Aging out

It’s official: I’m old.
Granted, I don’t FEEL old, but the folks in product marketing and advertising have decided I am no longer young, as they have kicked me out of their coveted 18-34 demographic, simply because I made the decision to turn 35.
When I was a kid, 35 was WAY old. Like as old as my parents. I now realize that my parents were actually younger than this when I was born.
Being able to wrap your arms around the fact that your parents were once – gasp – younger is a disturbing concept.
So since we are so focused on number when it comes to age, I will focus on some important numbers during my 35 years logged here on Earth:
5: Number of places I have lived. The bulk of my years are here in Aiken (including my first ones). My second longest tenure was in college at Alabama. Throw in a year in Michigan, a year in D.C. and a year in Orlando and I have just enough experience in life to know that I would rather live deep in a well than in a big city.
2: The number of children I have.
4: The number of children my parents had.
Countless: The number of times I have questioned how, as the fourth child, I made it here. Don’t get me wrong: Love my two children. I just couldn’t imagine leaving man-to-man coverage and playing a zone defense.
11: The number of ways my children think babies come to the planet.
0: Number of children that will be produced in those ways, which include shaving baby monkeys, alien landings, and finding “baby nests” in trees.
8: The number of pet dogs I have had.
3: The number of pet opossums I have had.
1: The number of pet raccoons I have had.
0: The number of pet manatees I have had, due to unfair laws and unreasonable spouses.
4: The number of cars I have owned my life.
1: The number of new cars I have owned in my life.
13: The number of years I drove that new car before selling it last year.
20: The average number of new cars most of my friends seem to have owned since college.
59: Cost, in cents, of a gallon of gas when I got my driver’s license.
11: Age I looked when I got my license.
3: Times I got pulled over because a police officer thought I was some sixth grader out on a joy ride in mom’s car.
240: Length, in feet, of my mother’s Mercury Grand Marquis, which made me look even more diminutive.
5: Years my wife and I dated before getting married.
9: Years we have been married.
52: Years my wife feels like we have been together.
11: Milliseconds it took me to accept my first job offer out of college.
3: Number of times the person offering the job told me to stop accepting the position before I knew the salary, location, etc.
15,900: My annual salary out of college.
7: An hourly wage I thought was AWESOME when in college.
10: Cents the Tooth Fairy paid out when I was a kid.
3: Dollars the Tooth Fairy now pays out, which seems to be outpacing inflation.
0: The number of times I have been called for jury duty.
1: The number of times I have been a Nielsen viewer.
2: Seconds it takes you to realize there is a flaw when people are getting asked to record their viewing habits more often than to determine their fellow citizens’ guilt or innocence.
6: Minutes that we shot for in running a mile when I played high school soccer.
6: Minutes that, I guarantee you, will not be even attempted when running a mile unless a bear is chasing me.
4: Number of football National Championships Alabama has won in football in my lifetime.
20: Number of football National Championships that Alabama fans, including myself, expect Nick Saban to win over the next 20 years (after this year, of course, which is a warm-up).
575: Number of “Mike’s Life” columns I estimate that I have written.
500ish: Number of times someone has asked, “Does your wife get mad about your columns?”
0: Number of times she has gotten mad about a column.
1: Number of times I have been called a “parasite” as a result of a column.
So there you have it. A very random sampling of key numbers OTHER than 35.
Frankly, getting older doesn’t bother me that much, even if I have been kicked out of the cool kids’ demographic.
But I am sure my new club – the 35-55 demographic – can be a happening club, too.
After all, we are the ones who can really make a difference in this world. First order – I’m getting a manatee.

Fire. Fire on the legs.

So there we were, having a delightful time by the pool. Allie was swimming and singing, Parker was splashing around and laughing, and I was sitting on the side. Probably whistling. A bluebird may have even perched on my shoulder. Suburban utopia.
Parker decided to hop out and come over to where I was. He stopped about 10 feet from me and got a curious look on his face. It was a mix between confusion and fear. And then came the dance. It was a dance I know well. It was the dance of someone being mauled by fire ants.
In a blur, I went over to grab Parker, all the while he was speeding up the dance and swatting at his legs, screaming, “ANTS! DADDY! ANTS!!!”
I grabbed Parker by the arms and dipped him in the pool. Allie did a backstroke, making sure she was as far removed from any ants as possible. I was holding Parker by the wrists and had him in the water, and he was kicking furiously in the water, screaming in pain. I am fairly certain the bluebird flew away.
My wife wrapped him in a towel and took him inside. I told Allie it was time to get out of the pool, and she looked at me as if I told her it was time to cut off her own ear. “Uh, Daddy – there are ANTS over there.”
I assured her she would be fine, and that I would lift her over the ants in question. After some minor negotiation (“Fine. A pony. And you can get your driver’s license. Yes, and a tattoo.”) I got Allie inside. Parker was sitting on the couch with my wife, and it was clear the ants had not held back. All over his legs were huge welts, and the area around each welt was turning a bright red. And they hurt. Bad. For those of you who have never been bitten by a fire ant, I offer this comparable experience: Heat up a metal shish kabob to 1,000 degrees. Now jab it into your flesh. Repeat.
We tried to put ice on the wounds, but Parker wanted none of that. As bad as the bites felt, he said the ice felt worse. He had close to 20 bites, and his little legs looked just brutal. Eventually, we got him somewhat calmed down.
We gave him some Benadryl, which makes some children sleepy. Parker is not some children. If we could figure out a way to hook Parker up to an energy grid, we could easily power a city the size of Seattle. He was in fast forward mode. He would run to the den, hop on the couch, jump to the table, sprint upstairs, say something like, DaddycanIhaveajuiceboxIlovedinosaursweneedanotherpuppy!” Eventually, we were able to settle him down (I was amazed at my wife’s accuracy with a dart gun), at which point it was time to finish the battle the ants had started.
Sure, I’ve had run-ins with fire ants. The last major one I had with was courtesy of a nest that had taken up in an extension ladder. When I raised the ladder, the ants came raining down on me, bringing about their exceptionally unnecessary viciousness. But I’m a grown-up. I can take it. We settled it like men. Or, at least, one man armed with poison.
But NOBODY bites my kids repeatedly. Except my kids. But I think we have gotten through the biting phases. This was going to be more than straight up poison. This was going to be a message to the other ants.
I went out on the pool deck and found where they were coming from. That was easy because they were coming from, well, everywhere. In between the concrete slabs of the pool deck are these little white plastic spacers. They are apparently hollow, because streaming out of both ends were ants. There are eight of the spacers around the pool, and each of them had a steady stream of ants going from the pool area to the yard. I can only assume that they have a nice little colony underneath my pool area, which I also hope does not suddenly collapse in on itself as a result of their efforts.
So I armed myself with some ant killer and a thirst for vengeance. At each opening, I put a little bit of the powder in, filling the gap.
Normally, that would be enough to take care of it. But they attacked my son. They would pay.
As the ants returned to find their pathway blocked by a deadly white powder, they would begin to cluster around in little groups, clearly not knowing what to do.
So, I took the powder and made little circles around the clusters, trapping in groups of 20 or so ants in a little poison death corral. I then would scream, “NOT SO TOUGH NOW, HUH?” or “ They may bite our children, but they’ll never take ... OUR FREEDOM!!!”
I continued to taunt and isolate the ants, all the while lecturing them on coming in to my yard and disrupting our Rockwellian pool time.
After about an hour, my wife told me to come inside, as she needed my help. And the neighbors were unsettled with my warpaint.
Parker was pretty much healed up after a couple of days, and I think I have cured the ant problem. And hopefully any other ants in the vicinity got the message, leaving me to focus on other issues. Such as how to get Allie a driver’s license.

