A heart day's night

The last time it happened was December 2000, but it stuck with me enough to know exactly what was going on.
I motioned my wife over to me. "Listen," I said, pointing at my chest.
She, too, remembered. “It’s gurgling. We need to go.”
The gurgling she referred to was my ticker, which had just gone into what is known as atrial fibrillation, an incredibly annoying condition in which your heart beats all goofy, and it feels like there is a squirrel trying to escape from your chest.
Well, I say that it’s annoying, but I suppose other words could be used, since, left untreated, it can lead to stroke, which most would categorize as slightly beyond a simple annoyance.
I told my wife that I wanted to give it a little bit of time to see if it would get in line on its own. She did not think this was a wise course of action. I reminded her that the last time it happened, I waited all day, and even drove myself to the emergency room, so I would appreciate it if she would describe the decision as “less dumb than less last time.”
After a few hours, my heartbeat was way too irregular for my liking, so I conceded it was time to go.
When we walked into the emergency room, I could not believe my eyes ¬-- total number of people in the waiting room: zero. I have never seen a bored triage unit in my life.
I walked in and said, “Hi, I’m in atrial fibrillation, and I’d like not to be.” Certainly no doubt in their mind why I was there.
When I got to the back, I was hooked up to a machine and, indeed, very clearly in a-fib. My heart pattern on the computer looked as though my 3-year-old had drawn it.
The first course of action was an IV-drip of the medicine that was used last time. In 2000, I had been admitted to the cardio ward, and spent the night in the hospital. From the get-go, I made it very clear that I would appreciate it if they knocked this out, unplugged me and let me go, thus avoiding the whole admitted thing. “I am not a captive,” I told my nurse.
“Well, when you check into ER with a heart condition, you’re my captive,” she said.
The first dose of medicine slowed my heart rate down some, but it was still irregular. Apparently, an irregular heartbeat makes for great television, because I had a steady stream of people stopping in to check out my monitor. Eventually, I stopped watching, because it’s awful trying to figure out what it means when someone raises their eyebrows and says, “Hmmmmm.”
A second round of medicine was administered to try and get the heartbeat regular. After about 15 minutes, it was clear that it was not going to work. By this time, the cardiologist had come in, and it sounded an awful lot like he was planning on admitting me for the night. He told me we could try one more dose of medicine, and, as a last resort before admitting, he said, “We can shock you.”
Getting shocked, it turns out, would be exactly what I thought it would be. They would sedate me and stick two paddles on my chest, and shoot me full of electricity, supposedly getting my heart back on a normal rhythm. I asked him if it would be like on TV. He told me that I would jump a little -- and maybe get a couple of burn marks on my chest -- but that I wouldn’t flop off the bed like on TV. Bummer.
Much to my wife’s surprise, I told him that, if the last round of medicine didn’t work -- shock away. (In 2000, when the idea of shocking was presented, I was only calmed with the help of our good friends in the pharmaceutical industry.) But for some reason, I was ready to rock. Let’s do it.
The doctor said he would give the medicine 15 minutes to work, and then it was shock time. The doctor, nurse and my wife stood and watched the monitor. I watched the clock. At the 13-minute mark, the look on the doctor’s face changed. He turned to me. “I don’t think I’m gonna get to shock you,” he said, almost seeming a little sad. My heart had gotten back into gear, and I would be checking out soon.
The doctor has named caffeine as the main culprit. And I can see that. I love some coffee. As it is now, I am on day three without caffeine, and it’s actually not that bad. The last time this happened, I adjusted a few things here and there (such as NOT drinking four pots of coffee a day and extending my hourly sleep to at least four hours) and was on the mend in no time. I like to think of this as an isolated incident, and hopefully it won’t happen again. For one thing, no matter how tough I tried to act, I REALLY don’t want to get shocked.

Beach bums

It was only a two day trip to the beach, but it was jam-packed with a good time. I relaxed. I played. I let my children touch a jellyfish. What more could you want?
When we first got down to the beach, we went on the river in a boat. My dad drove the boat, with Allie perched on the seat with him. Parker, my wife and mother sat on a bench in the front. I perched over the front railing and repeatedly pretended not to hear my wife when she told me to sit down.
It was right at high tide, so we could scoot about in the marshes and see the turtles, birds, fish, etc. The kids were having a blast, and we decided it was a good time to follow the river out to where it meets the ocean. We were cruising along at a fairly good clip when, rather unpleasantly, we were not cruising at all. (Parker, who had fallen asleep in my mom’s lap, gently rolled off her lap and went upside down on a pile of boat cushions. He was completely unfazed by the whole thing.)
My dad and I knew we had to act quickly, since the tide was going out. We hopped out and began to push the boat back to deeper water. We would have had better luck trying to throw the boat to deep water.
We stopped for a moment to contemplate our options when my dad said, “Hey! A jellyfish! Grab it!”
You sunbathe and build castles, we beach a boat and snag jellyfish. To each his own. This particular jellyfish was a cannonball jellyfish, which my dad assured us did not sting. He assured the kids that it was fine to touch it by telling them, “Loggerhead sea turtles eat them.” I am not sure why, but that made them comfortable. So after pawing at the jellyfish for a while (and noticing a crab was scurrying about inside of it), we decided we should get back to freeing the boat. We pushed. We pulled. We grunted. We groaned. At that point, my wife suggested we rock the boat. Pshaw. You stay up there with the kids while the menfolk save the day.
More pushing. More pulling. More “Seriously, just rock it.”
After about six rounds of this, it was clear my mother and wife would have to get out and help. “We should rock it,” my dad said.
“Brilliant!” I said.
“Morons,” my wife and mother said.
After a few minutes of rocking and pushing, rocking and pushing, we eventually eased the boat into deeper waters. At that point, we were back on the river, where we learned something interesting about Parker: He can sleep standing up in a boat at full throttle. Despite the wind, the motor, and the bouncing on the waves, he leaned against my wife and just knocked out. That’s a great trick to learn.
Day two led us down to the beach, where Allie rode her bike, by my estimate, 600 miles. I am not sure how little 5-year-old legs can churn that much, but I know that I occasionally had to say, “Say, Allie, let’s stop for a minute and look for...a...uh...the Little Mermaid.” I can safely say that the pain in my...er...bike seat is proof that she did not, in fact, stop to search for Ariel. And it doesn’t help one’s ego, “Oh, come on, Dad! We can’t stop NOW!!!”
While Allie and I were on our bike ride, Parker found that he cannot, despite his efforts, catch a seagull with a bucket.
When we got back near the house, my dad, Parker and I were on walking on the road back to the house when Parker spied a large bug on the street. “Cicada?” I asked.
My dad quickly informed me that large bug on the road was, in fact, a giant water bug, a nasty dispositioned critter with a large beak it used to stab people who crouched over it on the street (or possibly to catch prey). (Note: It is always helpful to bring a biologist with you on trips.) As I eased in to get a closer look, the bug began to fly toward me, and I was not in the mood to be stabbed, so I did a nice moonwalk backwards to avoid him. As he got about 20 feet high in the air, the three of us watched when – SWOOSH!!! -- in came a grackle for dinnertime. It dropped the bug on the road, and another grackle came in and stole it. The look on Parker’s face was great. He said, “Uh....” We asked Parker what he thought the bird was doing. “He ated it!?!?!?” Fortunately, he thought it was cool, rather than being horrified.
Although it was only two days, it was a fantastic trip. It was boat riding, tree climbing, bike riding and swimming. It was everything a relaxing trip to the beach should be. Including the not-getting-stabbed-by-a-water-bug part.

