So when that thunderstorm rolled in early the other morning, I did what I usually do when I am awoken by a storm:
1. Get out of bed.
2. Open window.
3. Lie back in bed enjoying sound of the storm.
4. Wait until there is a flash of lightning and scream because I see two creepy silhouettes standing by the bed.
My children are not big fans of thunderstorms. This started when my daughter was 3. There was a big storm, and I was explaining to her why I love storms – the soothing sounds, the cleansing wash of the rain, the chance to have your computer exploded. You know, the usual things.
She told me that she really didn’t like “the booms.” I took that to mean thunder, since a dislike of a boom mic seemed out there.
Using somewhat flawed logic, I told her that when you hear the thunder, it means the lightning has already passed, so you can’t be hurt. In retrospect I probably should have couched that a little bit better, perhaps adding that you can’t be hurt by THAT lightning, but its many friends that follow will do the trick.
Continuing on my ill-fated trip of thunderstorm acceptance, I opened the front door. I was holding her in my arms, telling her about the rain and showing her the trees blowing in the wind.
At that point the largest lightning bolt in the history of the universe zapped down right across the street and served up a simultaneous KABOOM!!!! that rattled the windows, dimmed the lights and, most memorably, made my daughter cry. A lot.
From that point forward, she wanted nothing to do with thunderstorms. Can’t say I blame her. Her brother is the same way. I think the thunder clap was loud enough to affect him, and he wasn’t even born.
So when the storms come, so does the horde. But of late, they have added a third amigo: Murphy the Excitable Dachshund.
Murphy, like most dogs, has never been a big fan of loud noises. (I recall in 1993, when I first got the late, great Montgomery, I made the brilliant choice to take him to a fireworks show on the University of Alabama quad. When the first one went off, I was joined by about 20 other people being dragged by their dogs’ leashes in a terrified sprint away from the show.)
Murphy used to find a nice little quiet space up under a desk where he could curl up and shake uncontrollably for the storm’s duration. Maggie the Attack Basset responds to storms and fireworks the same way: She sniffs to see if there is food and then rolls on her back and groans. Actually that’s how she responds to everything.
So anywho, Murphy has decided the desk coverage is no longer adequate and has taken to waging an all-out war on the gate going up the stairs until he can burst through and come to my bed to curl up and shake uncontrollably for the storm’s duration.
During this latest storm, I heard the ruckus and assumed it was someone breaking into the house or something, so I went back to sleep. A few seconds later, 12 pounds of meatloaf-shaped terror came flying on top of me. I am not sure where he got a catapult, but that is the only explanation for how he was delivered to me.
I was not pleased with this, so I picked Murphy up and took him back downstairs. I secured the gate and started back up the stairs. About halfway up – KABOOM!!!
And off goes Murphy. He bit the gate. He scratched the gate. He barked at the gate. He head butted the gate. He stopped only long enough to look up at me with his big brown eyes, which looked especially weird because he was shaking so much.
“Fine,” I said, opening the gate. Murphy sprinted to his spot, which, according to him, is on my pillow. Maggie responded by groaning.
I guess for now I will just have to know that when the storms come I may have a lot of company coming to join me. Next storm, I think I may go sleep on the couch.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Bee cool
I am a great uncle. And by “great uncle” I mean “still a little brother.”
I have two 2-year-old nephews, Nick and Sam, and I have somehow become one of their chief corruptors. “Well, Mike,” you are probably saying, “surely this is just payback for the horrible, awful way your sisters treated you and then spoiled your kids, right?” To which I say, “Ha!” No, my sisters – I have three older ones – were always quite nice to me. Even protective, despite the fact that, when they had friends over, I rarely wore clothes. (That’s the kind of kid I was.) And as for the way they have been to my kids? Well, they have always been kind, sweet, caring aunts. They are far more popular than I am. So why would I act in such a manner? Simple – it’s really, really funny. To me.
It’s not like it’s really anything bad that I’m doing. I’m not taking them to the dog track or having them shoplift from liquor stores. It’s just the fun, routine, annoy-your-big-sister type stuff that apparently little brothers can never shake.
