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.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
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.
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.
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