Oh, the horror

By MIKE GIBBONS
So a while back, I mentioned in a column that my 5-year-old daughter gets scared during movies. This weekend could be another test for her movie viewing mettle, when we take her to see “See No Evil.”
Ha! Kidding of course. I would never take her to see “See No Evil.” And I know that you’re thinking that is because “See No Evil” is an R-rated horror movie, and a child does not belong there. Sure, I suppose that’s one reason. But I can tell you another very good reason: Because you won’t catch me anywhere near a horror movie.
I confess, I cannot do horror movies. And it’s not because they’re bad movies. I love bad movies. But I just don’t do horror movies. Why? Because they terrify me and, I am embarrassed to say, I will have nightmares.
Yes, chuckle all you want. Enjoy it. I first realized that nightmares don’t mix well with me in the early 1980s, when I was about 10 and we received one of those free weekends for Cinemax. Whereas HBO kept the R-rated stuff on in the evenings, Cinemax was wide open all the time. And so one lazy Saturday afternoon, I flipped on the TV for some free Cinemax, and settled in for a quaint little family picture know as “The Shining.”
About four days later, I finally went to sleep. I remember my mother commenting that it was a valuable lesson learned. I remember thinking, “Lesson!?!?! I am afraid that if I shut my eyes, two creepy little twins are going to flood my room with blood! This is not a lesson! It’s a syndrome!”
So I carried that with me for years, avoiding at all costs horror movies. In high school and college, there were times when we got together to watch horror movies. Not wanting to tip my hand that I could not handle them,. I always managed to find something that had to be tended to elsewhere (”Yeah, I can hear it, just gotta finish alphabetizing the pantry.”) Basically, I tried to stay close enough to give the perception that I was watching the movie, even though I knew even catching a little bit of it would translate into nightmares.
Then, around 1996 or so, I decided that it was high time I kicked this irrational fear out the door. I am a grown man, and I am certainly not a chicken. I was at a friend’s apartment, and we watched the movie “Scream.” If you’re not familiar with ”Scream,” it is an intentionally campy slasher flick, paying homage to the horror flicks that came before it, with tons of surprise moments and references to earlier flicks. Enjoyable movie, I thought.
And then I woke up at about 3 in the morning, having just had a vivid dream involving an ax-wielding freak. And I can tell myself all I want that it was just a dream, but that doesn’t change the fact that my heart rate is racing and I’ve broken out in a cold sweat.
The whole thing really goes against my nature. I am not a scaredy-cat type. I have Bungee jumped and parasailed. I have caught alligators and venomous snakes. I have left an Atlanta Falcons game and walked back to the car at night. I know fear, and it doesn’t bother me. But when I watch someone on screen pretending to gut someone, something off-kilter in my warped little craw gets clicked, and it waits until I am asleep to ambush me.
The last movie that Allie had to leave was “Chicken Little.” My first inclination was to tell her that she was being ridiculous and then to toughen up. (Yes, I know – something for the Father of the Year application.) Then two things occurred to me: (1) She’s five and (2) I suppose being scared that the earth was about to be destroyed is on par with a fear that Drew Barrymore will be butchered and left in your tree.
I was talking about my horror movie issue with a neighbor, and he was trying to figure out what my threshold was. I told him that I like thrillers, such as “Silence of the Lambs.” But it’s the cheesy slasher flicks that do me in. I know there is no rational reason for it. It probably started with “The Shining.” Or possible the time I was at camp and all of my fellow campers were murdered with chain saws. (Ha! Kidding of course. It was an ax.)
So I guess I have to be more understanding when my daughter gets scared, and know that, from a simple genetic standpoint, the absurd notion of being scared at movies comes honestly. Maybe we’ll go to see “Over the Hedge” and help her tackle her fears, so she doesn’t have to be an adult carrying around a duffle bag of issues like her old man. Or maybe we’ll both go see “See No Evil” and work on this issue together.

Van-tastic!

Minivans have become the gold standard of clichés when it comes to becoming a real, certified grown-up. It’s in the category of “Why don’t men ask for directions?” and “Why do women take so long to get ready?” We got it. You drive a minivan. Bye-bye youth.
Well, let me step right up and say that I have no problems asking for directions, and my wife can get ready in about four seconds. And that’s where the cliché-busting ends, seeing as how we now have a minivan. But it’s so easy to fall back on the minivan. There are so very many more signs that signify your true indoctrination into adulthood. Among them:
1. New hazards – If I walk through a room with the lights off, I will either step on a Matchbox car, trip over a doll, or get tangled in a jump rope. I know you’re asking, “Well, Mike, why don’t you simply pick up the toys?” Silly non-child having people. Have you not seen the documentaries “Toy Story” and “Child’s Play”? Put them up all you want. They will then scurry about as they please. And some will try and kill you.
2. New phrases – Six years ago, I never dreamed of uttering the following phrases:
“Get off the coffee table. And pick up your sandwich.”
“No, you can’t have peanut butter and toothpaste.”
“If you keep chewing your hair, I’m going to shave your head.”
“Where is the lampshade?”
“Yes, that IS very nice. Now flush.”
“Because it’s your sister’s. And you’re a boy. And even so, your hair is too short for a hair band.”
3. New rituals – Waking up used to be a leisurely stroll through the morning. Now, it is an obstacle course of kid-wrangling, breakfast-making and bed-making. By the time my wife and kids head out the door, I often find myself standing there in my pajamas, banana smeared on my shirt, the coffee still untouched, and me wondering, “What...just...happened?”
4. New joys in life – My weekends used to be very different. Happiness is now seeing a kid learning how to swing or climb a tree. Or seeing a 3-year-old boy learn that, with a running start, he can drop his older sister and take her basketball, only to find out she can return the beatdown, all the while I gently rest my arm on my wife’s shoulder and say, “There, there. There, there. They’ll work it out.” At which point she gives me a look as though I just drank the shampoo and says, “Have you lost your mind?” To which I say, “There, there. There, there.” And then my wife handles it.
5. New places to visit – And I’m not talking about Disney and the like. I’m talking about the top of the fast-food playground, where I have helped back down several kids (some not even mine). I’m talking about beneath a church pew, where you have to delicately try and retrieve a crayon, and not hit the ankle of the nice woman in front of you, hoping to avoid that awkward moment where you scoot out under the pew like you’re a mechanic and hold up the crayon to show that you have a valid reason to be there. I’m talking about the back of an SUV during a thunderstorm trying to change a diaper.
6. New fashion sense – While anyone who knows me can tell you I often look like I just hopped off the cover “Just Woke Up From a Nap” magazine, the choice of clothing is now dependent on the day’s tasks. Going to a birthday party? Go with lighter colors, as more than likely, the cake’s icing will be light. Going to a movie theater? Wear a coat, even if you know you don’t need it, because you will be giving it away to the little munchkin who insists she won’t need one. Going on a trip? Wear something loose, to allow for the menacing finger-wagging/arm shake to the back seat.
7. A new way of speaking – And I think you know which manner of speaking I refer to. Even the most sophisticated person will want to blurt things when they crack their knee on a coffee table. As parents, we come up with nonsensical ways to express anger, pain, etc. “Son of a Doodlebop!!!”
8. New fears – See No. 7. And if you are not familiar with the Doodlebops, a quick Google search will let you join the growing number of people who lie awake at night afraid Rooney Doodle may show up at your house.
And while there are countless other reasons, I think you get my drift. Sure, a minivan is still the ultimate “Aren’t you a grown-up!” symbol, but that’s really just the tip of the iceberg. Now, where is the lampshade?

Musings from Mike

No particular theme to today’s column. (Like the others are such masterpieces of cohesion.) But I thought I would simply offer up some musings that have popped into my head of late:
1. My children continue to amaze me at the bizarre way they injure themselves. Clearly, it is genetic, since I have done such things as (a) fallen off a picnic bench and gashed my leg open (b) taken a chunk out of finger when I got it closed in a shotgun and (c) banged up my shoulder trying to asphalt-ski during some rain. (Perhaps lack of judgment led to (a) and (b).) My daughter managed to join the ranks the other day. She was carrying her pink plastic watering can, swinging it as she strolled, when she swung it too far and it smacked her in the face, bloodying her lip. My neighbor was standing with me at the time, and I had to assure him that his initial reaction to laugh was OK.
2. Once again, I have abandoned my feeble attempt at growing a beard. This time lasted all of about four days. I don’t know why I occasional consider the thought. For one thing, I can’t grow a beard. I have proven that. I grow a permanent 5:00 shadow. Plus, I can’t stand the feeling. And each time, my wife and I have this conversation:
ME: I’m thinking of growing a beard. Should I?
HER: No.
ME: But your dad has a beard.
HER: Yeah, but he can grow one.
ME: Well, so can I.
HER: No you can’t.
3. Had the house pressure washed recently, and it’s amazing what blasting the funk off of your house can do. They had to do it in installments, since I wouldn’t let them do the front porch with the rest of the house. We had a nest of birds, and I could not explain to my children that we had turned high pressure water hoses on the little baby birds that we had followed since they were eggs.
4. Yesterday was my 8th anniversary. (Also, my wife’s, as it turns out.) I applaud her efforts of putting up with me for this long, and can only hope that she never wakes up from what must be a mind-altering haze and realizes her husband has the emotional IQ of an 11-year-old.
5. While watching the NFL draft on Saturday, it occurred to me: I have no life. I decided I needed to take the kids outside to play. When I turned on the radio in the car so that I could hear it, I realized I may be in need of help. (For what’s it’s worth, the Titans made a monumental mistake in not selecting Matt Leinart.)
6. I have grill envy. My neighbor just got a new one, and I feel I have no choice but to sneak into his garage and liberate it. I wonder if he will notice. I cooked bratwurst on it and didn’t have a single flare-up. When I cook brat on mine, it looks like someone is down in my grill welding.
7. With the recent controversy regarding immigration, I feel it is time for me to weigh in on the subject: And my overriding thought right at this moment is this: Vince Young is a great athlete and may one day be a great NFL QB, but Leinart could step in and run Norm Chow’s system TODAY!
8. For the first time in my pool owning history, I have the cleanest, clearest pool I have ever had. There may be pools as clear as mine. But there are none clearer. And the reason for this? No water.
9. I successfully completed a home improvement project by myself, which is grounds for celebration. For about two years, a gate on a fence had been hung upside down (don’t ask), and I managed to attach it the right way so it didn’t fall off every time you opened it. And, I did it without any wounds that would require stitches, which is a major victory for me. On the heels of this success, I think I will rewire my house. I am unstoppable.
10. One of the symptoms of the kid funk know as croup is a cough that sounds like a seal’s bark. That is by far the most accurate medical description in the history of the world. I think I will see if Parker can balance a beach ball on his nose.
So that is all I have today. Next week, I will return with a normal column. And it may be about how you can simply look at the success Carson Palmer has had! How could you not pick Leinart!?!?!?

