if the bulk of driving consisted of driving to and from the pool. And for what it’s worth, I still think that the age for getting a driver’s license should be somewhere around 35. I recall my friends and I would sometimes hop in the car and crack the windows just enough to be able to breathe and drive the few blocks to the pool. We had convinced ourselves that the water would feel SO good after having been in the super hot car that it would be worth it to have traveled in a motorized crock pot.
SUMMER ERA 4: College. Welcome freedom. I usually stayed at college, working and taking classes. For two summers, I worked as a counselor for incoming freshman showing them the ropes. Each of my freshmen learned Mike’s three rules of college to live by: (a) Just go to class and you’ve won half the battle (b) It’s OK if don’t know what you’re going to be when you grow up; you probably won’t for at least a decade and (c) make sure you ask someone to go on a date while she’s standing in a crowd of her friends and can turn you down very publicly. Trust me, the rest of your year will seem fine in comparison.
SUMMER ERA 5: After college. This was the time I had some realizations to grasp, the main one being that I only got two weeks off a year, if I were lucky. Bye-bye, summer break. Gone. Forever. Or at least until I (a) win the lottery or (b) land that seven-figure job, which was no doubt in my plans.
SUMMER ERA 6: Small kids. These were the summers of firsts for me as a parent. I took my kids to the beach to be terrified of waves for the first time. I let them run around barefoot so that they can step on a piece of glass and cut their foot for the first time. I let them take that first dip in the pool, so they can feel what it’s like to go into a gigantic bath, and since normal sized baths are such a hoot, they can have their first outdoor bath tantrum.
SUMMER ERA 7: That’s where we are now. The kids are definitely in Summer Generation 2. Parker is out of school, and Allie can see the summer finish line. They cannot wait for having an entire summer to themselves. It’s almost as if they can hear it calling. And it’s saying, “Kids, come on! It’s a beautiful summer day.”
(SLAM. Click.)
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
My Aiken back
It’s not a good sign when, two minutes into a two-hour nature hike, you are wondering if you will, in fact, be able to walk another step.
I was taking my daughter’s Brownie troop on a walk in the woods. The girls were heading down a steep path, and I decided to get ahead of them so I could help them down toward the bottom. I darted between a few trees and jumped the last five feet or so. The moment I landed, two things went through my mind:
1. Ouch.
2. You are with a Brownie troop. Just stick with saying “Ouch.”
A wretched pain shot up through my back and neck. Had I been at home, I would have probably just dropped down right then and called for my wife, who would have found me hours later in the backyard. But I was not about to be the first one to drop on a Brownie hike.
Straightening up as best I could, I got to the bottom of the hill and helped them down the hill. I was hoping that the back pain was a temporary thing and it would work itself out over the walk. I should have also wished for the ability to fly because that wish would have had the same success.
As we walked, it got worse. The pain was more and more, and it was starting to restrict my movement. Someone would call for me to look at something, and rather than being able to turn my head, I would have to swivel like Robocop to face someone. It was also a joy when I was turning over logs to look for critters or trying to look up to show the girls birds or trees.
After about a half hour, I just decided that I was going to block out the pain and soldier on. I was going to refuse to acknowledge the discomfort and have the best nature walk ever. The pain disagreed and told me I would, in fact, acknowledge it, and it was going to enjoy the nature walk, feasting on my delicious discomfort.
We eventually made it through the walk, and I think I was able to do it without complaining. When we started home, I called my wife and told her what had happened. “Oh, no...” she said.
I would like to think that it was an “Oh, no, my poor husband is hurting.” I think the more realistic one was “Oh, no, I have a giant baby coming home who will let me know that this is the single worst pain any human has ever endured.”
When I got home, I went straight upstairs to lie down. This did not make my back feel better, so I tried complaining to see if that would help. Also not helpful.
I made it through the day without much relief on the back. When I went to bed that night, I figured a nice night’s sleep would be all I needed to take care of it. Turns out, when your back is making you contort like Quasimodo, it’s hard to get a good night’s sleep. I woke up the next morning and guess I forgot about the pain because I made the unforgivable mistake of trying to step out of bed. My wife has assured me that there are better ways to wake her up than with a shriek of pain.