Life's a beach

It took us a while to figure out — it had been about five years since my wife and I had taken a weekend for just the two of us.
Time flies when you’re knee-deep in diapers.
True, most years we make a pilgrimage back to Alabama for a football game sans kids, but I think most people would agree that a weekend at a fraternity house does not constitute a romantic getaway.
The maid of honor at our wedding was getting married in Hilton Head, and we saw this as a perfect time to enjoy a weekend at the beach.
The wedding was going to be a small affair, with dinner Friday night and the wedding Saturday night, so we would have much of the daytime to spend doing things that did not involve finding a restaurant with a playground.
The wedding itself was to be at a very nice resort right on the beach.
I had made reservations several months prior, at a hotel I was told was “next door.” Apparently, I should have asked for them to be more specific, because “next door” was about a mile away.
Two days before we left, this came to our attention. Actually, it came to my attention via this message from my wife: “Do you know how far away we’re staying from the wedding?”
By her tone, I was fairly certain that she was not actually looking for a measurement.
Instead, I opted for the counter argument of telling her that the rooms at the resort were way more expensive. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. After all, why splurge a little since we get to go out of town every five whole years.”
Clearly, I had some work to do.
So I called the resort and spoke to a very nice woman in Texas named Lisa.
I know she was in Texas because I asked her. I always enjoy hearing someone cheerily answer the phone, tell me her name is something like “Janeane,” and then having her confess that she, in fact, was in New Dehli. I don’t have a problem with call centers being stationed overseas. I just always find it humorous.
So Lisa asked what she could do for me. I laid it out for her in plain terms: “I’m in the doghouse. We’re going to a wedding in Hilton Head, and I tried to book a room on the cheap. My wife is not very happy with me.”
Lisa told me that they did have rooms, but the wedding rate deadline had passed. I asked how much the rate would be. Way more than twice our current reservation rate at the Walk-a-Ways Inn.
I sighed. I was ready to bite the bullet when I figured it was worth asking: “Are there any rate discounts you might be able to give me? I am both cheap and in the doghouse, which presents a rather difficult dilemma.”
I heard her pecking away on her keyboard. “Let’s see.” Peck, peck, peck. When she came back with a new rate, I asked her to repeat it. Indeed, it was only a few bucks more than our current reservation.
She asked me if we wanted a king size or two queens. I told her that I felt confident a king would suffice.
Showing she had a good sense of humor, she told me that, as a precaution, she would have extra blankets sent to the room in case I needed to use the floor.
When we got into Hilton Head, we checked into our room and found that Lisa had done us right — we had a nice big balcony, overlooking the pool area and the ocean.
The dinner that night was nice, a cookout on a deck overlooking the ocean during which my wife got to catch up with lots of friends from high school.
That night, we both went to sleep looking forward to sleeping in as late as we possibly could. No alarms, no atomic elbow drops from a flying 4-year-old.
And cue 7 a.m. Apparently, we can’t sleep in like we used to.
After a nice breakfast (again, by the beach), we headed out to go shopping in Hilton Head. We went to Harbour Town and found that the Hilton Head approach to stores is to (a) make them as small as possible (b) fill them with as much merchandise as possible and (c) encourage people who like to stand still for 10-12 minutes at a time to block the entranceways.
I’m all for quaint, but I have no desire to be blocked in a tiny, round store just so that I get my son a shirt with an alligator on it.
The wedding itself was on the beach and was a beautiful and scenic affair. Another wedding had ended a while earlier and was holding their reception at a nearby pavilion.
It was a touching scene to see the bride and groom exchange rings as “Macarena” blared from next door.
After the reception, my wife and I concluded the evening in the most perfect way possible — we sat on our balcony overlooking the ocean for a while, and then retired inside and fell asleep to the soothing sounds of South Florida beating Auburn in overtime.
It was a well deserved and relaxing vacation, although we both were ready to get back to the kids by Sunday.
I think it’s important that couples on occasion take time for themselves. I can’t wait to do it again in 2012.

A swimming success

Victory is mine. Parker can swim.
At the beginning of the summer, I told my wife that I would have him swimming by the end of the summer. And we both stuck to it and accomplished our goal, meaning he can start having dinner again.
Ha! Little parenting humor there! Moving on...
Having a pool in our backyard is a tremendous amount of fun. It is also tremendously terrifying. When we bought the house, the pool was just sitting there, a 20,000-gallon rectangular pond in my backyard. When Allie was about two, we were walking around the side of the pool, and, despite the fact that I was holding her hand, she was doing one of those staggering, leaning walks that two-year olds do, and stepped right off the edge into the pool. We were at the shallow end, and I immediately pulled her out, but the split second shot of her looking up at me from under the water terrifies me to this day. The next day, my wife and I were shopping for fences to put around the pool deck.
Despite the comfort of the fence around the pool, we still had very strict rules on pool use. They can only go out there with adults, no running, keep the jet ski under 40 mph, etc.
Allie is a very good swimmer which is a comforting fact. However, at the beginning of the summer, Parker was, well, not. He wore a little life vest when he swam, which we referred to as his “bubble” for some reason. One thing that always disturbed me about “bubbles” and the like is that it gives the kids the false confidence they can swim. The bubble is a lot of fun, though, because he can just paddle around the pool, floating here and there. However, it’s not swimming, and it was key that we get him in fish mode.
In order to wean him off the bubble, I started with a rule: He could not go in the deep end unless he had his bubble on. He could touch at the shallow end, so he would sometimes opt to go without the bubble and just hang in the shallow end. But the allure of the deep blue deep end was great, and he would yearn to travel out there where his sister was swimming around. In order to encourage him to swim, I would stand down at the deep end and say, “WHAT’S THE MATTER, LITTLE BABY – CAN’T SWIM!?!?! BOO-HOO, BABY!!!” And then Allie and I would point and laugh.
Ha! A little more parenting humor there! (I cannot vouch for whether or not Big Sister may have mocked just a smidge.)
So when Parker said he wanted to swim to the deep end, I told him he had to start swimming on his own before he could go. We started in the shallow end, where I would stand about five feet away, and he would stand on the steps. He would launch himself toward me, flailing his arms and legs, slowly sinking underwater. He would stand up, spewing water, hacking and snorting as he emerged. Not exactly a stellar beginning. We kept trying and he eventually got to where he would go for about 8-10 feet, although he always concluded with sinking to the bottom at the end. Fine at the shallow end. Not so fine for someone wanting to go to the deep end.
When Allie learned to swim, there was a point when it just sort of clicked. All at once, everything fell into place for her, and she started gliding across the water. I kept waiting for that moment with the Parker. Then, one day, he was standing on the steps and he said, “Daddy, watch this!” I was about 10 feet from him, expecting him to have that click-on moment. Instead, what he did is, well, odd. He dove underwater, belly almost touching the bottom, and swam, kicking his feet together like a dolphin all the way to me, and popped out of the water still holding his breath. Sure that it was an accident, I put him back on the steps and told him to do it again. Again, down underwater, and he just dolphined on over to me, not coming up for air until he reached me. Perhaps this is normal, but it sure seems odd to me that he could swim UNDER the water, but not ON TOP of the water.
We kept working on the above water swimming, but every time he would start to sink, he would just go into Flipper mode and go torpedoing underwater. Again, all well and good when you can stand up when you get done.
So the other day, he asked if I could carry him on my back into the deep end. We swam to the other side, and he grabbed onto the wall. Just to see what happened, I pushed back way from the wall and told Parker to swim to me. CLICK. He pushed off and starting furiously paddling toward me, his head high above water. I kept swimming backwards, and he kept swimming toward me, until before he knew it we were in the shallow end. The next step was to master jumping into the deep end and swimming. I told him to jump and swim to me, as I treaded water in the deep end. “Will I sink?” he asked me.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I told him.
He jumped and, with a few quick strokes, was on top of the water, swimming furiously toward me. He could swim.
While I will never feel comfortable letting children swim without an adult present, it’s nice to know that both of them are at the level where they can hold their own. Next summer, Parker will continue to improve, and the pool will be more and more fun. For one thing, he’ll now be able to take the jet ski to the deep end.

Swing town

Allie's eyes lit up when she opened the birthday present and saw the multi-colored wooden swing, which we told her we would hang at Grandma and Grandpa's house.

I am fortunate in that my kids love the basic toys. Fire trucks, swings, blocks, etc. I am sure they would love video games given the option, but since I told them video games do not exist and that anyone saying they had one was telling lies seems to have stemmed that tide.

When we got over to my parents' house, my dad and I pulled the swing out of the box in preparation of finding the perfect tree to hang it from. Unfortunately, the swing only came with an 8 foot rope, and anyone who knows anything about swings knows that 8 feet is nowhere near enough rope to be able to get you to a dangerous - and therefore fun - height.

So my dad went into the garage and found some more rope, and then we set off to find the perfect tree. We stood there in the backyard, and we were both thinking the same thing - man, I wish that tree was still there.

My parents' backyard has a nice, gentle slope. There are woods in the back, and when I was a kid, there was a path right thorough the middle of the woods. About halfway down the path was a great big tree that towered up into the canopy and gently arched over the pathway. I remember vividly as a kid when my dad shimmied to the part of the arching tree just over the path - easily 40 feet up - and tied a rope to the tree. At the other end we attached a tire and had the quintessential makeshift American swing.

The beauty of the swing is that you could get a nice running start and swoop down the hill, so that at the apex of the swing, you were quite high up. (I would give an estimate, but someone far better at geometry than I would probably correct me based on my guess of the tree height.) Regardless, you were quite high up, high enough to break my sister's arm when she plummeted from the tire swing as a kid. Good times.