Black eyed P

Well, I guess it’s safe to go out in public again with Parker.
Parker is 3, and one of the requirements for being a 3-year-old boy is complete and utter disregard for anything remotely resembling safety. And now that his very fine shiner has gone away, I feel I can venture out without people staring in a disapproving manner. (I always make a point of leaning in to the people and whispering, “The first rule of baby fight club, you don’t talk about baby fight club.”)
This is the third black eye he has had. The first two were courtesy of an aggressive coffee table that assaulted him on two different occasions.
His latest shiner came courtesy of a playground pole. And it also came with a valuable lesson: Pay attention. He was sprinting across the playground - which is currently the only speed he has right now - when a little girl called out to him. Poor, poor Parker. Learning so early that you CANNOT be distracted by the fairer sex. He turned to give a little howdy, and turned back around to WHAP! From the play-by-play I got, the pole stood its ground. Parker? Not so much.
When I got home from work, my wife called from upstairs. “I’m warning you - it’s bad.” When Parker came running to see me, I saw the shiner, and the first words out of my idiotic mouth were, “WHOAAA! AWESOME!!!”
I know, I know. I’m a horrible person. But there is something hard-wired in guys that when they see something like a shiner or a scar or 10-12 nails protruding from someone’s head, their immediate response is “COOOOOOOL!!!!” Parker, of course, thought his shiner was cool, too. Every few minutes, he would run up to me and said, “Daddy - look at my eye!”
Now, some of you out there may be reading this, gap-jawed that someone would be rather blasé about a kid getting his noggin knocked. Keep in mind a few things: (1) I knew he was fine by this point, as it had happened many hours prior and (2) I, at one point, was a 3-year-old boy, and three decades later, I still have the occasional injury type day. As I type this, my left foot hurts where I inadvertently banged it on the coffee table. And my mouth has a nasty sore spot where I bit into a piece of really hot pizza the other night. And, for some reason, my wife was able to (a) walk around the coffee table and (b) let the pizza cool off. Hmm.
As Parker gets older, I also find that he is, more than likely, part monkey. As I was as a boy, he is a climber. Loves to climb. Trees. Fences. Shelves. You name it. Perhaps he is trying to get back to his tree canopy home.
It is really wild to see the difference between Parker and his sister. Allie, who is almost 6, has had her share of bumps, bruises and scrapes. But she has always been a little more cautious than her feral brother. For example, I don’t recall her ever climbing to the top of the couch and jumping into a pile of laundry. (And I know what you’re thinking: “Who was watching him when he was allowed to do that?!?!?!?” And that is very similar to what my wife said. I explained that it was, in fact, not only safe but fun. She disagreed.)
It’s not that Allie is completely cautious. She loves tromping outside and playing on playgrounds and such. And fences? Made to be climbed. But she does it with, well, some planning. She plots out the climb and the descent and everything in between, whereas Parker will just end up on the roof somehow. (Relax. He’s never actually ended up on the roof. That his mother knows about. Ha! Kidding there. Seriously.)
One thing that is different with Parker and Allie is the way they deal with injuries. Parker doesn’t cry much from them, and when he does, it’s usually for a short spell. Plus, he’ll do the “Shake It Off” Dance, which always makes me chuckle. If Allie gets hurt, she would much rather just curl up in your lap and kinda be sad for a bit. Both, of course, think Band-Aids are magical cure-alls, and often go to bed with 15-20 on them. I don’t think you need a Band-Aid on your stomach when you have a tummy ache.
So although Parker will undoubtedly get banged up again, I hope it is minimal, and, although cool at first, I certainly hope he doesn’t get another shiner. (My last quality black eye was in the third grade, so he’s still got plenty of time to match me.) It’s hard to keep a boy from being a boy, so we’ll just have to make we’re there keeping an eye out for him. And that my wife is there to overrule.

Some sage advice

We have well established that I am the world’s greatest dad, as evidenced by the fact that I just called myself that. So, to that end, I feel it is important to offer up some parenting tips to share with all of the world. The format will be Q&A, with the questions carefully screened from a detailed batch of questions I just made up.
Q: My 3-year-old son is constantly throwing things at his 5-year-old sister. What can I do?
A: This is a prime opportunity for you to impart some very sage wisdom to your child. Sit the child down, make eye contact, and say firmly, “When your brother has a Matchbox car in his hand, run. He’s going to throw it. Get out of the path.”
Q: Uh, I meant what do I say to HIM?
A: Recite the Gettysburg Address. Sing the lyrics to Eric Clapton’s “Layla.” Doesn’t really matter what you say, because all that is going through a 3-year-old’s head is “Throw the car. Throw the car. Throw the car.”
Q: My daughter has been getting scared at night, occasionally having nightmares. What can I do?
A: Well, you can stop her from watching the Orbitz gum commercials, in particular the one where the giant bird takes off with the man. I can only surmise that is why a 5-year-old would sprint into my room at 2 in the morning saying she just had a dream that an eagle flew off with her and took her to a nest. Oh, and the next morning, don’t sneak up and make squawking noises behind her.
Q: Despite trying to teach my children the proper way to play sports, they both adopt their own unorthodox style of batting, kicking, throwing, etc. What can I do to straighten it out?
A: Nothing. They will either develop their awkward style into pro-caliber performances, or will look so strange doing it that other children will mock them on the playground, driving them inside to the comfort of their textbooks. You win either way.
Q: My husband and I disagree on discipline. How do we reconcile this?
A: It is important to be level-headed and consistent with discipline, which is why it should be left up to you. Your husband will waffle between drill sergeant-like strictness and then, as soon as his daughter bats an eye, will melt and say, “Fine, you can go ride your bike. Your brother’s hair will grow back. And here’s a dollar.”
Q: What is the best way to get children to eat a proper, well-balanced breakfast?
A: Convince yourself that Pop-Tarts are a proper, well-balanced breakfast.
Q: What is the best approach to potty train a child?
A: Books. Buy every book you can on the subject, and read them cover to cover. By the time you have finished them all, your child will be about 15, and will have figured it out on his own.
Q: When my children get sick, the medicine they get smells really good. It’s fruity or bubble game flavored, and the kids act like it’s candy. But when we were children, medicine tasted like oxen sweat. That hardly seems fair.
A: That’s not a question.
Q: OK, then, did pharmaceuticals just discover cherry flavoring?
A: Actually, their oxen died, and they had to find a replacement. Cherry was the next cheapest.
Q: My son has developed a strange habit of not wanting to get out of the tub until all the water has drained out. Why is this?
A: Because your son is strange. And he will grow out of it.
Q: Are you sure? Because he’s 25.
A: Uh ... pass.
Q: My daughter has a vivid imagination, and often holds tea parties, games, etc. with the various stuffed residents of her room. At what point should I curtail this?
A: Never. You should encourage this. And tell her that stuffed animals are good, kind friends, whereas boys are bad and icky and should be avoided at all costs. And, when you are older, if you put enough stuffed animals into your car, there will be no room for boys in said car.
Q: What makes you think you are qualified to give parenting advice?
A: Because I have a PhD in child psychology, a master’s degree in early childhood development, and have done extensive research on childhood behavior.
Q: Seriously?
A: What do you think?
Q: That’s a question, not an answer.
A: This could go on a while. No, I am not serious. I have the same qualifications anyone else in my shoes has: I have kids.
Q: Any final words of wisdom?
A: Yeah, skip “Layla.” Go with Kenny Rogers’ “Coward of the County.” It always makes me chuckle.