Case in point: The buzz game. I developed this game at my wife’s expense. She’s a preschool teacher, and on occasion I will stop by to see how the day is going and to juggle. The kids love juggling, and that immediately makes me WAAAAY more popular than the woman who makes them clean up after playtime, not lick scissors, etc. And, when I am leaving, I will hush the class so that all eyes are on me. “OK, kids – for the rest of the day, you’re bees! Buzz like bees for Mrs. Gibbons!” And then I duck out of the room before a copy of “Where the Wild Things Are” gets flung at me.
So the other day, I called my sister. While on the phone, Nick asked to talk to me. He is at the stage where he wants to talk to anyone on the phone. And, regardless of who it is, he usually has these questions: “Where are you?” “What are you doing?” “Can I eat this?”
My sister put me on the phone with Nick, and we had this conversation:
NICK: Where are you?
ME: I’m at work.
NICK: What are you doing?
ME: I’m wrestling dragons.
NICK: Can I eat this?
Me: Sure. And wanna play the bee game? Pretend you’re a bee and buzz for the rest of the ….
MY SISTER: YOU’RE ON SPEAKER PHONE!!!
Me: Oops.
When I saw my sister later, she rolled her eyes at my behavior, expecting that kind of stuff from that idiot little 8-year-old brother of hers. I told her I was just being funny. Very funny, indeed, she confirmed.
Fortunately, I did have one ally, my oldest sister, Laura. While I am vying for Awesome Uncle status, Laura has already cemented herself with Awesome Aunt status, namely because the answer to most requests from her nieces and nephews is “Sure, why not?”
To be fair, Laura is a great protector of the kids. But if you want a Pop-Tart, Coke or Popsicle? You know where to go. Want to pile the cushions on the floor and do couch dives? Game on. Wanna see how many Peeps you can fit in your mouth? Let’s rock.
Laura, who was there when I tried to get Nick to do the bee game, thought it was funny. And, as in previous times, I am willing to bet that she had the common courtesy to turn away while laughing.
Sam is going to be in town today, and I should have the opportunity to spend time with both Nick and Sam. When they take breaks from their junior ultimate fighting competitions, I plan on spending some QT with my nephews, showing them just what an awesome uncle I can be (ever played Backward Rabbit Hop? Awesome game).
At least I know one of my sisters will laugh.
I have two 2-year-old nephews, Nick and Sam, and I have somehow become one of their chief corruptors. “Well, Mike,” you are probably saying, “surely this is just payback for the horrible, awful way your sisters treated you and then spoiled your kids, right?” To which I say, “Ha!” No, my sisters – I have three older ones – were always quite nice to me. Even protective, despite the fact that, when they had friends over, I rarely wore clothes. (That’s the kind of kid I was.) And as for the way they have been to my kids? Well, they have always been kind, sweet, caring aunts. They are far more popular than I am. So why would I act in such a manner? Simple – it’s really, really funny. To me.
It’s not like it’s really anything bad that I’m doing. I’m not taking them to the dog track or having them shoplift from liquor stores. It’s just the fun, routine, annoy-your-big-sister type stuff that apparently little brothers can never shake.
Case in point: The buzz game. I developed this game at my wife’s expense. She’s a preschool teacher, and on occasion I will stop by to see how the day is going and to juggle. The kids love juggling, and that immediately makes me WAAAAY more popular than the woman who makes them clean up after playtime, not lick scissors, etc. And, when I am leaving, I will hush the class so that all eyes are on me. “OK, kids – for the rest of the day, you’re bees! Buzz like bees for Mrs. Gibbons!” And then I duck out of the room before a copy of “Where the Wild Things Are” gets flung at me.
So the other day, I called my sister. While on the phone, Nick asked to talk to me. He is at the stage where he wants to talk to anyone on the phone. And, regardless of who it is, he usually has these questions: “Where are you?” “What are you doing?” “Can I eat this?”
My sister put me on the phone with Nick, and we had this conversation:
NICK: Where are you?
ME: I’m at work.
NICK: What are you doing?
ME: I’m wrestling dragons.
NICK: Can I eat this?
Me: Sure. And wanna play the bee game? Pretend you’re a bee and buzz for the rest of the ….
MY SISTER: YOU’RE ON SPEAKER PHONE!!!
