Come fly with me

I can only imagine the expression on my wife's face.

Here was the phone conversation:

ME: So Bill's flying into town and he's gonna take the kids and me up his plane!

HER: (Silence, and probably a not-so-nice look on her face.)

My godfather came into town recently, and he traveled the way he prefers - in his Grumman Tiger four-seat prop plane. He was going to fly into Aiken and let us ride with him to Augusta, where he would leave his plane. It made perfect sense to me. My wife? Not so much.

I explained to her that Bill was a seasoned pilot.

She knew that.

I explained to her that Bill and my father had flown to Alabama just a few weeks ago.

She knew that.

I explained to her that nothing would happen.

She told me I didn't know that.

Eventually, we came to this agreement: We would fly, and we would duly note that my wife thought I had the judgment of a peanut.

News flash: Peanuts have awesome judgment, as evidenced by the fact that I am safely on the ground writing this column.

When we arrived at the airport, my son was really excited about flying. My daughter told me that she was still considering her options.

Translation: Time to overcome some fear.

Eventually, my daughter braved up and decided she would fly. (Oh, and my sister told her she would take her shopping if she flew.)

Inside the plane, it was close quarters. We all had headsets on, so we could communicate with each other during the flight. Just before we took off, I reminded the kids that every time they spoke, their microphones came on, so some conversations were not necessary, such as:

ALLIE: Hey, Parker?

PARKER: Yeah?

ALLIE: My headset comes on when I talk!

PARKER: Mine, too!

ALLIE: Let's see if it does it again.

PARKER: Yeah.

ME: STOP IT!

We left the Aiken airport and banked over the city. Once I got my bearings in the sky, I started trying to identify various landmarks. The first one we were able to identify was the Aiken Standard, which I was able to locate by first finding Aiken High's stadium. The kids said they saw it, but I think they may have just been saying that to be nice. I also found our house and the mall, which the kids also pretended to see.

The flight itself was smooth as could be. We flew at about 2,500 feet, traveling around 125 mph. Every so often, I'd look back at the kids and see their noses to the window, trying to identify various things on the ground. Parker at one point said he saw a plot of land that looked like the Millennium Falcon. Bill caught only the last part and said, "You just saw the Millennium Falcon?" We all agreed that would have been really cool.

Before we knew it we were making our descent to Augusta. The kids loved the flight and never showed an ounce of fear in the plane. When we landed, I remarked to them that we were going to now do the most dangerous thing we would do all day: drive home.

Despite my wife's initial hesitation, she concedes that she is glad that we went. The kids had a memorable experience on their afternoon adventure. I can't imagine what her expression will be when I ask her about skydiving.

Light it up

And the Christmas decorations are up.

I may actually have set a record for getting the lights up this year. For years, I have tried to make it so that shortly after Thanksgiving - boom - Clark Griswold-approved lighting.

My goal for our Christmas lights is to make our house look like a gingerbread house. I am pleased to report we are slowly closing in on that goal. We have a heaping helping of colored lights decorating our house, and my neighbors may, in fact, be embarrassed by me. And possibly need sunglasses at night.

The kids enjoy helping put up the lights - and certainly enjoy seeing the house all bright and colorful. Of course, their favorite part is actually getting the lights out of the attic. For some reason, climbing in the attic is one of the most awesome things for a kid. It's this unreachable trap door of mystery into the ceiling, and the chance to go up and explore is always exciting. Plus, there is the added element of danger when your mother repeatedly warns you that one misstep and you will come crashing through the ceiling.

Our light collection has grown over the years, as we try and pick up a few here and there after the holiday season. Go to any store after Christmas and wander into what is left of their Christmas wares. Oftentimes, a clerk will approach you and say, "Sir, I will give you $5 to take these net lights. Please. Get them out of here. I have been staring at them since August."

So, over time, we have built up enough lights to cover the bushes by our front door as well as the azaleas that stretch across the front of our yard. We have also started adding strands of lights along the roof line. While I hope to continue to pile lights around the yard, I will say that I have gone as high up as I plan to go. We have a two-story house, and I did put rope lights along the top roof line a few years back. And then my neighbor convinced me that I should never do that again. He did that by falling off his ladder and breaking his ankle. I was across the street watching when that happened, and before he had hit the ground, I said, "Hmm. I don't think I am going to hang lights up high anymore." I am sure he would have preferred my thought to have been, "Hmm. I should probably get help."

While we have grown our light stash, we have yet to start adding those great big inflatables, much to my children's disappointment. One house in our neighborhood has an estimated 43,000 of them. Every time we pass it, my children point out that they, clearly, love Christmas more than we do. Personally, I'd like to get some of those lighted candy canes to line the driveway, because it adds an element of gaudy that goes well with our current motif, but the inflatables would be nice, too.

So being done with the bulk of our outdoor decorating this early gives us plenty of time to enjoy our bright and flashy display of Christmas awesomeness. It helps you get into the Christmas mood to see all the bright colors and vibrant appeal. And even when Christmas is over, we can look forward to the next year. Maybe the stores will pay me to take some inflatables off their hands.

Talking turkey

Today, I am turning over my column to some other writers - in particular, some of the great kids where my wife is a preschool teacher. They have taken on the annual tradition of writing down their recipes for the perfect Thanksgiving turkey. Each year, I stand in the halls laughing out loud at the wonderfully creative musings from some of our littlest chefs, thinking, "I really should use these in a column." So, to that end, out of the mouths (and Crayons) of babes...

How to make a Thanksgiving turkey:

1. Put pancakes and ring pops on top.

2. Spin the spoon around the turkey like my mom does.

3. Cook for three days.

-- Aaron

1. Stir the turkey up with blue cake, hot dogs, cheese and mustard.

2. Put it on the grill for 9 minutes.

-- Christian

1. Put it in a pan.

2. Put hamburger and cheese with mustard and ketchup.

3. Put it in the oven 30 minutes, then the grill for 30 minutes, then the microwave for 30 minutes.

4. Cut it in half.

-- Caleb

1. Put strawberries, bananas, macaroni and cheese, bbq chicken and cereal on top.

2. Put it in a pan.

3. Then put it outside where it is hot for 1 day.

-- Rylee

1. Put turkey in the oven.

2. Cook for one minute.

3. Cut up the turkey.

-- Maddie

1. Put chocolate M&Ms on top of the turkey.

2. Put it in a pot on the stove for 40 minutes.

3. Put it on a plate.

-- Lincoln

1. Put turkey on the grill for three minutes.

2. Sprinkle it with salt and pepper.

3. Put it on a plate.

-- Nicholas

1. Put cheese and apple sauce on top of turkey.

2. Put it in a pot of top of the stove.

3. Cook it for two minutes.

4. Set it on your plate.

5. Wash your hands.

-- Tori

1. Put carrots, beans and apples on top.

2. Stir it up.

3. Put it in the oven for five minutes.

-- Syan

1. Put chicken and sprinkled donuts on top of the turkey.

2. Put it in the microwave for five days.

3. Put it on a plate.

-- Nicholas

1. Put bananas on the turkey.

2. Put a chicken in the pan with the turkey.

3. Cook in the oven for five minutes.

4. Put cauliflower on the turkey.

5. Eat your turkey with donuts.

-- Jonas

1. Cover the turkey with salt.

2. Fry the turkey with fish, okra and corn

-- Danny

1. You put a spider on the turkey.

2. Take the turkey outside.

3. Color the turkey with crayons.

4. Bring the turkey inside and put it in the oven.

5. Cook for five hours.

6. Have a party with your turkey.

-- Haley

1. Make the oven hot.

2. Put sauce on the turkey.

3. Put a ham in the pan with the turkey.

4. Cook the turkey for 40 minutes.

5. Take turkey out and put bird sauce on it.

-- Luke

1. Put marshmallows on the turkey.

2. Put the turkey in the oven.

3. Cook the turkey for one minute.

4. Cover the sides of the turkey with chocolate candy.

-- Brendan

So there you go. Next week, when you're prepping for your Thanksgiving feast, use any of these recipes for a meal that is guaranteed to be memorable by everyone at the table.

Christmas list time

So we have made our annual journey to the stores with the kids so that they can make their Christmas lists.

We do this every year, full well knowing that the kids' lists usually can be summed up by "one, maybe two, of everything." Eventually, we whittle some of that down to a list that would easily keep Santa's elves in overtime but is at least a starting point.

Another bonus of the annual trips: it turns into a nostalgic walk for my wife and me, as we take turns reminiscing about toys from our youth. (This year, I was pleased to be able to blurt out, "Barrel of Monkeys! Jenn - Barrel of Monkeys!")

It's usually a fun couple of hours to spend. Granted, the event itself is usually about four hours. But a couple of them are fun. I am sure the rest of the family would enjoy the entire time if I did not run out of shopping gas after hour two.

To make the lists, we hit the various hot spots. And "hot spot" is defined as "having toys." "Super hot spot" is defined as "having toys and Icees."

At one point, we were strolling through our journey when Parker and I had this conversation:

ME: So, if Santa were to put a gift card in your stocking, what store would you want it to be from?

PARKER: Hmmm...

ME: Any store, Parker. You name it...

PARKER: I guess a $300 gift card from Target.

Clearly, Parker believes Santa is firmly in the black this year.

ME: Parker, Santa isn't going to give you a $300 gift card.

PARKER: Fine. $200.

ME: I think we need to have a talk about money.

The big highlight of the trip for me came when we made our way to the Star Wars section. The brilliant marketing geniuses behind Star Wars toys have hit upon absolute gold. They have reintroduced a lot of the toys from when I was a kid, as sort of retro toys. So, as Parker is cruising through "Star Wars: Clone Wars" toys, I am showing my true geekiness by calling to my wife, "LUKE SKYWALKER IN BESPIN FATIGUES! HONEY! LUKE SKYWALKER! IN HIS BESPIN FATIGUES!"

By that point, my wife is about four aisles away, as she is trying to distance herself from me. Her 7-year-old screaming, "BOBA FETT HELMET!" Kinda cute. Her 38-year-old husband? Yeah, not as cute.