But alas, Mother Nature had taken that tree down, and the path has grown up somewhat, so that even if you DID manage to swing through there, you would be playing a rather painful game of woodland pinball.

My dad and I agreed that we would consider clearing a new path in the near future, but for now we would find a slightly less awesome tree branch to attach the swing to. We found one close to the house, probably about 15-20 feet high. We attached the swing, and Allie was swinging away in no time, having an absolute blast. Of course, then my wife and mom had to come out and ruin the fun by asking, "Why is she jumping from a ladder onto the swing?"

Clearly, they aren't even trying to enjoy the swing experience. "To get more air," I responded casually. You see, you back the ladder up, climb up a few steps, and launch - a good enough swing and you can even come back and hit the ladder on your return flight.

I tried to calm my wife by explaining to her that our swing when we were kids was even higher and more dangerous. Apparently, she doesn't accept the argument that the one we had as children actually broke children's bones, so this was safe.

Of course, plenty of the playground stuff we had as kids was awesomely dangerous and, in fact, tire-related. I remember in elementary school when two of the most coveted playground toys were giant tractor tires. We would curl up in them and push each other around the playground. Occasionally, we would line up and roll into each other. Last tire standing won! Ah, nothing like the fun of spinning inside a tractor tire that, if it fell on you, would probably crush you.

Oh, and if memory serves, one of the first things you learn in giant tire spinning was to check for water. Most everyone at some point hopped in, tucked in their arms and legs, got a push from a friend and - SPLASH!!! - about 10 gallons of nasty, fetid mosquito-infested water dumped on your back.

My dad and I are still scouting out some new locations for the swing. We may end up leaving it where it is now, but we may try to track down an old tire and maybe have two swings. Who knows, maybe we can get a good deal on a couple of tractor tires while we're at it. The key thing is to make sure the kids get good, wholesome tire experience, just like we had as kids. Except for my sister. We'll try to avoid that.

Bring the pain

Always nice to come up with a new and exciting way to injure myself.

Anyone who has known me for a while knows that I can injure myself in the most unorthodox ways, including:

1. Shooting myself in the hand with a BB gun

2. Extending a ladder only to have a nest of fire ants fall on my head

3. Breaking my hand on my headboard in my sleep

4. Smashing my shoulder while trying to "ski" down a very wet, steep road

5. Having a pet snake escape from his cage and then bite my finger while I tried to retrieve him from under a shelf, and having to get my mother to pry his mouth open with a screwdriver while the snake did its level best to wrap itself around the shelf.

So, in short, if there is a moronic injury to have, I'll get it. I figured at 34 years old, I was finally beyond some of the dumber ways of injuring myself. Sounds like a challenge, huh?

I was in the pool with my kids, and we were having a big ol' time. My daughter, Allie, was very excited because she had finally learned how to do handstands and underwater somersaults.

I was in the pool with her, watching her do her handstands, somersaults, and occasional gulping of water when she stopped the somersault while upside down.

She asked me how many somersaults I could do underwater. "Ten," I told her confidently.

Let's just say that at about spin number eight, I (a) had roughly a third of the pool in my nose and (b) had no idea which way was up, which is always a good thing in the pool. (Just to let you know, my wife was there, so an adult was present.)

"So," you say, "that doesn't sound like a bad injury, Mike!" And I say you are right. Because that was not the injury. That just illustrates to you that my judgment had already been turned off.

The injury occurred a while later. Allie was again doing handstands, and I asked her how high she could push herself out of the water. She looked at me with a puzzled look on her face, and asked what I meant. I told her that when she was underwater on her hands, she should do what amounted to a vertical push-up and see just how far out of the water she could push herself. Still a blank stare.

It was time to show her. "Watch," I said. I went underwater and into a handstand. As I lowered myself to the bottom, I prepared to push off, springing myself out of the water, upside down. No, I wasn't expecting to spring fully out of the water, but figured with a good push I could get my legs out, and maybe a little ways past the waist.

As I prepared to push off, I felt myself drifting back a little, so I adjusted my hands underneath me to make sure I was completely vertical. I did this a few more times, just to steady myself, and I was ready.

With a mighty push, I launched myself as hard as I could. And about one second later is when I had about as close to a blackout from pain as I recall. During my shifting, I had drifted toward the side and in brilliant fashion I launched myself up over the side of the pool, and my legs came crashing down on the concrete.

I hit the concrete just above my knees. I had a feeling similar to the one when I broke my ribs playing flag football. (You know how they say some athletes "leave it all on the field"? I left it ALL on the field that day.)

My wife had a look of horror on her face, and she started immediately apologizing to me. As I hobbled around, stifling the primal vocabulary trying to erupt from me, I said through clenched teeth, "What are you sorry for?"

Apparently, my wife sorta saw the whole thing unfold, and felt as though there was something she could have done from the other side of the pool.

Perhaps she could have shot some Aquaman-style rings at me, except that rather than calling fish, these would have somehow made me not an idiot. She later told me that she should have put a stop to it when I first thought of trying it, because she should have known that it would have played out like that. I concur.

So my legs felt GREAT for the next couple of days. When I woke up the next morning, it was a real blast getting out of bed. My wife asked me how my legs felt. "They feel like someone hit me with a concrete pool deck."

Pretty much everything I did hurt. I tried to kneel down to help my son get his bike helmet. I considered just staying knelt for the rest of the day. When I was sitting on the couch later and Parker jumped in my lap, he seemed quite perplexed by the tiny little whimpers I was letting out.

By the next day, the bruises had started developing quite nicely. A true badge of dishonor. The pain has pretty much gone away at this point, and I am guessing I will not have any lasting damage, save for the damage to my pride. Hopefully, this will be the last moronic injury I sustain. Assuming my wife stops me in time.

Contact Michael Gibbons at mgibbons

Gone fishin'

A big sign out front of the building said “Live Bait,” but that was the only thing giving the slightest hint that the ramshackle building was anything more than an abandoned storage shed.
I slowed down, to the point where a motorist behind me honked his horn, probably cursing at the stinking South Carolina tourist who was always ruining his beloved Emerald Coast. “No way that’s it,” I told Parker. He didn’t care, as we had just stopped at the drugstore for a few items, and he had scored a box of Tic-Tacs. Tic-Tacs — half mint, half maracas. Double score.
I pulled into the parking lot, which was more of a carved-out corner of the lot where the building sat. The sign on the door told me they were open. Guess this was the place my mother-in-law had sent me.
Inside were three guys who looked as though they ran a bait shop. And I actually mean that in a nice way. They were somewhat rough around the edges, but in a manner of men who had spent a lot of time in the elements. They were courteous to me, but especially chatty with Parker, asking him what he planned to catch. (“Shark or gator” was his answer.)
The oldest man behind the counter approached me. It became evident quickly that I had very little idea what I was doing.
HIM: So what are you looking for?
ME: Bait.
HIM: UH, yeah, what kind?
ME: Worms.
HIM: OK, what kind?
ME: There’s more than one kind of worm?
HIM: Yeah, we’ve got wigglers, earthworms and nightcrawlers.
ME:
HIM: What are you fishing for?
ME: Look, it’s for him and his sister, and we’re looking to bait a Shrek fishing pole and a Barbie fishing pole.
HIM: Then wigglers it is.
He handed me a blue tub with some holes punched in the lid. Parker opened, grabbed a few worms out and examined them. Parker approved.
We got back to my in-laws’ house and readied for our fishing trip. My father-in-law prepared the rods for the trip, and we headed out on the dock, about a hundred yards into the bay. We baited both of the kids’ hooks, and they dropped their lines in the water. Parker, on occasion, got a little distracted at what his sister was doing and would wander over to where she was fishing, dragging the line behind him, so that the only fish he would be able to catch would be one that flopped up on the dock and got snagged by the hook.
Allie, however, was very focused. She stood, her eyes glued to the bobber. A couple of times it moved a little, a sure sign something was down below checking out he very tasty wiggler offering. Then — poof! It was gone.
There are several things someone might utter when their bobber goes under. “I got one!” Perhaps, “Caught a fish!” Maybe even, “Here we go!” Allie, opted for, “AHHHHHH!” And then she dropped the fishing pole and looked at me and her granddaddy. “Get it,” she said, to either of us in particular.
I picked up the Barbie fishing rod and went to lift the line to the dock. And what did I find at the other end? A six-hour fight that would yield a 400-pound marlin.
Oh, wait, my mistake. It was about a 4-inch fish that I will say was a bluegill. Allie showed her enthusiasm by standing behind granddaddy, clutching his legs, because if there is one thing to be scared of, it’s a 4-inch fish with a hook sticking through the top of its head.
Parker, a lover of animals, rushed over to check out Allie’s catch. I had to keep him at bay because I did not want him to get stabbed by the fish’s fin or the hook.
When I finally got the hook out of the mouth, I held it up for Allie to see. “That’s nice. Now put it in the water.” I am not sure, but she may have been bullied by a fish at some point in life.
She ended up catching a couple more fish over the next few days, and Parker found that fishing required a patience that he had not quite mastered. He found his evening hermit crab hunt was far more rewarding. Not only were the catches frequent and easy, but you could also chunk your catch back into the water in a way that was not only satisfying but, as we convinced ourselves, harmless to the crab.
So while my kids may never be the weathered old souls at the bait shop, it is good to know they have a little bit of water loving in them. Next time we head down there, we may upgrade Allie to a less Barbie-themed fishing pole. And Parker? It may be time to graduate from wigglers to something more designed to snag shark or gator.

