Stay safe

I was forwarded an e-mail recently that talked about how, essentially, we were raising a generation of soft children who couldn’t handle growing up back in the day. It chided the use of such things as bike helmets, car seats and non-metal swingsets, and bragged about how we all grew up just fine.
Well, that’s all well and good, but not everyone got polio before the vaccine came along, but I think we can agree that we’re better off for having a vaccine.
I didn’t wear a bike helmet when I was a kid, and that was mainly because bike helmets were designed by water tower companies and rose about eight feet off your head, making you look like a giant two-wheeled mushroom.
But just because I didn’t crack my skull open isn’t a ringing endorsement for not wearing a helmet.
My kids are required to wear helmets when they ride their bikes or scooters. (They also have to wear chest armor when they joust.) My feeling is that just because I managed to survive doing some ill-advised or unprotected, there is no reason not to protect them where I can.
So basically it is a wonder that we made it through childhood, but that is hardly a reason to let my children grow up to beat the same odds, especially when safer alternatives are around.
Among the other ill-advised things from my youth:
1. The brick-and-board bike jump. Find a board, any board, and prop it up on a brick. Instant jump. This was dangerous for a couple of reasons: (1) If you got a board that was too thin, it might crack when you rode your bike over it, causing you to land well in front of your bike or (2) if you got a board that was too narrow and you still tried to jump it, your tire would slide off the board and you would end up as part of your bike in an incredibly uncomfortable union of flesh and metal.
2. Lawn darts. They are unavailable now (the Consumer Product Safety Commission banned them in 1998), and I have to say, that is a good idea. For those of you not familiar with them, they were giant darts to throw outside. They came with these plastic hoops, and you were supposed to put the hoops on the ground and see who could make the most inside the hoop. However, no one actually used the hoops, and kids opted to throw them at each other, which I think we can all agree is a bad idea.
3. Treehouses. Ten-year-olds have as much business constructing a tree house as they do constructing an actual house
4. Wiffle rocks. For the times when the crazy motion of a Wiffle ball wasn’t enough, we would put a small rock in it. The weight let it do extra crazy things when you threw it. Of course, on the off chance the batter hit it, the ball was coming zooming back at you, occasionally spitting a rock at you.
5. Crack the whip. When we would go roller skating, we would form a long line, with everyone holding hands. The first person in the line would start the crack by slinging his arm forward, sending the person next to him propelling forward, who would do the same thing with his arm. Eventually, it would get to the end, the last person would be snapped free, usually barreling into the end of the rink and doing a Pete Rose slide onto the carpet. True brainpower at work there.
6. Those fantastic metal swingsets. My kids have one of those wooden/plastic deals that you construct (in my case, over about three weeks). When I was young, we had the metal one that was rusted on the ends (the plastic caps had long since fallen off, so the sharp ends were just begging to give you tetanus). When you would start swinging, one of the legs would come off the ground, to the point where it became a game to see how high you could get the set off the ground. Topple it over? Bonus points!
So those are just a few examples of the things that, by all accounts, should have sent us to the emergency room. Just because they didn’t doesn’t mean I’m going to stand by watching my kids load up a Wiffle ball with rocks. Rather than look at this generation as weak or soft, I think I will just learn from my past and eradicate the obvious dangers where I can. I feel confident they can come up with their own hazards. Generation after generation has managed to develop new and exciting ways to endanger themselves, and I feel confident this batch of kids can continue the tradition.

Disney days

So my family has returned from our yearly Disney pilgrimage, and I feel obligated to share a few things with you that I learned during my four-day House of Mouse experience:
1. While it may not be dead, chivalry is certainly an endangered species. When we go to Disney, we stay on-site and travel everywhere by Disney bus. Coming home from the parks one night, we had two very tuckered out kids. My wife had Parker, our 4-year-old, asleep on her shoulder, while I carried Allie, our sleeping 6-year-old. We were the last group allowed on the bus and were relegated to standing-room only. There on either side of us were guys about my age, sitting with their significant others. One of them smacked his gum. And they enjoyed their seats the entire trip, never mind that a sleeping 6-year-old weighs approximately 1,100 pounds. Eventually, I simply plopped on the floor, since it was either that or get slung into one of the guys’ laps during a bus turn. I’m not sure what surprised me more: The fact that two grown men sat idly by while folks held sleeping kids, or the fact that their wives didn’t do what mine would have done in that situation, which was to dig an elbow deep in my ribs and, through gritted teeth, say, “STAND... UPPPPP.” When the bus arrived back at our hotel, I considered thanking the guys for allowing me to occupy their foot room on the floor. For some reason, I had a sense of good judgment and refrained.
2. We have a nation of children not learning properly. While standing in line for Star Tours, a Star Wars-themed simulator ride, a Stormtrooper in full uniform came strolling through the queue line, interacting with folks. Tons of folks my age were squealing to their children, “OMIGOD!!! A STORM-TROOPER!!!” Cut to everyone under the age of about 25, and there was nothing but a collection of blanks stares. Another time, we let Parker go into a store and pick out a toy. He opted for a Chewbacca action figure (“With Wookiee Fury Action!!!”). When he selected it, I made a loud (and well practiced) Wookiee call. The store got quiet and everyone stared at me. My wife was included in that group. My children will begin the Star Wars marathon viewing session soon. School will have to wait. They need to learn their Star Wars characters.
3. Lines are for suckers. We have fine tuned the art of Disney to the point where we hit all the top rides, but do so without spending half of our time in line. The longest line we ever stand in is about 15 minutes. We know the parks well enough to know when to go on which ride. Also, my wife carries a revolver.
4. My brilliant humor is unappreciated. While at Animal Kingdom, we were stopped at an exhibit looking at some animals. A duck that was sitting nearby took flight and buzzed right by my shoulder and then zoomed right by my wife’s ear. My wife did this Matrix-style avoidance dance, thinking she was under assault. She wheeled and looked at me, to which I simply said, “Hey, honey – duck.” You see, it was a duck ... and she should have ... ducked ... oh, never mind.
5. Some people have a sense of humor. Some don’t. I was parking a stroller and the kids both hopped out and started to run to their mother. As they passed me, I said loudly, “That’s right, children – run free – you are now the property of Disney!” Some people laughed. Others stared at me with a look that simply said, “Child abandonment is not funny.” Clearly, those are people without kids at Disney.
6. Princesses are magical. “That’s how they can be in two places at once, dear. Ooh, look – cotton candy!!!”
7. My children are the only ones on the planet without wheels built into their sneakers. Everywhere at Disney kids were wheeling past us with those sneaker/skates. I also find it unfair that I do not have a pair.
8. Once you get into the gates of Disney, it should be federal law that you can no longer comment on the price of anything. Most everyone is there voluntarily (Disney has a select program of forced roundups, but that’s mostly from the Midwest). You know you are going to spend 14 times what you planned. Accept it, and be happy and thankful Disney lets you leave, unlike those Midwestern “guests.”
9. “We’re all in this together.” That little reference is for those of you who, like me, have seen the Disney movie “High School Musical” 41,000 times. And, after attending a Wildcats pep rally in which my daughter got to dance with the East High crew, that song has been stuck on perma-loop in my head. I share it with you.
10. Nonsensical threats are sometimes the most effective. On our trip home, the children decided to engage in a yelling contest. Gripping the steering wheel ever tighter, I said to my wife, “Make ... them ... stop ... NOW.” My wife wheeled around, pointed to a pasture of cows we were passing and said, “Both of you be quiet now or your father might hit a cow.” They were both immediately quiet. I looked over at my wife and whispered, “That doesn’t even come close to making any sense.” “They’re quiet, aren’t they?” was her reply. Touché.
So, as usual, it was a great Disney trip, and we will most likely make our return next year. Hopefully by then, I’ll have my wheely shoes.

Heads up.

You can become very self conscious when you have, say, some sort of blemish on your face.
I certainly was the other day when I walked around with a golf ball-sized lump on my forehead that was nicely capped with a gaping wound.
At one point, standing at a business’ counter, my head pounding and blood welling from the inch-long slash over my left eye, I noticed several people staring, all a little slack-jawed.
I pointed to my forehead. “Yes, I’m aware of this. I’m going to get it taken care of now.”
Now your first question is probably why I had a big head gash. Your second is probably why I stopped to run errands before dealing with it. Let me answer the second question first: Because I had things to do, and I hate it when I don’t get my list done.
As for how it happened, I would love to give you a great story about how I fended off muggers or wrestled a puma. Alas, it was something far more dangerous: I walked into a door.
Oh, but it wasn’t any old door. It was a door from the garage to the kitchen, well documented to be one of the most ferocious doors in nature. You see, I was coming home the other morning to pack for a trip. I attempted to enter the kitchen through said door. As usual, I was in a bit of a hurry. I turned the knob and started to follow the opening door into the kitchen. About two inches after opening, my plan of entry – a fairly basic and oft-repeated plan – came off the tracks. The door stopped abruptly. I did not, and planted my face right into the door. I said a word I am not proud of because, quite frankly, it hurt and the moment needed something to capture it. I apologize to anyone who was within about seven blocks of me, as it really hurt.
I was a little stunned but gathered my bearings enough to realize that the reason for the sudden stoppage was that a floor mat had gotten wedged up by the door, I assume by a dog who refuses to use an actual dog bed but would rather fashion her bed each night out of a floor mat.
Still a little woozy, I wiggled the door enough to free the mat and then reached down and pulled the mat out of the way. I then threw the mat very hard onto the ground, partly because I was frustrated that I had just walked into a door and partly on the off-chance floor mats felt punishment.
I stepped into the bathroom and looked at a mirror. I saw the place on my forehead had already started to swell. Then I saw a little red line form. I touched my forehead, and the little red line suddenly expanded, and I realized I had a sizable cut on my forehead. And it had to get rid of A LOT of blood.
I went and got some paper towels to cram on my forehead to stop the bleeding. I then tried to pack, which perhaps shows just how hard the door hit me, because no sane person would try and pack with one hand while keeping a bloody compress applied with the other.
After a few minutes, the packing became futile, and I went downstairs to get some ice for my now throbbing headache. After a few minutes, the bleeding had mostly stopped, and I could once again see straight. I decided I would head out and take care of a few things on my to-do list, which now included “Put face back together.”
I considered getting my head stitched up, but then it occurred to me that without stitches, I could get a stylish facial scar. And just think if Harrison Ford had gotten stitches on that mega-million dollar chin of his. I can’t risk that kind of monetary gain.
Eventually, I went to a drug store to get some butterfly bandages. Standing at the counter, I asked the young clerk if she thought my forehead needed stitches. She stared at me, kinda grimaced, and said, “Uh, I don’t know.” Her facial expression, however, said, “Please go away, scary, bloody forehead man.”
After an hour or so, the pain started to subside, which was a good thing. Granted, the swelling was still pretty pronounced, and the cut was looking none too pretty. Add to that the lovely white bandage across my forehead, and I received very little eye contact. Everyone I came in contact with just stared at the head wound. Way to be sensitive, people.
By the end of the day, I had pretty much forgotten about the cut and wasn’t even thinking about it when I went into a gas station that evening. The woman behind the counter, however, clearly noticed, and said, “I see we have something in common,” as she lifted her bangs to reveal a long scar across her forehead. “Cancer,” she said, nodding in solidarity.
Shamefully, I had to respond, “No, ma’am. I walked into a door.” She looked at me as though I had somehow betrayed or tricked her. I assure you, no one holds cancer survivors in higher regard than I do, and I would be the last person to equate her battle with the fact that I can’t avoid splitting my face open with a door.
After a couple of days, the swelling had subsided. The cut is still there, and I am sure I will have a little reminder from here on out on my forehead. It’s OK, though, because it will be good one day to tell my grandkids about the cut. And how I bravely fought a puma.