The brilliance of the marketing is in its simplicity. A host of 30-somethings grew up playing with these toys and, even as we have grown older, many of us still have a fondness for our Star Wars youth. Now we have kids and get to live vicariously through them. I, for one, am having my direct deposit changed so that part of my paycheck just goes directly to George Lucas. Let's just be honest about how this is going to play out and cut out the middle man.

Eventually, we managed to complete both the kids' lists, and I am pleased to see that both of my children have very expensive and comprehensive tastes. I haven't given it to her yet, but I hope to slip my list to my wife soon. What do you think the chances are I get a Barrel of Monkeys? I can play with them while I wear my Boba Fett helmet.

High hives

If you find it enjoyable to have pain, discomfort, and a fairly certain belief that you have only days to live, I highly recommend hives.

I was fortunate enough to experience this, and most everyone I have come across who has shared the experience has the same reaction: shrieking back in horror and saying, "Oh, man..."

It started a few weeks ago. I was working in the yard, and the ring finger on my left knuckle began stinging and swelling up like crazy. I thought I had had a run-in with a wasp or ant, and chalked it up to battle wounds of a yard work warrior.

And then the next week, I was out with the family at an event and the same thing happened. I was barely able to get my wedding ring off as the finger swelled at the knuckle. Two Saturdays in a row, two animals bites, I concluded.

And then the next Saturday came along, and the same thing started happening, this time on a different finger. Pretty sure I was not just getting bitten every Saturday. Clearly, I was allergic to Saturdays with my family.

And then came Sunday morning. When I stepped out of bed, I noticed things felt a little weird, as the arches of my feet were touching the ground, whereas my toes and heels were, well, not. I don't know how your arches work, but mine normally work as, well, arches.

I also noticed that my sides had been essentially clawed apart during my sleep, where sleeping me decided to conquer the itching I was experiencing by peeling my skin off.

I weathered that day the best I could, with my most commonly uttered phrase being, "Yes, I will go to the doctor tomorrow." My wife is one of these types of people who believes medical issues should be addressed by competent medical professionals who have training and education. I agree that is a good alternative approach when my choice of medical care does not work. That choice, of course, is to pretend nothing is wrong and hope everything goes away on its own. The hardest part of this, of course, is keeping from my wife that something is wrong. And when you are walking around the house on the sides of your feet and constantly clawing at your side like a chimp that rolled in poison ivy, it's kinda tough to keep that under wraps.

My wife is very good at pre-diagnosis, and, along with the help of Dr. Google, had surmised that I had hives. When I had consulted with Dr. Google, I diagnosed myself with monkey pox, typhus, swimmer's ear and feline leukemia.

So I went to my dermatologist the next day, and she said that I did, in fact, have hives. (Although come to think of it, she never specifically ruled out swimmer's ear or feline leukemia.) She gave me some medicine that came with a warning that it may make me drowsy.

Hey, here's a fun fact: "May cause drowsiness" = "Mike's about to be in a coma!"

I slept for longer than I have slept in probably 20 years, and was pleased to wake up the next morning and have normal shaped feet. I also do not feel a need to ask people if they could locate a large metal garden rake with which to take off my skin.

Apparently, the cause of hives is often never determined. I haven't had changes in diet, chemicals I'm around, etc. It may just be one of these fluke things that happens. Hopefully, I can treat it and put it all behind me. Of course, if it continues to be a problem, we still haven't ruled out monkey pox.

Tree house security

It's like getting top secret clearance.

You don't just let someone waltz into the Pentagon or Fort Knox. You have strict guidelines on who can enter. You check their credentials. You check their background. And you certainly check their stick sharpening skills.

Yes, of all the secure areas that exist on this planet, there is not one domain that requires more scrutiny of those seeking access than ... a tree house.

One of my kids' friends is building a tree house, and only a select few can gain entry. I say that he is building the tree house, but it is actually his father, who is constructing a shelter that will be, let's just say, sturdy. Based on the gigantic posts of the infrastructure, I suggested to him that, should a tornado get near his house, he and his family might want to seek shelter in the tree house.

It's my parents' neighbor. I am fortunate to live near my folks and have the added bonus of having neighborhood kids around, just like when I was a kid. Seeing kids crawling over the fence to play with my kids in the same yard I did the exact same thing 30 years ago? Kinda awesome.

So Brian's tree house is under construction, and he told my kids that there will only be a select few allowed in the tree house, which, let's all be honest, is good tree house security management. And so, Brian created a survey that every potential tree house visitor must complete. Here is the survey. Go ahead, take it. See if you would be granted clearance.

QUESTION 1: Are you my friend?

A sensible question. No one wants non-friends bringing the tree house down.

QUESTION 2: Do you like to carve?

Apparently, there will be woodworking in the tree house.

QUESTION 3: Do you promise not to tell Brandon secrets?

Ah, a very important question, as Brandon is the older brother. Loyalty first.

QUESTION 4: Will you help me build my fort and put traps in?

A potential trick question. The easy answer is, "Sure, I'll help you build it." But don't gloss over the second part. Anyone who has ever had a tree house knows traps to keep out the unworthy is one of the most important parts of a tree house defense.

QUESTION 5: Not so much a question. It reads: You will keep secrets if you want to be a member.

Methinks just a reminder on your answer in Question 3.

QUESTION 6: Are you my friend and would you help me build a tree house?

A repeat question, you say? WRONG! Checking to make sure you were honest and consistent on Questions 1 and 4. Your guard was thrown off without the part about traps.

QUESTION 7: Will you sharpen sticks with me?

Probably part of the traps. Or catching tigers.

QUESTION 8: Can you lift 20 pounds?

My guess is this involves potential future candidates for the tree house, kind of a tree house fraternity rush.

QUESTION 9: Are you my friend, and do you live close to me?

Just checking once more to see if you are, in fact, a friend. And proximity matters. (We have an inquiry into the Grandma's House Waiver.)

QUESTION 10: Do you take vacations often?

Tree house security does not take breaks.

QUESTION 11: Are you allowed to hold knives at home?

If you say you will carve and make sharp sticks, and then answer no to this one, consider yourself busted as a fraud.

QUESTION 12: Do you know how to build tables?

With any good tree house, there will be a central meeting place where the great tree house minds can get together, round table style, and discuss issues such as sharp sticks and traps.

I think this is a good and solid security questionnaire for one of the most serious things a kid can protect. If you can't have solid allies in your tree house, what is the point of having it? I look forward to the tree house becoming a reality, and my kids spending lots of fun time in it. Assuming they get clearance.

You'll shoot your eye out...

I know folks like to complain about how Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier each year. Well, for me, Christmas often starts in October, as for the third time in five years, I'll be stepping back on stage for the Christmas production at Aiken Community Playhouse.

This year, I will be taking on the role of The Old Man in "A Christmas Story." Yes, that Christmas story - you'll shoot your eye out.

This is a great play, as it is true to the movie. For those of you are not familiar with the movie, let me be the first to say, congratulations on your emergence from the center of the earth. I mean this with no disrespect, but out of sheer amazement. Every year, TBS shows the movie for 24 hours straight. To travel through the world and not at least hear someone say, "You'll shoot your eye out," is virtually impossible.

But to those who have managed to avoid it, the story tells of Ralphie Parker, a 9-year-old in Indiana, circa 1938. His Christmas quest: acquiring a BB gun, in particular a "legendary official Red Ryder 200-shot carbine action range model air rifle."

While I can only hope to channel my best Darren McGavin while on stage, my real joy from this play is being on stage with one of my kids. I have been on stage with just my daughter (in 2007) in "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever," and on stage with both Allie and Parker last year for "It's A Wonderful Life: The Musical." And this year Parker and I take the turn, with him in the role of the little brother, Randy. (Oh, and remember his stage last name? Parker. So he is Parker Parker.)

In "Best Christmas," I played the role of the dad. In "Wonderful Life," I played the Mayor, who I can only assume was also a dad. And now I play ... a dad. Nice to know if I ever needed to throw together an acting resume, it would be brief: "Dad in Christmas show, just pick a year."

The rehearsals have been a blast. We have a small cast, both in number and in height. Much of the cast would not be able to ride roller coasters. That makes for fun evenings at the Playhouse, as my behavior can simply blend in with the other kids. (I am not so sure our director agrees completely with that sentiment.)

As with previous plays, the cast is getting to know each other and starting to feed off of each other's lines. With a script as funny as this, we certainly have our share of outtakes. And an occasional ad-lib keeps the rehearsals fun and light, and time flies by.

Parker has had a lot of fun playing his part. Granted, we have had to tell him to step OUT of character on occasion. One of Parker's recurring lines is, "I gotta go wee-wee." In the context of the play, it is quite funny. In the context of walking up to someone at church or in a store, you are greeted with a variety of responses, from "Um, bathroom's that way..." to "Well, perhaps that's something you should share with your parents." When we have heard him say it, my wife and I are quick to fill in the omitted details of his play part. My concern is the times when we haven't heard it.

We are a little over a month from opening night, which means our rehearsals will get more intense and make for some long nights. But that is really when being in a play starts getting the most exciting, as the adrenaline starts pumping and you get ready to hit the stage in front of a full audience. It's why we do it, and it's the big payoff in the end.

Hopefully, you'll be able to make it to see the show. And, if we cross paths before then, please remember - Parker doesn't have to go. It's just his line in the play...

Daddy-daughter

The other night, the kids were in bed. I was heading downstairs to check some e-mails, do the dishes, etc., when I heard a call from behind a closed door. "Daddy...".

I opened my daughter's door, and she was in bed, snuggled up under the covers. "Yes, Allie," I said.

"Come here," she said.

I walked to her bed, and she said, "When can we have another daddy-daughter date?"

To which I replied, "Do you want a pony? Because you can have one."

Yes, my little girl is growing up way too fast, but I am trying hard to remind myself that I still have a few fleeting moments where I am still "Daddy."

I have seen those changes coming for a while. Last year, I went on a field trip with my daughter's class. When I saw my daughter, I said the usual refrain I use when I see her: "Hey, Allie-bear!" Normally, that is greeted with a big smile and a hug. In front of a gaggle of classmates? A stern, "Dad! DON'T. CALL. ME. THAT."