Lucky number 7

There will only be one day in my life where I am woken up by my daughter saying this: “I’M SEVEN!!!”
Ah, the vault-you-out-of-bed power of your seventh birthday. Better than coffee.
Allie embraced her day and was quick to remind everyone that it was HER birthday:
– “Daddy, it’s my birthday, so I want cake for breakfast.”
– “Mommy, it’s my birthday, so I’ll wear what I want and you can’t say it doesn’t match.”
– “Parker, it’s my birthday, so go draw on the walls and don’t tell anyone I told you to do it. And give the dog a haircut.”
We asked Allie what she wanted, party-wise, and she said that she wanted a family picnic. Yes, yes, cue the “Awws.” But I think this was thought out. Allie knows how big her family is. Remember – this is the child who has a photograph from when she was 20 minutes old with her six – SIX – grandparents lined up behind the proud parents and new baby. A family picnic can mean a good two or three dozen people. I think this was calculated, the little weasel.
Her seventh birthday was, of course, pause for reflection for my wife and me. For one thing, it was seven years ago to this day, I said the dumbest thing I have ever said: “I have GOT to get some sleep.” You see, it was that day, Aug. 8, 2000, that we brought home Allie from the hospital. And guess what – Mommy was a little tired. And Mommy made it pretty clear that the previous couple of nights, when I was at home in my bed, NOT being woken up by nurses every few hours to be poked and prodded and have a little wiggly creature thrown in my lap, I could have banked a few hours of shuteye.
But before we knew it, we were in a routine. And the sleepless nights are distant memories at this point. Rather, I reflect on some fond memories of the past seven years:
1. Convincing my daughter that we were not going to be eaten by sharks. We were in the Florida Keys, and for some reason my wife let me take my daughter parasailing. “Are there sharks down there, Daddy?” “God I hope not,” I replied confidently.
2. Seeing my daughter enjoy the effects of anesthesia. After roughly 43,000 ear infections, Allie had her adenoids removed. After they gave her something to relax her before the surgery, she laughed at how the nurses were twins. (There was only one nurse.) And Daddy? Three hands. (I am pretty sure I have only two.)
3. Seeing her first haircut. And the look on her mother’s face when she saw her first haircut. Oh, did I mention that I gave her the haircut?
4. Having the realization that children will mimic their parents, which is very flattering, until you realize how they will mimic without discrimination, including when Daddy is working on the pipe under the sink and bumps his head.
5. Seeing her reaction to her new baby brother, which was one of extreme joy and pride, rather than what it could have been, which was to test her skills at hiding things.
6. Realizing that she thinks Daddy can fix ANYTHING, as she hands me a Barbie doll with a missing leg and no hair.
7. Realizing that I can still do a sleight of hand with a different Barbie doll and make her think I can fix ANYTHING.
8. Having to relinquish any responsibilities I have for picking out my daughter’s clothes because, as she put it, “Daddy, I want to wear something pretty.” Well excuse me if a pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt isn’t pretty. It’s all I know.
9. Realizing that, even though they may scrap on occasions, she loves her brother. I base this on the fact that whenever he hurts himself (which is far more often than Allie does), she tries to drown out his crying by singing at the top of her lungs, often making up such song lyrics as:
Parker, please stop crying
I wish he would stop
I don’t like it when cries
Mommy, Daddy do something
Stop crying. Stop crying.
If you don’t make him stop you have to get me a pony.
10. Knowing that, even though she – as she is quick to remind us – is already 7 years old, there is still a lot of little girl in her. Take, for example, the look on her face when she saw her new bike. That will forever be etched in my memory – the eyes wide open, the mouth agape, the sheer and utter shock at what she saw. Come to think of it, it’s the same look her mother gave when she saw Allie’s first haircut.

Hannah vs. Elvis

Children are always going to say embarrassing things in public. It’s what they do. Among some of my children’s finest moments:
At the grocery store: “DADDY!!! Let’s get beer!!!”
At Lowe’s: “Why can’t we go to Home Depot?”
At a department store: “Daddy, I forgot underwear.”
But the one that truly had me anticipating odd looks of other patrons was in the grocery store when my daughter, without prompt, announced, “Dad, Hannah Montana is WAY cooler than Elvis.”
I looked around and saw several people staring at me, probably wondering what in the world led to this conversation. What led to the conversation was a mistake I frequently make: I tried to teach my kids something.
Earlier in the day, we were cleaning the house. I had some music playing a random disc of songs. My music choices are rather wide-ranging, so the songs may go from Marshall Tucker Band to Pearl Jam to George Strait to Metallica. When Allie came into the room, the Elvis Presley song “In the Ghetto” was playing. As you know, “In the Ghetto” is an uplifting song about a young man getting shot and killed after stealing a car, so what better song to sing to your 6-year-old.
She asked me who was singing, and I told her Elvis. I told her that Elvis was one of the most popular singers ever. I showed her some pictures of him online, and told her how Grandma had seen him in concert years ago. Kinda fun to show your kid concert clips of Elvis and the crowd going nuts, and watching her try to picture Grandma in the mix.
She didn’t seem to grasp just how big Elvis was (insert your own later-years Elvis joke here). I tried to relate, so I went the Hannah Montana rout. For those of you not familiar, Hannah Montana is a show on the Disney Channel about a ninth-grade girl who has a secret life as a pop singer. It’s actually a well-done show, and I have probably watched more episodes of Hannah Montana in the last year than anything I would opt for on my own. The show stars Miley Cyrus, the daughter of Billy Ray Cyrus, who plays her dad on the show as well. The show writers obviously keep in mind parents are watching, because they throw in a mullet haircut joke just for us once in a while.
Anyhow, Hannah Montana is the hot thing right now, at least as far as 6-year-old girls go. She is SOOOO cool, probably the coolest thing EVER. So we had this conversation:
ME: Allie, do you think Hannah Montana is cool?
HER: She is the coolest!
ME: No, I am, but let’s stay on track here. Elvis is about a thousand times cooler than Hannah Montana. THAT’S how cool he was.
HER:
ME: Understand?
HER:
ME: Look, Elvis is the coolest. Or one of the coolest. Along with Frank Sinatra, Han Solo, Rick Blaine, Chili Palmer, John Wayne and George Clooney’s character in “Out of Sight.”
HER: Uh, can I go play now?
So I figured we were done with our pop culture lesson until the grocery store. I tried to remain calm, understanding that she is a child, and she cannot expect to grasp such things. I tried to explain again. I held my hand about waist level. “Allie, if this is Hannah Montana’s level of cool, Elvis’ level would be somewhere up in the sky. It’s not a knock on Hannah. But you’ve got to understand how cool Elvis was.”
“I think Hannah’s cooler.”
“Allie, he wore jumpsuits — and made it work.”
(For what’s it’s worth, Parker’s on my side. Granted, he’s 4, so if you just present it in an excited manner, you can get him on board: “Parker, you know what’s cool — OATMEAL!!!! YEAH!!!!!”)
Perhaps I should just let her have her icon of Hannah Montana. Hannah Montana could, I suppose, grow to super celebrity status one day. (Please, please, please, in the name of Disney teen stars, take the Hillary Duff route, rather than the Lindsay Lohan one.) Who knows, one day she may be explaining to her kids about the iconic status of Hannah Montana. All the while explaining to other shoppers that she does not, in fact, plan to get her kids beer.