Nine years of bliss

So today my wife and I celebrate our anniversary. Just the other day I turned to her and said, “Has it been nine years?”
Fortunately, she knew that this was not a rhetorical question, but rather my way of sincerely asking how long we have been married, since I can never remember. And that, my friends, is what makes my wife great.
She knows that I cannot always remember that it was 1998 when we tied the knot, despite the fact that I can remember the years Bama won national titles or the Braves won the World Series or what year players’ rookie baseball cards came out during the 1980s. (1983 – what a year!)
Another reason I have a hard time remembering what year we got married is that we dated for so long before getting married. Marriage was actually not that big of a leap for us.
We started dating in 1993, so it wasn’t like we were going to get married and then on the honeymoon my wife would suddenly learn something new about me” “Wait a minute – you’re telling me that you’d rather drink beer and watch a football game than go antiquing? Who are you? What have I done!?!?!” In fairness, she may say that last part quite a bit.
Since we started dating in college, I see our relationship as having been divided into four stages:
STAGE 1: College. This was the free-wheeling, party time where we had fun despite being completely broke. We couldn’t go anywhere or do anything, but we’d have fun regardless.
On a completely unrelated side note, it was during this time that I learned she disliked tuna fish so much, all I had to do was call her up and tell her that I was making a tuna fish sandwich. She would get so repulsed by the idea that anyone would consume it she would bring me lunch, and it was usually something like McDonald’s or Wendy’s, which is big living in college.
STAGE 2: Young professionals. Similar to college, but with a hint more responsibility. We were still dating, but it was pretty clear we were moving toward a future. It was this stage when my future wife began peppering conversations with words such as “maturity.”
STAGE 3: DINKs. For the first couple years of marriage, we had the DINK lifestyle: Double Income, No Kids. This was a time of lots of fun with friends, social hours after work, etc. We started to discuss having children. I was surprised to learn that the idea of having kids did not terrify me.
STAGE 4: Kids. So the kids start rolling in, and that’s kind of the end of what some people refer to as the “fun” part of the relationship. Of course, I find having kids to be a blast, so it was not that much of a leap to give up sitting at a bar playing trivia.
So here we are, deep in the heart of Stage 4, and I have to say, despite the fun parts of the other stages, this is by far my favorite part, especially because when that pesky ol’ “maturity” word comes up, I can dismissively tell my wife that I am merely playing with the kids and she should lighten up and live a little. She often then responds, “That’s all well and good, and your spoon-hanging-on-your-nose trick is as impressive as ever, but you can’t use the kids as an excuse since we’re out to dinner and they’re at your parents’ house.” Touché.
Stage 4 will be the longest stretch in our relationship, as it will last for at least 15 years or so. From what I hear, Stage 5, the Teen Years, is not only a different stage but possibly takes place in a different dimension. I was once a teen boy, so you would think I would remember this. Of course, at the time, I was far too busy letting everyone know how incredibly put upon I was.
We are definitely at the awesome peak of the Stage 4, with our kids at ages 6 and 4. They are both at the age where they are independent and, on occasion, fairly rational creatures. Granted, sometimes arguing with a 4-year-old is like arguing with a pair of tube socks. Of course, the same can be said for my wife. HEY-OH!!!!
I kid, I kid. And I can kid, because, as my wife will tell you, she quit listening to me years ago. While I think she is kidding, I will say that she has a good sense of humor and knows that some good natured joking is my awkward, socially inept way of showing my affection. And that, good people, is the one reason why she’s stuck with me all these years: Sympathy.
Like any couple who’s been together this long, we’ve had our share of ups and downs, highs and lows. The ups and highs have been far more commonplace, something I attribute to the fact that I am, for lack of a better word, awesome. My wife can take some credit, I suppose, but her contribution has mainly been tolerance. Ha! More kidding!
My wife and I make a great team, and each anniversary is a chance for me to remember how lucky I am.
I plan to reflect again on next year’s anniversary, whichever one that is.
Contact Michael Gibbons at mgibbons@aikenstandard.com.

Slip Slidin' away

First off, as I have said before, no, I was not babysitting. Just because my wife leaves for the weekend, it does not mean the children are devoid of a parent. True, they are devoid of a responsible parent, but that doesn’t make me a babysitter.
My wife left on Friday before school was out, which meant I would pick the kids up from school. I have picked the kids up on occasion, so it’s no great mystery to me.
What IS a great mystery to me, however, is how some people cannot immediately learn what proper car line protocol is. It is very simple, especially when you have lines approaching a single entrance from different directions: You take turns. One car from one direction enters, and then a car from the other direction enters. NEVER do two cars from the same direction enter one after the other UNLESS the driver in the other direction is clearly not paying attention because of yapping on a phone, putting on makeup, shaving, etc. Yet still, on occasion, I see someone riding the bumper of the car in front of them, making it painfully clear to all others that this is a two-car package deal, despite the fact that alternating entry is a basic default rule of life, much like the rule of calling shotgun, the rule of no line cuts without the tacit nod of approval from the person behind you, and the rule that when a second cashier opens up a business, the person who is second in line gets to go there, and the person at the back of the line does not sprint to the open register.
Sadly, this last one is only rarely adhered to. (Any business that uses a queue line to corral and move customers through? Aces in my book.)
So after rounding up the kids, I had to figure what to do with the rest of my day. I had to head back to work, so I dropped the kids off at home and went on my way. They’re 6 and 4 and would be fine.
Oh, settle down. My mother-in-law was at the house waiting for them. I assume.
When I got home that evening, I decided Parker and I would have a dude’s night. Allie went with my mother-in-law for a sleepover. I asked Parker what he wanted to do. He said, “GO WITH GRAN AND ALLIE!!!” I explained to him that they would be doing girl things. “BUT I WANNA BE A PRINCESS!!!” Sigh.
Eventually, I convinced Parker that we would have a much better time with our testosterone overflowing doing manly things. In no time, we settled into our booth at a gentleman’s club and... Ha! Little more humor for you.
I told Parker that we were going out to eat, and he could pick the restaurant AND pick something cool to go do before dinner. We could go to the park, we could go walk by the Carolina Bay, whatever he wanted. “I wanna go to The Houses,” he said, not missing a beat.
“The Houses” are favorites of Parker. “The Houses” are in fact the storage sheds in the parking lot of Home Depot. He loves going and checking them out, and telling me what we could do with each one. His favorite, of course, is the two-story one, which he has decided would be a perfect addition. His room would be upstairs, by the way.
After The Houses, I settled on a restaurant. At first I let Parker pick, but he opted for “Chick-fil-A McDonald’s Chili’s Ice Cream Gramma’s Dora the Explorer.” I am not sure where that restaurant is.
We reunited with Allie in the morning. I told the kids that if they were really good, I would have a special surprise for them. That was a mistake, because that meant from that point forward, they would be saying, “PLEEEEEASE tell us what our surprise is!!!”
They really don’t grasp the concept of surprises.
But after a few errands, I caved in and told them their surprise was a trip to the zoo, something they always enjoy.
When we reached the zoo, I saw a jam-packed parking lot the likes of which I have never seen at the zoo. I even had a momentary thought of trying to figure out how to explain to the kids that the zoo had, in fact, closed. I figured I would receive some serious negative karma points for that and opted to brave the crowds.
Once inside, it wasn’t that bad, as we are a fairly mobile and nimble trio. Oh, and for what’s it’s worth, I still find it amazing how 6-foot adults see nothing wrong with stepping in front of 4-foot children to see an animal. They are probably the same people who sprint from the back of the line to the just-opened register.
After completing the zoo, we headed home.
Parker fell asleep before we were out of the parking lot, which meant I had a large hill to climb in terms of getting him to fall asleep that evening. So I did what any forward-thinking parent would do: I stopped and bought a Slip-and-Slide. “Here kids – have fun! Run and slide until half past tired!”
Sure enough, after about an hour, they came to me, shivering and exhausted. They ate a huge dinner (always a good sign that they are ready to crash) and took their baths. In no time, I had them snuggled in their beds, worn out from a great day with dad.
As I checked on them one final time that evening, I gave myself a little pat on the back, and again said to myself that I am definitely not a babysitter. For one thing, I don’t get paid.