King size goodness

Never again will I use a nightstand for a pillow.
I know you’re probably thinking that there are plenty of softer items to throw on the bed than a nightstand. And you are correct. But I have not dragged a nightstand into bed. Rather, I am free from my recent torment of waking up, my body on the very edge of the bed, my head resting on my nightstand, one hand gripping the nightstand, the other planted on the ground to keep me from falling out of bed.
Needless to say, this was not the most comfortable way of sleeping.
But now, I have a new bed, and I am free from the terror. My wife and I have abandoned our queen size bed and replaced it with a king size, which is roughly an acre.
A queen size bed used to be plenty big. And then children came along. Combine mobile kids with fairly heavy sleeping parents, and you have a recipe for a bed chock full of Gibbons. On nights when the little rascals sneak into the room, I rarely notice it. In fact, they could drive an SUV onto our bed and I would not notice it.
So what happens is they sneak into bed and nestle themselves firmly in the middle. Then, over the course of sleeping, the begin their expansionism. And for those of you without children, I can say that the single most powerful force in the universe is a sleeping 3-year-old’s legs. (The only thing that can even come close is the leg power of a sleeping Basset hound.) Somehow, Parker has the ability to stretch out and gradually move me or my wife out of the way, taking over about 60 percent of the available bed space. By the morning, I have reached the edge and am hanging on for support, my head resting on the nightstand.
Now I know the first thing you are thinking is that we should not let our kids in our bed. And I assure you we do not. I am fairly convinced they have the ability to dematerialize and reform in our room. Most every night, I vividly recall putting both of them to sleep in their own rooms. And then – poof! – there they are in the morning. So anyone who is critical of the kids finishing up their deep sleep in our room is MORE than welcome to come over and play kid goalie from midnight to 7 a.m.
Additionally, I am fairly certain that the kids will grow out of this. Allie doesn’t come in very often, and when she does it’s when she’s had a bad dream. (Apparently, “The Shining” is a poor choice for a bedtime story.) Parker will also grow out of it, but he’s three right now, so his general outlook on life is: “What Parker wants, Parker gets. And Parker wants to sleep in there.” For the record, we do not adhere to Parker’s life outlook. But we pick our battles. For example: While Parker DOES get to pick out his shirt on occasion, Parker DOES NOT get to pick out Mommy’s shirt. And he certainly doesn’t get to pick it out for himself.
So when the king size bed arrived, I was amazed at how much bigger it seemed. It’s only 18 inches wider, but it just seems gobs bigger than our old mattress. After it was put in the room, my wife looked at it and said, “It kinda takes up the whole room...”
“Well,” I said, “it is called a BEDroom.”
My wife just stared at me, not sure whether I thought I was being funny or was the master of the obvious. She does that a lot.
So the first night of the big new bed, we were amazed at how much more room there was. (We brought cell phones so we could say goodnight.) When the alarm went off in the morning, I awoke and was amazed to find myself firmly and solidly on nothing but bed. No nightstand. No floor support. Just...mattress. Hmm. Guess the kids stayed in their room. I got up to turned off the alarm and turned back to see that, there in the bed, were two twisted contorting little ones, both taking up their own little quadrants of Bedland. Outstanding.
So while the issue of little ones sneaking into the room is less of a pressing one to resolve, I am at least glad that my wife and I can get a good night’s sleep if they do sneak in. And like I said, they will grow out of this as they get older. They have to. We don’t have room for a bigger bed.

Time to party

As a 5-year-old, my daughter has reached the age where she attends roughly 40 birthday parties each weekend.
Whereas my weekends used to be carefree exhibitions in laziness and occasional yard work, the new first order of business at the start of each weekend is to determine when and where the parties will be. On Friday night, my wife will stand over by the fridge where she keeps an excessively detailed calendar. “OK, Allie’s got a party at 2 and 4.”
“Sounds good. I’ll plan my nap from 1:30-5.”
That has yet to work.
On occasion, I will take Allie to the birthday parties. My wife usually does the birthday circuit, while Parker and I hang around the house being guys. On occasion, I will take the lead, though, and accompany Allie to a party. I remember the first one I attended was at a gymnastics place. I am fairly sure I was the only parent asked to stop jumping on the trampoline.
The most recent party I went to was at a miniature golf place. To kick off the party, those in attendance spent some time in the video arcade. They weren’t actually playing video games, since none of them had tokens. But they were having a blast pretending to play. One of the games was a motorcycle game where you actually sit on a motorcycle. Allie had a blast sitting on the back of the motorcycle while one of the boys from her class pretended to ride the motorcycle, complete with sound effects. I hope she enjoyed herself, since it will be the closest she ever gets to actually riding on the back of a motorcycle with a boy from her class. Don’t get me wrong — I have nothing against motorcycles or people who ride them. I have everything, however, against my daughter riding on the back of a motorcycle with a boy. I also plan to have issues with her riding in a car with a boy, getting on a bus with a boy, being in the same time zone with a boy, etc.
I know that you are thinking I am setting myself up for a world of rebellion. Well, you may be right, but who, I ask, will unlock the handcuffs that link her wrist and mine? (It’s for her own good.)
But back to the birthday party. When it came time for mini-golf (for the record, 5-year-olds are not interested in a discussion on the term “Putt-Putt” and its proper, trademarked use), about a dozen kids swarmed the course. I was thinking that it would take forever for them to play. Man, was I wrong.
When a hoard of kids hits the mini-golf course, they attack at once. At any given time, there may be five or six kids on the same hole. And they play some sort of hybrid golf-hockey game, where the ball doesn’t have to actually stop before you hit it. Oh, and if you feel the hole it taking too long, you are entitled to pick up the ball, drop it in the hole and sprint to next hole.
After the golf, the kids returned to the arcade and were given some tokens to play games. The first game Allie wanted to play is the single greatest game ever invented: skeeball. For those of you not familiar with skeeball, I order you to stop what you are doing this moment, go to Chuck E. Cheese and play a round.
While I take more of a finesse approach to skeeball, Allie takes more of a reckless-abandon-brute-strength approach. She has on more than one occasion launched the skeeball off the ramp and into the arcade. This makes skeeball far more entertaining, since there is always a chance you may get to fetch ice for someone’s rapidly swelling bruise.
After skeeball, she and another friend decided to play air hockey. For this machine, two tokens bought you a game of air hockey, with the game continuing until someone reached seven goals. I am fairly certain that eternity is best defined as the time it takes two 5-year-olds to finish a game of seven-goal air hockey. Fortunately, their patience was even less than their air hockey skills, so they abandoned that after a while.
Before we knew it, the party was up, and we were heading on our way. It was actually a lot of fun. It’s kind of a bonus for me because I get to go hang out in an arcade and, rather than looking like a very geeky and possibly disturbing old man, I can simply say, “Birthday party. For the kid.”
I am sure this weekend will be more parties, and I will be plenty willing to take her, if need be. I have to remember that there may come a day when she doesn’t want me to accompany her to parties. And she is entitled to feel that way. Of course, she’s not entitled to the handcuff key.

A case of the threes

I’m no doctor, but I think I can confidently diagnose my son’s current illness: Parker has a terrible case of the threes.
It is quite a change from the Parker we are used to. I was going back through some old columns, and found some snippets I wrote about Parker, and compare them to the Parker of today.

May 2004 — “He very rarely gets upset. We’re talking about a kid who, when he got a shot one time, stared at the nurse and ripped the Band-Aid off. The boy is solid.”
Getting upset is one of his hobbies now. And we know that he’s faking it, since he turns it on and off like a faucet. Can’t have a snack? WAAAA!!! Can’t have a toy? WAAAA!!! Can’t use Daddy’s power drill? WAAAA!!! Everyone’s left the room? Silence. Sneaky rascal.
So we combat this by not acknowledging the ridiculous tantrums. Sometimes, sure, he has legitimate gripes. (I would be upset if my sister put lollipops in my hair.) But for the most part, when he’s going on and on about nothing, we just, well, ignore him. My wife and I have no problem having a nice conversation about our day as Parker sits on the ground wailing “I...WANT...A...HORSE!!!!”