Me: Oops.
When I saw my sister later, she rolled her eyes at my behavior, expecting that kind of stuff from that idiot little 8-year-old brother of hers. I told her I was just being funny. Very funny, indeed, she confirmed.
Fortunately, I did have one ally, my oldest sister, Laura. While I am vying for Awesome Uncle status, Laura has already cemented herself with Awesome Aunt status, namely because the answer to most requests from her nieces and nephews is “Sure, why not?”
To be fair, Laura is a great protector of the kids. But if you want a Pop-Tart, Coke or Popsicle? You know where to go. Want to pile the cushions on the floor and do couch dives? Game on. Wanna see how many Peeps you can fit in your mouth? Let’s rock.
Laura, who was there when I tried to get Nick to do the bee game, thought it was funny. And, as in previous times, I am willing to bet that she had the common courtesy to turn away while laughing.
Sam is going to be in town today, and I should have the opportunity to spend time with both Nick and Sam. When they take breaks from their junior ultimate fighting competitions, I plan on spending some QT with my nephews, showing them just what an awesome uncle I can be (ever played Backward Rabbit Hop? Awesome game).
At least I know one of my sisters will laugh.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The many labors
Of all the labors of Hercules, none was as daunting as the brutal tasks I routinely put my children through, in particular the one in which I burden them with – brace yourself – taking something up to their rooms.
My kids have this amazing ability to shed things when they enter a room – clothes, shoes, toys, live animals. They simply walk through a room and it immediately looks like a small tornado zoomed through a kids’ consignment store.
Often, I take this approach to cleaning: I wait until they are fast asleep and clean the house, enjoying the cleanliness that will last until approximately eight seconds after they wake up, at which point they begin shedding again.
But, on occasion, they do have to help pick up. And the amount of energy they expend trying to avoid the task at hand is easily 8 billion times the amount of energy it would take to actually do the chore. A prime example for this is the couch cushions. Couch cushions, as their name would suggest, belong on a couch. No, no, no. Not in my house. They are designed to be rocks on the lava. Or walls. Or toadstools. Pretty much anything BUT couch cushions. That’s fine, because kids should be able to have fun and use their imagination. But there are times when the lava rocks need to be transformed back into cushions. And then we have this delightful back and forth:
ME: OK, put the cushions back on the couch.
CHILD: But it’s our rock/wall/toadstool!!!
ME: Yeah, but we’ve got company coming over, and the cushions need to be put back on the couch.
CHILD: (lying on the cushionless couch, arms flailing backward) Nooooooo!!!!!!
ME: Very dramatic. Now put the cushions on the couch.
CHILD: It’s too haaaaaard!!!!
That’s one of their favorites: It’s amazing how difficult certain things become for my children. They can construct a mini-Bastille out of couch cushions but will claim it is too complicated to reverse engineer that into their original function.
Eventually, we will come to a resolution, usually one involving me saying, “THE CUSHIONS GO ON THE COUCH OR I GET RID OF A PET!!!”
Same thing happens with clothes that need to be taken to appropriate rooms. A while back, I was getting ready to take the kids to see a movie, which I think is a pretty darn swell dad thing to do and thereby something certainly worth the effort of a minor task or two. As we were heading out the door, I noticed that both of the kids had several items of clothes on the floor, which, to them, is practically the same as the clothes being folded and put in a dresser.
This is what I said: “Before we go, you both need to run those clothes up to your room.”
Based on their reaction, this is what I said, “Before we go, both of you must lift the van over your head.”
After about 30 seconds of resistance, I asked them the question I always ask, “You do realize that had you just done it when I asked, you’d be done, right?” That, of course, is not true, because what I asked them to do is the most difficult burden ever put upon a child.
In all fairness, they will go through spurts of helpfulness (read: they can be bribed). When their motivation is ramped up, they will do a serviceable job of helping out. I am sure this will continue to improve as they get older, and one day, they can pass down this knowledge of orderliness to their children. Or they can threaten to get rid of a pet.
My kids have this amazing ability to shed things when they enter a room – clothes, shoes, toys, live animals. They simply walk through a room and it immediately looks like a small tornado zoomed through a kids’ consignment store.