Fair enough. Truth be told, I have probably violated one of the daddy-daughter tenets by even mentioning that in a column. My wife has actually shelved a couple of columns that I thought were delightful romps through a young girls' follies. My wife, however, has been an elementary school girl, and said, "Uh, yeah, no."

It was nothing scandalous or horrible. Singing extra loud to a Jonas Brothers YouTube is hardly the stuff of Congressional investigations. It's the same stuff her classmates do, too. But now is the time they are really developing their identity of who they are and, more importantly, how they can identify potentially mockable things in fellow classmates. So best to leave things alone.

I actually can sort of relate. I have three older sisters, so I got to see the evolution of the female creature on quite a personal level. And it's a sight to behold.

So now I sit at a crossroads. My little girl is slowly evolving into, well, not my little girl any more.

Oh, don't get me wrong. She will always be my little girl. When she gets her diploma? My little girl. When I walk her down the aisle? My little girl. It better not be for another two decades, but I can't imagine the feeling of what it will be to hold my little girl's child.

But let's not get too far ahead. Here's what I have in front of me: That rare dual-purpose window of parental functionality. Behind closed doors, I can be Daddy, the one who can still get a charge out of his daughter with the world's greatest game, Bumrush!, which involves me coming into a room where the kids are sitting and doing a flying tackle onto the couch while screaming, "BUMRUSH!" while the laughter fills the room.

And I can be the one in public who pretends, to her friends, that I have no clue about the game Bumrush!, as that is far better for her social endeavors. The fact that I have entered the point in time where the phrase "Dad, you're embarrassing me!" is kind of reassuring.

So to that end, I vow this to my daughter:

-- I will not intentionally embarrass you in front of your friends, unless it is absolutely necessary;

-- I will not call you Allie-bear in front of your classmates;

-- I will not share stories with your friends about when you were little, but can make no promises about them finding columns I wrote years ago about you;

-- I will not mention you in columns without prior approval from your mother. After this one.

Now, about that daddy-daugher date....

Texting while clerking

So I went into a drug store the other day to purchase some sundries.
No one was at the register, so I looked around to find a clerk. She was in the aisle, stocking shelves. Having worked in a drug store in high school, I am well versed in what you do when you have down time: Front the shelves. Fronting the shelves means you make sure all of the products are pulled to the very front. I gave a pass to the clerk, as I’ve been there in that exciting endeavor.
I gave a friendly wave and said that I needed to check out. She looked up and told me that she was on her way. Customer service in charge!
Yeah, not so much.
I stood at the register for a good 30 seconds, and she didn’t come. I took a few steps over and looked down the aisle. And there she was: Texting away.
“Yeah, hi, uh, I’m ready to check out...” I said.
While my mouth said that, my brain was screaming, “Are you serious!?!?!?! I am trying to pay money to you – money that pays your paycheck – and you have to text one of your friends with some thought that I am just guessing will never end up in ‘Bartlett’s’!?!?!?!?”
She eventually made her way to the counter. She rang up my purchase, and I went to pay. But I had to wait a second. Can you guess what I had to wait for? Was she administering CPR to a fallen co-worker? Was she thwarting a robbery? Was she saving a wounded dog from limping into traffic?
I think we all know she was texting. Again.
As I was heading out of the store, I took my receipt and glanced at the top. Store phone number – right there. I am not the kind of person who nickels and dimes store managers about things, but for some reason this really chapped my hide. I sat in my car and called the number. A guy answered, and I asked to speak to a manager. He informed me he was the manager. I told him that I am not the complaining type. I told him that I am not the kind of person to punish a store for the actions of one employee. And I told him that I was fuming hot about being delayed by a clerk who was texting. He listened patiently.
And then he told me that (a) he was sorry and (b) he had already spoken to the employee about texting on the job, and she would not be doing that again.
Apparently, he had observed the whole thing play out. He did three things perfect: He addressed the issue with his employee. He apologized to an upset customer. And, most importantly, in my book, he didn’t publicly dress down an employee.
I know that our inner bloodlust would have liked for him to storm the aisle, vocally rip the employee, and send a message to the whole store who was boss. But he didn’t. And he shouldn’t have. Plus one to him for the way he handled it.
But the crux of the issue – what in the world possesses people to make them think that, while on the job, they should text away? Probably the same thing that makes people think they can text and drive. And I have the solution. These days, phones are quite clever creatures. (My iPhone? This morning it made my coffee, got the kids ready for school and told me my socks were mismatched.) Surely we can figure out a way for your phone to realize when you are being a complete and total dolt when it comes to texting. And, if your super smart phone realizes you are texting while you are ignoring a customer or driving a car, you are automatically billed a surcharge, something in the neighborhood of $20 million. In lieu of paying the charge, you also have the option of eating your phone.
It’s just a simple courtesy that seems straightforward enough. Granted, people still smack gum, so some things I guess will never go out of style.

Ear ye, ear ye

I see no reason to poke a couple of holes in perfectly good flesh.

My daughter, and apparently the rest of the planet, disagrees.

She just turned 10, and she decided she really, really, really, really - no really - wanted her ears pierced. I have been against this since day one, as I am a father, and it should be in my nature to be against anyone poking holes in my children.

My wife and I had discussed the ear piercing timeline on numerous occasions. My wife said she was comfortable somewhere around 10ish. I said I was comfortable some time around when the earth crashed into the sun. Don't get me wrong: I'm not anti-piercing. I'm just anti-piercing when it comes to my daughter.

So on her 10th birthday, we had this conversation:

ALLIE: Daddy, I'm going to do something today that is going to make you mad.

ME: You're going to cheer for Auburn?

ALLIE: Daddy, I'm getting my ears pierced today.

ME: Roll Tide. And no.

She stared at me for a second, contemplating whether to go with sad-daddy's-little-girl eyes or foot-stomping abject defiance. She went with the prior. "It's up to your mother," I said.

A short while later, we were in Claire's, which is the single greatest store in the history of 10-year-old-kind. If they were to make a Claire's equivalent for me, it would be called The Bama Football, Bacon, Beer and Baywatch Store.

Despite her resoluteness in wanting her ears pierced, she showed some signs of nervousness. And by signs of nervousness, I mean she said, "OK, I don't want my ears pierced." Then a split second later, "OK, I do." I, of course, helped by saying things such as, "They should be done heating up the rusty pen they use to poke your ear."

Ha! Of course I didn't say that. I would never have done that. My wife was in earshot.

Allie climbed into the chair, and the woman came over to prep her ears. She had picked out a lovely little set of earrings in her birthstone, which is whatever August's birthstone is. The woman cleaned Allie's ears with a little alcohol wipe, and then marked each ear with a purple dot.

"It's to help her aim when she gets a running start," I assured Allie.

The woman then took a little white gunlike thing and told Allie that she just had to check one more thing on her ear and to hold still while she just looked and CLICK!

Allie had a startled look. "Wait, what..."

The woman said, "Hang on..."

Other ear. CLICK!

"Wait, did you... Ow!!!"

And, just like that, ears were pierced. Allie looked at the woman, who handed her a mirror. "See?" she said. And there they were - pierced ears. She said it hurt a little bit, but the look on her face when she stared at her earrings showed that it was worth it.

She is now taking part in a detailed ear care regimen that involves cleaning and turning the earrings and commenting every 11 minutes that her ears are pierced. She also has found out that, when you have newly pierced ears that you are very proud of, your little brother will repeatedly say, "Allie, your earrings fell out." And every time she takes the bait.

So despite my reluctance to let her get her ears pierced, it makes me happy to see how happy it makes her. She is so proud of them, and it does make her feel quite grown up. In hindsight, I'm glad she got them pierced. And, as I look forward, I think I'm good with additional piercings. As soon as the earth crashes into the sun.

Big Ten

Ten years ago, 9-11 was just the number you called in an emergency.

Ten years ago, there had only been one Bush presidency.

Ten years ago, Mel Gibson was everyone's favorite, fun-loving, good-guy actor starring in "What Women Want."

And 10 years ago, I became a father.

Wow, what a difference a decade makes.

Allison Nicole came into this world on Aug. 6, shortly after 2 in the morning. She entered the world in a manner which would be consistent with how she would carry herself in life: late.

She was supposed to be here in July. My wife went to the hospital to be induced and 24 hours later, no baby. This was not how it was supposed to work, my wife said in a tone that cannot, by any objective standard, be considered nice. We were sent home to wait. And wait. And find excuses to go to the store, lest I be reminded whose fault this was and how it was hot and how AN INDUCTION MEANS A BABY COMES OUT OF YOU!!!

But eventually she made her debut, and we even have a picture that I would certainly consider a rarity: A baby 20 minutes old, her parents, and all six of her grandparents.

As for this birthday, there is some debate in our house if Aug. 6 is the actual start of double digits. If you asked her, she has been 10 for several months. I noticed this a while back when someone asked her age.

ALLIE: I'm 10.

ME: No, you're not.

ALLIE: I am, too, practically...

And then she did a little hair flip for emphasis.

Yes, my little girl is quickly steamrolling toward teenager. And, as someone who has three older sisters and got to witness all three of them as teens, I say to you: Help me.

Ha, I kid. Of course I look forward to my daughter's continuing maturation and growing independence. Why, I can practically feel the celebration bubbling inside of me just thinking about her dating and driving and going to college and, that does it, she gets locked in her room.

OK, deep breaths. Still a ways off from that. Let's just focus on being 10 for now. I know I have a lot to look forward to, as she still somewhat likes being around me. Granted, she has developed the "Dad, you're embarrassing me" look when we're in public. It's that look where she purses her lips, wrinkles her brow, tilts her head and, through clenched teeth, mouths "DAD!" Just one example of when I have seen the face: When I used the cute little nickname I have called her all of her life - Alliebear - on a school field trip.

I also have to be cautious about what I write in my columns. My daughter on occasion will read my column (hey, somebody has to), and I will see her slowly lower the paper. "Daaaaa-aaaaaad," she will say in a low tone. "Why did you write that?"