March 2004 — “Parker has this routine to go to sleep: (1) He waits until the clock strikes 7:00 (2) He drops like a narcoleptic on sleeping pills.”
Bedtime is now a super adventure. Three-year-olds are very mobile and very dexterous, meaning they are very good escape artists. You may think he’s asleep. You may think he’s down for the count. But then you turn around and find him standing in the middle of a kitchen saying, “Me want a bath.” You explain to him that he just had a bath, to which he responds, “NO!! A JUICE BOX!!!” It’s very hard to reason with this.
He also plays a game of parental tennis, in which he begs for Mommy, who takes him, at which point he immediately begs for Daddy, who takes him, at which point he immediately begs for the dog, who wisely pretends not to hear us.

February 2004 — “When it comes to Parker being a picky eater, there is more chance that Parker will be named starting center for the San Antonio Spurs this season.”
These days, regardless of what you feed him, he will want something else. And that “something else” is usually whatever is on his sister’s plate, even if it is the same thing. My wife and I make a point of not making Allie cave to every one of her brother’s requests, because there’s not reason she should have to give up something constantly just to avoid a temper tantrum from Parker. Or is there...wait, never mind. Bad precedent.

So here we are, a raging case of the threes swooping over the house. I know some of you out there are thinking that we should be bringing down the discipline hammer or be more firm with our decisions. And I am sure that most of you who say that do not, currently, have three-year olds. The thing is, he’s still, for the most part a really sweet kid. He’s a very huggy kid, and still has times where he just wants to curl up in your lap and snuggle with you. Every child goes through the stages of trying to find his boundaries and see how far he can get with the power of stubbornness.
My wife and I are trying differing approaches to weather the storm. And if this is the worst we have to deal with, it’s a breeze. Children being children is nothing to sweat. Sometimes, when he is sprawled in the middle of the floor wailing about, say, wanting to go swimming at 8:00 at night when it’s 40 degrees outside, I will get on the floor with him and wail about what I want (it’s usually a Corvette). He finds that absolutely hysterical. Similarly, when he is in the middle of refusing to eat, I will start eating his dinner. Usually only a bite or two into it, his primal instincts kick in and he shoves most of a peanut butter sandwich in his mouth.
His sister went through her trying times, too, and I am sure that there will be more. (I have been told that being the parent of a teenager is nature’s way of making sure you have no qualms about sending them off to college.) I am sure before we know it, he’ll be through this stage. A raging case of the threes does cure up on its own, usually when they acquire a case of the fours...

Cell it to me

So recently, I was complaining about the high cost of cell phones.
“Way too expensive,” I said authoritatively. “And too many bells and whistles. Ridiculous.”
Shortly into my not-asked-for and ill-informed rant on the prohibitive cost of cell phones, someone asked how long I had been with my current carrier. Several years, I said. “You know you can upgrade your phone for free, right?” The tone in which he said this implied that I should have probably known this. Being careful not to tip my hand, I offered a “Harumph!” and went on my way.
So I went to the cell phone store to check out this whole” free phone” thing. I know that my wife and I both got free phones when we signed on. But we really were in need of new phones. For one thing, we got our phones around 1941. (They are actually corded and rotary.) Plus, they are the exact same model, so we invariably get each other’s phones. It’s not that anyone really exciting or secretive is calling. More than anything, it’s a pain to try and call her and have your phone bark at you that you can’t dial the phone’s own number.
So I went to the store and asked them if I was eligible for a free phone. Indeed, I was, and had been for a while. “OK,” I said, “where are the free phones?” The cellular industry, continuing their long-standing tradition of playing puppeteer with the American people, has made a crafty little hurdle for us to jump through. “Oh, the free phones aren’t here. You have to do that online.”
Fair enough, though, what with “free” being the key word here. I went online and found out that there were about a dozen phones in the free range. I decided I would take charge of the situation and pick my phone out. My wife could then pick her phone out of the remaining ones. Leadership. Taking charge. That’s me.
ME: OK, I picked out my phone. Time for you to pick yours.
HER: But what if I want the one you picked?
ME: Then...I’ll...uh...
HER: Pick a different one?
ME: I guess so.
HER: Good boy.
Fortunately, she picked a different phone. We both got the flip phones, which means that for the rest of my time with this phone, I will hang up by flipping the phone closed, and then open it back up to make completely sure that the phone is, in fact, off. I am sure that I am not alone in this paranoia.
When the phone arrived, I was very excited. After all, it’s a new toy, and toys are meant to be played with. So I went and plugged the phone into the wall and let it charge for a couple of minutes, just enough time to get enough battery juice so that I could find out the colors, sounds, etc. of the phone. I turned it on, expecting it to magically know that it was my phone. Apparently, I did not order the magic model. Using my boring old home phone, I called a friend of mine who knows way more about technology than I ever care to.
ME: Hey, my new phone isn’t working.
HIM: You turned it on?
ME: Uh, yeah.
HIM: NO!!! RULE NUMBER ONE IS NEVER TURN IT ON FIRST!!!
ME: Whatever. If that were the case, they would have told me that.
HIM: Go look in the box.
Now, it is my contention that if rule number one is NOT to play with your new toy, it should NOT be put on some piece of paper that is thrown in with the useless stuff in the box, such as packing materials and user manuals. If you want to stop someone from playing with a new toy, the entire box should be plastered with warnings: “WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT TURNING ON THIS PHONE, LEST YOU CRIPPLE ALL CELLULAR SATELLITES AND CRASH THEM INTO THE SPACE STATION!!!”
Eventually, I had to sheepishly go back to the store and hope they would have mercy on my poor, dumb, free online soul. I brought my son with me, hoping that a doe-eyed 3-year-old would keep them from saying out loud what they probably thought about me. Fortunately, they did have sympathy, and fiddled with it for a few minutes and made it work.
So we now have our new phones, and I have to say they are quite snappy. And they work, which is an added bonus I rarely achieve when it comes to matters of technology. And you can’t beat the price.

Magic Vacation, part 2

So last week the family hit Disney’s Magic Kingdom and Animal Kingdom. This week, we conclude the vacation with a blitz tour of EPCOT and MGM Studios.
EPCOT, which stands for something that I once knew, is most known for its giant silver ball, called Spaceship Earth. Spaceship Earth had been shut down for several years undergoing a much needed revamping. The ride inside takes you through the journey of communication, and the last time I went on it, the ride ended with you traveling through a scene they hailed the future, with the announcer boldly predicting, “In the future, phones will have NO CORDS!!! You will be able to RECORD FROM YOUR TELEVISION SET!!!”
I was pleased to see that the future now extends beyond 1978. And the kids enjoyed the ride, too. Allie liked it because it was interesting and informative. Parker liked it because there were (a) cavemen and (b) football.
After Spaceship Earth, we milled about EPCOT for a while when it occurred to us: EPCOT is about as exciting to a 5- and 2-year-old as a tax seminar, so we decided we would scoot on over to MGM Studios. Our main objective at MGM was to hit Playhouse Disney, a stage show of the popular Disney Channel morning block of kid-friendly programming featuring such stars as Winnie the Pooh, Stanley, Jo Jo and Goliath, Bear in the Big Blue House and Gigantor the Destroyer (that last one may not be one).
At Playhouse Disney, they herd hundreds of parents and kids into a big auditorium for the performance. And if there is room for one more person, they will let another 50 in. (There is actually a sign posted that reads: “We are Disney. No fire marshall can tell us what to do.”) Once the show began, the kids had a great time singing and dancing to the songs during the performance. And when those doors shut, every adult in the room officially abandoned any shred of maturity and dignity. I think I could make a small fortune by videotaping the adults and then charging them a fee to turn the tape over to them.
ME: Ma’am, I have a tape of you doing the Morning Mambo in public. This tape can be yours for $50.
MOM: Sold.
Granted, in some ways, that’s what makes it fun. I mean, I have no problem making a fool of myself in public (Note from Mike’s wife: Really? Shocker there.) But for others, I think it’s a time to let loose some inner child that needs to get out and, well, do the Morning Mambo with an eight foot bear and 500 kids. Let’s be honest, in your job, when is the last time you stood up in the middle of your workspace, spun in circles and stomped your feet and popped bubbles? Well, yes, you, sir, we know. And that’s why you are no longer employed as a surgeon. But for the rest of us, it was right therapeutic, in a strange, geeky way.
After Playhouse Disney, I decided it was time to take Allie on her first Star Wars adventure. The Star Tours ride is a simulator that takes you cruising around in space (including a battle run to the Death Star). Allie is now tall enough to ride these rides, and seems to enjoy them. When we strapped ourselves into the Star Tour seats, Allie turned to me and showed a concerned look.
ALLIE: Daddy, promise this is pretend?
ME: Of course it is.
ALLIE: Daddy – PROMISE – we are NOT really going to space.
Of the few certainties in life you can provide your children, I felt confident that I could without a doubt promise her that, in fact, we would not go into space. (Although the 1986 Kate Capshaw masterpiece “Space Camp” did give pause for consideration.)
When we exited Star Tours, we were greeted by my wife, who informed us that the parade was about to start, and that some of the kids were being asked to be part of it. My wife decided to take charge and ask a Disney employee how one went about being part of the parade. “Here,” the woman said, handing my wife a blue index card, “I have one left. She’s in.” Simple as that.
Allie and about a dozen other kids would bring up the rear of the parade, carrying a velvet rope behind Mickey and Minnie’s car. Also, they had a peach seat right at the beginning where all of the characters walked past. Allie had very little problem becoming one with the parade, even showing a well-perfected princess wave.
By the end of the day, there were two very tired individuals moving at a slow pace through the parks. And the kids were pretty spent, too. That night, Parker and I bunked back at the room while my wife and Allie headed out for one last fireworks hoorah. Parker, bless his tired little heart, simply ran out of steam. When you are not quite 3 years old and log four Disney parks in three days, you get to the point where you just need to crash.
Allie’s highlight of her final night was meeting the princesses, which had been the goal of the whole trip for her so far. I did not meet any princesses, which in some ways is good, because it always seems like my daughter stands just far enough away so that I look like I am some creepy guy standing in line to meet princesses by myself.
By the time we pulled the car back in our driveway, we had logged a lot of miles and a lot of fun. We joke that this is our annual pilgrimage, and will hopefully keep going each year for years to come. And, for those of you who think the kids will outgrow it, you may be right. But I, for one, think you never get too old to drive far away from home, set aside your cares, and act like a fool in public. Now, if I could just remember the “drive away from home” part, I’d have it made.