Circus tume

At some point in the near future, I will find my son in a contorted position, his leg stuck behind his head. And I will find my daughter dangling from a chandelier, trying to figure out how to get down.
And I will blame Ringling.
I took my kids to the circus twice this weekend, which is two times more than I normally go to the circus in a weekend.
Parker’s favorite was the contortionists, a father-son team who made me very uncomfortable. I don’t know much about the human body, but I know how it is NOT supposed to bend. During the act, my wife nudged me. I looked over and saw my son trying to pull his foot up over his head, a la the plastic men on the arena floor. He got his foot up to his forehead, and then became a little frustrated when he couldn’t get it all the way over his head. For those of you familiar with 4-year-olds, think about how they channel frustration. Take, for example, when two puzzle pieces will not fit together. Rather than consider the possibility that they were not the right pieces, kids will opt for brute force. Parker will often offer a growl for maximum effect. He took the same approach here, pushing harder and growling loudly, the only result being a sandal imprint on his forehead.
Allie, meanwhile, was fascinated by the woman who grabbed hold of a big silver circle and was pulled up high above the floor where she spun, twisted, flipped and flopped. It was quite graceful and even more unsettling. The most disturbing part for me was when she hung by her heels. You know what the heel’s purpose is? I can assure that its purpose is NOT to dangle upside down from. As she sat there and spun in the air, I looked over at Allie, saw the big grin on her face and thought, “Uh-oh.”
A few other random thoughts from our double circus duty:
1. I heard several complaints about traffic going into the Convocation Center. I had the same reaction as when I hear complaints about traffic around town, and that is to shudder about Atlanta. Every time I go there, I long for the traffic of Aiken. And a few-minute wait into the Convocation Center? When I go to Falcons games with my father-in-law, the wait is brutal, and the folks who constructed the Georgia Dome not only opted for one of the more frightening areas of Atlanta, but you also have to traverse several mountains and valleys to get into the stadium. Basically, the wait into the circus was not that bad, and you didn’t need a Sherpa to get you in.
2. Be careful what you use as a reasoning chip. As everyone now knows, the elephant did not fit in the Convocation Center. They opted to set the elephant outside for folks to see after the circus. After the first night, we started to head out, and my wife opened the can of worms by saying, “Who wants to see the elephant?” Apparently, my vote of “Not me” did not matter. As we were moving with the masses to the elephant, I had this conversation with the kids:
ME: Let’s not battle the crowds to see the elephant.
KIDS: BUT WE WAAAAAAANT TO!!!!
ME: Kids, we have a season pass to the zoo. We can see elephants — and a whole lot more — whenever we want.
KIDS: WE’RE GOING TO THE ZOO!!!!
3. Be careful what you agree to without all of the details. The kids wanted a snow cone. Sure, I said. Everyone should have a snow cone! Let’s just put it this way: The cups the snow cones come in better be in use WELL into their college years. And the clown hat Parker got? Don’t even think of taking it off, bub.
4. Cut clowns some slack. It has become too easy to offer up the “creepy” clown aspect. Truth of the matter is, a serial killer and a crazed Stephen King psycho have given the hardworking lovable clowns a bad rap.
5. Trapeze should be an Olympic sport. Or even remove the net and put it in the X-Games. But either way, the stuff they do is way more entertaining than most Olympic offerings, in particular USA basketball.
All in all, I consider the circus a big success. It passed the one and only test I require for family events — did the kids have a good time? The answer was a resounding yes. We will certainly be back the next time the circus is in town. Assuming we get Parker unstuck and Allie off the ceiling.

Face off

Here’s a great phone call to receive at work: I answer the phone, and it’s my wife. “Come home now. Or meet me at the doctor. Just start driving this way.” Click.
My first reaction was to say, “HELLO? HELLO? HELLO?” even though I heard her hang up. It’s as though people think saying “HELLO?” louder and louder will somehow reconnect the call.
I headed out of the office and called my wife with my cell phone. We had this exchange:
HER: Are you on your way?
ME: Yes, what happened?
HER: Parker cut his head.
ME: How?
HER: Just get here. Or meet me at the doctor.
Click.
ME: HELLO? HELLO?
A few moments later my phone rang. It was my wife, calling to provide a few more details. Turns out she needed to get me in motion but didn’t have a lot of time to talk because she was working to stop the geyser of blood coming out of The Dude’s forehead. He apparently opted for a head butting contest with the corner of a couch. The couch, it appears, won.
She had put in a call to the doctor’s office, who said to bring him in. I was near the house, so I went there to help with loading the kids up.
When I came in the door, my wife was on the phone again with the doctor, and a neighbor was sitting with Parker. Parker looked like he had just finished a bar-room tough man competition. He was wearing a pair of blue jean shorts and about four pints of blood. I walked in and saw him, and he looked up at me. Did he cry? Did he whimper? No way. The Dude lifted the cold compress off his head and said, “Daddy -- look.” This is the kid who, when he was two, got a shot from a nurse. She put the Band-Aid on his leg, and he responded my peeling it off and handing it back to her, along with an icy stare.
Underneath the compress was a big nasty gash, even bigger than the one I gave myself a few months ago when I went a round with a door (the door won). Naturally, my caring and compassionate nature led me to respond with, “Cool! We’re gonna have matching scars!” Parker thought that was cool, too. Based on the stares from my wife and my neighbor, we were alone in that feeling.
When we got to the doctor’s office, I went to unload the kids. In putting Parker in the car, I guess I kinda focused a little too much on the whole not bleeding over everything component. My wife asked where his shirt was. Uh... Shoes? Hmmm.
So there we were, blue jeans shorts and a head wound. As I was carrying him in, I am sure it looked far worse, as though I were just carrying him from a disaster scene. “Forgot the shoes!” I said to several people I walked past, as if this would somehow explain to people why my four-year-old son was covered in blood.
Parker was very calm, and seemed to almost wonder what all the fuss was about. When the doctor started looking at his head, he looked over at me and said, “Daddy, should I close my eyes or not?”
The doctor said we would probably be able to fix the wound with glue, rather than stitches. Allie, who is almost seven, has never been a fan of doctor’s office, and she was even less of a fan of watching her brother get super glued back together. “Uh, I’ll just go sit in the waiting room,” she told us as she tried to bolt the room. I told her that everything was OK, and that the super glue could also be used to keep little girls in their seats. She was not entirely certain I was kidding.
We were told that he had to keep his head dry for five days, which is not a very fair sentence for a kid in the summer who lives at a house with a pool. My wife and I weren’t trying to punish Allie, but it would be pretty unfair to let her go swimming while Parker sat at the window watching. We sat both kids down and explained to them that the pool, unfortunately, had sharks in it for a few days.
One nice thing about head wounds on children is that people immediately assume you took a hatchet to your child. I for one make a point of NOT justifying the wound to anyone. When they stare at me with that look, I just stare back and say, “You want some?” And then my wife jabs her elbow in my ribs.
During the healing process, my wife and I did distinguish ourselves as either very creative or very bad parents (the jury is split on it). Any time Parker would fuss, fidget, sass or otherwise be a four-year-old, I would say, “CAREFUL PARKER! Your cut will open up!” And he would freeze. It’s amazing what the fear of your brain oozing out of your head will do for behavior.
The wound is slowly healing up, although it is still rather nasty. He’s definitely going to have a scar, but it should (a) be mostly covered by his hair and (b) add an air of mystery later in life. Maybe he and I can stroll along, our matching scars, people wondering if it was a father-son run-in with ninjas or something. Oh, and for what it’s worth, the healing has occured at just the right time -- I finally got the sharks out of the pool.