So I try to be sensitive to the concerns of a tween. I don't want to make her unnecessarily embarrassed. Granted, there is necessary embarrassment, which will include such gems as me singing to a Hannah Montana song when her friends are in the car or suggesting that I will show up to the next school dance to put on a break dancing demonstration. Always nice to be offering these suggestions and glance in the rearview mirror to see the head tilt, the teeth clench...

And while a decade is under the belt, I always look at my kids' birthdays not with longing for the past or lamenting the stages that are behind us. Rather, I see each birthday as another step to an important life stage. There are so many wonderful moments awaiting her in life, and I want to be there to share them, to congratulate her, to cheer her on, or just to have her know that I'm there. And, because this is life, there are bad times coming. I certainly hope they are few and far between, but I want to be there to console her, to cheer her up, to stand strong for her and beside her, and just to have her know that I'm there. She's only 10 now, but she's still my little girl. And she'll always be my Alliebear. Just don't tell her I told you...

Gardening shmardening...

Back in April, I shared with you the story of the garden the kids and I made.

I shared with you then how previous attempts at gardens had resulted in the exact opposite of a garden, as gardens have fruits and vegetables and living things in them.

But this garden was to be different. It would thrive because:

1. We were doing a raised bed, because everyone knows that elevating your soil four inches off the ground makes for scrumptious food.

2. I added garden timbers, because everyone knows surrounding your elevated soil with wood makes food more healthy.

3. I planted a diverse selection - broccoli, watermelon, green beans and cucumbers - because diversity is key to any garden, as any farmer will tell you. If you ask him to tell you that.

Well, here we are, in the heart of the harvest season, while vegetable gardens are churning out baskets full of bounty from the soil. And in my basket you will find...

...wait. Before we get to that, let me remind you that it is has been very hot. And we were gone for a week back in June. And one of the timbers did fall, and was later co-opted to be part of a fort. And elevated soil is incredibly comfortable if you are an excitable Dachshund looking for a nice, shady napping spot. I'm just saying we need to keep these things in mind.

OK, so we got nothing. If we were frontiersmen, we would have had to become the Donner Party to survive. I mean not squat. The only thing that even remotely hinted at growing were the green beans, which popped out as these pathetic looking little weeds, two of which sprouted these embarrassing little green nubs that looked more like Mike and Ike candies than green beans. They withered away after a few days. Even the squirrels and birds didn't bother to poach them. Upside of my garden - think of all the time, money and effort I save on not having to worry about anything stealing my stuff. No sense putting fences or screens up for something that's not there. As a courtesy, I suppose I could direct the critters to my neighbors' successful gardens, which includes anti-critter investments.

The kids were disappointed in the outcome of the garden. My wife told me that the location was the main reason why, as it was in the back corner of the yard and didn't get watered enough. I explained that I did water it some, but any time that I didn't water it was not the fault of location. I can lug a hose the extra 20 feet. The real problem, as I explained to her, was angering the Gardening Gods, who punished us by withholding nourishments for our crops. I can only assume it was past indiscretions against fruit and vegetable seeds.

So the kids are now looking to the fall harvest. I have explained to them that (a) it's not the best time to plant and (b) we're pretty terrible at it. But they are convinced the next time they plant will be the time the harvest springs forth. Bless their little optimistic hearts...

I am hoping I can distract them from their desire to plant another garden. I think the message has been received. Gardening just isn't my thing. And, hey, I'm not alone. Groceries and produce stands have long existed for those of us without the desire or ability to grow our own food. I think I'll just be content getting my food the traditional way. And I certainly know how I'm getting my fall harvest. And it's not gonna be frontier style...

Stinging situation

What did we learn this week?

We learned that my car can go far beyond the empty fuel line, with room to spare.

We learned that a miniature space shuttle, if placed in the appropriate place in the hallway, can bring down a grown man in the middle of the night.

But most importantly, we learned to look inside the waders before you put them on.

I learned the latter lesson on a biology field trip over the weekend. We were going to check some traps in a pond, hoping to find some turtles, fish, etc.

There are some waders by the pond, hanging upside down on some pegs in order to keep critters from crawling inside. This is a good idea. Critters cannot, in fact, climb inside. They can, it turns out, fly inside.

I was the one tasked with putting on the waders. Someone remarked that there could be critters inside the waders. Pshaw, I remarked, as the waders are upside down.

I grabbed the first pair, and realized they were hip waders designed to fit the feet of, by my estimate, a newborn. I tried the second pair of hip waders, and realized these were slightly larger, designed to shod a three-year-old.

I turned to the other waders and found a pair that appeared to be my size. These were thigh waders, with a fancy little strap that would hold them securely to your leg.

I kicked off my tennis shoe and stuck my left leg into the wader, sliding my foot into place. And I then set the world record for fastest time ever to remove a wader when I felt an incredible stinging pain in my calf and the bottom of my foot. As I was jumping around and doing a one-legged hop to a nearby bench, everyone was asking me what was wrong. "ACK!" I believe was the reply.

When I got to the bench, I pulled off my sock. I looked down at my calf and saw a small red welt, and then saw a similar one on my foot. Someone picked up the wader, turned it upside down and began shaking it. Out flew one wasp. And then another. And then another. I did not like those wasps.

After the entire wasp family had exited the wader, we turned it over and looked inside. There, about halfway down in absolutely clear sight, was a wasp's nest about the size of my fist. I feel fairly confident that had I looked, I would have seen the nest. Granted, a wasp might have flown out and stung me in my in the face, so perhaps I was better off.

For the rest of the day, my foot and calf were quite sore. They both developed large red spots around them, but they were really never more than an annoyance. Or, as I told my wife, the worst pain anyone has ever suffered. Ever.

The worse of the two stings was definitely the one on the bottom of my foot. If you have an enemy who is in dire need of physical harm, I highly recommend a wasp sting to the arch of the foot. It will send a message. That message: "I hate you. A lot."

I was able to make it through the rest of the field trip, stopping on occasion to lean up against a tree and quietly groan in agony. But that was mainly when my wife was around, just to remind her how bad the pain was.

When we got home, my wife boldly took on the job of looking at my foot - which had been tromping around the swamp on a hot summer day - and examining it. I have no idea if the wasp that stung me is the kind that leaves its stinger in you, but when she poked around for a few minutes with some tweezers, it did suddenly feel better.

So I did learn a valuable lesson, and I will never again think waders are secure just because ground dwelling critters can't get in them. You can have nasty bugs that want to hurt you. Of course, it could be worse. It could have been a miniature space shuttle.

Terminator Mom

My son learned a valuable lesson this weekend: Don't call your mother's bluff.

This particular bluff: He was acting up in the pool, as his mother sat deckside, fully dressed. "You won't come in the pool," he said. "You've got clothes on."

Wrong call, dude.

The event happened at a recent party we were having. We had some friends and family over, and everyone was having a fine time. Parker was in the pool with some of the other kids as my wife and a friend sat poolside. Parker had a toy that shoots water. Now, we have some standard rules in the pool: No running, no jumping close to the edge, no teaching the cat to swim, etc. Another rule is that you do not splash people who are not in pool attire. This rule grew from my summer ritual of coming home from work and sitting by the pool while the kids swim. It was originally called the "YOU GOT MY CROSSWORD WET!!!" rule, but my wife and I have since expanded it to anyone sitting poolside wearing street clothes.

So Parker thought he would break the rule, and started shooting water at our friend.

"Parker," my wife said, "do not spray her with water."

He got a devilish smile. Water again. "Parker..." The tone was changing.

Splash, again. "Parker, do it again and I will come in there. And you will NOT like it if I come in there."

And then he made the mistake. He called her out. He gave her a "no you won't" line of defiance.

My wife calmly stood up, took her shoes and sunglasses off, and proceeded to the steps of the pool. And down she went. She marched into the pool and went across the shallow end. Parker stood frozen. She approached him, took the water cannon, and proceed to fling it out of the pool. She then marched out of the pool, as Parker began to melt into a combination of fear, sorrow and a smidge of awe. As one partygoer described it: "He was so freaked out that the Terminator Mom wasn't thwarted by the pool as a barrier."

My wife emerged from the pool, dripping wet, casually grabbed a beach towel from the fence, and calmly strolled toward the house. As she walked in, she looked over at me. "Deal with him." And in she went.

I went to the edge of the pool. "Come. Here. Now."

He was there quickly. His lip was quivering, and we was about to start crying. "What is going on?" I asked.

"Am I grounded?"

"What?" I asked.

"Mom said I was grounded. Is it true?"

The look in his eyes told me this - he had no clue what grounded meant. But he was awfully scared of it.

I told him he needed to get out of the pool, go upstairs and apologize to his mother. "I'm not going to get to go swimming again, am I?" he said. Tears were welling up, and he was pretty much painting a scenario that was about 10 times worse than worse case.

"Just get out of the pool," I said.

He went and sat in a chair, his towel wrapped around him, his lips quivering, and looking to the ground. "Parker," I said, "you need to go inside and talk to your mother." He looked at me with one of the best looks a child looking to get out of trouble has ever given.

Shortly thereafter, he decided to head inside, and had even decided on his own sentence. When we got upstairs, he gave a tearful apology, and he offered up a self-imposed swimming ban. In his apology, it became clear that the splashing in the pool was meant as a fun little game. And he now realizes that when Mom says "Game over," it's game over.

After his exile was concluded, he was a bit of a momma's boy for the rest of the evening, trying to curry favor with the woman he had wronged. It was no harm in the long run, and he learned the most important lesson of all. Mom can swim. And she'll come after you...

Talk talk talk talk talk talk

So my nephew, Samuel, was in town the other day, and he clearly had a severe case of what specialists call Chatterboxitus.

Chatterboxing is a serious medical condition that afflicts small children and causes them to talk. Constantly. Without stopping for breaths. Its only known cure is leaving the patient with grandparents while the parents go out for dinner. And probably drinks.

And, in the interest of full disclosure, I feel obliged to confess this: Both of my children are recovering chatterboxes.

For those of you not familiar with small children, here is a simple test to determine if a child is chatterboxing: Did he or she wake up around 4 in the morning and talk nonstop for the next 12 hours?