My wife told me that I needed to take some medicine and get back in bed. I told her I wasn’t sleepy. She told me the medicine would take care of that.
Prior to doing that, I told her I wanted some time to see if it would work itself out. Plus, Allie was singing in church that morning, so I felt I needed to be there. Fast forward to halfway through the service. The pain had gotten to the point where I could hardly stand up, and my wife was having to help me up. When I was sitting, I was leaned over, angling my head the only way I could to keep the pain level somewhere between sheer and excruciating.
Eventually, I made it home, trying my best to appear as normal as possible. My wife got me set up with some medicine and a heating pad. Truth be told, I was in so much discomfort, I hardly remember climbing into bed. All I know is I turned on the television and saw that an Indiana Jones marathon was about to start. I remember the start of “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” When I woke up, it was the end of “Temple of Doom.”
When I awoke, I sat there for a minute doing a pain inventory. Didn’t really hurt. I started to sit up. No girlish shrieks coming from my mouth. Looked left. My head moved. Looked right. Moved that way, too. Wow, this was heading back into almost-human area.
While I still had a little stiffness and discomfort, it was miles away from what it was. After a couple of days, I was pretty much completely healed. It was far from fun, but at least I know that I am at least as tough as a Brownie.
I was taking my daughter’s Brownie troop on a walk in the woods. The girls were heading down a steep path, and I decided to get ahead of them so I could help them down toward the bottom. I darted between a few trees and jumped the last five feet or so. The moment I landed, two things went through my mind:
1. Ouch.
2. You are with a Brownie troop. Just stick with saying “Ouch.”
A wretched pain shot up through my back and neck. Had I been at home, I would have probably just dropped down right then and called for my wife, who would have found me hours later in the backyard. But I was not about to be the first one to drop on a Brownie hike.
Straightening up as best I could, I got to the bottom of the hill and helped them down the hill. I was hoping that the back pain was a temporary thing and it would work itself out over the walk. I should have also wished for the ability to fly because that wish would have had the same success.
As we walked, it got worse. The pain was more and more, and it was starting to restrict my movement. Someone would call for me to look at something, and rather than being able to turn my head, I would have to swivel like Robocop to face someone. It was also a joy when I was turning over logs to look for critters or trying to look up to show the girls birds or trees.
After about a half hour, I just decided that I was going to block out the pain and soldier on. I was going to refuse to acknowledge the discomfort and have the best nature walk ever. The pain disagreed and told me I would, in fact, acknowledge it, and it was going to enjoy the nature walk, feasting on my delicious discomfort.
We eventually made it through the walk, and I think I was able to do it without complaining. When we started home, I called my wife and told her what had happened. “Oh, no...” she said.
I would like to think that it was an “Oh, no, my poor husband is hurting.” I think the more realistic one was “Oh, no, I have a giant baby coming home who will let me know that this is the single worst pain any human has ever endured.”
When I got home, I went straight upstairs to lie down. This did not make my back feel better, so I tried complaining to see if that would help. Also not helpful.
I made it through the day without much relief on the back. When I went to bed that night, I figured a nice night’s sleep would be all I needed to take care of it. Turns out, when your back is making you contort like Quasimodo, it’s hard to get a good night’s sleep. I woke up the next morning and guess I forgot about the pain because I made the unforgivable mistake of trying to step out of bed. My wife has assured me that there are better ways to wake her up than with a shriek of pain.
My wife told me that I needed to take some medicine and get back in bed. I told her I wasn’t sleepy. She told me the medicine would take care of that.
Prior to doing that, I told her I wanted some time to see if it would work itself out. Plus, Allie was singing in church that morning, so I felt I needed to be there. Fast forward to halfway through the service. The pain had gotten to the point where I could hardly stand up, and my wife was having to help me up. When I was sitting, I was leaned over, angling my head the only way I could to keep the pain level somewhere between sheer and excruciating.
Eventually, I made it home, trying my best to appear as normal as possible. My wife got me set up with some medicine and a heating pad. Truth be told, I was in so much discomfort, I hardly remember climbing into bed. All I know is I turned on the television and saw that an Indiana Jones marathon was about to start. I remember the start of “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” When I woke up, it was the end of “Temple of Doom.”