Often, I take this approach to cleaning: I wait until they are fast asleep and clean the house, enjoying the cleanliness that will last until approximately eight seconds after they wake up, at which point they begin shedding again.
But, on occasion, they do have to help pick up. And the amount of energy they expend trying to avoid the task at hand is easily 8 billion times the amount of energy it would take to actually do the chore. A prime example for this is the couch cushions. Couch cushions, as their name would suggest, belong on a couch. No, no, no. Not in my house. They are designed to be rocks on the lava. Or walls. Or toadstools. Pretty much anything BUT couch cushions. That’s fine, because kids should be able to have fun and use their imagination. But there are times when the lava rocks need to be transformed back into cushions. And then we have this delightful back and forth:
ME: OK, put the cushions back on the couch.
CHILD: But it’s our rock/wall/toadstool!!!
ME: Yeah, but we’ve got company coming over, and the cushions need to be put back on the couch.
CHILD: (lying on the cushionless couch, arms flailing backward) Nooooooo!!!!!!
ME: Very dramatic. Now put the cushions on the couch.
CHILD: It’s too haaaaaard!!!!
That’s one of their favorites: It’s amazing how difficult certain things become for my children. They can construct a mini-Bastille out of couch cushions but will claim it is too complicated to reverse engineer that into their original function.
Eventually, we will come to a resolution, usually one involving me saying, “THE CUSHIONS GO ON THE COUCH OR I GET RID OF A PET!!!”
Same thing happens with clothes that need to be taken to appropriate rooms. A while back, I was getting ready to take the kids to see a movie, which I think is a pretty darn swell dad thing to do and thereby something certainly worth the effort of a minor task or two. As we were heading out the door, I noticed that both of the kids had several items of clothes on the floor, which, to them, is practically the same as the clothes being folded and put in a dresser.
This is what I said: “Before we go, you both need to run those clothes up to your room.”
Based on their reaction, this is what I said, “Before we go, both of you must lift the van over your head.”
After about 30 seconds of resistance, I asked them the question I always ask, “You do realize that had you just done it when I asked, you’d be done, right?” That, of course, is not true, because what I asked them to do is the most difficult burden ever put upon a child.
In all fairness, they will go through spurts of helpfulness (read: they can be bribed). When their motivation is ramped up, they will do a serviceable job of helping out. I am sure this will continue to improve as they get older, and one day, they can pass down this knowledge of orderliness to their children. Or they can threaten to get rid of a pet.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Fly away
So we went to the grocery store and I bought my daughter a fly swatter, as any good dad would.
OK, so it’s not your traditional family pastime, but the Gibbons family loves some fly swattin’. Let’s not pretend you’re better than that. You love it, too.
But we were at the store and Allie saw a beaut of a swatter: dark blue, and shaped like a hand. Her eyes lit up, as any little girl’s eyes would when she sees that special fly swatter.
On the way home, Allie was holding her new swatter, no doubt hoping to see some kids from her class so she could show off her awesome new purchase. I looked in the rear view mirror and there I saw Allie, gently waving the fly swatter in her brother’s direction.
Now let me tell you something about my kids. They are brother and sister. And by brother and sister I mean feuding varmints. They pick. They needle. They antagonize. Every fourth day or so, they play nicely together for 15-20 seconds. Don’t get me wrong – they’re good kids for the most part. But they get together and start this showdown of wills. I base this on the time I sat them down and told them we only have enough love for one of them. Now fight for it!
Ha! Little bad parenting humor there!
Anywho, we have been working very hard on avoiding the situations that lead to throwdowns. For example, say you are sitting on a couch. And say a little brother is kicking you. There are three options: (1) Get off of the couch and out of leg’s reach, and let Mommy and Daddy handle it (2) Kick back or (3) say, “STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT.”
Obviously, option 1 is not even to be considered.
Another example: Say you are in the swimming pool, and a big sister keeps swimming by you and splashing you. The three options: (1) Swim away (2) Treat her like a bear treats a salmon (3) say, “STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT.”