Water world

Some notes you don’t want to find posted to your door:
“Took the kids for a drive. See you soon. – Britney Spears”
“Sorry I missed you. By the way, you left the liquor cabinet unlocked – Lindsey Lohan”
“The City of Aiken has detected a massive leak on your side of the water line and disconnected your water.”
Imagine my joy at seeing the latter. We had received a note the prior month that we had a small leak and that we should check around the house.
I contacted the water folks and asked if sprinkler use could have something to do with this. Indeed it could, they said. This made tremendous sense, as I had not used my sprinkler system in two years.
On occasion, I would drag out the hose and a sprinkler, but this was (a) a pain and (b) a reason for me to resent my neighbors, as their timed zones mocked me by evenly watering their yards.
So I assumed that the uptick in my water bill was simply because I was not making my yard die of thirst any more.
The bill came, and it was about $10 higher than normal. A ten-spot for my plants, I told my wife. They’ve earned it.
Then the next bill came. Apparently, the plants had upped their allowance considerably. It had been extremely dry and I had been watering my yard a considerable amount.
I decided I would monitor my water usage a little more closely, and also refrain from my all-day Tuesday showers. And then a few days later the note hit my door. It was a Friday afternoon, so I was starting to panic, thinking I would not have water for the entire weekend.
I managed to get through to someone, and someone from the City met me at the house. I told him about my sprinkler usage thoughts, and he explained to me that, over the month of June, I had essentially filled four swimming pools up with my water usage.
My sprinklers were not capable of that. He and I went around the house, searching again for the elusive leak, to no avail. I called a plumbing company and found one that, thankfully, considered Saturday a regular ol’ working day.
So the plumber rolled up bright and early on Saturday morning. I went out to meet him, eager to find his high-tech leak detection device. I assumed it would look like a ray gun.
I was very disappointed when he pulled out a long stick. He looked around, took a few steps inside my azaleas, and plunged it into the ground. “Found it,” he said, pulling the stick out and showing me how it was wet.
I took a step inside my azaleas to peer in, and at that point I, too, found the leak, as my foot went about calf-deep into mud.
(QUICK BREAK FOR A GARDENING TIP: Want beautiful green azaleas that grow at a rate unlike any you’ve ever seen? Pump about 100,000 gallons of water underneath them for a month! And when you’re asked for wise comments on how half of your azaleas are growing at a freakish rate, just shrug and say, “Yep. Crazy, huh?”
Back to the column: So he finds the general area where the leak is coming from.
I go in the back to play with the kids, confident my problem will be solved in no time. About an hour later, I came back out front and found there was now a small pond in my front yard, and I am fairly certain that I did not have a small pond an hour prior.
The plumber told me that he had finally found the leak, but it was far worse than he thought. In addition to the line being roughly 400 feet underground, it had apparently been attacked by tree roots that were not content being tree roots, but were actually setting out to destroy my pipes and checkbook.
We had two options: Bring in a backhoe and dig up half of my azalea bed or completely reroute my water line, bringing it into the house from an area away from the vicious attack trees.
We opted for the latter, mainly because they were going to have to dig a big trench across my yard, and that would save me hours of future yard work.
Now, I could ignore the bare spots, and if anyone should comment that my yard looks somewhat like a sandlot, I can say, “Yeah, had some plumbing work done. Dug it up good.” Hopefully, they would not ask, “Did the plumber plant all of the dandelions, too?”
It took him the better part of a day, but eventually my water line had been rerouted, and the underground ocean was put to an end. I guess I should be thankful that the water underneath didn’t cause extensive damage to my yard and house.
I guess what I’m saying is that it could be worse. Britney could have the kids.

Road show

When I was little, I remember my dad packing up our station wagon and leaving a nice little cubby area back in the back.
That was my spot, and I would be the last one in, complete with an activities kit my mom had prepared for me. I would climb in, and my dad would shut the tailgate, reminding me how AWESOME it must be to have my OWN room in the car!!!
It took me well into my adult years to realize that I was, in fact, being put in solitary confinement. This was for my own protection, as my three older sisters in the front may very well have considered ejecting me somewhere along an Alabama highway.
Since that time, we as a society have realized that stowing children as luggage is not the best mode of transport. (Other modes now deemed a poor choice: Stashed up on the back window ledge; curled on the floor board, using the seat as your pillow; on the hood.)
Fortunately, though, car comforts have come a long way, so when you do have to strap your children into their car seats for the duration of a long trip, you don’t feel like you’re depriving them of the joy that is having a suitcase cave in the back of a station wagon.
The main way that travel has become more comfortable for kids is through TVs. I know there are some of you out there who would NEVER put a TV in the car with your child.
After all, you never had one, right? These kids today, right? I was once one of you. I told my wife we would NEVER have a TV in the car.
They can read a book or play the license plate game or count cows or whatever it is we did back last century. And they’ll like it!
And then I left Destin, Fla., one cool winter morn, a 9-month-old in the car.
She began to scream, oh, about the time we put her in the car. She did not stop. She did not pause. She screamed.
And it was so loud, my wife and I could barely discuss what to do.
My wife considered climbing into the back seat to feed her. We opted to pull off at a rest stop to feed her.
If driving made her mad, stopping made her madder. We somehow endured the rest of the eight-hour trip. If memory serves, she fell asleep about 10 minutes from our driveway.
The next time we traveled, we went out and bought a small TV. We put it on the middle console of the car and strapped it down with bungee cords.
Allie, sensing we were about to travel somewhere, immediately began to wail. And then, I hit play and – ELMO!!! Good-bye, tears, hello Elmo on constant loop for the next eight hours.
From that point on, we never traveled long distances without our trusty TV/VCR combo.
We eventually upgraded to a smaller one, and now have one that’s factory-installed in our van. We have a few strict rules on the player:
1. Movies only go on for trips longer than one hour. This would be far easier to stick to if someone would stop putting movies on for trips to the grocery store. It would also help if certain people would stop ratting out that someone to Mommy.
2. We do not fight over the movie. Allie picks, then Parker picks. If there is a fight, they are forced to watch Pauly Shore’s “Son-in-Law.”
3. The driver is not allowed to try and watch the movie, even at stoplights. This rule was challenged, but was overruled on a 1-1 vote of the Household Supreme Court.
4. If one child falls asleep during his movie pick, you CAN switch over to “Cheetah Girls 2” but you have to switch back as soon as first child wakes up, even if he insists on watching “Cheetah Girls 2,” as he does not need to watch “Cheetah Girls 2.” If necessary, we’ll put on “Die Hard” or “Terminator” or a replay of game 6 of the 1995 World Series, but he’s not watching “Cheetah Girls 2” and that’s final.
Again, I am sure there are plenty of you old schoolers out there who find it abhorrent that parents use DVDs to hypnotize their children during trips.
But do remember that it is not just pacifying the children. There are perks for the grown-ups, too. For example, although I have never seen the movie “Cars,” I have listened to it about 4,000 times. You couldn’t get that kind of thrill back in 1978!
The fact of the matter is that, as parents, you do what works for you. And for us, a DVD player works quite well. Even if we’re just going to the grocery store.

Ladder tricks

Me. A ladder. A chainsaw. Anyone else amazed I am here to write this column?
For some reason I decided I needed to clear back some trees in my yard. Now, there are two sensible paths I could have taken: (1) Hire someone to trim the trees or (2) Embrace my inner-tree and leave it be.
I opted for the road less sensible, which involved a large extension ladder and the exciting power of gravity.
My first few cuts were rather easy. I was on the ladder, safely secured by the OSHA-approved method known as “Wrapping Your Leg Around the Tree Next To You.” I am not sure I expected this to do, should the ladder fall. I am pretty sure I would not be able to hang onto a tree like some sort of one-legged koala bear.
But anyway, I was trimming away, and the limbs were falling gently to the ground. I even took the unusual step of NOT trying to move the ladder by the tried and tested method of grabbing the ladder and hopping to a new spot. Safety is key.
So after a while, I began to feel quite confident in my tree trimming abilities. I extended the ladder to its maximum height and went high into the canopy. I turned around, facing out from the ladder, which is generally the way chainsaw manufacturers encourage you to operate their devices. I reached up and began to saw a branch to my left.
As the saw got almost all the way through the limb, I heard it start to crack. It started to swing downward, and at that point my brain decided to wake up. “It’s gonna swing down and hit the ladder, you doofus,” it said.
Fortunately, I was thinking quickly, and I swung my leg back behind the tree, utilizing what I must think is some incredibly awesome gripping ability with my leg.
The limb did swing down and smack the ladder, but fortunately did not send me reeling to the ground as you were hoping. (Give it time, folks.) But what I did have was an enormous limb blocking the path of the ladder, so the only way to get down was to cut the limb that was now several feet below me, a little bit at a time.
And if you thought my method of chainsaw use was awesome before, you should have seen me on the ladder, facing out, bending over to cut limbs below me, using one hand to hang on and hoping like crazy that the saw didn’t go through the limb and hit the metal ladder.
Eventually, I made my way down the ladder. So naturally, this brought an air of invincibility, and I decided to move on to larger, higher limbs.
This time, I headed up to a tree right on the other side of my fence that had grown WAY over my yard, to the point that when it rained, the branches would almost droop to the ground.
So once up on the ladder, I fired up the chainsaw and began to trim the limb. When I was almost through the limb, I heard the familiar crackling of the limb breaking, and it began to fall to the ground.
As it turns out, this was a very heavy limb. And as it turns out, this limb was leaning the whole tree. And when the limb was no longer there, guess what? Tree doesn’t lean so much.
I felt the tree starting to move back to the upright position, and the ladder started sliding down the trunk. It was quite evident that this was taking a bad turn.
The tree inched back a little more, and I looked up and noticed the ladder was no longer touching the tree. This was odd. Then I realized that the ladder had fallen against my fence, and I now was standing on top of a very steep see-saw. And then the ladder began to tilt. Down goes the see-saw.
I would love to tell you what happened next, but the truth of the matter is I have no clue.
The next thing I knew, I was standing on the other side of the fence on what was now a bottom rung of the ladder. The chainsaw was on the ground beside me.
The only thing I can guess is that I did a fancy little circus walk as the ladder teetered over the fence and managed to ride it down. I remember thinking (a) I need to do something with the chain saw (b) I hope I don’t get impaled on the fence or a tree and (c) this will probably hurt. I accomplished (a) and (b), and I was partially correct on (c), as my neck and back apparently absorbed much of the landing.
My wife was as supportive as she always is in these situations, which was to sigh deeply and more than likely hope that some of my genetics had not been passed on to our children.
She also told me that I should not do that without an adult present, and I don’t think I was included in the count of necessary adults.
I informed her that would no be a problem, since I was retiring both the ladder and the chainsaw for good. If I can’t reach from the ground and tear it with my hands, it looks good right where it is.