When I awoke, I sat there for a minute doing a pain inventory. Didn’t really hurt. I started to sit up. No girlish shrieks coming from my mouth. Looked left. My head moved. Looked right. Moved that way, too. Wow, this was heading back into almost-human area.
While I still had a little stiffness and discomfort, it was miles away from what it was. After a couple of days, I was pretty much completely healed. It was far from fun, but at least I know that I am at least as tough as a Brownie.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Agree to disagree
It was time for another talk. My kids and I have these talks a lot. They’re both very good kids, but being the wise, sage dad I am, I feel it necessary to impart my wisdom. My wife, being the wise, sage mom she is, rolls her eyes and sends the very clear message, “Kids, let him go. It makes him feel important.”
We’ve had a lot of talks. Some are about how to treat other people. (“It doesn’t matter if it’s funny, some people DON’T like wet willies. Especially that police officer.”)
Sometimes it’s about how we act in public. (“Pants. On. Now.”)
Sometimes it’s just about the little philosophical things in life. (“Oh, because unmade beds make all of your teeth fall out.”)
This talk was more about sibling relationships. In a tender and gentle voice, I said, “CAN YOU TWO PLEASE AGREE ABOUT SOMETHING!?!?!?”
Allie said yes. Parker? Nope.
They are at the stage where disagreement is a sort of sport. Among some of the disagreements of late:
– I decided to treat them to lunch out last Saturday. I asked where they wanted to go. “McDonald’s!!!” Parker said. “Chick-fil-A!!!!” Allie countered.
– We were making breakfast the other morning. Allie: Waffles! Parker: Pancakes!
– I told them they could go play outside for a little bit before bedtime but had to pick the front or back yard. Allie said front. So Parker picked back.
I was not going to be able to convince the sides to come together, so I simply made a neutral ruling, in the above instances: Burger King; cereal; on the roof.
I know siblings are going to disagree on occasion. It happens. I have three older sisters. We certainly didn’t agree on... well, anything. I shifted my life lesson to thoughts on compromise. And here’s where Allie had the big issue.
ALLIE: Why do I always have to do what HE wants?
ME: You don’t.
ALLIE: Yes, I do.
ME: No, you don’t. But you’re the big sister, and sometimes you let your little brother have his way.
ALLIE: But he always gets his way.
ME: No, he doesn’t.
PARKER: Yes, I do.
ME: You’re not helping.
I see Allie’s point, and we work hard to make sure she’s not always conceding to the whims of Parker. There are plenty of times when we endure some hemming and hawing from Parker because of the catastrophic event of letting Allie pick out grape popsicles. Reasoning with him on that is always fun, too.
PARKER: I don’t WANT grape!
ME: Well, Allie gets to pick this time.
PARKER: It’s not FAIR!!!
ME: You’re right. You pick out a flav...
MY WIFE: HEY!
ME: My bad. Allie picks.
ALLIE: HA!
ME: You’re not helping.
There are other ways I am working to avoid disagreements. For example, if you offer only one decent alternative, they have no choice but to agree. For example, for dinner: “You can have hot dogs, a pile of dirt, or the insole of my tennis shoe.” Of course, Parker is a 5-year-old boy, so you have to be careful on daring him to a gross-off.
We tried for a little while to work on letting the kids compromise, but we quickly learned they had teamed up their disagreements to get more loot.
This became clear when we were debating on where to go dinner one night. Allie said O’Charley’s. Parker said Red Lobster. Allie then said, “OK, we can go to Red Lobster tonight, and just do O’Charley’s, say, tomorrow night.”
It didn’t take long to realize this was a devious little plot they had conjured up, so my wife and I are migrating to a more sensible approach: Don’t let a 5- and 7-year-old be involved in decisions:
– “You can play out front if you want to, but if you even look at the backyard, I give away your toys.
– “We’re going out to eat. You will know where when we get there. And if you complain, you go to time-out in the kitchen while we eat in peace.”