Daring dining

When you’re a parent, your children’s signature milestones are moments of unending pride. Take my neighbors, who were beaming with pride when they shared a huge milestone with their one-year-old: “We went out to lunch – in public!!!”
Ah, dining out. The dreaded, frightening adventure into an a mysterious world where anything can happen. Things can be thrown (forks, rolls, temper tantrums). Loud unnecessary proclamations can be made at volumes normally reserved for marching bands (“I don’t LIKE food!!!”; “I NEEEEEEED more ketchup”; and “I’m stinky.”).
When our daughter was born, we took her out a few times as a baby. That was because babies can’t get away. Not that I would suggest this, but you could just set a baby on the floor and, at the end of dinner, you can bet your baby will be there when you’re done (assuming you dine at dingo-free restaurants). Again, not suggesting you just park your child like an umbrella. Just stating a fact.
And if a baby does start crying, she’s portable enough that you pick her up and go for a little jaunt, where you do that goofy little hop/dance and try to whisper/sing a song to soothe her, but because you haven’t slept in 11 days you can’t remember the words to actual songs, so you resort to trying to sing a song you thought you knew and just end up making up the rest:
“I can’t get no ... satisfaction. I can’t put a ... dog in traction. But I try. And I try. Please don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I can’t get no ... I’ll play Uno ... No, no, no ... And hey, hey, hey. L.A. Law’s Susan Dey...” Repeat.
But as Allie got older, she became mobile, and her reach and grip improved, meaning you could go to dinner and, if you made the mistake of looking away for a moment, such as to take a bite of your food, you would turn back just in time to see a pat of butter zoom across the room.
After a while, you decide you want to brave back into the restaurant world. My wife and I always made a point of selecting a restaurant that could drown out the potential noise. Unfortunately, firing ranges and airline tarmacs rarely have restaurants, so we would opt for a “family-friendly” restaurant.
It was at these restaurants where I first noticed something about people, and that is that some people will put themselves in situations they know are going to annoy them, and then proceed to act extra outraged, as though they would never have imagined that a pizza buffet line at 5:30 would have families there. I mean, for crying out loud, they have a RIGHT to go to a restaurant that advertises in HUGE letters that kids eat free and expect a monastery-like peace and quiet.
But after a while, Allie got to where she was pretty good at restaurants. She’s six now, so going out is a big deal, and she will often go get dressed up and look like an absolute princess. (In fact, she looks so adorable when she gets dressed up that she could pretty much come downstairs and get away with anything, and I will cave. “Sure, honey. Take the car. Your dress is too pretty to say no!”)
Of course, it’s not always as easy as taking a perfect princess out, because Parker is 4, and he’s still in the learning process of proper dinner etiquette. Some things we let slide (“Fine, eat the butter. Just use a spoon.”) Other things we try to curtail. (“Parker, pants. On. Now.”)
Allie is quick to condemn this behavior. I am quick to remind her she’s only a couple of years away from the “Don’t eat that – it’s a napkin, for crying out loud” stage and not to get all high and mighty.
But for the most part, I’d say we are at the stage where we can go in public and have a relatively nice dinner. The other night, we headed out to eat, and for various reasons did not make it to the restaurant until what was normally bedtime. We figured, what the hey, we can go a little off schedule on occasion. Plus, we engaged the Out In Public Safety Plan, which is for both my wife and I to drive. That way, if/when one of your children hits meltdown, you grab the other half of your burger, tuck the kid under your arm football style and make a beeline for your car. If your kids are like mine, when they start throwing a fit in public, if you can manage to get them in the car seat and drive about eight feet, they will be asleep.
When we were seated, we were at the very back corner of the restaurant, right next to the kitchen. In fact, you could see the kitchen and all the activity going on. At one point, the waiter asked how everything was. I asked him if most of his patrons hated this table, right by the kitchen. He didn’t really know how to answer and was probably assuming I was going to be a high maintenance customer. “I’m just saying,” I said, trying to ease his concerns, “you should offer this up to folks with kids in tow. It’s loud enough that they’re not going to bother anyone and, to be honest with you, they’re having a blast watching the kitchen buzz.” He seemed relieved, and also like he thought I was maybe just a smidge off my rocker.
That dinner ended in a rather subdued way, with both kids coming around to where I was sitting on a booth seat, leaning their heads on me and trying to go to sleep.
In fact, it was a really nice dinner. So parents, worry not – it’s just a matter of time until your kids will reach that milestone, too. And if you’re not quite there, just have patience. And let them have some butter.

Pop-Tart press

Busted.
I had no excuses, no alibis. I was busted. Guilty, as charged, of illegal use of a Pop-Tart.
Up until a few weeks ago, there were very few Pop-Tart related crimes in my household. Sure, if you whipped one Frisbee-style at someone you might find yourself on the business end of a time-out, but for the most part, Pop-Tarts were a fairly law-abiding member of the Gibbons food family.
Then my wife looked down. And when she looked down, she saw our carpet. Our carpet that had been cleaned a few months back. This did not look like a carpet that had been cleaned a few months back. Rather, this looked like a carpet that chimps had used as a food fight arena.
And in a way, that is what happened, since Daddy is very bad about letting the kids bring their breakfast up to the playroom. Here’s the way the scenario usually plays out: I get up with the kids, get downstairs and realize that I am not ready for breakfast, but would spend some quiet time inside of a coffee mug reading the paper and surfing the net. So, I’ll get the kids some breakfast, usually waffles or pancakes or Pop-Tarts. Yes, I know Pop-Tarts are not the most healthy breakfast. Neither are chicken nuggets, but sometimes that’s what they get, because I haven’t the energy to argue at 7 a.m.
The kids even had their own special table that I set up for them. It was cool – Cool Daddy and the Cool Kids having a Cool Breakfast in the playroom. And then the cool stuff starting getting ground into the carpet.
So my wife decided the carpet would be cleaned, and from that point forward, there would be a few ground rules:
1. No food upstairs.
2. No shoes upstairs.
3. No dogs upstairs.
I took issue with the first two, because it was implied this included me. “Yes, you too,” she said, clearing that right up. I told her that this was not fair because (a) I am quite responsible if I, say, want to bring some cold pizza upstairs as a snack and (b) as I have written in previous columns, I have this weird thing where I hate going around without shoes on. My wife told me I could keep my slippers at the edge of the stairs, and those could be my “upstairs shoes.” I told her that I was really good about making sure my shoes were clean. She told me that I have the biggest feet in the house, and am therefore responsible for the biggest tracks. I had no argument. I sulked into my slippers and went along my pizza-less way upstairs.
So fast forward a few weeks later. I had gotten pinched a couple of times for having my shoes upstairs, which was an easy mistake to make. We would be heading out, and a light would be on upstairs, so I would run upstairs to turn it off, not even thinking. My wife realized this was an honest mistake. But we were cruising good. Until the morning I was sold out.
It started innocently enough. My wife left with Allie for school, leaving The Dudes home to get ready. I was about to hop in the shower, when Parker asked if he could have a Pop-Tart for breakfast. No problem, I thought. “Can I eat it in your room and watch Disney?” he asked. I thought about it. How much harm can one Pop-Tart cause? I mean, if I set him up on the bed, tell him has to sit on a towel, and clean up afterwards, what can go wrong?
I get Parker situated and tell him the ground rules. “And remember, Parker, this is Daddy’s special treat for you. Let’s not let Mommy know our super special Pop-Tart secret, OK?”
“DEAL!” he said, sealing it with a high five.
So I’m getting out of the shower and I see my wife’s van pulling into the driveway. Odd, I thought. She must have forgotten something. At that point, Parker sees the van too, and goes sprinting downstairs. “Mommy’s here!!!” he says. I look over at the bed and see very clear evidence of a Pop-Tart breakfast. I work quickly to dispose of the evidence.
I head downstairs only to hear my son -- the one who had just made a high-five sealed deal with me -- say, “Daddy let me have Pop-Tarts upstairs!!!”
At this point, I considered going out a window and heading on to work, just until things cooled down. It occurred to me that I was wearing a towel, and that would probably be bad form.
So I peered downstairs only to catch my wife’s eye. I noticed she glanced as my feet to make sure I was not going to be charged twice.
“Look,” I stammered, “I was getting in the shower, and I wanted to make sure I could see...”
Her look told me not to finish. I was nailed. No point in arguing it.
I told her that it would not happen again, and I will work hard not to break that promise. If there is one valuable thing you can take from this, it’s don’t make deals with four-year-olds. I wonder if I can trust Allie...

The ants go marching

“One thing is for certain: There is no stopping them; the ants will soon be here. And I, for one, welcome our new insect overlords. I’d like to remind them that as a trusted TV personality I could be helpful in rounding up others to toil in their underground sugar caves.” — Kent Brockman, The Simpsons


It was an all out ant attack.
OK, so it was not all out, or even really an attack. But it was enough to tip my wife’s happiness meter WAY to the bad side.
It started a few months back when Parker got an ant farm. It’s one of these space age farms with the blue gel, rather than boring old sand. The package advertises that NASA uses it. I really have no idea why they would be taking an ant farm into space. Perhaps they are avid hobbyists. Maybe one guy is taking his baseball cards, another is hauling up a coin collection. Who knows.
But the point is, Parker loves his ant farm save for one thing: No ants. Generally, an ant farm is not an ant farm without... well, ants.
So I finally got around to ordering the ants. I was going to go outside and just gather up some ants, but I figured I should follow the directions on the package, which essentially said, “You can buy some of our ants, or you can risk going outside and collecting your own ants, which will probably turn on you and, after just moments, eat your face.”
I went to the company’s website and placed an order for some harvester ants, which apparently are ideal for the farm. (They have experience in tractor repair, I guess.)
Each day, Parker would ask if his ants had come, which was the occasion for a valuable lesson. My wife, showing her wisdom, said, “Next time you order something for Parker, don’t tell him about it until he gets here.” Turns out, children have very little concept of time, and even less concept of priority mail. Every morning, he and I would go out to get the paper, and he would sprint to the mailbox to see if his ants had arrived. “Parker,” I would say, “the mail doesn’t come overnight.” “But they’re bringing my ants, so they might,” he would say. Sigh.
Eventually, the ants came. Fortunately, I was able to get to the mailbox before Parker knew they were there, because when I opened the package I found a lovely tube filled with very still ants. I gave them a little shake, thinking they were perhaps asleep. It then occurred to me that I don’t know whether or not ants sleep. Closer inspection revealed that these ants were way past sleeping.
So at this point I was in a pickle. Parker knew his ants were coming any day now, but I didn’t want to let him know that they arrived dead. It isn’t that he would be upset, but rather that he would opt for carrying around the dead animals. Remember, this is the kid who, for several days, toted around a dead beetle that he had named Hoo-Hoo Lava Jam Jesus.
In the package was a slip of paper that told you what to do if the ants arrived dead. I sent an e-mail, and they responded a short while later to inform me a new batch of ants was on its way.
After another week of waiting (and checking for surprise overnight postal service deliveries), the package finally arrived. Of course, the arrival also caused my wife to whip the package Frisbee-style into the neighbor’s yard. Apparently, during shipping, the tube that the ants were in got crushed, setting them free to scurry about the cardboard box. So when my wife opened the package, the ants came marching one by one, hurrah!
When my wife called me, she made it clear that she was not pleased. I told her to go get the envelope of free-range ants and place them in a container for when I got home. “No,” she said.
“Just pick up the envelope by the corner and put them in a container,” I said in my most assuring voice.
“No,” she said.
I told her there was a storage bin in the garage that was large, and she could just pitch them in their and I would deal with it when I got home. She made it clear that, should one of the ants bite her, I would receive swift and certain retribution for forcing her to pick up an envelope covered in angry ants.
When I got home, the ants were in their storage bin. Somehow, my wife had been able to conduct the whole ant recovery mission without Parker knowing what was going on, so he had yet to see his brand new ants. I opened the bin and found that a whopping six ants had survived the journey. I assume that the trip killed them again, although a 30-foot toss to the neighbor’s yard probably didn’t help.
So I carefully moved the six remaining ants to their new habitat, which Parker has found wildly entertaining. (He insists they have breakfast with him each morning.) His sister is less than excited, and woke up the first night we had the ants saying she had dreams that the ants had gotten out and were in her bed. Perhaps Daddy should not have been playing the “ants are crawling up your back” game with Allie during dinner.
So we are now waiting for yet another order of ants. Hopefully, these will arrive soon. Alive. And contained. Parker and I will continue to dutifully check the mailbox until they arrive. But they need to get here quick, because Parker is getting... wait for it... antsy.