It is quite an amazing stream of consciousness. When we arrived at the house on Saturday morning, I saw Samuel standing in the middle of the den. He was dancing. And singing. And attempting to juggle. And talking to the cat. And having a conversation with the "Astroboy" movie that was on TV.

I looked over at my sister, who sighed. Parents of chatterboxes do that a lot. We sigh. Because we have tried EVERYTHING. And it only leads to more chatterboxing. "Why are you breathing like that? I want to breathe like that. It's kind of like a yawn. I like yawns. But not sleeping. My bed has Batman sheets."

My folks had tried a little diversion earlier in the day. They had taken him for a walk that morning, and he offered this commentary: "Is that a tree? Is it a pineapple tree? We could have pineapples. Are there coconut trees? We could get a coconut. Is that a tree? Look there. Another tree." Repeat this type of conversation for about two blocks.

Now, before you go judging Samuel (or, worse, his wonderful uncle), let me clarify that he was doing what most kids do - getting riled up and excited and having a blast. He's not even 3, and add to that mix going to Grandma and Grandpa's, where there are aunts and uncles and cousins and popsicles - LOTS of popsicles. Pretty easy to get on the riled up side. Trust me, I know. As I said, my kids are recovering chatterboxes.

I remember a time when my daughter was about that age. I asked my wife, "Why won't she stop talking?" This was on the last leg of a trip to Atlanta. My son was diagnosed when a friend of ours took him for the day. She called us during a car ride and asked, "Does he ever stop talking?"

The conversations of chatterboxes are truly amazing. Like Samuel's infatuation with trees, they often focus on the current interest of the child, and then spawn into run-on thoughts. Example:

"Do you like pirates? I like pirates. Do they fight vikings? Who would win between a Viking and pirate? Would the loser go to jail? Would it be Viking jail or pirate jail? And can police officers arrest a Viking? How about a pirate? Police officers have big belts. They keep guns on them. Vikings don't have guns. Do they have belts? If a pirate had a belt, could he have a gun?"

My response was usually something like: "AHHHHHH!!!! STOP STOP STOP STOP!!!!!"

Of course, now that my kids have outgrown the chatterbox stage, I find myself not being as bothered by the bouts. For example, when I first saw my nephew going nuts, was my reaction to call for him to stop? To try and find him an outlet? To seek a distraction? Or, possibly, was is it to encourage my dad to get his iPhone, which has a video camera on it, so that he could film that awesomeness of Samuel doing a cat impersonation?

I'm gonna go with the latter.

Let's be honest - chatterboxing is something some kids do when they need to channel some energy and don't quite know how to do it. They'll learn eventually that there are better ways to harness that energy. Such as finding a coconut tree. And a pineapple tree. With a pirate. And a Viking.

DC comical

So my family and I just spent five days in Washington, D.C. Let's go to the highlight reel:

* I am clueless on what to tip when unless it's a restaurant. When it comes to valet parking (which was required at the hotel we were at), I was glad I listened to my sister's advice: Keep a bunch of $1s and $5s handy. Of course, I showed my true level of unsophistication when, needing a bag out of the van, I told the guy he just needed to show me a way into the garage, not bring the car around.

* If you have ever taken a 7-year-old into an art gallery, you know the most common comment from everyone else in the gallery is, "Why did they bring a 7-year-old into an art gallery?" My wife solved that problem by having our son count the number of animals he found in paintings. Always nice to walk into a quiet room full of masterpieces and hear, "Lion. Peacock. Dog. Dog. Up to 22."

* Speaking of art, my son did offer one piece of art critique. We went into a Mark Rothko exhibit, which featured as series of large black rectangles, on which were painted smaller black rectangles. His comment: "This is considered art?" Now I am sure some of you can give me sheer volumes on why it was, in fact, art. But we didn't stick around to study it. We went on to see dinosaur bones. They were awesome.

* We were amazed by the traffic and pedestrians. Everyone just marched along, waiting for their red/green light or walk/don't walk signal. Clearly, the execution of jaywalkers has sent the desired message.

* At our visit to the National Zoo, we were fortunate to experience not only an octopus feeding, but also a display of the adult female Homo sapiens, and how they can band together against one who has gone against tribe culture. During the set 3 p.m. octopus feeding, a woman with a small child sidled up to the tank and blocked pretty much everyone's view, while holding her child up to the glass. The child alternated between disinterest and sleep. When a woman next to me asked the woman to step back so that others could see, Mrs. Glass Hog responded that she had earned her spot there and would not move. At that point, the females behind her banded together. They began finding as many kids who were blocked out and essentially wedged them in front of her. The woman next to me (no, not my wife) leaned in and whispered something to the woman, and ended with a comment to her about how she was a big baby.

* There are three - THREE - floors to the Air and Space Museum's gift shop. I may actually still be there.

* My wife and I often remark that it does not do much for our appearance of being small town folks when our kids, say, marvel at escalators. They took it a notch higher in D.C. "Daddy, why is that woman in the dress collecting things from the trash can?" Nothing to see here, sweetie. Nothing to see.

* Speaking of being small town folks, my wife is from Atlanta, which is, I am sure you have noticed, NOT a small town. My wife was raised with this mentality of a big city: It is bad and here to kill you. So, when we were heading home one evening and the President's motorcade was leaving a charity event, she was thrilled that we were in, what I believe, was the safest place on the planet. From the guys on the street to the guys on the buildings to the guys in dark SUVs everywhere you looked, we were plenty confident that this big city was under control. We got to see the President's car leave, and, I am fairly certain, saw his silhouette in one of the limos. Of course, he might have also left an hour prior in a 2002 Nissan Maxima that no one paid attention to.

* Lines schmines. We had a White House tour set up for 9 a.m. on Wednesday morning. We arrived about 8:45 a.m., and saw a line that stretched roughly to Baltimore. I approached the guard there, hoping to find out those people were actually in line for a Treasury Department tour or something. "Uh, is this the..." She cut me off. "For the White House tour, yes, sir. Do you have an appointment?" I told her we had a 9 a.m. appointment. "Oh, right here," she said, motioning me to a second line that consisted of a whopping four people. "What is the last line?" I asked. "The 8:30 tour," she said. Note to self: Half-hour tours are for suckers.

* The best meal I ate the whole time: The one the kids were most anticipating: A hot dog on the Mall. Mmm, mmm, patriotism.

* Two of the biggest WOW! moments came at the American History Museum. The look on Parker's face when he saw C-3PO, and the look on Allie's face when she saw Dorothy's ruby slippers. My wife had her WOW! moment seeing Julia Child's kitchen. Did I mention we saw C-3PO? WOW!

It was a great trip, and I know I have only scratched the surface of adventure. It is definitely a town we could visit over and over. I just need to find out where the Presidential motorcade will be so we can be safe.

Ax man

Is there a more useful tool than an ax?

Answer: No.

A few months ago, I shared with you my tale of deconstructing my children's play fort. Several frustrating minutes into trying to take it down peacefully with a screwdriver, I resorted to the far more satisfying mode of beating it to death with an ax. Thirty minutes, tops. Play fort leveled, any pent-up frustration, anger, etc. - gone.

So fast forward to the other day when my brother-in-law and I were moving a couch out of my house. We are in the midst of a great furniture swap, which means we currently have about twice the amount of furniture we need. I suggested we move out all of the old furniture first. My wife suggested I not suggest.

So what has resulted is several rooms and our garage turning into what look like storage sheds. Furniture is stacked on top of furniture, and on top of that is, say, a bin of winter clothes that will go into storage once the closet is no longer blocked by two mattresses that, I am told, are going somewhere. Some time.

Anywho, one of the biggest pieces we needed to get rid of was a sleeper sofa. I have vague recollections of moving this sofa up into our playroom. It involved me, a neighbor, several words not appropriate for a family newspaper and the repeated line of, "I'M NOT TRYING TO SCRATCH THE WALL!!! BUT WE CAN PAINT IT ... AHHHH ... MY HAND!!!"

So, needless to say, I never was in great love with this couch. Add to the fact that the sleeper part of it was crooked, so if you did make it out into a bed, your feet would be about a foot lower than your head. You always felt like you were just about to start sliding downhill.

FAST FACT 1: Did you know you can store roughly the entire contents of a Toys "R" Us in the compartment up under a sleeper bed?

FAST FACT 2: Did you know sleeper sofas weigh slightly more than most concrete mixing trucks?

My brother-in-law was helping with the moving. He and I are the most effective, efficient moving team ever assembled. We have been involved in several moves, and we have learned a few important things:

1. When you ask us to help you move, please know that "move" and "pack" are two different things.

2. If you are constantly saying, "Sorry ...," you are probably in the way. Please go sit by the truck.

3. Play-by-play and commentary? Yeah, we're good, thanks.

So Keith and I settled in by the couch and began to move it toward the door. It was obvious it was going to be a tight squeeze, so we took the door off the hinges and cleared the best path possible. As we turned and wiggled and twisted and rocked the couch, we got it almost all the way through the door. One arm was still catching, and it was going to take some serious craftiness to work it out.

"Or we could take an ax to it," I said. Keith jokingly said that was probably a good choice.

"Go ahead," I heard my wife say. "I hate that couch." Now THAT'S input I can get behind.

In no time, I was standing in my playroom, taking an ax to the couch. I am fairly certain that is the first and only time I will ever swing an ax at a couch in my house. And it was delightful.

Once I took the side of the couch off, it was amazing how easy it was to get the remains of the couch outside. It was also amazing how stress-free I felt.

That was by far the most difficult part of the furniture swap. We've got most of the furniture at least close to where it will eventually live. Should be just a matter of a few tweaks here and there. I'll keep my ax handy just in case.

Playing possum

It's just your routine Saturday night: A water line breaks, you can't figure out how to shut the water off and your dog corners a possum.

It all started when I made the mistake of trying to diagnose a home improvement problem using the Internet.

For months, water had been pooling up in the bottom of my refrigerator. I solved this problem by, every few days, lugging in a Shop-Vac and getting all of the water out. I am not sure why, but I decided I would take a few laps on the Google track and see what I could find out about water pooling up in a fridge.