Magic Vacation, part 1

There is nothing like going on vacation and having an African tribesman tell you that you don’t know how to dress your children.
No, we did not take a family vacation for a big game hunt. Rather, we headed for our annual pilgrimage to Disney, which goes to great lengths to bring authenticity to everything it does, including its parenting tips from a man with a bone in his nose.
But more on that later. We started our Disney adventure on Thursday, with our sights on the Magic Kingdom. And nothing gets you going like waking up at the crack of dawn to Parker, who is almost three, flinging open the curtains to the hotel room and screaming, “IT’S A PRETTY DAY!!!! LET’S GO TO DI-DNEY!!!” I, of course, responded to this by covering my head with a pillow.
Eventually, we got up and running and were ready to hit the park. Allie, who is five, was adamant that the first thing we would do was to ride Dumbo, the flying elephant ride. We got to the park shortly after it opened, and made a beeline to Dumbo. While Dumbo’s line was sort of long (about 30 minutes), I am pleased to report that it was the longest line we stood in all week. For those of you looking to find short lines at Disney, I have one simple suggestion – no diaper changes. It’s amazing how fast the lines clear for you.
After Dumbo, we hit the requisite rides, the main one, of course, being “It’s a Small World.” I am in the minority, in that I love the ride. That is because, in 1996, I was on it and it broke down, and I was subjected to about 30 minutes of the song, while the freaky little dolls were motionless. I have an extreme case of the Stockholm Syndrome, and must return to my captors’ beloved embrace whenever I can.
One of the most memorable moments of Magic Kingdom came when Allie and my wife rode Splash Mountain, a water ride that sends you barreling down a steep drop to be soaked. While I am sure that was fun for them, I enjoyed mine and Parker’s theater in the park production of “The Birds.” You see, as we were waiting for them to ride, I got Parker some popcorn. And birds, it turns out, LOVE them some popcorn. By the time it was over, Parker had a tremendous assortment of birds hanging around his stroller, begging for popcorn. And then the seagulls showed up. Party over, birds.
We spent the bulk of the day at Magic Kingdom, and cut out around dinner time to head back to the hotel. My wife and Allie went back to the park for the fireworks show, while Parker and I opted to stay back at the hotel room and argue the definition of “crabby.”
Day two was Animal Kingdom day. Animal Kingdom is essentially Disney’s version of a zoo, except that they have the amazing ability to make it rain whenever you are there. I have now been to Animal Kingdom five times, and it has rained every time. My guess is that their gift shop sales are lagging behind other parks, and they use their Disney powers to create rainfall to force you into gift shops. We were there with another family, and when the rain started, the father of the family said, “Listen – you can hear the sound of the ponchos being marked up!” True indeed.
But the rain was fleeting, and we were able to see lots of cool animals. Hippos, gorillas, tigers, international tourists who believe that clothing was intended to merely drape the body, not actually cover things.
As we were strolling through the park, we heard the sounds of drums, which we soon saw were coming from an authentic African tribe performing a fantastic routine. We watched for about 10 minutes, up to the conclusion, at which point Allie decided she wanted to meet the performers. Fair enough.
As we’re mingling amidst the folks – decked out in traditional African tribal garb – one of the drummers comes up to my wife and, in full African accent, says, “Excuse me, ma’am, but your son’s shoes on the wrong feet.”
Indignantly, we cut a look down at Parker. And saw his shoes on the wrong feet. So there you go. But before those without children pass judgment, I feel confident that any parent who has ever tried to dress a squirming child who is gearing up for a day at Disney is thrilled that both shoes end up on feet. Right/left is just gravy.
As we concluded Day Two of our Disney adventure, the kids were still having a great time. We had two parks to go. And one day to do it. We were up against the clock. We would have to move swiftly on our final day. No time to waste.
Join us next week for the conclusion of our Disney vacation, where we are fairly sure we put our kids’ shoes on the correct feet.

Clean Sweep, part 2

As you may recall from last week, my sisters and I (and spouses) had begun a clean sweep of my parents’ house. At the halfway point, we had succeeded in, essentially, turning my parents’ house into massive piles of quasi-organized rubble. Calling it off at this point was not an option. We were in too deep.
My sisters decided that one thing that needed to be done was to switch around some china cabinets. And, as is usually the case, the cabinet in need of the longest move was the one that weighed approximately the same as a Ford pickup truck. Fortunately, it was two pieces, so it was only like moving a couple of Ford Escorts. Once we had the gargantuan piece moved, my sisters opted for 40-50 new locations to try out, just to ensure that my brothers-in-law and I had ample chance to bang our knees, crush our hands in doors, etc. We appreciate the spreading of pain wealth.
The next big issue was the consolidation of all of the stuff that we had pulled out of closets, drawers, etc. My mother’s collectibles (owls and turtles, if you recall), were in need of sorting and filing. I sort and file things thusly: If it fits on a shelf, it goes there. Apparently, my sisters have a different approach to decorating, and ordered me (along with my brothers-in-law Jim and Keith) to the garage to, in their words, “do something out of the way.”
In the garage, we decided we should probably take on the most sensible task for guys relegated to the garage, which was to begin drinking beer. When we realized it was 9:30 in the morning, it occurred to us that we might want to pursue a different endeavor.
We decided to split up on some different projects. Jim took on the garage. Keith went in to hauling items as directed. And I complained about the line for sausage biscuits at the fast food restaurant. (Everyone has a niche.)
By lunch time, we were starting to see glimmers of progress (however fleeting they may have been.) At one point, I stood in the den, the bookshelf halfway put back together, and noticed that my one sister, who had been working in there, had moved on to a different room. At this point, Overbearing Mike had to make a stand. “CAN WE NOT FINISH ONE ROOM BEFORE MOVING ON?”
Based on the convergence of angry sisters and wife who immediately appeared before me, I quickly realized the answer was “no.” It turns out, Saturday was still on the sorting and disassembling mode. Sunday, I was very firmly informed, would be for finishing.
By evening, we were starting to see real progress. My wife and sisters decided they would set off to various stores to track down rugs. Jim, Keith and I were instructed to begin plans for the “Message Center.” The message center was a shelf placed over a table in my parents’ den. Below the shelf would be a plywood + wood frame + corkboard contraption that would be secured beneath the shelf. Someone with design talent (read: not us) would affix a calendar, notepads, pens, etc. And the crowning achievement would be a hidden window shade that pulled down to conceal the message center. It’s actually a very cool contraption. Although, upon seeing it, my parents first made a face that made us quickly say, “No, we didn’t put a window into the bathroom on the other side of the wall.”
So when the rug hunters came home, they entered the garage, where we had been working on plans. Thinking they would be pleased with our detailed planning, imagine our shock when we were greeted with, “We leave you alone for two hours and all you do is drink beer!?!?!?!” Imagine the reaction had we started at 9:30. We tried to explain that the beers in hand were simply a reward for detailed planning session, a comment that was met with a disapproving “Hmmph.”
On Sunday, we were ready for the homestretch. Things were really coming in to place. Pictures were back on the wall. Shelves were inhabited by turtles and owls. Life was good.
About 5 p.m., my parents pulled in the driveway. The look on their face was priceless, mainly because I can’t put a price on the look of sheer helplessness and terror my parents tried to mask, wondering what their insane children had done inside their home.
Once they got inside, I am pleased to say they were thrilled with what we had done. Or I am pleased to say they are terrific actors. We did assure them that we had not thrown out anything of consequence. (We could tell they were concerned about that. One of my dad’s first question: “Hey, where’s my dog!?!?!” Some trust he has.)
In all, I think the weekend was a success. The house is clean swept, my parents have their home back and, hopefully, the dog will turn up soon.