Sleep apathy

I usually stay up late. It’s just kind of my nature. One reason for this is I tend to get a motivation groove late at night, whether doing work related stuff or things around the house.
Everyone else goes to bed, the house gets quiet, and I am suddenly in the zone, able to go until the wee hours of the morning.
It’s amazing how much work you can get done when you don’t have to stop and say, “DO NOT throw earthworms at your sister!!!”
Normally, I go to bed around 1 a.m., and I get up around 6:30 in the morning. I have an alarm set, but I generally do not need to use that, because far more effective than an alarm clock is a 4-year-old nose touching your nose saying, “Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. I’m hungry. Make some waffles. Daddy.” He occasionally pokes me just to make sure I am paying attention.
But every so often, I decide I need to catch up on my sleep. I used to do this on weekends courtesy of a nap. Years ago, naps were a daily staple. Over the years, as kids came along and my work schedule changed, naps became relegated to weekends.
Of course, my weekends now tend to get a little hectic on occasion, too, so oftentimes my naps get pushed to the side. (Apparently, it is bad form to curl up for a nap in the middle of a walk through the zoo.)
And since I usually get home during the week pretty close to the kids’ bedtime, I can’t in good conscience walk in and say, “Hey, kids, good to see you. Now, quiet time while Daddy gets a little shuteye.”
So that means that the only way I can catch up on my sleep is to do what used to be the unthinkable – go to bed early. Seems like a simple enough concept.
Every week or two, I just decide I will forego work or house projects and hop on under the covers around 9:30 or 10. Maybe watch some TV. Maybe flip through a magazine.
This would be a great plan if the cosmic forces would ever allow me to actually fall asleep and stay asleep until morning.
There are three kinds of forces that get a heckuva chuckle out of making sure that the nights I try to go sleep early are the longest nights of my life: (1) Natural forces (2) supernatural forces and (3) brutal physical forces.
The natural forces usually come in the form of dogs, although the cat on occasion mixes it up. (Dachshund vs. evil cat underneath a bed makes for good times.) Sometimes it’s as simple as a bark every 10-15 seconds.
After about a minute of this, I get up, go downstairs, and walk the dogs outside. They agree to walk outside, while I stand in my kitchen and invariably glance over at, say, a pile of papers sitting on a desk.
Hey, I suppose I could just straighten this one pile of papers up, and you know, sort out the mail, see if there is anything that can be trashed, that sort of thing.
Before I know it, it’s two hours later, the fridge is spotless, the books on the shelf are arranged by height and the kids toys are all in bags in the garage. (They are usually retrieved the next day, after my wife overrules my “They Haven’t Played With It In, Like, Hours!!!” standard.)
The supernatural forces are the most entertaining, because they usually involve waking my wife out of a dead sleep, having her sit up straight in bed in a panic and then wakes me up, using saying something in a half-delusional babble that, while it wakes me out of my early sleep, is good for a laugh.
We’ll both be sound asleep, and, say, the ice maker will cut on. My wife will hear it, sit up in bed, grab me and say, “Michael – listen. The moat’s overflowing.”
I’ll tell her we don’t have a moat.
She will start to come to and say, “I...uh...I know...But go downstairs and make sure the doors are locked.” I think the last part is just punishment.
The final force is the brutal physical force, and it occurred the other night. I was exhausted and decided I had to check out early.
I plopped down on the couch about 9:00 to watch some TV. I needed just to rest for a second, I thought.
By about 9:03, I was snoozing good.
My wife woke me up and suggested I go to sleep in an actual bad. I told her I was on my way, which was apparently not true, since at about 11, my couch nap ended and I headed upstairs.
The nap did not rest me up too much, which further told me that I really needed some sleep.
As I climbed under the covers, I only gave passing thought as to which force would wake me up.
I found out in the early morning hours, when I woke completely drenched in sweat. I mean head-to-toe. It was like I had just stepped out of the shower and into the bed. Very comfortable feeling. I was burning up, so I went and turned the ceiling fan on.
And can you guess what happened then. In about two minutes I was shivering cold.
This process went on for the better part of the night, back and forth, back and forth, each time ending with me trying to find a new section of the bed that I could occupy that was also not soaking wet.
By morning, my side of the bed was stripped off and I was huddling with a blanket that I found on the floor, and I think just may have been a dog’s blanket.
By morning, the temperature fluctuations had subsided. I have no idea what was going on, and think it must just be a cruel joke to make sure I didn’t get sleep at night.
I suppose in a few days I will try another approach at getting a little extra shut-eye catch up. Maybe I’ll go the zoo. They might have changed their rules.

Liar, liar

I’m a liar.
A filthy, no-good, low-down liar. And I don’t think it’s going to change.
I came to this realization the other night when I was having one of my wild and crazy evenings in which I make kids’ lunches for the next day while watching television. On the tube was “Everybody Loves Raymond,” and the episode dealt with Ray vowing no longer to lie to his kids. About anything. I didn’t finish watching the show, but I can only guess that his vow didn’t go far.
I started thinking, and I realized that I lie to my kids all the time. Of course, “lie” is such a harsh word. As a dad, I feel as though I have a bit of a license to, shall we say, embellish the bland reality. Some examples of some of the things my children believe:
1. I have a dragon. My son, Parker, who is four, thinks that I have a flying dragon named Dottie that I fly to work on. And why does he think that? Probably because I told him that I have a flying dragon named Dottie that I fly to work on. He was having a very tough time going to bed one night, and I told him that if he got really still I would tell him a story. A special story. It went like this:
PARKER: A story about what?
ME: Uh...a dragon.
PARKER: What’s its name?!?!?!?
ME: Uh...Dottie?
PARKER: Can you ride Dottie?
ME: Sure...why not.
PARKER: Do YOU ride Dottie?
ME: Uh...yeah...to work. And Dottie lives on the roof of work.
Unfortunately, that snowball continues to roll downhill and most every night means a story involving Dottie. (Now there is also a Black Knight and a castle. I can’t stop.)
2. Allie used to be a monkey. I am perfectly content with children knowing nothing about how children get here. Fortunately, my wife is part of the team, so she can bring some sense to that situation when the time is right. But to date, I have stuck to my guns, telling Allie, who is 6, that we got her at the zoo, shaved her and cut off her tail. (Parker? Alien drop-off.) Allie thinks I am just kidding her. I laugh and laugh and laugh when she says this. And tell her to go talk to her mother.
3. I have the true powers of magic. And they are often harnessed for such bargaining moments as negotiating bedtime. For example, the other day, a button had come off the pants I was wearing. Being the survivalist I am, I found a safety pin and went on with my day. That night, Parker was (again) not too keen on the idea of bedtime. I made him a deal: If I could make the button on my pants disappear, he would put on his PJs and go to bed. A few magic words and VOILA! I revealed that the button was gone. He was amazed. When I made it appear by his toothbrush, he was almost a little scared at my awesome powers.
4. It’ll fall off. No need to expand on that.
5. Mommy’s got a meeting. Whenever Mommy is leaving, Mommy has a meeting. She can be going shopping. She can be going out with friends. She can be doing pretty much anything on the planet, and Mommy’s got a meeting. Why? Because meetings do not sound fun, and no child wants to get dragged to a meeting.
6. There’s a shot for that. In what may shock and amaze you, my kids are not that fond of getting shots. Well guess what – there is a shot that will make you clean your room, a shot that helps you pick up dirty clothes, and a shot that cures potty mouths (even if they have only risen to the profane level of “stupidhead”). I am sure there are nurses out there who have a hard enough time getting children to sit still for shots that they don’t need us adding to the anxiety by using it as a threat, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
7. You’ll break it. That’s how you get kids to put things down. Everything is breakable. A broom. The dog. A blanket. You name it. But the trick is to make sure that you tell them it’s breakable in a very panicky tone and with your arms stretched out like you’re trying to negotiate a standoff, so they get a real sense of urgency: ‘WHOA WHOA WHOA PARKER!!! Put down the throw pillow – you’ll break it. Now hand it to me gentl....GENTLY!!!”
8. No, Allie is not watching TV. On occasion, we’ll let Allie take the TV for a spin in the evening, in particular when a special show is on (she just loves “The Sopranos”). So when it becomes Parker’s bedtime, he often gets suspicious that someone may be having fun that he is not privy to. “Is Allie watching TV?” he will ask. I tell him no, because apparently telling him “Allie moved” was not nice.
So there you have it. I’m a filthy liar simply for the conveniences of child rearing. I am sure one day they will begin to wise up to my lies, and I will have to come clean. Of course, if they start questioning too much, I will let them know that they are being a little too curious. And there’s a shot for that.