It turns out you can find a lot. There were gobs of home improvement sites with different diagnoses of what was wrong. Time to do some exploratory surgery.

Step one: Move fridge.

Step two: Scream, "JENN!!! THE WATER LINE BROKE!!! HELP!!!"

So the exploration took a side track. The copper pipe coming from the floor and heading into the back of the fridge had broken, and water was spraying straight up, flooding our kitchen and dining room.

My wife made it downstairs in a flash, towels in hand. She asked me if I planned on shutting off the water or just waiting until it all ran out.

I figured there was a shutoff for that particular line but had no clue where. So, I did the sensible thing and ran outside and shut all the water off to the house. I came back inside, pleased as punch at my quick thinking.

"It's still leaking," my wife said. I am still not sure how that is possible.

After about an hour of searching (including a delightful crawl underneath my house), I found the shutoff for this particular line, which was cleverly tucked back behind the garbage disposal so that it was only easy to find and shut off it you had (a) X-ray vision and (b) exceptionally tiny hands.

We were now in full-on cleanup mode.

And then we heard Murphy the Excitable Dachshund going nuts in the backyard. And this was a special kind of nuts, the kind that makes Maggie the Attack Basset slightly lift her head to see what the commotion is about.

I grabbed a flashlight and headed outside. Murphy was in the shed and was going after something like crazy.

I flashed the light and saw the most terrified looking possum trying its level best to, well, not be eaten. I pulled Murphy back and scooped up the possum. I went inside and showed my wife.

"LOOK!" I said with child-like enthusiasm as I held the possum out.

My wife, who was sitting in an inch of water and spreading out towels everywhere, simply said, "Seriously?"

We kept the possum overnight because I knew the kids would want to see it. They were very excited to see the little critter they quickly dubbed Dandelion.

Parker especially became very attached to Dandelion. And my wife finally realized where her life had ended up when she had this conversation:

PARKER: Mom, can I do my homework on the trampoline?

HER: You can't do homework while on a trampoline.

PARKER: I want to sit out there so the possum can do homework with me. And since it's enclosed she can't get out. I promise I won't jump, just sit.

HER: OK, as long as you get your homework done.

Ah, the fairy tale ending she no doubt dreamed of as a young girl...

Alas, I have told the kids that Dandelion will not be able to live with us. I think our collection of two dogs, a cat, two snakes, a tortoise, a fish and two frogs is quite sufficient.

Dandelion is going to be part of an environmental outreach program, where she will hopefully be able to meet lots of kids and maybe even do homework with them.

As for the broken pipe, I did the sensible thing and called someone to fix it. And next time a home improvement project comes up, I need to remember that path.

I should stick to what I'm good at it. Which is apparently finding wildlife at exactly the wrong time.

A message 2 U, txter

It's not often I yell at my fellow motorists. I don't do this because my wife is from Atlanta, and she has convinced me that every other motorist is armed and has a short fuse and an itchy trigger finger.

I normally take a different approach when someone upsets me while driving. I squeeze the steering wheel as tight as I can and check the rearview mirror to see if my kids are in the backseat, at which point I then select my words for my commentary that makes me feel better but that stays in the car with me.

But not the other day. I had to. I couldn't take it. I rolled down my window and shouted, loudly, "Quit texting. You have a kid in your car!!!"

As I see too often, someone was cruising down the road, two hands happily typing away a message, one no doubt layered in misspellings, typos or idiotic abbreviations about a topic that is one of the most time sensitive and globally important of all time ("Goin 2Nite? Me 2. LOL!!!")

But this woman upped the ante by having a small child strapped in a car seat in the backseat. And it made me mad. So I yelled. And she sped up. I figured she just didn't hear me, so I pulled up and again told her to quit texting. She gave me a look that implied her next text would be about me and what she thought of me.

So, dear ma'am, I say to you this: I don't know you. I don't know if that was your kid or your nephew or what. But I do know that you had one single goal when you were operating that vehicle, and it was not to send some message via cell phone. It was to drive safely. And I am willing to bet you my house that were you not texting someone directions on the next step of a life-saving surgery. And if you were, pull over.

I'm not trying to sound like some old fuddy duddy. I have an iPhone, and it's the single greatest invention I have ever owned (and I own a Chill Wizard, which can make a warm beer ice cold in under a minute - it's THAT awesome).

And my iPhone is a great companion on the road. I actually find myself rooting for red lights, as it gives me a chance to do very important things such as getting on Facebook to see what "Sex and the City" character someone most resembles. And I am plenty versed in texting. And I also know how to drive. And the two can exist separately, and the world continues to exist. Amazing.

The argument is often made that it's distracted driving in general that is a problem, not just texting. But texting is in a unique category. If you're say, eating a hamburger, you're physically occupied. But you can still have your eyes on the road.

If you're texting, your eyes are off the road, your brain is off the road and your hands are off the steering wheel. You are asking to plow into the back of someone or over someone.

I am sure plenty of you out there are going to tell me that you are the exception. You're special. You can text no problem. And to that I say, you're not special, you're not the exception, because unless you have a second set of arms and eyes, when you are texting, you are not even on the map of safe driving.

I remember one time when I saw someone reading a book when he was driving. Pretty much everyone except for that person said, "Wow, bad idea, dude." Yet texting seems to be this driving pastime that's just accepted by some folks. Well, quit accepting it.

I know folks get grumbly when you talk about adding new laws on top of things. But I personally would love to see a texting-while-driving law. And it would read: "If you text and drive, you never get to use your phone or car again. Ever. And if there is a child in the car, it's ever times four."

Seriously, folks - there are enough stop lights in the world to send your inane little comments about pointless things when you're standing still. Text away until your thumbs are falling off. Just do it when you're not rolling down the street. Trust me, your friend can wait a few minutes to find out where you are Goin 2Nite.

The Smartest

I am sure you never doubted this, but I am the smartest person on the planet. Clearly, no one can be smarter than me, as I know - EVERYTHING.

How do I know this? (I mean other than because I know everything.) Because a 3-year-old said I did.

My sister called me the other day to tell me that my nephew had a question that she could not answer. He said to call me. "Mike knows everything," Nicholas said.

So wise, the children.

His question was regarding Robin of Batman fame. Nicholas wanted to know where he came from. My sister called me not so much to ask the question but, as she said, to give me a little ego boost. But I was not going to leave it as an ego boost. "He was a child acrobat," I said.

My sister laughed and said that I was just making stuff up so that I could keep my title of World's Smartest Human as Decided By Someone Who Wears Spider-Man Shoes. "No, seriously. He was an acrobat."

There was a silence on the other end of the line. My sister then commented that it appeared I did, in fact, know everything, or at least everything important to a 3-year-old.

I became the Sage One several weeks ago when Nicholas asked me this question: "Why did Darth Vader become bad?"

I looked at my sister and brother-in-law, who both shrugged. "We told him to ask you," my sister said.

At that point, I took Nicholas upon my knee and told him a story about bad influences and peer pressure and doing things that are not right but ultimately meaning you cross paths with Boba Fett. Seemed to suffice, and he anointed me as brilliant.

I guess it's just that I am full up on information that's important to kids. Among some of the amazing facts that I keep handy that thus make me an Einstein to the under 4-foot crowd:

* I know the best technique for the most effective double bounce on a trampoline.

* I can submerge something under water and manage to keep it dry using nothing but an ordinary household bucket.

* I know why Transformers are here.

* I can juggle (requires more brains than you think).

* I can spin a basketball on my finger (much like juggling, more of a thinking-man's game than you realize).

* I can quickly and correctly identify Smurfs, droids, Fraggles and most any animal.

* I rule at Wii.

Sadly, though, the ability to detect my brilliance does seem to diminish with age. For example, my daughter, who is 9, now routinely questions things that I say, which as you well know implies that somehow I might not be correct, which, as Nicholas will tell you, is not even in the realm of possibility.

One way I can certainly illustrate that for you: Onion cutting.

You see, my daughter likes to help me cook, and I certainly enjoy putting her through the rigors of the Mike Gibbons Cooking School (Motto: "Please do not cook Mike Gibbons"). One of her favorite things to do is help me chop the vegetables. Being the responsible dad I am, I plug in the electric carving knife and say, "Ten dollars says you can't cut the tomato in five seconds!!!"

Ha, I kid! Because that's what the unsettlingly brilliant do. (For what it's worth, one of the big parts of my cooking school is knife safety: How to properly slice without cutting yourself, how to make sure you hit the spinning wheel, but not the lady attached to said wheel. That kind of thing.)

So I have a very distinct way of slicing an onion. It involves removing the skin, slicing in half, turning it over, slicing into sections and then dicing it. My daughter had the audacity to slice it a different way. I told her that's not how you slice an onion. Her response, "But it ended up the way you wanted it, right?"

THAT'S NOT THE POINT!

So who knows. Maybe in a few years, Nicholas will begin to question some of my brilliance. But I'll know, deep in my heart, that I still know everything. And I can juggle.

All growing well

So once again this year, the kids told me they wanted to do a garden.

They've wanted to do gardens before, and we've had mixed results. And by mixed I mean bad. The last one was an ill-fated herb garden attempt.

The only remnants we have of that are an out-of-control rosemary bush, which is apparently just shy of kudzu in its spreading ability.

But this year I vowed it would different. First off, we were planting fruits and vegetables. We will harvest our crops and live off the land. Granted, I know that unless we harvest chicken nuggets, I will not supply the bulk of my kids' diets. But this is a start, nonetheless.

We decided to do a raised bed this time, mainly because the soil at my house is a combination of rocks, clay and titanium, I think, based on the few times I have tried to dig in it.

I bought a few garden timbers (two I had to cut in half, which means I had to use a power saw. Fingers? Still 10, baby!) and a bunch of soil. The last thing to get was the seeds for our crops.

I took the kids to the seed section and told them they could each pick out one.

Parker told me he wanted to grow cherries. I told him we'd have to get a tree. "So let's get tree seeds," he said.

I explained to him that it would take a while for a tree to grow. "OK, oranges." Back to the cherry tale. "Fine," he said. "Broccoli."