– “There is actually no difference in any popsicle, as it’s just sugary, gooey frozen yech, so just take whatever gross flavor it is and move on to something important, such as whether Spider-Man could beat up Strawberry Shortcake.”
Don’t get me wrong. My kids aren’t always at each other’s throats. They do get along most of the time. It’s just that sometimes siblings have differences of opinion. It’s the nature of being siblings. Granted, my sisters don’t agree with that, but what do they know?
We’ve had a lot of talks. Some are about how to treat other people. (“It doesn’t matter if it’s funny, some people DON’T like wet willies. Especially that police officer.”)
Sometimes it’s about how we act in public. (“Pants. On. Now.”)
Sometimes it’s just about the little philosophical things in life. (“Oh, because unmade beds make all of your teeth fall out.”)
This talk was more about sibling relationships. In a tender and gentle voice, I said, “CAN YOU TWO PLEASE AGREE ABOUT SOMETHING!?!?!?”
Allie said yes. Parker? Nope.
They are at the stage where disagreement is a sort of sport. Among some of the disagreements of late:
– I decided to treat them to lunch out last Saturday. I asked where they wanted to go. “McDonald’s!!!” Parker said. “Chick-fil-A!!!!” Allie countered.
– We were making breakfast the other morning. Allie: Waffles! Parker: Pancakes!
– I told them they could go play outside for a little bit before bedtime but had to pick the front or back yard. Allie said front. So Parker picked back.
I was not going to be able to convince the sides to come together, so I simply made a neutral ruling, in the above instances: Burger King; cereal; on the roof.
I know siblings are going to disagree on occasion. It happens. I have three older sisters. We certainly didn’t agree on... well, anything. I shifted my life lesson to thoughts on compromise. And here’s where Allie had the big issue.
ALLIE: Why do I always have to do what HE wants?
ME: You don’t.
ALLIE: Yes, I do.
ME: No, you don’t. But you’re the big sister, and sometimes you let your little brother have his way.
ALLIE: But he always gets his way.
ME: No, he doesn’t.
PARKER: Yes, I do.
ME: You’re not helping.
I see Allie’s point, and we work hard to make sure she’s not always conceding to the whims of Parker. There are plenty of times when we endure some hemming and hawing from Parker because of the catastrophic event of letting Allie pick out grape popsicles. Reasoning with him on that is always fun, too.
PARKER: I don’t WANT grape!
ME: Well, Allie gets to pick this time.
PARKER: It’s not FAIR!!!
ME: You’re right. You pick out a flav...
MY WIFE: HEY!
ME: My bad. Allie picks.
ALLIE: HA!
ME: You’re not helping.
There are other ways I am working to avoid disagreements. For example, if you offer only one decent alternative, they have no choice but to agree. For example, for dinner: “You can have hot dogs, a pile of dirt, or the insole of my tennis shoe.” Of course, Parker is a 5-year-old boy, so you have to be careful on daring him to a gross-off.
We tried for a little while to work on letting the kids compromise, but we quickly learned they had teamed up their disagreements to get more loot.
This became clear when we were debating on where to go dinner one night. Allie said O’Charley’s. Parker said Red Lobster. Allie then said, “OK, we can go to Red Lobster tonight, and just do O’Charley’s, say, tomorrow night.”
It didn’t take long to realize this was a devious little plot they had conjured up, so my wife and I are migrating to a more sensible approach: Don’t let a 5- and 7-year-old be involved in decisions:
– “You can play out front if you want to, but if you even look at the backyard, I give away your toys.
– “We’re going out to eat. You will know where when we get there. And if you complain, you go to time-out in the kitchen while we eat in peace.”
– “There is actually no difference in any popsicle, as it’s just sugary, gooey frozen yech, so just take whatever gross flavor it is and move on to something important, such as whether Spider-Man could beat up Strawberry Shortcake.”
Don’t get me wrong. My kids aren’t always at each other’s throats. They do get along most of the time. It’s just that sometimes siblings have differences of opinion. It’s the nature of being siblings. Granted, my sisters don’t agree with that, but what do they know?
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Feeling squirrely
I call it the Murphy Effect — it’s when my wife initially turns her nose to an idea, but then slowly — often secretively — starts to warm to it.