Clean sweep

I think the phrase that most sums up the weekend is, “So where does a book on koalas go?”
That is about the level of common sense questioning that evolves from a group of siblings banding together to “Clean Sweep” their parents’ house.
For those of you not addicted to TLC television network, “Clean Sweep” is a show where folks come into a residence and basically pull everything out and start from scratch. They organize, redecorate and consolidate the house, and throw out gobs of stuff. For those of you who have never seen the show, turn on TLC at any moment of the day, and it will be on. Sometimes, I am pretty sure they run a couple of episodes at a time.
On most of the shows, the house they are working on looks less like a house, and more like a place where someone dumped 10,000 storage sheds. Rooms are impassable, closets are so full they won’t open, and people are often trapped under the rubble. (I may be making up that last part.)
Fortunately, my parents’ house was not like the ones on the “Clean Sweep.” Rather, it was the standard house for a couple with four grown children. I feel pretty confident that, had each of us just taken our stuff as we left, we could have avoided the weekend.
The first thing we did was to take down all of the pictures, clear off the shelves, empty cabinets, etc. Everything would be sorted, cleaned, organized, etc. The two of the biggest piles that developed were of books and of my mother’s collectibles. (They were originally dubbed “knickknacks,” but I for one just can’t bring myself to say that, so I made the phrase verboten for the weekend. It was an edict that, despite my firm delivery tone, was not adhered to.)
The book pile was massive. Everyone in my family has always been a book junkie, as stands to reason for a family littered with writers and editors through the generations. But some of the books, well, maybe had a great purpose in a previous time, but were ready to move on to be enjoyed by others. (Hence the “koala” comment.)
The knick-kn...er...statue...piece...thingees presented a different challenge. My mother has several collections, and with collections, once folks realize you have a particular kind of item, the collection begins to multiply. For my mother, it’s owls and turtles. The turtles I understand, since my father is a biologist and studies turtles. Owls? No idea where that started. At one point, I asked my sisters, semi-seriously, “What happens if one day, she opens a present, sees an owl and just snaps – ENOUGH WITH THE OWLS ALREADY! I HATE THEM! FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, I SAY SOMETHING NICE ABOUT AN OWL JUST TO BE POLITE 30 YEARS AGO AND THIS IS WHAT I GET!?!?! A CERAMIC OWL BREEDING GROUND?!?!?!) (Editor’s note: Mom assures us she loves the owls.)
So after a few hours, we had accomplished the following: We had taken every possession of my parents and put it in piles around the house. So not exactly putting the “clean” in “clean sweep.”
After a while, there was a lot of breakable stuff on the floor, so my wife and sisters decided it was time for my brothers-in-law and me to, in essence, go away. We were banished to the basement, where we were tasked with tackling my dad’s card collection. You see, my dad is a sentimentalist, and he collects beautiful greeting cards. Ha! Little joke there. Actually, what my dad collects are playing cards. I would bet it is one of the largest collections of airline playing cards in the world. It’s certainly the largest I’ve seen. Upon his return, I told him I now know why Delta does give out playing cards: He has them all. So Jim, Keith and I began devising some cool display options for his cards. He has thousands of decks of cards, so we decided to start out with the basics: Domestic airlines, international airlines, and Delta airlines. (For what it’s worth, if you have ever received a deck of cards, I will bet you my dad has the same one. A dozen times over.)
Using our vast guy talents, we fashioned some very cool display boxes (yes, so my wife pointed out that my old insect collection display cases would work perfectly, but it still took ingenuity on our part to figure out how to hang them).
At the conclusion of day one, the house resembled one in which small explosive devices had been set off in each room. My sister assured me that, over the next two days, rooms would begin to come to order. I will share the conclusion with you next week. And let you know where the koala book goes.

Curiously entertaining

I knew it was going to be fun taking Parker to his first movie when I asked him what we would see the movie on and he said, “TB?” (I speak Parkerese, so I knew he meant television, not tuberculosis.)
Parker’s almost three, and this would be his first trip to see an actual, big screen performance. Allie was about this age when we took her to see her first movie, “Finding Nemo.” She enjoyed a good nine seconds of that movie before deciding to roam the aisles, play horsey on Daddy’s leg, try and pry Skittles off the floor to eat, etc.
But Parker’s different. Allie is like yours truly. Sitting still has never been a strong suit. (I will pause for a moment to allow any former teachers reading this to catch their breath after screaming themselves into near-hyperventilation, “NOT A STRONG SUIT?!?!! YOU THINK!?!?!?!”) But Parker can just chill out for hours. When he was about a year old, my wife came downstairs and saw Parker and me hanging out on the couch.
HER: What are you doing?
ME: Watching a movie. Parker’s just been relaxing the whole time.
HER: Is that Pulp Fiction?
ME: Relax. It’s on cable. They edit a lot out.
HER: Seriously, is that Pulp Fiction?
But the point is, he could sit and hang out perfectly still, even watching a movie that, quite frankly, is confusing. So I was eager to take Parker to his first movie, knowing that there was a good chance he not only had a great time, but also sat relatively still. And the timing was great, since a movie had just come out that was perfect for The Dude: the remake of the horror classic “When a Stranger Calls.”
Ha! Kidding, of course. We went to see “Curious George,” as Parker is a big fan of the books and of monkeys in general, partly because I told him that his sister is a monkey we found, and we shaved her and cut off her tail. (The older she gets, the less funny she find this. I am guessing come, say, prom night, it could result in full-scale meltdown.)
When we entered the movie theater, the first thing we noticed was a line at the concession area that stretched roughly to Cincinnati. I told Parker that we would come back shortly for popcorn, as the previews would soon be starting, and he needed to learn that previews are an integral part of the movie process. We entered the theater and I was pleased to see that there were only about six people in the place. And then I started walking down the aisle and realized that, in fact, there were WAY many more people, but that most of their heads did not make it over the back of the chairs. We kept walking, just looking for two open seats, which we did not find until the very first row. I turned to Parker. “Well, I guess these are our seats.” He was not listening. He was busy staring, mouth agape, at the biggest stinking “TB” he had ever seen.
“What do you think,” I said.
“Ge-oooooorge,” he whispered.
The movie, I am pleased to say, is the theatrical equivalent of a warm blanket. It is faithful adaptation of the books. As one review said, “If you like primary colors, you’ll like this movie.” It was a pure, innocent, kind, easygoing movie that Parker -- and everyone in the theater, so far as I could tell -- loved. Plus, the soundtrack was by Jack Johnson, so the formerly hip and cool parents could say out loud, “Yeah, just enjoying some Jack Johnson.” And then get back to secretly enjoying Curious George.
Oh, and we did get popcorn. Right as the movie was starting, I scurried to the lobby to grab a popcorn and a couple of drinks. I got two medium drinks, which was really not smart, because a medium movie drink would be roughly the equivalent of all of the liquids Parker had consumed in his entire life. Parker further illustrated that my choice of drinks was off when he discovered he could not hold it himself, dropping it on the floor and flooding about 18 gallons of Sprite onto the floor. Every mother in the theater was looking at me as if to say, “Why would you get him a medium?” Every dad was looking at the floor saying, “Ack! That’s $6!!!”
Drink crisis aside, the movie was a great treat. For the last 15-20 minutes, Parker opted to climb in my lap and lie down, but that’s partly because we were on the first row, and had been staring straight up at a giant monkey for an hour. In all, he proved that he is definitely game for the theater. I can’t wait to take him again. I wonder if they’ll re-release Pulp Fiction onto the big screen.