Anger management

So the other day I was driving down the road looking for a parking place. I spied one right in front of the store I was going to, hit the turn signal and began slowing down. I was about three spots away when I saw a blur of white to my right. The blur zoomed past, cut in front of me and took my parking spot. Needless to say, happiness and joy did not overflow inside of me.
I was on the phone with my wife at the time. And before you start in on me about talking on the phone while driving, let me assure that I can hold a conversation and not crash my car. I am firmly against banning cell phones while driving, simply because the cell phones are not the problem. It’s people not paying attention. If we are banning driving distractions, we need to add eating, putting on makeup, attempting to discipline children in the way back, changing the radio and shaving (especially legs).
And I know some of you will say, “But, Mike, you should only be driving while driving. Distractions are dangerous.” And to that I say, trust me. I know what I’m doing. Maybe not everyone can, say, write their column while driving on the interstate. But maybe my laptop rests quite nicely on the center console.
So anyhow, I pulled into a spot a few places down and could feel my blood pressure kicking up a couple of notches. After all, someone took my parking place. He might as well have slapped me.
My wife knows me better than anyone. “Stop,” she said. She didn’t have to finish. I sighed, and said, “I know.”
What she meant by “Stop” was:
“Stop, take a deep breath, and realize that it’s not that big of a deal.”
Or, perhaps, “Stop. Do not leave a note on his windshield that reads, ‘Due to your awful driving, something is now missing from your car. Try and find it.’”
Or, even “Stop. Do not approach the driver and say, ‘You took my parking place. It’s go time, tough guy.’”
She was right, of course. There was a time in my life when I would have said something. I would have spontaneously sprinted up to the guy and asked him what happened to the cactus. He would ask, “What cactus?” I would say, “The cactus you traded brains with!” And then whirl away with a triumphant victory dance, too blinded with rage to realize that the previous exchange not only was NOT an excellent put-down, but actually made very little sense.
But I said nothing. I watched him walk away, hoping that karma would be a good friend of mine. It truly brings me comfort to know that this guy, somewhere down the road, will, say, be bitten by a goat at a petting zoo.
The hands of cosmic forces aside, another reason that my temper has calmed over the years is my wife. When we first started dating, I was what some may call a bit of a hothead. Little things would set me off. I remember one time getting upset about some volleyball officiating in an intramural game. I was quite upset, had a few choice words, and stormed out of the gym. And, in a stunning display of idiocy, I tried to make a big showy exit, letting folks know what I thought, as I stormed through the turnstile exit. Unfortunately, I tried to exit through the entrance turnstile, so it did not turn, and I walked square into it, flipping over, much to the delight of everyone in the gym but me.
But over the years, my wife made it her mission to remind me when things were not worth getting upset about. On occasion, my natural tendency to get worked up over little things will come out, and she will remind me of the level of importance of said issue. For example, the other day I came home from work, and by my account, every possible light and electronic device in my home was operating. I head upstairs and find my wife giving the kids baths. Now, I don’t know about you, but when I am upstairs taking a bath, I have zero need for a television blaring “Go, Diego, Go” downstairs. I begin my well-rehearsed bit about “When you’re done watching television, you turn it off. And lights? The switches are by the door. You HAVE to walk past them to leave a room unless you go out a window and by my count no one is leaving through a window...”
My wife walked over to greet me. And was it a “How was your day, honey?” How about a “Look, it’s Daddy!”? Oh, no, you can assure yourself it was not. The greeting involved a recount of two tired kids, the end of a long day, a fight involving a peanut butter sandwich and a lamp, one chronically unpantsed little boy, and the calming salvation of a nice big bubble bath. It ended with “So I’m sorry if I didn’t run around and turn off all of the lights, but I was trying to tame wild children.” She also informed me that I had walked past all of the lights and televisions to let her know this, which was a valid point.
But the final point was this: Is it that big of a deal? In the grand scheme of things, yes. Yes it is. Wait — deep breath. OK, so it’s not. You can’t let the little things stress you. Instead, you go into the bathroom and take joy in your kids splashing you at bath time. And, as you’re putting them to sleep, you tell them that this weekend, you’re taking them to the zoo. There’s a goat daddy wants to see.

Bugging out

The bugs have turned on Parker.
He has been good to the bugs. My son is a bug huntin’ maniac. Loves him some bugs. Given the option between hunting bugs and, well, anything, Parker opts for bugs. He turns over logs. He digs in the dirt. We have even buried milk jugs part ways into the ground for little bug habitat – his bug jugs – so he can check his bugs out whenever he wants.
And then, the other day, the bugs turned. They had never been harmed. Parker was always very careful with them, making sure they had plenty of leaves and dirt and such. Apparently, this message did not get through to all of those in the bug realm.
We were at my parents’ house, and Parker was helping my dad fill a bird feeder. I was inside, trying to get my little nephew to sleep. We were strolling around the downstairs, my heart filled with the warm and soothing feeling of knowing that, there in my arms, was a child who could start crying at any minute and – this is the part that kinda chokes me up – I could simply return him! He sleeps, I’m a hero. He cries – “Do you need Mommy?” Sorry. Tangent.
Anyhow, my nephew and I were chilling out when I heard Parker scream. I am well in tune to my children’s various cries of panic, and usually I can sense when the blood curdling yelp is because someone won’t share the green crayon.
This was not a crayon scream. I made my way to a window and saw Parker flailing his arms, screaming at the top of his lungs. My dad was standing over him swatting the air. I immediately threw my nephew onto the couch and ran to help. (Ha! Just a little joke there to see if my sister’s reading.)
Actually, I contributed by opening the door as Parker ran inside, a horde of concerned folks trailing him.
“What happened?” I asked.
“AHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!” Parker wailed through tears.
“Uh...”
My dad stepped through the door and translated the incoherent scream was apparently an attempt to tell me that a wasp had stung him. He pulled the top off of the bird feeder for my dad and a wasp zipped out from its brand new nest and planted one on Parker’s hand. After some ice and some Benadryl (it’s quite delish on the rocks), the pain began to subside and the swelling on his hand went down. He did convince his sucker aunt that mini Hershey bars would make it feel better, too. Well played, Parker, well played.
So the next day, the sting was behind us. My wife and kids were swimming, and I was inside. I noticed a rather big commotion and everyone sprinting to get out of the pool. “AHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!” I heard Parker scream. Uh-oh.
This time, a yellow jacket had zipped down and zapped him on his thumb. And, as anyone who has ever come in contact with them knows, yellow jackets were created in a dark cosmic vortex where pure evil mated with burning hatred and the offspring grew wings, a stinger and an incredibly bad disposition.
For what it’s worth, for my daughter Allie, who has never been a huge fan of the creepy crawlies, this pretty much sealed the deal on her stance. That stance, of course, is that bugs live under logs and are perfectly fine there. It didn’t help matters that at the start of the weekend, we were at my parents’ house and there was a great big click beetle in a jar. Click beetles are these really cool beetles that, well, click. They snap their body when you hold them, and they’ll flip over. I was trying to get Allie to hold it, and she was a little tentative. “It won’t hurt you. I promise. Look, even Grandma will hold it.”
My mother shot me a rather nasty look, but extended her hand regardless, knowing I had committed her to this little life lesson for Allie. About the time the click beetle hit my mom’s hand, we learned that the normally kind click beetle has pincers and, when they opt to use them, can draw blood. Grandma was not too happy about having a click beetle attached to her hand or the blood now dripping down. I also found that laughing hysterically does not, in fact, make a beetle let go of human flesh.
But back to The Dude. Parker is still, amazingly, a big fan of bugs. He’s not going to let a couple of stings slow him down. In fact, he even told us that he still likes all bugs, but just doesn’t want to touch the “pokey ones.” I think that’s fair enough. We’ll keep up our bug hunts and just make sure we avoid pokey ones. And probably click beetles.