It’s named after our dog Murphy, a dog we took care of after his owner passed away. “We are NOT getting another dog,” she told me, knowing what I was thinking. Later that evening, when she floated out a possible name that would suit him, as well as some Dachshund facts she had learned — just because she was curious — I knew Murphy had found a home.
The latest Murphy Effect is Skip, a baby flying squirrel found in a fallen tree. Skip was brought to us for Parker to see, you know, just to let him see what a flying squirrel is like. “We are NOT getting a flying squirrel,” my wife said. The kids were thoroughly in love with Skip, a name bestowed upon him that day by Parker. (His original choice, Squirrel, was vetoed by me.) The kids wanted to keep him. I wanted to keep him. My wife? Not so much.
But I knew it was a done deal when I getting ready to go bed. My wife was at the computer and casually mentioned, “You know, flying squirrels are really good pets...” Sold.
So we ended up keeping Skip, who we later found out was a girl, leading the kids to modify her name to Skipsina, which I guess is feminine enough so as not to give her a squirrel complex.
I know a lot of you are thinking that it’s weird to have a pet squirrel. But the truth of the matter is, squirrels are a lot like hamsters and guinea pigs and the like. In fact, they’re better, because when is the last time you put a hamster on your son’s shoulder and had it fly to you?
All of the research we did said that you really needed to bond with the squirrel. One way was to keep them in your shirt pocket when they are babies. Among the candidates for bonding:
Parker — the problem here was that Parker does not like the idea of the squirrel sitting in his pocket. He wants to pet her. And talk to her. And kind of help with whole flying thing.
Allie — the problem here was that she was OK with touching the squirrel or admiring it from afar, but she would rather have a pocketful of raw oysters than a wiggling squirrel.
My wife — the problem here is that while she was keen on the idea of a pet squirrel, toting it around for hours in your pocket? Not so much.
So I became Mama Squirrel. And Skip and I bonded quickly. She would jump to me and scurry about, usually making a beeline for my pocket. If I came downstairs with her near the dogs, she would leave my pocket and head to the top of my head. Apparently getting as far away from dogs is hard-wired.
We’ve now had her for a couple of weeks, and she is definitely developing a cool personality. She takes to me still, which is good, because it’s always fun to say to someone on the phone, “Hang on a sec — I gotta get my squirrel off my head.”
I have also started a nightly ritual of Flight School. I know she’s a flying squirrel and just kind of knows how to do it, but I want to be a good Mama and teach her right. (For what it’s worth, they don’t actually fly. They jump and then spread out flaps of skin on their sides, gliding to the target. I would like to craft her a tiny helicopter, too, just so she can show up the flying squirrels outside.)
Flight School consists of me taking Skip to various places and having her jump to me. We started Flight School with Parker’s shoulder. This worked on occasion, when we could get Parker to stand still. But telling a 5-year-old to stand still while an incredibly pettable squirrel is perched on his shoulder is comparable to putting a pork chop in a dog’s mouth and telling him to chill for a bit. I have moved Flight School to various places around the house, such as on the mantel. I will put Skip there, stand a few feet away, make a clicking noise, and wait for her to jump. And wait. And wait. And then realize she is far more interested in eating the candle that is there. So I try a different spot. Eventually, I get her undivided attention, and she crouches down, pumps a couple of times and launches. (Important lesson when conducting Flight School: Do not crouch to eye level. They will jump to your face. Had I had my mouth open one time, I would have possibly eaten Skip.)
Skip has also progressed beyond the pocket and loves to take laps around my shirt, often climbing inside of it. I have taken to wearing two shirts, as while she is a great little pet, even I would rather not have a squirrel climbing up my stomach and chest. The rest of the family is enjoying her, too, as she continues to progress with her flying. I am hoping that I can replicate what I have read on some websites, with people saying they can train their squirrels to fly across the room. Maybe it’s just me, but I think it would be only the most awesome thing ever to be, say, signing for a UPS package, make a few clicking noises, and have a squirrel come zipping to your shoulder.
So I guess Skip is a full-fledged member of the Gibbons household. She may not be the most conventional pet. But, hey, nobody ever said we were the most conventional family.