Farewell, pal

Good-bye, old friend.
After 14 long and dedicated years, Montgomery, my faithful dog and companion, has headed to the great big Frisbee-catching yard in the sky.
To say I am a little bummed would be a bit of an understatement.
I got Montgomery at a pound in Alabama when he was a puppy. My girlfriend and I had been a dating a month or so, and for some reason decided, “Hey, let’s get a dog!”
When we got him, it’s almost a wonder he hadn’t been put down. He had rickets. And worms. And someone had tried to trim his ears, leaving them scalloped and scarred. And he was only five weeks old.
When I brought him home, we took the steps necessary to patch him up. Everyone saw him as this disaster of an animal, destined for a lame life. Turns out, he just had a bumpy start.
After a few months, he was healthy as could be. Quick and spry, he always wanted to play. I lived in a fraternity house at the time, and I found that if I left him unattended in my room, he would continue playing without me, and I would come home to find my room redecorated. On one occasion, I found him sitting in the middle of the room chewing on a can of Cheese Whiz he had found, his face covered in cheese. When I walked in, he pushed the can to the side with his paw and refused to look at me. I was laughing so hard that it took me a while to figure out he had taken down a whole bookshelf to get to the cheese.
But don’t get it in your head that he was a bad dog. Quite the opposite. But he had so much energy that I quickly learned he had to run. And I mean “had to.” It was something that was required by his soul.
It also became very evident that he was a natural fetcher. I found this out by accident, when he began bringing things to me all the time. Things that I had thrown out or pitched aside in my room. In no time, a tennis ball was his best friend. Someone suggested I try a Frisbee. First try -- he snagged it.
We became regulars on The Quad at the University of Alabama, Montgomery sprinting underneath his orange Frisbee, leaping high into the air to make the catch every time. He would run to the point of exhaustion. My girlfriend and I would have to make him take a break, walking him to a nearby water spigot to hose him down. A few seconds under the water, a good shake, and time for more running. This, too, was in his soul.
One of his favorite places to go was a place called The Creek. It was some land my aunt and uncle owned outside of town, and Montgomery would spend hours swimming in the creek, chasing sticks and just floating around. He would not stop until we were ready to leave, and he would spend the car ride home exhausted, fast aleep in my girlfriend’s lap.
When I moved to Orlando, it was just Montgomery and me. And he was always there for me. We walked and played in the mornings, at lunch and at night. On weekends, we would just go for strolls, milling around, finding sticks to fetch and play with. And he was never on a leash. Sure, I kept one with me in case of emergency, but I never had to use it. Yes, I know I should have still used it. But Montgomery was different. He never would have strayed from me. Even if he had run after a stick, a whistle and a quick call and he would be right there for me.
When I left Florida, Montgomery came back with me. I was 23, trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up, moving back in with parents. Real high point in my life. And there was Montgomery. Just happy to be by my side.
A while later, I got married. Oftentimes, my wife has remarked that Montgomery is the reason we are together today. You see, she was that girlfriend years ago who helped me pick out Montgomery, and there were many of times when she realized she was dating a complete and total moron. But she couldn’t leave Montgomery. Me? An admitted dolt. Montgomery? A dog that you just couldn’t help but be attached to.
As our kids came along, Montgomery was getting up there in years. He didn’t jump quite as high or run quite as fast, but you could still see it light up in his eyes when you threw a stick or a ball. He got a little extra spring in his step when he saw it was time to just be Montgomery.
About two years ago, the vet removed some tumors in his mouth that were determined to be cancerous. Without extensive surgery, the tumors would return, most likely in a few months. But I opted not to have more surgery done, as he had been through enough. It took almost two years for the tumors to return, well beyond what anyone expected. Again, I had the tumors removed so that he could eat. They asked me if I wanted tests done. I told them no. I knew what the tests would say.
A couple of weeks later, I noticed a decline. Steep. He wouldn’t eat. He was sluggish. I went out one night and tried to get him to come inside. He stood up slowly, and slinked under the deck. He didn’t want to come with me this time.
I got up the next morning and just knew. I walked outside and found him, peaceful and looking as if he were asleep. My wife opened the upstairs window. “Is he...” She didn’t finish the question. She knew.
The phrase “just a dog” has never been in our family’s speak, and never so much was it clear that morning. My brother-in-law once said, “Montgomery just wants to be Mike’s dog.” And that he was. My dog. My good, faithful dog. He was Montgomery. Run fast and jump high, Montgomery. You’ve earned it.

Feeling squirrely

The squirrels have won this round.
OK, so the squirrels have won every round. And I don’t see that changing.
It started when I first moved into my house about six years ago. Like any home in the area, the house came with the requisite infestation of 42 billion squirrels.
Fine enough, I decided. Big fan of animals. Have several. I know lots of people don’t like squirrels. They want to shoot them, trap them, poison them — all kinds of unpleasant demises for the furry critters.
I am not one of those people. Sure, on occasion I motion to a neighbor’s tree, suggesting that it is by far the most comfortable tree in the subdivision, or even tie Payday candy bars into said tree, but for the most part, I just adopt a live-and-let-live approach.
And then they started destroying by bird feeders.
My wife got me several bird feeders recently, because I decided our backyard was not infested with enough wildlife. I already had a couple of feeders out and would also spread seed along the railing to the deck. My wife was not a big fan of this because it looked, well, like I had spread bird seed all around the railing of the deck. It was especially nice after a rain, when the seed would settle into a lovely bird seed paste.
So my wife felt that our backyard sanctuary could be a little more aesthetically pleasing. This could be accomplished, she decided, with several ornate bird feeders strategically placed around the yard. I argued to her that we already had several bird feeders. Big ones. She explained that it was her opinion that a deck should not be considered a bird feeder, and that her opinion on this issue was correct.
The bird feeders she got were very nice, indeed. One was a tall, skinny cylinder with perches all around it. Another was a short, rounded one that had a ring around the bottom for the birds to sit on. The third suctioned right up to the big kitchen window so that you could enjoy your breakfast right there with nature. You, a bird and your heaping plate of eggs. OK, perhaps that could be awkward. Here’s hoping they wouldn’t notice.
Now, before I continue, let me say that I was not trying to outsmart the squirrels. You can’t outsmart the squirrels. Squirrels are the smartest creatures ever. It is widely known that squirrels can solve complex calculus equations, can correctly identify every constellation in the sky, and can rewire your cable so that you only receive Spanish-language televisions. This was an attempt to augment an already robust backyard wildlife sanctuary, squirrels included. All of God’s creatures are welcome. Except catfish. They’re creepy looking.
After I put up the feeders, I waited in anticipation of the first bird to arrive. And waited. And waited. And finally my wife said, “It’s 11 at night, and you put them up about four minutes ago. Did you expect a flock to come swooping in?” She of little faith.
So I went to bed, pretty convinced I would miss a huge convergence upon my new feeders. The next morning I woke up and guess what I saw — you guessed it, an uninvited catfish.
Ha! Little bird feeder humor there. No, what I saw was nothing, because it apparently takes several days for word to get around the bird community that Mike’s Bird Cafe is open.
But after a few days, they began to trickle in. Robins, cardinals, blue jays, and a few others. Nothing massive. Just a bird here and there. And then the squirrels found it. It was like a horde of Vikings raided my backyard. They were swinging on the feeders, jumping from one to the other, chewing at them like crazy. My dogs very nobly tried to defend the yard by either chasing one up a nearby pine tree or barking at something in the complete opposite direction. But there were too many of them. The next day, I went outside to inspect my feeders. The cylindrical one was empty, its contents spread on the ground below. The round one was also empty, holes chewed in the plastic so that it would never function as a bird feeder again. The only one they avoided was the one on the window. I think that is because I had my guard Parker on duty, and I told him to smack his oatmeal-caked hand on the window if a squirrel approached.
So I was somewhat bummed about the way they had treated my feeders, even though I have to say I wasn’t surprised. I went ahead and refilled the cylindrical feeder and left the empty round one hanging up there for some reason that I have yet to identify.
The one upside to all of this is that a few days later, the birds discovered that the ground was covered in seeds. Squirrels are apparently too good to eat seeds off the ground. Also, my dogs seem to care very little for birds, so they let them come and go. The other morning, my kids and I counted seven species and more than 50 birds in my backyard, most of them hopping along the ground, enjoying a squirrel-delivered snack.
I guess I will accept that bird feeders are actually squirrel feeders and not try to have a serene sanctuary in my trees. I’ll continue to spread the seeds around on the deck and the ground and hope the birds continue to visit. I will enjoy the squirrels as they visit, too. Hopefully, though, they will soon catch wind of the Paydays hanging next door.

Bin there, done that

So there I was, stomping around the house doing my usual mini-tantrum that my wife has grown to love so much.
Whenever things start to bug me at the house, I do this without even realizing it. Most of the time, the things that bug me are so insignificant that I know I will not get anyone agreeing with me that it is an issue of comparable importance to curing diseases. The main example of this: shoes.
To me, shoes belong in the closet. Paired neatly together. Perhaps even on a little shoe shelf. And the laces should be removed and braided together and then twisted into a dreamcatcher that will hang in the closet. OK, maybe not that far.
But I think it is completely reasonable to suggest that the shoes go in the closet so that every morning I do not have to go on a hunt for three different pairs of shoes (mine, of course, were easy to retrieve since they were right there in the closet). And I also would not have to justify my accidentally bringing my son to school wearing two different kinds of shoes by saying, “Well, he wanted to wear a left Thomas the Tank shoe and a right Buzz Lightyear shoe. He has a matching pair at home.”
So every so often I start on my little shoe crusade. A shoesade, if you will. I usually start with Allie. “Allie, if you just put your shoes in your closet each night, you’ll know where to find them,” I explain. “But, Daddy,” she says, “you always find my shoes in the morning.”
“Yeah, but,” I explain, “I don’t WANT to find your shoes in the morning. I want to drink coffee and read the paper and watch the Today show and wonder if all those millions of dollars make Katie Couric’s career splat worth it.”
“Katie who?” she says.
It’s a lost cause.
I know my wife and I won’t sway each other’s opinions on this matter, as we are on fundamentally different ends of the shoe spectrum. I never go around barefoot. It’s not some sort of neurotic issue or anything. I just prefer keeping my shoes on. (I actually shower wearing hiking boots.) My wife, meanwhile, thinks the upstairs is no place for shoes. “I can’t STAND wearing shoes upstairs,” she tells me.
But we agreed to compromise a while back in an effort to reduce my mini-tantrums. At the door where we usually enter the house, there would be a basket. The shoe bin. That’s where the shoes would live when they entered and peeled off their shoes so they could go upstairs.
The idea sounded like it might have merit. At the very least, each morning I would not have to go sprinting from room to room. Rather, I could focus my shoe hunt in the bin o’ shoes. I am sorry to report that the shoe basket, while established with the best of intentions, now ranks right behind the stomach flu on my list of things I most enjoy. I often say awful, intentionally hurtful things to the shoe bin.
The shoe bin has turned into this shoe burial ground, where dozens of shoes — many of which I have never seen — end up in a final resting place. I have yet to retrieve a shoe from there that my kids could actually wear to school. I know you are probably asking why I don’t just throw out the shoes. The reason? Because I have an idea whose shoes they are. They could be dress-up play shoes. They could have been from a friend who left them over. They could be shoes that the kids will grow into. I simply do not know.
And where, meanwhile, are the kids’ shoes they need for school? Let’s see — under the couch, on the ceiling fan, behind the TV. Pretty much anywhere that is not a closet. My wife, meanwhile, offers such helpful suggestions as, “Did you check the shoe bin?”
So the fact is the addition of the shoe bin not only did not correct the problem but made it worse, as the original problem still existed, but now we had a clearinghouse for mystery shoes. My wife suggested we get a shoe bin for the shoe bin. I think she was just doing this to be mean.
Perhaps I simply need to come to grips with the fact that the shoe war will never be won by me. When it comes to being obsessive about putting shoes in the same place, I lose 3-1 every time. More power to them, I guess, for not stressing over something as insignificant as where your shoes sit. Perhaps I should just take a deep breath and cast aside my worries about where I put my shoes. I mean, do I REALLY have to have my shoes in the same place all the time?
Yes. Yes, I do. And don’t move my shower boots.