Again, option 1? Not popular. Now, I know what you are saying: “Mike, why are you allowing the kicking or the splashing or other behavior?” To which I say to you: Congratulations on growing up an only child. I am a little brother. There are certain things that are going to happen. The sun will rise. The leaves will fall. And siblings will scrap. It’s nature. And I am sure there are some of you out there whose children never go at it. Congratulations, although I hope that aggression isn’t being pent up for a later date.
But back to the fly swatter. When I saw her waving it, I said, “What are you doing?”
She replied, “Oh, I’m fanning him. I think he’d like it.”
Based on the reddening face, I don’t think he liked it. I went back to the discussion of how we can avoid problems before they even start. “Allie, you know how this is going to play out. Why antagonize? You know how this will end.”
“You mean with him thanking me for fanning him?”
At that point, the chance of me wrecking the car due to excessive laughter was great. “You don’t seriously believe that.”
“Sure I do.”
At that point, it was clear I needed to get her to a doctor immediately, because she had to have a very high fever that was causing delusional thoughts.
Once I composed myself, I used my cat-like reflexes to whip my arm to the back seat and snatch the fly swatter, which would stay up front with me for the rest of the trip, a trip that would be filled with my speech on how if you simply don’t push buttons, you generally don’t start major wars.
I am not sure the message got through, since they were busy arguing over whose fault it was that I took the fly swatter.
The upside is, of course, that they will grow out of it. They will grow out of it, right?
OK, so it’s not your traditional family pastime, but the Gibbons family loves some fly swattin’. Let’s not pretend you’re better than that. You love it, too.
But we were at the store and Allie saw a beaut of a swatter: dark blue, and shaped like a hand. Her eyes lit up, as any little girl’s eyes would when she sees that special fly swatter.
On the way home, Allie was holding her new swatter, no doubt hoping to see some kids from her class so she could show off her awesome new purchase. I looked in the rear view mirror and there I saw Allie, gently waving the fly swatter in her brother’s direction.
Now let me tell you something about my kids. They are brother and sister. And by brother and sister I mean feuding varmints. They pick. They needle. They antagonize. Every fourth day or so, they play nicely together for 15-20 seconds. Don’t get me wrong – they’re good kids for the most part. But they get together and start this showdown of wills. I base this on the time I sat them down and told them we only have enough love for one of them. Now fight for it!
Ha! Little bad parenting humor there!
Anywho, we have been working very hard on avoiding the situations that lead to throwdowns. For example, say you are sitting on a couch. And say a little brother is kicking you. There are three options: (1) Get off of the couch and out of leg’s reach, and let Mommy and Daddy handle it (2) Kick back or (3) say, “STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT.”
Obviously, option 1 is not even to be considered.
Another example: Say you are in the swimming pool, and a big sister keeps swimming by you and splashing you. The three options: (1) Swim away (2) Treat her like a bear treats a salmon (3) say, “STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT.”
Again, option 1? Not popular. Now, I know what you are saying: “Mike, why are you allowing the kicking or the splashing or other behavior?” To which I say to you: Congratulations on growing up an only child. I am a little brother. There are certain things that are going to happen. The sun will rise. The leaves will fall. And siblings will scrap. It’s nature. And I am sure there are some of you out there whose children never go at it. Congratulations, although I hope that aggression isn’t being pent up for a later date.
But back to the fly swatter. When I saw her waving it, I said, “What are you doing?”
She replied, “Oh, I’m fanning him. I think he’d like it.”
Based on the reddening face, I don’t think he liked it. I went back to the discussion of how we can avoid problems before they even start. “Allie, you know how this is going to play out. Why antagonize? You know how this will end.”
“You mean with him thanking me for fanning him?”
At that point, the chance of me wrecking the car due to excessive laughter was great. “You don’t seriously believe that.”
“Sure I do.”
At that point, it was clear I needed to get her to a doctor immediately, because she had to have a very high fever that was causing delusional thoughts.
Once I composed myself, I used my cat-like reflexes to whip my arm to the back seat and snatch the fly swatter, which would stay up front with me for the rest of the trip, a trip that would be filled with my speech on how if you simply don’t push buttons, you generally don’t start major wars.
I am not sure the message got through, since they were busy arguing over whose fault it was that I took the fly swatter.
The upside is, of course, that they will grow out of it. They will grow out of it, right?
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