Phase in

So a friend of mine from college is on month two of being a dad. I asked him what he had learned so far, and, among the many things, he said, “There is nothing in the world that compares to your child looking at you for the first time.”
Clearly, he is still in the AWWWWW!!! Phase. Being the cynical old coot that I am, I informed him that this adorable phase for new parents is, indeed, a time of deep and meaningful sentimental milestones. But it will pass. Sure, it still tugs at the heart strings when your kids go through signature events in life, but let’s be honest here – there are many more phases than your run-of-the-mill sitting up, taking a step, vomiting on a relative for the first time, etc. Among some of the phases parents will pass:
1. The “Crying? Don’t really hear it” Phase – It is emotionally wrenching for new parents to hear their new baby cry. You know what cures that? Having a second child. It used to tear me up to hear Allie cry. Parker? Not so much. There was no pacing the hall by his door, reaching for the door knob, trying to stop the compulsion to run in and grab him. Rather, my wife and I would have this conversation:
ME: Is he fed?
HER: Yep.
ME: Dry?
HER: Yep.
ME: Any wolves, cheetahs, griffins, etc. in the room?
HER: Nope.
ME: ’Night.
2. The Oatmeal Badge of Honor Phase – This comes shortly after the mini phase of “Spit is a Good Face Cleaner.” While you may have at one point cared about walking out of the house with a big streaking drool line down the back of your shirt, you know there is no point in changing clothes every time a baby leaves a little surprise on you. And sleeping kids? Love them some drooling. Walk into any store and check out the shoulder of most any parent of a small child there. Drool marks. And if you mention it to a parent in this phase, they will more than likely be happy to turn over the laundry duties to you, Mr. No Spittle on the Shoulder.
3. The Why Fight It? Phase – This is when you realize certain battles are not worth the fight. It is during this phase when you say things like:
“Fine. Smear it on your head. Some might actually get into your mouth and that will constitute breakfast.”
“Sure, you can wear a princess dress to school. But you do realize that GIRLS are princesses, right, son?”
“Hey, if that’s what you want to use for a pillow, fine. But your bed AND your head will smell like ham.”
4. The “You’ll Be Fine” Phase – When you are first a parent, the idea of your child hurting is gut wrenching. After a while, you realize that children are some of the clutziest creatures on the planet, and if you invest emotional involvement in every bump, scrape and ouchee, you will have nothing but worry. Case in point: The other day, Parker came to my wife and me and said, “I’m bleeding.” Both of us, without even looking, said, “You’ll be fine.” Guess what? He was fine. In fact, once we looked at it, we even debated with him whether you can technically even call a hangnail bleeding. (He says yes. We say no.)
5. The Defensive Posture Phase – This is also known as the “LEG SWIVEL BLOCK!!!! Phase” This is a phase that only the dads enter, and we learn it quickly as soon as our children become mobile. One solid headbutt will make you realize there is a definite design flaw in humans.
6. The “Love Me All You Want, But You’re Not Getting a Pony” Phase – Allie is 6, and has decided to turn affection into a bargaining chip. Yes, it’s all sweet and good and nice, but she has turned “I love yous” and “I want a hug” into the biggest manipulation tools. She will get out of bed or come out from her room that she’s supposed to be cleaning. When you ask her what she’s doing, she bats those Puss in Boots eyes and says, “I just wanted to give you a hug, daddy...” For what it’s worth, it no longer works. My response is usually something to the effect of: “You want a hug? Make your bed. Then come talk to me.”
7. The “Oh, It’s Fine. Just eat it” Phase – Much like the crying phase, having a second child helps you to enter this phase. I am not saying we rub everything in dirt before feeding to the kids, but some Crunch Berries bouncing onto the counter do not disqualify them from being put back into the cereal bowl.
8. The “Don’t Make Me Sell You” Phase – By the time your children get to be 4 or so, they are well versed in the ways of the world, and certainly know that parents cannot, in fact, return kids to the spaceship that brought them here; make a child sleep in the neighbor’s shed; serve them roasted possum for dinner. So, you can serve up threats that make you feel better, but that your child knows are so hyperbolic they are almost certain that you will not, in fact, mail them to the circus if they do not get off of the back of the sofa.
Sure, there are tons of phases in the same genre as the AWWWWW!!! Phase. But let’s be honest here – what do you have more instances of – first steps or first time your child tries to hide behind a couch and eat a whole can of Vienna sausages? Same here. Welcome to the Parental Acceptance Phase.

Rubik's: The movie

So I took the family to see “Shrek the Third” this weekend. Really enjoyed it. If you have a daughter who is into princesses, you absolutely must see this movie, as it will provide an entirely different take on Disney’s fairest. Also, from here on out, when you see Snow White, you will hear a VERY different version of Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song.”
(Quick side note: Again, sincerest apologies go out to the poor souls working the concession at the movie theater, as I managed to dump my ginormous drink over on the counter twice. I still maintain the cup was faulty.)
That said, the true highlight of the movie was the movie trailer previews. I love the previews, especially with big movies such as Shrek, because you know you’re getting the first peak at something good.
But these trailers were extra special, as they were clearly geared to trigger blasts of youthful nostalgia for people like my wife and me. First came a trailer for “Transformers.” Based on the blank stares that greeted me when I bellowed “OPTIMUS PRIME!!!” there were not a lot of fellow Autobot fans in the audience. For those of you who were not young boys in 1984, the Transformers are “More than meets the eye. Robots in the disguise,” according to their mid-1980s commercial which is stuck in my head to this day. The basis of Transformers is that there are two kinds: Autobots (good) and Decepticons (bad). They switch from giant robots into regular objects (planes, trucks, lamps). In the movie, they come to planet earth to fight it out. But the bottom line is one of the main characters is a truck that turns into a robot and then back into a truck, which goes from cool to cooler to unbelievably awesome.
For my wife, the trip down memory lane was a preview for the Nancy Drew movie, which pits the teen girl detective against someone who wants to kill her for some reason. (I didn’t pay much attention, as I was more of an Encyclopedia Brown fan.)
But the previews had both of us taking mental trips back to when we were kids and got me to thinking of some other iconic pop culture things that Hollywood has yet to fully recognize. I’m not talking about movies and TV shows, either, because I think once Johnny Knoxville takes on the role of a Duke brother, we’ve scraped the bottom. I think it’s time they start looking into some other parts of the ’80s that hold potential silver screen gems:
Rubik’s Cube: It can be a story of the underdog. Let’s say, just for the sake of movie magic, there is a kid who can solve only one side of the puzzle at a time (occasionally he gets lucky and solves two sides by accident). The antagonist can be the show-off kid who can solve a Rubik’s Cube in about 11 seconds. Blindfolded. In the climactic scene, our underdog hero, who was unfortunately much shorter than EVERYONE until he was about a senior in college, produces Rubik’s Triangle, which he can solve in a matter of minutes. (Here we will use some poetic license and have everyone be very impressed with solving Rubik’s Triangle.)
Parachute pants: The wildly popular multi-zippered baggy pants were all the rage, and there was one sad little boy who never got to feel the electric boogaloo magic of said pants. It can be the sad tale of the young boy walking through the Memphis airport, seeing the pants in a store and trying to boondoggle his grandmother – a grandmother who was cursed with the grandparents’ affliction of buying ANYTHING kids seemed to want, especially if it was something the parents had already said no to – who looked back at him and said something to the effect of, “Are you nuts?” Imagine the tearjerking epiphany years down the road when the young man realizes his grandmother was merely trying to keep him from looking like a shrunken, white version of MC Hammer.
Space invaders: You kids today with your fancy video games with more than one button. Let’s go old school with a from-the-sky, row-by-row Atari 2600 invasion. The movie trailer has written itself: “Six rows of aliens. One red button. The fate of the universe rests on your thumb.” If we play our cards right, Yars can make a cameo and Journey will do the soundtrack.
Capsela: Everyone laughs at the kid who spends all of his time piecing together the plastic, motorized capsules, creating very cool cars, boats and the like. And the teasing continues. And the kid buys some more Capsela parts. And some more. And some more. And Gigantor the Capsela Monster is constructed, and through, say, a lightning strike, it comes to laugh, with a mission of vengeance. Make fun of Capsela kid, will they...
Those are just a few of the awesome things from my youth they can easily strike cinematic gold. And we have just scratched the surface, having not even considered the nearly endless possibilities that include Swatches, Jams, that a-ha video and I’m Not Herb. Wow, I can’t wait for the next time I got to a movie theater and see what Hollywood has in store for me next. The blank stares alone will be worth the price of admission.

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.