The plane truth

I’m sure most of you read a few weeks back about the Massachusetts couple that was kicked off of an airplane because their toddler was throwing a tantrum before takeoff, delaying the pilots from getting the plane in the air.
I wasn’t on the plane, so I couldn’t tell you a thing about the parents. But I was quite amused at some of the reactions I encountered. First, a friend of mine (whose wife is expecting their first child), offered this:
“If they had spent the prep time necessary to explain to their child what was required when they set foot on the airplane, none of this would have happened.”
I will now pause for everyone who has ever parented a toddler to let the laughter subside and then catch your breath.
Yes, you can sit down and reason with your toddler. You can explain to them what is expected of them. And they will have this moment where they look up at your, make eye contact, and stick a Cheez-It in their nose. That is how small children operate. The logic function is not fully developed, and therefore reasoning with them is akin to reasoning with your dog or your sofa. In fact, it’s a well-documented scientific fact that the reasoning part of the brain does not begin working until well into a person’s 20s.
I know what my friend is thinking, as I was guilty of it, too. Most everyone goes through this right before they become parents. You thought, “Well, my child will never...” and “I will NOT allow...” And you get a little agitated when your parent friends snicker and giggle and say, “OK, whatever... ”
And meanwhile you, not quite a parent but ready for the challenge, know that they are idiots. Bad parents. Unable to discipline. And then, a few years later, there you are, giggling away as a friend guarantees you that his baby will NEVER go around the house with nothing but a diaper. On his head.
Another comment I read was in an online sports column. The author said: “Not everyone in the restaurant thinks it’s cute when little Tommy bangs on the table because you haven’t taught him the word ‘no.’”
Clearly, this person either does not have kids or does not ever venture to a restaurant with them.
Now I know that some of you out there are tsk-tsking me, saying that kids today just don’t behave like they should, and parents let children get away with murder – sometimes ACTUAL murder, right there at the buffet line. Well, you may be right, on some occasions. Some people are about as good at being a parent as they are being a mockingbird (which, I think we can all agree, is not something many people are good at being).
But next time you are in a restaurant and said Tommy is banging away on the table, do me a favor: Take your laser beam glare off the toddler for just a second and cut the eyes over to the parents. Sure, some will be ignoring or even laughing. But more often than not, you will see a father trying desperately to distract the kid with the salsa dip puppet show, or mom shushing over and over to the point you can actually see a migraine forming in her head. Try as parents might, there is just no way to determine when the Intense Toddler Mode switch will get triggered.
Look, I know that it’s not a delight to be trapped on a plane or in a restaurant with a misbehaving kid. The one time I was on a plane with my kids, the plane was struck by lightning while still on the tarmac, and we were stranded on the plane for several hours. My son, who was two at the time, hung in there for awhile. But there was just so much he could take. I could tell by the looks I was getting that several of the people on the plane thought I had as much business parenting as I did flying the plane. What they did not know was that I would have loved nothing more than to have my son NOT be ragingly upset and simply relaxed and calm. A flight attendant came back to where we were, and I thought at first she was going to suggest Parker and I step out of the plane into the torrential thunderstorm. Instead, she told me she was checking on me and seeing if I was OK. I told her that I was fine, and very sorry about my unhappy son, as it was clearly bothering the other passengers. “Don’t worry,” she said. “They can buy headphones.” She is and will also be the world’s greatest flight attendant.
As I stated before, I was not on the plane when the couple got booted, so they may have been high-fiving, taking pictures, sharing with other passengers stories about their children’s first bathroom experience, etc. It may have been for their own safety that they were removed from the plane. But there is also a distinct possibility that the parents were doing everything within their power to make their child behave, but that it’s sometimes just out of the realm of possibility. I’m not saying you have to like it. I’m just saying sometimes, you buy a pair of headsets and drown out their horror.
Of course, if that doesn’t work, you can always sit back, relax and enjoy the salsa puppet show.

Payback time

It’s payback time.
For six years I have endured it. I have held back. I have not fought it. But I don’t have to wait any longer.
I have two brand new nephews, and you know what that means – It’s time to buy drum sets.
Yes, my three sisters have enjoyed vying for the title of “fun aunt” since my children have been born. Candy for dinner? Sure! Bounce on the couch? Why not! Impromptu dog saddle? Let’s try it!
Oh, but it is now my turn. Samuel was born Nov. 17, and Nicholas joined us on Feb. 1. I am wringing my hands over the tough decisions an uncle has – who gets the bugle and who gets the fire truck with realistic sirens that you cannot turn off?
I know what you’re thinking – you’re thinking I’m being petty and spiteful and looking to get back at my sisters for years of spoiling my kids. To that I say: You are correct.
But it’s not just the revenge factor that it is so appealing. I am excited about finally getting to be fun uncle. I have fun with my kids, sure, but at the end of the day, I still have to do the dad stuff. I have to do bath time, make lunches, ask Parker to let the dog out of the trash can, etc.
The kids are very excited as well. As a 6-year-old, Allie is very caring and nurturing. She really wants to hold the babies and help feed them and such. (She has made it plainly clear that Samuel and Nicholas’ mommies can tend to the diaper part.)
Parker also likes to hold the babies, although he gets a different look in his eye. It is the look of, “Oh, the things I will try to pin on you. And the things I will dare you to do.” In short, I think he believes we are supplying soldiers for Gen. Parker’s Army of Destruction.
But back to the ways I plan on spoiling them. I think as their uncle, it is my duty to ensure that they learn a few things. So, from this day forward, I vow to Samuel and Nicholas that I will:
1. Dig deep into my memory banks and find that one little thing I used to do most pester their mothers, so as they get older, their mother’s little brother will always be there.
2. Have a complete and separate set of standards for them versus my children. When my children complain, I will remind them that they didn’t seem to mind when their aunts were doing the same thing, and then order them back into the coal mines.
3. Stockpile awesome candy at the house. We’re not candy folks, and really don’t keep a lot of sweets around the house. Oh, that is about to change. I will find what they crave most, make sure their parents don’t keep it at home, and keep it loaded up, so every time they come over, the first thing they do is sprint to the special spot in the cabinet for the gallon-sized jar of Fun Dip.
4. Teach the art of body noises. Every uncle worth his salt teaches his nephew how to make armpit music.
5. Search the shelves for the loudest, brightest, most un-turn-offable toys around. I did not know companies made toys that you could not turn off until I had kids. And it always seems that these gifts were coming from my sisters. Don’t think I didn’t notice.
6. Encourage my children to form lasting bonds with their cousins. These bonds include the no-snitching bond, the pink-belly bond, the double-dog-dare bond, and, of course, the occasional bet-you-won’t-eat-that bond.
7. Give them tattoos. No, not real tattoos. But it seems like my children often come away from their aunts’ presence with those press-on tattoos. And while I know that my sisters would never get my 6- and 3-year-old ACTUAL tattoos, it does say something that I always drag my finger over it JUST to make sure.
8. Offer to cut their hair. This is not really related to being an uncle, but the one time I tried to cut Allie’s hair was such a disaster, I would enjoy seeing the looks on my sisters’ faces when I made the offer.
9. Demand they come spend the night on occasion. Gen. Parker insists on it. There is a good chance Allie will ask for a sleepover at Grandma’s that night.
10. Find ridiculous and unnecessary clothing accessories that their parents would never buy, but they will feel somewhat obligated to dress their kids in when I come around. Here I’m thinking things like sombreros and elf shoes. I have no idea why. It just seems like the thing to do.
Before you come down too hard on me for being an irresponsible adult around my nephews, let me remind you that I am responsible all kinds of times during the day.
Ha! I kid because I care. Truth of the matter is that I am incredibly excited about having two baby nephews. I will strive to be fun uncle and little brother at the same time, a mission that I can easily accomplish.
Now, who gets the trumpet and how gets the parrot?