"Broccoli?" I asked. What kid asks to grow broccoli? Mine, I guess.

Next up was my daughter's turn. She thought for a moment. "Dad, what are you going to pick?"

I was pretty sure I knew where this was going. Children are pretty simple when it comes down to picking between two choices.

The main goal: Figure out how to get both. "Hmmm. Well, I guess I was going back and forth between watermelons and cucumbers," I said, making a pretty safe bet that I had her choices covered.

"Fine. You take watermelon. I'll take cucumbers. And I'm pretty sure Mom wants green beans." Triple score. Well played, Allie. Well played.

We got home and it was time to roll up our sleeves and do the hard work. Sweat equity, I told them. They stared at me.

We hauled all of the stuff to the backyard and set the lumber out. We then hauled all of the soil to the backyard. (Oh as for the hauling: little red wagon, is there anything you CAN'T do? I mean, besides be successfully or legally towed behind a car.)

At that point, I could see the kids were working up a sweat and getting into the project.

After helping with the first couple of bags of soil, they both retreated inside. Probably going for a nice tall glass of refreshing water, I thought. Probably bringing one for the foreman. Those kids...

And the next thing out of my mouth was, "Why are you wearing bathing suits?"

"Can we go swimming now?"

"I thought we were going to do the garden!?!?!?"

They stared at me. "Can we go swimming now?" Always a good ploy: Just pretend I didn't say anything and I will just assume I went into a time vortex.

I was about to put my foot down. Time to earn your keep. Get to tilling. They asked, "Can we go swimming now?"

Truth of the matter, it's an 8-foot by 4-foot garden. I think I can swing it from here. "Hop in."

When they were done swimming, they planted the four rows of produce, and we dutifully watered our new garden.

The kids have been checking most every day, and I am pleased to report that each of the rows has shown some sprouts of green.

We'll be filling our table with our own food in no time. Well, that and some chicken nuggets.

Dry, Dry, my darling

I killed my dryer.

I didn't mean to. I thought I was helping it out. I thought I was easing the burden on the old gal, who had logged nearly 15 years of service. Apparently, though, my actions drove her off the deep end.

For years, I've wanted a clothes line. Mainly, I wanted one for sheets. I love the smell of sheets fresh off a clothes line, and there is also the added chance that, as your sheets are flowing in the wind, a company shooting laundry commercials might happen by and ask to use your clothes line.

I finally got around to getting one, a retractable thingee that stretches out about 20 feet when in use, but does not serve as a hazard to oblivious sprinting children in the backyard when not in use. After I put my first set of sheets on the line, I came upstairs to where my wife and the dryer were. "I got the clothes line set up!"

"YOU WHAT?" screamed the dryer and jumped out the window. Either that or it just stopped heating the next time I fired it up. But I think we all know it felt cheated on.

I went online and starting doing some research on repairing dryers. I then said, "Oh, who am I kidding?" and told my wife we needed to go get a new dryer.

This had the potential of a conflict, as my wife and I have slightly different shopping styles. Her style involves research and price shopping and comparisons and speaking to people. Mine involves entering the store, picking out something in less time it takes to put on socks and hoping that, when they deliver it, the item (a) fits (b) works and (c) is a dryer and not, say, a table saw.

So needless to say, we did research, price shopped, talked to people. The first thing we found in the research is that you can spend a whole heaping helping of money on a dryer, and it can have some super-fancy things on it, including 56 - 56!!! - cycles, menu options in three languages and "theater lighting," whatever that is.

OK, here's my criteria for a dryer:

1. White

2. Kinda cube shaped.

3. Dries clothes

That's about as complicated as I wanted that stage of my laundry to get. I don't even need one language. I've pretty much mastered the two basic knobs that get it cranked up.

The one area we had to discuss somewhat was the size. Our old dryer was 5.8 cubic feet, which meant absolutely nothing to me until I saw a little conversion chart at the store that showed a 5.8 cubic foot dryer could dry four towels at a time, which explains why 10-12 towels often took several cycles to dry. Turns out, we needed to upgrade to the 7.0 cubic foot, which the chart said can dry 12 towels at a time, which means I can now try to dry 36 towels at once.

So we now have the new dryer installed and working like a champ. I have joined the refrain of others who have upgraded from an old dryer, having realized what an actual, effective dryer is like. One cycle? Really? That's all it takes? I had no idea how small and ineffective our old dryer was until now. The new one - so roomy. So warm. So ... effective. Hopefully, we'll get a good 15 years from this one as well. Just don't tell it I have a clothes line.

Dead bat fun

You know what summed up my Saturday? "Hey, Dad - dead bat."

Now most people would say, "Yeah, I'm gonna chalk up any day that includes the phrase 'dead bat' as a bad one." But not me. No, sir. My reaction was, "Awesome! And we almost all walked past it!"

You see, my kids and I went out with my dad to some land he has, and we put the icing on the cake with finding a dead bat at the end of the trip. Score!

I know what you're saying, "Uh, a dead bat made your day?" To which I say, "Yes, good sir, yes it did!!!"

We headed out in the woods the way most folks do - with a pink fishing rod, a magnifying glass and a machete. My daughter had the fishing rod, which we quickly realized would be rather ineffective with a broken bobber, so we stashed it. The magnifying glass was brought so that we could lose it later. The machete was on hand because, well, it's awesome to use a machete.

While most people like walking the woods on a nice, orderly path, I find that the woods are far more exciting off the path. And under a log. And occasionally ankle deep in mud.

Our first stop was up on a ridge where some beavers had been doing a little tree trimming. It was up on the ridge when my daughter made the first squeal of pain of the day. We turned around (machete ready, just in case). A branch had caught her shirt. "And how are we going to know if you are actually hurt?" my dad asked. She thought for a moment. Apparently this kind of sunk in because when she got whacked in the face with a branch a while later, she let out a tiny muffled groan but kept on trekking.

Part of our process was to find where the property line is so, as we were hiking over hill and over dale, we were constantly on the lookout for bright yellow flagging. I am sure it is how Lewis and Clark did it. The kids were troopers. And I was able to keep them motivated by my brilliant decision to wear shorts.

You see, we were tromping through plenty of briar-laden woods; a short while into it, my legs looked as though someone had taken a Weed Whacker to them. So when a little whining started up, I could simply say, "Look at my legs! Do you see me whining?" I'm sure they appreciated that.

By the time we reached the end of the property, the kids estimated that they had walked 113 miles over approximately 42 days.

As we made our way back to our starting point, my son did start to lag a little. And by "lag a little" I mean sit down and say he was going to take a nap. Or we could carry him. My dad and I had a good laugh over that one. I asked my son whether complaining was going to help him walk faster. He did not find that amusing.

We eventually got him motivated by finding a few boards to turn over, even catching a couple of salamanders under one. Before they knew it, we were back to the road where the car was, ready to make our woods exit.

We had parked right by a bridge, and as we were crossing the bridge, that's when my son saw the bat. And as good stewards of nature, we told my son he must become one with the bat and eat it.

Ha! Little rabies humor there. We used this as an opportunity to explain to the kids about rabies and tell them that, if they were good, we'd show them the heartwarming tale of "Old Yeller."

In all, it was a great woods walk, and I was impressed how the kids were gamers with only a hint of whining or complaining. I'm looking forward to the next time. When I'll be wearing jeans.

All grown up

So we were on our way to dinner when my daughter chimed in from the back seat.

"I want an adult menu," she said.

I went into my usual spiel, which was that the items on kids' menu were cheaper than those from the adults', and that she was probably going to order chicken nuggets anyway, which don't exist on most adult menus. She would have none of this. I was being patently unfair, and she was incredibly close to becoming the epicenter of schoolyard ridicule, as she is the last fourth grader on the planet to have to suffer the indignity of ordering from a kids' menu.

She made her final statement on the issue: "It's time you started treating me like an adult. I'm NINE-AND-A-HALF YEARS OLD!"

It was a good thing my wife was driving, as she has way more composure than I do. I immediately went hunched over laughing. (I was quickly informed from the back seat that this was not, in fact, funny, but very serious.)

So there we are. Nine. And a half. And an adult. I tried to offer her the full option of being an adult: A job, a mortgage, having to pretend you don't want to go down the slide at the park. (That's not just me, right?)

She told me that was not the point. I asked her what the point was. She told me the point was an adult menu. I again countered that she was going to just get chicken nuggets, which live solely on the kids' menu at the restaurant we were going to. She made this frustrated little grunt of exasperation that I am sure, to her, say, "That foolish man just did not get the perfectly sensible and logical nature of my request."

My daughter is a lot like her mother. My father-in-law has affirmed this to me. If there is a finite amount of sighs in a human body, I am guessing my father-in-law used them up between my wife's ninth and 21st birthdays. Which leads me to believe that my stubborn child will one day emerge to be ... a stubborn adult.

I understand that this is part of the process children go through. I am sure somewhere out there is the world's most compliant and reasonable child who breezes through the teen years with nothing but clear thinking and parental respect. I hope that child is in a museum some day. Let's be honest - most children that age can, within a 10-second span, go from being the most wonderful, kind, loving creatures to something quite possibly possessed by demonic spirits and/or aliens.

They also can be an All-A honor roll student one second, to the next second being asked, "Why would you put the cushions on the couch on TOP of the mail?" I actually asked that question recently, and was answered with, "Oh, I thought it was old mail." You know, like the old mail you periodically shove under the couch cushion.

Oh, and back to the kids' menu for a minute - when we got to the restaurant and she did get a kids' menu, you know what her big issue was? Parker got more Crayons with his. Because way at the top of the list of adult concerns - far higher than an IRS audit or a colonoscopy - is Crayon equity.

My wife keeps preaching patience to me. Kids being kids, she says. I tell her I want results, and I want them now. I remind her that I, too, was once a kid, and while paying attention, sitting still and not talking were not exactly my strong suits, I assure her that I was very good at one thing: I was bribeable. My Matchbox collection was built predominately on fulfillment of good behavior in church. But my daughter collects American Girl dolls, and it's too pricey to bribe her with those every day. Hmmm ...