It’s named after our dog Murphy, a dog we took care of after his owner passed away. “We are NOT getting another dog,” she told me, knowing what I was thinking. Later that evening, when she floated out a possible name that would suit him, as well as some Dachshund facts she had learned — just because she was curious — I knew Murphy had found a home.
The latest Murphy Effect is Skip, a baby flying squirrel found in a fallen tree. Skip was brought to us for Parker to see, you know, just to let him see what a flying squirrel is like. “We are NOT getting a flying squirrel,” my wife said. The kids were thoroughly in love with Skip, a name bestowed upon him that day by Parker. (His original choice, Squirrel, was vetoed by me.) The kids wanted to keep him. I wanted to keep him. My wife? Not so much.
But I knew it was a done deal when I getting ready to go bed. My wife was at the computer and casually mentioned, “You know, flying squirrels are really good pets...” Sold.
So we ended up keeping Skip, who we later found out was a girl, leading the kids to modify her name to Skipsina, which I guess is feminine enough so as not to give her a squirrel complex.
I know a lot of you are thinking that it’s weird to have a pet squirrel. But the truth of the matter is, squirrels are a lot like hamsters and guinea pigs and the like. In fact, they’re better, because when is the last time you put a hamster on your son’s shoulder and had it fly to you?
All of the research we did said that you really needed to bond with the squirrel. One way was to keep them in your shirt pocket when they are babies. Among the candidates for bonding:
Parker — the problem here was that Parker does not like the idea of the squirrel sitting in his pocket. He wants to pet her. And talk to her. And kind of help with whole flying thing.
Allie — the problem here was that she was OK with touching the squirrel or admiring it from afar, but she would rather have a pocketful of raw oysters than a wiggling squirrel.
My wife — the problem here is that while she was keen on the idea of a pet squirrel, toting it around for hours in your pocket? Not so much.
So I became Mama Squirrel. And Skip and I bonded quickly. She would jump to me and scurry about, usually making a beeline for my pocket. If I came downstairs with her near the dogs, she would leave my pocket and head to the top of my head. Apparently getting as far away from dogs is hard-wired.
We’ve now had her for a couple of weeks, and she is definitely developing a cool personality. She takes to me still, which is good, because it’s always fun to say to someone on the phone, “Hang on a sec — I gotta get my squirrel off my head.”
I have also started a nightly ritual of Flight School. I know she’s a flying squirrel and just kind of knows how to do it, but I want to be a good Mama and teach her right. (For what it’s worth, they don’t actually fly. They jump and then spread out flaps of skin on their sides, gliding to the target. I would like to craft her a tiny helicopter, too, just so she can show up the flying squirrels outside.)
Flight School consists of me taking Skip to various places and having her jump to me. We started Flight School with Parker’s shoulder. This worked on occasion, when we could get Parker to stand still. But telling a 5-year-old to stand still while an incredibly pettable squirrel is perched on his shoulder is comparable to putting a pork chop in a dog’s mouth and telling him to chill for a bit. I have moved Flight School to various places around the house, such as on the mantel. I will put Skip there, stand a few feet away, make a clicking noise, and wait for her to jump. And wait. And wait. And then realize she is far more interested in eating the candle that is there. So I try a different spot. Eventually, I get her undivided attention, and she crouches down, pumps a couple of times and launches. (Important lesson when conducting Flight School: Do not crouch to eye level. They will jump to your face. Had I had my mouth open one time, I would have possibly eaten Skip.)
Skip has also progressed beyond the pocket and loves to take laps around my shirt, often climbing inside of it. I have taken to wearing two shirts, as while she is a great little pet, even I would rather not have a squirrel climbing up my stomach and chest. The rest of the family is enjoying her, too, as she continues to progress with her flying. I am hoping that I can replicate what I have read on some websites, with people saying they can train their squirrels to fly across the room. Maybe it’s just me, but I think it would be only the most awesome thing ever to be, say, signing for a UPS package, make a few clicking noises, and have a squirrel come zipping to your shoulder.
So I guess Skip is a full-fledged member of the Gibbons household. She may not be the most conventional pet. But, hey, nobody ever said we were the most conventional family.
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