Sick days

You know what’s fun? Arguing with a sick 3-year-old whether or not you have pancakes.
The other night, Parker woke up around 10 and we had this conversation:
PARKER: I want pancakes.
ME: We don’t have any more pancakes.
PARKER: YES...WE...DO!!!
ME: No, you ate the last of them this morning.
PARKER: NO...I...DIDN’T!!!
ME: Yes you did.
PARKER: I want pancakes.
Repeat 8 billion times. Guess what? We still have no pancakes.
I picked up The Dude and immediately found out why he was in such a disagreeable mood. You would be, too, if your forehead were hot enough to cook grilled cheese sandwiches on.
I always hate it when my kids get fevers, which I suppose goes without saying, lest I be labeled the cruelest dad ever. But it also really worries me because on the rare occasions when I get a fever, I do it in spectacular fashion. I don’t ever get a nice, low-grade 100ish fever that brings discomfort. I opt for the 140-degree face meltings that, at the same time, somehow convinces your body that you are immersed in a snow bank. So in addition to the searing pain in my eyes, I have shivering and teeth chattering. I highly recommend you try it, assuming you hate your life and embrace suffering.
So whenever my kids start getting that warm feeling, I am afraid their temperature is going to try and overload the thermometer. I could tell by Parker’s head he was trying to be like good ol’ dad.
When we went to take his temperature, I asked him to lift up his shirt. He told me he did not want to have his temperature taken under his arm. I told him he would not like the other option. He looked at me for a minute, perhaps had a flashback from when he was a baby, and reluctantly lifted his arm. 103.
That night was a fun night. It has been a while since our kids were babies, so we forgot the joy of sleepless nights. We gave him some medicine to help break the fever, and we apparently washed it down with Jolt cola and a couple of double shot espressos.
First, he decided he was ready to go bed, but he would do it under a table for his trains. “It will be a tent,” he said exceptionally quickly. Fine, whatever. He grabbed a pillow and a blanket and headed to his sleeping quarters. “Come with me, Daddy!!!!” he said even faster. Daddy does not fit under train tables.
Not that that mattered, since after about three minutes, he was on to his next project. At one point, I made the mistake of using the bathroom around midnight. When I returned to the hallway, I saw him standing there, pushing his half-asleep sister down the hall. She looked at me and said, “Daddy, will you please make him stop?” I distracted him (”Hey, something shiny!!”) and she slipped back to her room.
Around 1:30, I threw in the towel. Parker decided he wanted to play in the playroom (can’t remember what; he could have opted for woodworking and I would have conceded at that point). That’s when I made the command decision that was, at the same time, a colossally stupid decision.
I came into the bedroom where my wife was lying (not sleeping, since she has this crazy habit of staying awake when her children are up trying to convert tables into tents, etc.) and said, “I’m done. He’s yours. I have to work tomorrow.” I then hopped in bed and shut my eyes, ready for a deep sleep.
Truth be told, I kept my eyes shut as tightly as possible, because I did not want to see what could possibly be about to happen, such as the mattress being folded up tightly and forced out a window.
My wife decided to tend to other pressing matters, such as seeing why our son was suddenly screaming his ABCs.
So around 5:30 that morning, I was woken up, and not with the kindest of tones, I might add. “He’s asleep,” said my wife, who for SOME reason was taking a rather curt tone with me. She then told me that he had continued to be wild. “At 4 a.m., he decided to do a puppet show,” she said. A few seconds later, I learned that this was not, in fact, funny.
Although Parker had a bit of a rough day the next day, we finally got him back on a normal schedule the next night, and after a few days he was on the mend. Turns out he had the flu, which he was kind enough to share with his sister. She, on the other hand, was kind enough to respond to it by simply curling up on the couch to watch movies. There would be no puppet shows.
After a few days, when it appeared the kids were on the mend and my wife was amenable to speaking to me again, I suggested that perhaps my delivery several nights before was not the most tactful, and certainly did not accurately reflect what I was trying to say. There were far better ways to pass the sick-kid baton, and I did not opt for any of those. For that, I assured her, I was sorry. The look on her face told me she was still a wee bit angry, so I said the one thing that would make it all better: “Honey, how about a puppet show?”

Cart games

So I was leaving the grocery store the other day, pushing my cart toward my car. A large gust of wind came through, sending a rogue grocery cart out into the middle of the lot. Two guys in front of me, walking toward their car, deftly sidestepped the cart and continued to their vehicle.
Common courtesy, I decided, was dying again. While you may not think grocery carts are the great social barometer, I think they are. And if you doubt me, think of this: If it were not true, why would it be in print in a newspaper? Game, set, match, checkmate.
But allow me to explain. You see, grocery cart courtesy is one of the most basic things you can do. You get a cart, you use a cart, you return a cart. Seems simple. But when common courtesy begins to break down, the process, too, starts to crumble, mainly in the third step: the return.
And let me just spell it right out for you: If you find me a legitimate reason to voluntarily abandon your cart in the unoccupied parking place next to your car, I will give you $1 million. (Editor’s note: No, he won’t.) And the reason I am making such a bold offer is that there is NEVER a reason to voluntarily leave your cart in the parking space next to yours, only to either block someone trying to park or dare someone to try and gently nudge it out of the way with their bumper, which is a bad idea all around, but yet people still feel the need to try, never mind they have zero ability to steer and will undoubtedly send the cart crashing into the Nissan Sentra parked nearby. (I will now allow for everyone to catch their breath from that sentence.)
Some of you may think this is not that big of a deal. Guess what? You’re wrong. It’s a huge deal. Because it symbolizes something: Abandoning your cart shows that you don’t give a lick about what inconveniences other people. You don’t care about the car that may get dinged when a wind gust sends the rogue cart reeling. You don’t care about the driver who has to keep circling the lot because your abandoned cart is taking up a parking place. You don’t care about the kid out there having to go to all ends of the parking lot because you can’t wheel the cart over to the corral. In short, it’s just plain rude.
And when you see a cart go rolling to the middle of the road, blocking cars and creating a hazard, when you merely step around it, well, you’re all the things the person who abandoned it are and then a little more.
I know you probably think I am being a wee bit sensitive about this. After all, you are probably saying, aren’t there other things you could worry about? To which I say this: Won’t you think of the children? I am not sure how carts affect children, but I am sure there is a link, and I will not sit idly by while you allow a generation to disintegrate.
So anyhow, back to the parking lot the other day. Because I am not a big fan of being beaten up in a parking lot, I did not say anything to the two guys who walked around the cart. (For what it’s worth, I have never been beaten up in a parking lot, but I pretty well guess I wouldn’t like it. I’ve never been gored by a bull, but I feel confident saying I am not a fan of it.) Instead, I took the wayward cart and pushed it along with mine, forming a mini-herd. I noticed one of the guys looked over his shoulder and saw me grab the cart. While it is possible that he had a twinge of guilt over not having moved the cart, I think it is far more likely that he was thinking, “Say something, sweater-boy. We haven’t beaten someone in a parking lot in days.”
I find myself doing this on occasion. (Not the nearly getting beaten up in a parking lot part.) Whenever I am at the store, if someone has left a cart sitting in an open space, in the middle of the road, on top of another car, etc., I bring it back in. And, whenever I take a cart out to the car, I make sure it’s put in the corral. If I have the kids and a race car cart, I make a point of getting it back inside the store, lest an unexpected rain come up and some poor unsuspecting parent, thinking they had reached the home base of the race car cart, plop their kid in, only to hear a splash. Then, one of two things will happen: (1) The child will be very unhappy with your decision to place him in a puddle and loudly pronounce your unsatisfactory parenting or (2) he will be thrilled and, before you can get him out, he will have played patty-cake with the puddle, splashing everything within a 10-foot radius.
But again, I digress. Truth be told, for the most part, folks do fall on the courteous side. I guess I shouldn’t let these two guys sour my view on the world. I mean, if you think about it, there are usually way more carts in the proper place than out roaming free in the parking lot. Why focus on the few who don’t play by the rules? I should acknowledge the people who do the right thing. And I should do it for the children.

Stick it to it

Once again, we have suffered a problem with our heating unit. We often have problems with our heating/air conditioning, because the unit was manufactured in 1642, and the mules used to power it are difficult to replace.
This time, the unit had decided to form a nice bank of ice all around the bottom of it. And, when I peered down in the unit, just beneath the fan, I saw a nice thick sheet of ice. Several people told me that ice will often form on heating units during the winter. I informed them that while that may be true, rarely did entire ice ages descend on the units.
In addition to the ice, I noticed that if you stood about three feet from the unit, you could feel the ground vibrating. A lot. When I asked a neighbor to come check it out, he looked at me and said, “That’s not normal.”
Clearly, bad things were happening. My first thought was that at any moment, this thing could explode. I find it interesting how rarely things in the world explode, yet how we are always living in fear of that. Perhaps a little too much TV.
Anyhow, so I did what any sensible human would do, which was to head to the Internet. And no, I did not go to the Internet looking for home repair advice. The Internet, in all its usefulness, is also chock full of things that are designed to either terrorize or injure. If you look for medical advice, you will self-diagnose yourself with every disease known. If you use it for home repair, you will electrocute yourself. And then imagine the vicious cycle if you use the Internet to cure your electrocution.
But I digress.
I used the Internet to find the phone number of a college buddy, Lee, who works with HVAC units and can tell me quick-fix solutions (“OK, have you turned the unit ON?”)
I told him the deal, and he immediately showed why he is the ace when it comes to high-tech repairs. “See if you can turn the fan with a stick.”
Apparently, despite all of the super cool tools and gadgets they may have, the first go-to tool they employ is ... a stick.
Somewhat concerned I was being set up for some hilarious hidden camera show — “Coming up next on Fox’s ‘Wildest Limb Separations’...” I slowly moved the stick over toward the fan. I did a double take over my shoulder to see if I could catch a glimpse of the Fox camera guy. No luck.
I stuck the stick in and gave the fan a shove. Nothing.
“OK, it didn’t do anything. Including cut off my arm at the elbow.”
There was a brief, understandable pause. He then explained to me that a heating unit does in fact often freeze up, and that there was a defrosting mode that ... you know what — never mind. It was broken. Let’s just leave it at that.
I went in and told my wife what the problem was. Without hesitation, I gave her a breakdown of how a unit works, and what our problem was. She stared at me with the most precious look. It was like her little illiterate child had finally learned to read. I think a tear actually welled up in her eye. I then added, “It’s not like I figured any of this out. I called Lee. He told me what the problem was.”
So I called our home warranty folks, because if there is one thing you want on top of the headache of dealing with heating on the fritz, it’s the headache of dealing with the home warranty company. When I reached their recording, which uses voice recognition to select menu times, I used my usual three-prong approach.
1. Say “OPERATOR” at the first chance you get. If that doesn’t work...
2. Say “Transfer.” If that doesn’t work...
3. Say “Mr. Peabody.” Or “Grape Ape.” Or “Quick Draw McGraw.” Really most any cartoon character will work. The point is if “operator” or “transfer” aren’t programmed to lead you to a human (or at least the closest thing they could hire to work that shift), random words often cause the system to say, “You know what? Let the working stiff handle it. I’m going to go process some numbers or something.” (NOTE: If there is a Mr. Peabody working for the company, this could backfire, so be prepared to bail.)
With this particular company, I know to skip right to number 2. In a few seconds, I was talking to a real human. I know this because there are few cyborgs or lower primates that smack gum on the phone. Despite that, she was able to get a work order opened in the system quite quickly.
The next morning, the heating repair guy came out. He looked at the unit, knelt down beside it and immediately reached for — you guessed it — a stick. I glanced around for cameramen. Nothing. Guess it is, in fact, a legitimate HVAC repair tool.
In short order, using his magic stick, he determined that the fan motor was dead, and that was the reason for the freezing. He replaced the motor, and in no time had it purring away.
I am sure that it will just be a matter of time until our unit does something else to need repair. At least the next time something goes wrong, I’ll know exactly what to do — I’ll poke it with a stick.