So I guess I will have to think of another option. I know that the examples my wife and I set will go a long way to teaching them how to act as adults. And I know that there will be some times in life where we just ignore behavior that we would never find ourselves exhibiting. It's all part of the process of growing up. Granted, we could avoid some of the headache if they'd just add chicken nuggets to the adult menu.

Totally totaled

It happened in a flash. I was on my way to meet my wife for lunch. I approached an intersection, with my light green. As I entered, I saw it out of the corner of my eye. A flash of red. And it was heading my way. Fast.

"Hey," I thought, "that car sure is going fa..." BOOM!

The collision was loud. And jarring. My air bags went off, and my car was spun around 180 degrees. When it stopped, I sat there, in a haze of airbag dust, trying to figure out what happened.

I opened my car door and stepped into the middle of the road. Our news director, Tim O'Briant, was in the car behind me and saw the whole thing happen. He pulled his vehicle into the intersection to block off the traffic, which was probably a good idea since I was walking around with jelly legs, doing the requisite stagger and stare at my car, saying, "Wha---what happened?"

I went over to the sidewalk and pulled my phone from my pocket and called my wife. I then looked at my hands and saw they were shaking like I had just ingested 68 espressos. I handed the phone to Tim, and said, "Here. Tell Jenn." In retrospect, I was kinda putting him on the spot.

The paramedics came over to check me and the other driver out. Miraculously, neither of us was seriously hurt. I was wobbly and still hacking up airbag dust but actually didn't feel any extreme pain. Amazingly, I wasn't even sore. I kept anticipating the pain, which fortunately never came, leaving me no choice but to every few hours remind my wife, "You know, I was in a wreck." She said I can do that for one week.

My car was totaled. Even I could have diagnosed that. (Clue 1: When the front of the car no longer exists, and the engine no longer appears to be connected to the vehicle, you are heading toward Totaled Town.) So, now, I begin the process of looking for a new car.

I keep cars for a long time (this one we had for 10 years; my previous car I drove for 12). With my daughter being 9, I am most likely buying her first car, which is possibly the most frightening thought I have had since it occurred to me that she will, at some point, date.

As I stood in the paint and body shop, retrieving the items from my vehicle, I was kinda surprised to find myself feeling a little, well, sad. My wife and I got this car before our daughter was born. We traded in her Mustang for the family cruiser. This was our "grown-up" car. (Ironically, the car that hit me was a Mustang. I guess it has exacted its revenge at last.) This was the car that we brought both of our children home in. This is the car I learned to sing "Chick-chicka-boom-boom" in. This is the car I drove from Florida to South Carolina with a 6-month-old screaming the entire way. (Didn't even take a breath.) This is the car in which I changed a diaper in a grocery store parking lot during a thunderstorm. This is the car where I first said the words, "STOP EATING THE SEAT BELT!"

So we are beginning the quest for a replacement. Fortunately, I have the advantage of expert opinions of most everyone I come in contact with, which includes "definitely buy a new car," "definitely buy a used car," "definitely lease," "definitely don't lease," "definitely get a truck," "definitely don't get a truck," "definitely get a horse and buggy," etc.

Truthfully, I don't know what I am going to do. The settlement is for what it would take to replace my 2000 Ford Explorer that had more than 100,000 miles on it with ... a 2000 Ford Explorer with more than 100,000 miles on it. Of all of the expert opinions, the one that has not been served up is to buy a 2000 Ford Explorer with more than 100,000 miles on it.

I am trying to look on the positives of this whole thing. For example, the potential of a new car led me to clean out the other half of the garage, where I can hopefully put a car, rather than what was a collection of basketballs, bicycles, bags of clothes to be donated and, for some reason, a box of plastic cowboy hats.

So here's hoping my next car, whatever it is, will be the foundation for a new series of memories. Wow, to think this could be the car my daughter takes on her first date. I'll remember it well. Because I'll be in the car, too.

Snow yeah!

It. Will. Not. Snow.

That is what I definitively told my wife last week, as she combed through a half a dozen weather forecasts, trying to figure out which one would give us the best chance for a snowball fight.

She asked me why I would say that. After all, she pointed out, I am a big fan of winter weather. I am almost as bad as the kids when it comes to anticipating the white stuff. The answer was simple: I was sick and tired of being disappointed. For probably six years, whenever it looked as if it might snow or ice, I got on the bandwagon - stockpile the pantry, get out the winter accessories, gas up the snowmobile. OK, we don't have a snowmobile. But if we did, rest assured it would be gassed up.

And each time we awoke with blue skies and temperatures in the mid 70s. It didn't matter what the forecast the day before was. There would be no snow, no ice, no nothing, save for me disappointed and having to explain to the kids that sleeping with their pajamas inside out didn't work because, well, they didn't want it enough.

So this time, when it became painfully clear that we were going to get some snow, I took the hard line stance. (I even had the headline ready should the snow not have happened: "Oh, snow, you didn't."

And I am fairly certain my contrarian position is what made it snow. So you're welcome.

To that point, some highlights of my snow day:

* Gravity can doom a snowman. By the time I got home, the kids had begun several snowmen in the backyard. My neighbor had crafted one that eventually stood around seven feet tall. It took three of us to get the midsection up. After about an hour, another neighbor and I noticed the snowman was leaning slightly. "How long do you give it?" he asked. "Thirty minutes?" I said. "Boom," said the snowman as it fell to the ground. "Guess not," my neighbor said.

* Some kids learn quicker than others. My neighborhood was crawling with adolescents looking for new and exciting ways to annihilate others with snow. I felt it necessary to refine their trades, teaching them the art of the lob-one-pelt-a-second-snowball tactic, as well as the shake-the-snowy-tree-branch. I was pleased to see one of the young students later bait a child under a tree and then send a large snowball into the branches above, raining a mini-avalanche down on him.

* Ice is good for a surgically repaired knee. At least this is what I told the two critics who said it was a bad idea to get on my knees and put Parker on my shoulders for a chicken snow fight against his buddy Haze. The initial ruling on the field was that Parker and I lost, but that decision is being appealed to the International Snow Chicken Congress.

* Don't go take a hot bath. I did not make this mistake this time, because I still vividly remember some time around 1980 when we got snow. I played outside in it for hours, and then, in an effort to warm up, ran inside, cranked up a hot bath, and jumped in. And immediately jumped out. Screaming. "Kids," I told them, "never risk a bath." "Kids," their mother told them, "never listen to your father. Warm up. And then get a bath. You're filthy."

* My neighbor learned this lesson: If you want to be hit with a snowball, step out of your car with four 12-year-old boys standing around and say, "DO NOT HIT ME WITH SNOWBALLS!" (OK, four 12-year-old boys and a 37-year-old neighbor. As I told my wife, "What? She can't ground me.")

The kids were a little bummed that the snow was gone by Sunday, but as I told them, it's more fun to have the snow come in quickly, enjoy a day of it and then move on rather than be chocked down for weeks on end with snow. I told them that once a year was a good frequency of wintry weather. So let's look forward to next year, when I guarantee - It. Will. Not. Snow.

Label up

Labels: They’re the answer to our problems.
My wife and I have embarked on a decluttering/organization mission, and my wife has decided that labels will solve the problems. This is how the conversation went:
ME: So a lack of labels is why things get shoved in a drawer or left on the floor?
HER: Yes.
ME: Will we label the hamper “Dirty clothes” so they won’t be left on the floor?
HER: Yes.
ME: And that will work?
HER: Hey, I know what I could put on a label for you ...
ME: The children can hear you.
So we have begun pulling everything from every nook, cranny, closet, drawer and shelf. My wife is normally a very laid back, go-with-the-flow person, and a little disorder doesn’t affect her. It affects me to the point where I will walk around and make loud, rambling commentary which, based on a recent poll, is considered annoying by 75 percent of those in my household. But she decided we needed to take on the old “A place for everything and everything in its place” approach.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like we live in a house you’d see on “Hoarders.” Our house is a home. We live in it. And by “live in it” I mean there is the occasional dish on a coffee table or toy tied to the ceiling fan or shoe in a plant.
But then the label idea came around. She knew I was skeptical. But she told me to have faith. And by “have faith” I mean “zip it.”
She started in the bathroom, cleaning out a closet. This closet is home to medicine, cosmetics, towels, cleaning supplies, etc. First step? Everything came out. Everything. I did the sensible thing, which was to go to a different room. It was clear my wife was in a zone, and if I tried to help, I might find myself in the Big Black Trash Bag of Doom.
When I returned a while later (several days, I think), I was amazed at what I saw. If there was a magazine called “Insanely Organized Closets,” this could have been the cover shot. Everything was neat and orderly. And everything had a label on its shelf. Towels? Label. Cold medicine? Label and handy bin. Lotions? Labeled and arranged by height. For what it’s worth, I am amazed at how much lotion we own. If the entire populace of Toledo, Ohio, shows up with dry skin, I can help them out. (Side note: My label that read “Anal retentive closet” was rejected by the label commission.)
Next up was our bedroom. I was excited about this part because it gave me the chance to loudly proclaim, “If it is yours and in my room, get it out now, or I throw it out.” When the kids came in and saw the look on their mother’s face, Big Black Trash Bag of Doom in hand, toys got moving to their rooms. In fairness to the kids, I can’t really think of any time when they play in our room, so I am fairly certain the toys are coming in on their own.
After our room came the kids’ rooms, where we learned the valuable lesson: Don’t let the kids help. To them, nothing should be thrown out. Ever. A wheelless motorcycle? STILL PLAYING WITH THAT!!! Headless Incredibles toy from a fast-food restaurant? STILL PLAYING WITH THAT!!!! Piece of cardboard smeared with ... something? STILL PLAYING WITH THAT!!!
Oh, and the Big Black Trash Bag of Doom? “No, no, no, this is a DIFFERENT trash bag. We’re just holding things in there for the time being. That’s the Big Black Bag of Reconsideration and Toy Healing. So stop taking things out of it.”
As we continue to go through the house, I am amazed at how much stuff we have been able to get rid of and how much better the world is, in fact, with labels. A place for everything, and everything in its place. I guess she was right. Labels make the world a better place. Bring on Toledo.