Pane pain

So I was snoozing quite fine when I was awakened by a 6-year-old saying, “Daddy, come quick. It’s awful.”
Now, I did not immediately panic, because a 6-year-old’s version of “awful” can be far different than mine. “Awful” could mean that the red marker is out of ink. “How awful?” I asked, expecting her to tell me about how the Barbie’s arms had been removed.
“Parker kicked out a window and cut his foot.”
Oh, THAT awful. Gotcha. Time to get up.
Turns out, Parker had decided he was not going to sit in the back of the police car and ... oh, wait. That’s not it.
We were at my in-laws’ house in Atlanta, and for some reason I had gotten the good fortune of getting to sleep in that morning. The kids were playing on the ground, and Parker swung around, planting his bare foot squarely in the middle of a window, breaking the pane and putting a nice slice down the back of his foot.
When I came to see him, Parker came sprinting to me. “DADDY!!! LOOK!!!” Wounds are very cool to him.
My wife had already dealt with the bloody foot and cordoned off the crime scene. Fortunately, the cut was more of a scrape, which was a pretty impressive accomplishment seeing as how he had just roundhoused a pane of glass. Glass was everywhere, and I began the process of carefully removing the shards from the pane and cleaning up the glass that was all over the carpet.
After assessing the damage, my father-in-law and I decided that we could easily fix this ourselves. Actually, he decided that. I nodded and kinda laughed nervously, thinking back to the time when the two of us tried to fix a faucet at their house and managed to shut off all water to the house for about eight hours.
But I am not one to turn away a challenge, especially when the challenge is in the form of a gaping hole courtesy of my offspring. My father-in-law took us to a hardware store near his house. It was far from the mega-home improvement stores. It was a large store, but in more of the old fashioned style. My grandfather used to own a hardware store, and I loved to spend time roaming the aisles, finding different oddball items they stocked. While Lowe’s and Home Improvement may bring a sense of quick and easy order, there is something special (and nostalgic, for some of us) about roaming the aisles of a good old fashioned hardware store.
We made our way back to the cutting area, where pretty much any type of material you needed cut was for sale. We gave the guy the measurements, and I then produced a broken shard of glass. “And it’s this thick,” I said, holding up the glass like it was a prison shiv.
“Uh, it’s a window pane, right?” he asked.
“Yes...” I responded.
“Then it’s window-pane thickness. You don’t need that.”
Very good, then.
When the glass was cut, we headed back home with some window glaze and a putty knife, ready to tackle the job. The first order of business was for everyone to assume their positions. Parker – look for bugs. Father-in-law – Guard Parker. Women – head out shopping.
Now before you assume that I am being a chauvinist, let me assure that (a) they had been planning on going shopping before the window incident and (b) encouraging them to go ahead and take part in their trip was a good idea, because they would not be there to lecture me when I announced, “I broke the glass.” (I actually announced it with a few more words than that, words I’m not proud of, but I think most of you can understand.)
Turns out, we had measured just a smidge off, and the glass didn’t QUITE fit into the space allotted. Using a chisel, I tried to knock off a little of the window sill, and had gotten it almost securely in place, save for one little spot. It was at that point that my brain went out for a coffee break because, rather than chiseling away a little more, I decided I would see if glass was bendy. Guess what – it’s not.
The good news was that I was wearing gloves and the glass didn’t shatter, but was rather in two large pieces. I told my father-in-law to continue guarding Parker, while I made another run to the hardware store. When I walked in, the guy who had cut the glass the first time saw me standing there and shook his head. “I think I need about 1/16” less this time.” He asked me if he had cut it wrong. I assured him he had, in fact, cut it exactly how we had asked. A few moments later, he handed me a second pane. On it was a note that he told me to show to the cashier: “No charge.”
I looked at him and started to protest, as I had been the idiot who broke the glass. “Ah, I can get some more pieces out of the broken one. Just don’t break this one.”
Sure enough, this one fit snug as could be. I applied the glaze, and in no time, the window was secure. The whole thing was an unfortunate accident, and I am thankful that Parker was not seriously hurt. The whole thing did scare the tar out of him, which is probably a good thing. In retrospect, the whole incident serves as a valuable lesson – don’t sleep in. It will be awful.

Cell out

So I got a call yesterday from someone who was concerned about an issue that has upset people for years – people talking on cell phones.
As a business owner, she was telling me how on numerous occasions, she would think she was having a conversation with a customer, only to realize that the person was, in fact, talking on a cell phone – usually one of those cyborg-looking earpieces that blinks blue and scares children. Those conversations are never fun and usually go something like this:
HER: Hi, can I help you find anything?
CYBORG: And some spaghetti sauce.
HER: Uh, we don’t sell that here.
CYBORG: Detention? For what?
HER: Uh, I...uh...didn’t...give you detention.
CYBORG: OK, love you too.

After a while, it became clear that the issue is not cell phones. It’s people who don’t know the proper way to use cell phones. A lot of folks get upset whenever someone is using a cell phone. That’s silly. Cell phones are quite functional, and if you can adhere to a few basic issues of courtesy and behavior not reserved for feral cats, I think we can all agree that cell phones can be used in a positive manner. So let me put forth what is acceptable and unacceptable with cell phones:

ACCEPTABLE:
Using them in a grocery store to call home and clarify what to get. For some reason, this really annoys some people. You know what I find annoying? Driving BACK to the store because I got baking powder instead of baking soda.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Using them in a grocery store to have a fight with your boyfriend, set up a doctor’s appointment, yell at your housekeeper, tell your friend about your other friend’s recent diagnosis, etc.

ACCEPTABLE:
Having a conversation when you are dining alone.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Having a conversation when you are dining alone that is louder than an Aerosmith concert.

ACCEPTABLE:
Using a phone in your car, if you are using a hands-free device or are pulled off on the side of the road.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Using your phone in your car while also shaving, ironing your shirt and making waffles on your cigarette-lighter powered waffle maker (which was a bad idea to start with).

ACCEPTABLE:
Taking a call at the ballgame from a friend who just saw you on TV.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Taking a call at the ballgame from your bookie, and then explaining that you just need a few more days and that keeping your knees intact would be very helpful in collecting the needed money.

ACCEPTABLE:
Calling your wife to let her know you are on your way home from work.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Calling your wife to let her know that Happy Hour has been extended and that you hoped the twins’ viral infection was clearing up.

ACCEPTABLE:
Placing a call to emergency responders when you have had car trouble.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Placing a call to emergency responders because your phone’s address book contains a grand total of zero names, and sometimes you just need someone to talk to, and the nice bagboy at the grocery store said he really had to get back to work.

ACCEPTABLE:
Having your phone set on vibrate and excusing yourself from a movie theater to take an important call.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Confusing “important call” with “call from your friend who just HAS to tell you that the funny episode of ‘Seinfeld’ – you know the one with the rye bread – is on, and that TOTALLY is how Todd would have acted, too!”

ACCEPTABLE:
Having a distinctive ring tone.
UNACCEPTABLE:
Having a ring tone that sounds like a cat clawing glass.

I hope we can all agree that these guidelines will restore civility in our cell phone world. Cell phones are here to stay, so we might as well make their inclusion in our world as headache-free as possible. Let’s use these devices as what they are: functional, helpful units that allow us to communicate in times of need, in times of importance. But most of all, in times of grocery store crises.

Bring the pain

My sister summed it up best: “Well, he has spent the better part of his life with a black eye.”
Ah, the joy of having a son.
Parker is once again littered with the marks of being a little boy, namely cuts, scratches, bruises and bumps that make him look like he’s was on the receiving end of a Kid Battle Royal. I was standing on my mother’s porch with my sister, and we were commenting on the numerous badges of honor The Dude was sporting.
Among his current marks:
– A cut on his chin. He got this when he was pretending to be a lion and tried to get in the dog’s crate. No, it was not from the dog. For one thing, it was the crate of Murphy the Dachshund, and the most damage he could possible do to you would be if someone threw him at your very hard. Rather, Parker was pretending to be a lion, and his sister, who decided to take part in the animal games, told him that lions belonged in cages. My wife intervened before an actual crating occurred, but as Parker the Lion was being kept from captivity, he was able to scrape his chin on the open gate.
– A nasty purple bruise on his ear. This one I blame on pancakes. I decided to let my wife have some snooze time the other day and took the kids out for breakfast. Upon leaving, Parker, apparently woozy from five pancakes and about 14 gallons of syrup, tripped and fell into the van, turning his head just in time to he didn’t go face first. Since he is 3, Parker is by far the most independent creature on the planet and does not at all need assistance getting in his car seat. (Sure, I have to help him on occasion pull up Spider-Man underpants, but get in a van? WAY too grown up for that.) Anyhow, he went to climb into the car, lost his balance and went into the van door. I tried to catch him and did they big empty two-handed grab while shouting, “NOOOOO!!!!” in that slow-mo movie scream. He cried for a second, but as soon as he saw Allie was holding his stuffed dinosaur, the pain was not the issue. Dinosaur was the issue.
– A spot on his temple that looks like a little bump but has on occasion oozed out some nasty stuff. My mother has decided it was a splinter. I think that it is a distinct possibility, because Parker loves to walk through the woods. Note that I said he likes to walk “through” the woods. He will not be inconvenienced by moving branches out of his way.
- A rash that has made his fingernails pink and glittery. My wife says it is nail polish. I tell her that is absurd, and that clearly he has developed a wicked fungus that is very sparkly.
When Allie was little, she had her fair share of standard bumps and bruises. I remember when she first started walking and we took her to the doctor for a check-up. The front of her legs were all bruised up, and my wife and I were terrified that people would think we had somehow inflicted the bruises on her. The pediatrician assured us that he has, in fact, seen a child or two in his day, and that any child who walks will have bruises on their legs, because they walk with of the delicacy of a boulder rolling down a hill.
But she never got the repeated and visible injuries that Parker keeps getting. Sure, I worried at first what people would say the first couple of times he got black eyes courtesy of a coffee table or my knee. Relax, it was not intentional; I reached, he tripped, and Mr. Face met Mr. Knee. The terrified reaction I had was probably more painful than the actual shot to the noggin.
My mom says that Parker is a lot like me when I was as a child, so it stands to reason that injuries will be more commonplace. I broke a thumb playing one-on-one football. I broke an elbow when I got kicked in soccer (by my own teammate, no less). I broke three ribs playing flag football, which by all accounts is non-contact. We’re just hard-wired to be rough and tumble.
The good news is that I have not had a serious injury in some time. Sure I occasionally get a pinched nerve at this one spot in my back and I have to walk around for a couple of days with my head cocked at an awkward angle. And, if I sit at a desk for too long and stand up, my knee will sometimes buckle when I go to take a step, and I do this marionette-looking stumble until I regain my balance. But as I have gotten older, the daredevil-inspired wounds (read: stupid) have been reduced. I can only assume that in three or so decades, Parker will be doing the same thing. And hopefully by then, that rash on his fingernails will have cleared up.