Atlanta whirlwind

It’s a pretty good day when you can say that running the bases at Turner Field may not have been the coolest thing you did that day.
And don’t get me wrong – that is one of the coolest things I have ever done, especially since my kids ran it, too. But that was just a snapshot on of the busier days I have spent in Atlanta.
The Atlanta idea came together around Christmas, when my wife and her stepmom decided they were in dire need of a day at the spa. (Poor things.) The spa is in Atlanta, and has a very French sounding name, which means it is expensive. Well, needless to say, spas are meant to relax you, so the idea of having a couple of kids climbing over you knocking the cucumbers off your eyes does little on the relaxing side, so the kids and I would team up with my father-in-law and set off on our own Atlanta adventure.
My father-in-law decided it would be a good idea for us to go the recently opened Georgia Aquarium. I will spare you the suspense: The Georgia Aquarium is the greatest thing mankind has ever produced, and I include space travel and democracy in that list. It is, quite frankly, awesome.
The aquarium is so popular that they recommend you make reservations to go. Ours was for 9 a.m., which was good, because any time you have things planned with kids, you need to get it rolling as close to wake-up time as possible. Otherwise, you will hear “Is it time to go? Is it time to go? Is it time to go?” until it is time to go.
We decided our first stop at the aquarium would be the beluga whales, since word is that draws the biggest crowd. We figured we should get it out of the way before the late-reservation-having riff-raff started crowding the joint. When you walk in to the viewing area, you see why they are the most popular exhibit. The things are freaky, in a weird, hypnotic way. I am somewhat thinking that beluga whales do not, in fact, exist, but are very well done movie special effects. The way they slowly spin through the water and peer out at you is absolutely fascinating. Add to the fact that the Aquarium has this soothing, new age music playing and a soft-spoken, well informed guide telling you about the whales, and I am fairly certain they could start a cult-conversion and hook a a lot of people:
ANNOUNCER: The beluga whales are native to the Arctic region and live in communities known as pods. And now is the time to abandon your worldly possessions and come for a ride on the comet with your new family.
CROWD: Pods! How about that! Come on, kids. Time to get on the comet.
There are five main exhibit areas, and each one is very well done. Both of the kids enjoyed the viewing areas where you could just sit and watch the thousands of fish swim by. And Parker enjoyed the interactive exhibits where you could touch things such as stingrays and star fish. Allie? Not so much. But I understand that kids are sometimes squeamish when it comes to touching things, so I was kind and nurturing, telling her, “Allie, if you don’t touch the horseshoe crab, next Christmas is canceled.”
Ha! Kidding, of course. I would never do such a thing. Not with other people around.
While I could go on and on about the cool stuff there, I won’t, as you need to go check it out for yourself. We finished up shortly after noon, and decided to check out Turner Field, which was having Winter FanFest. For the FanFest, they open up the stadium and let you roam about, intermingling with Major League legends such as Joey Devine, who, I believe, may or may not be a Braves pitcher.
But the best part of FanFest, by far, was going down on the field and running the bases. While it seems goofy, your inner kid really comes out when you run the bases of an actual Major League stadium. Of course, when you see your daughter and son rounding third, it makes it even cooler, especially since my daughter’s dream is to be the first female Major Leaguer. (It’s either hers or mine. I get confused.)
Before we knew it, it was almost 2:30. My father-in-law was commenting on what a big day we had experienced already. Pretty solid tag-teaming, we said, applauding our awesomeness.
“Daddy,” Allie said, interrupting our self-congratulatory celebration, “do we get lunch?” Oh, yeah. Food. Probably should have been on the agenda. When we left the stadium, we went to a restaurant called Zesto’s. It’s like The Varsity, only without 48 trillion people inside. And if your cholesterol is ever dangerously low, I highly recommend the Chubby Decker with onion rings.
At the end of the day, all four of us were worn out, in a good way. I can’t wait to get back to the aquarium, and I am also looking forward to getting back to Turner Field. Hopefully, that will be before Allie’s first game there.

The princess diary

White dress. Fancy shoes. Tiara. Wow, did I look pretty.
Ha! Kidding, of course. It was my daughter, decked out in her favorite princess attire for a recent princess party. The princess party came about as a result of a charity auction we attended a while back. My folks and my in-laws teamed up to bid on the party, which would bring her and her princess friends together for an afternoon of very princessly activities.
Allie is very much in the princess stage, as is required by the Federal Disney Regulation, which states, “Any girl between the ages of 4 and 7 must at all times be within the presence of no fewer than 41,000 princesses. And not those cut-rate generic princess. Real, licensed Disney princesses. Failure to comply will result in forced ostracism and future therapy bills taller than Cinderella’s castle.”
We are certainly in compliance. We have princess plates, princess pictures, princess toys. Even the occasional princess son, which I have tried to talk to my daughter about, but find it difficult when my son is saying, “NOOOOO!!!! ME PLAY PRINCESS!!!” And most times, when I try and convince him that it would be far better to play fireman or space ranger or Hugh Hefner, he runs from the room, princess dress trailing behind him. But that’s an issue for another day.
So we are very into princesses in my house. When we told Allie about the princess party, she was very excited and showed this by not sleeping for 23 days and only saying, “Is it time for my princess party? Is it time for my princess party? Is it time for my princess party?”
Eventually, the day arrived. Donned in a perfect princess outfit, she joined 11 of her friends at a bed and breakfast, where they were greeted by four different beauty queens, including Miss Aiken County. Now, perhaps you are not a 5-year-old girl. And perhaps you have never been one. Allow me to equate this. To a 5-year-old girl, entering a room and being greeted by Miss Aiken County is comparable to my entering a room and being greeted by Joe Montana. (Granted, I doubt Miss Aiken County could have hit that pass to Dwight Clark, so I claim a slight edge.)
Once the princesses were seated, the Fairy Godmother made her entrance. And I can say that for 11 of the girls, the Fairy Godmother was an instant treat. And for one of them, it was a reason to run crying from the room. Eventually, after several of us chased Allie down the block, we coaxed her to return. I am not sure why, but she has always gotten frightened at the silliest things. Well, I consider them silly. My wife generally thinks I am being insensitive. I still maintain “Wallace and Grommit” is only slightly more frightening than a piece of carpet fuzz.
When Allie got back in, Fairy Godmother did whisper something in her ear, and Allie seemed calmed by it. (Granted, she may have said, “Sit down and behave and your Dad will buy you a car when you’re 12.”) They proceeded to play some games and sing some songs with the Fairy Godmother, including the chicken dance. If you have never seen a gaggle of 5-year-olds do the chicken dance, I highly recommend it. It looks like a giant octopus having a seizure.
After the games, the girls sat for their princess cakes. One nice thing about a 5-year-old princess is that certain table manners can be placed aside during such events as cake, meaning the girls were free to eat as though it was their first meal in days, and they only had 15 seconds to eat.
Next up was the princess lessons. Two of the beauty queens gave all of the princesses lessons on how to wave, walk, sit, etc. During the wave lessons, I drew some curious glances when I blurted out, “Elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist.” I am not sure why I know that or why I felt the need to share it. I promised my wife an answer soon.
The party concluded with a horse-drawn carriage ride, which I added a little excitement to by running alongside and screaming, “OHMIGOSH!!! IT’S TURNING INTO A PUMPKIN!!! JUMP!!!” OK, I would never do that. Not with my wife AND mother watching.
In the end, the party was a great success, and I am not sure how we will top it. Unless we can get Joe Montana.

Bowling Allie

The time it takes you to ready this paragraph 41 times will be about the same amount of time it takes for a bowling ball released from the hands of a 5-year-old to reach the pins.
I learned this the other day when I took my daughter bowling. My wife has developed an incredibly intricate system of rewards for good behavior, and let Allie pick out some of the big scores she was working toward. I was pleased that one thing she wanted to earn was a bowling trip with Daddy. (She also wanted to earn “a trip to Daddy’s work to get Skittles,” but I think that shows more of an affinity to the snack machine.)
My wife and I have always tried to make sure we both made time for the kids individually as well as together, so that they can get some one-on-one time. (In the long-run, I think I will have the advantage, because you try and get a 15-year-old boy to spend a mommy-son day.)
So after several days of stellar behavior (good bedtimes, cleaning up, not packaging and mailing her brother), she earned the bowling trip.
So Allie and I headed off to the great bowling adventure. I told her that we would not only bowl, but get lunch at the bowling alley as well. Grilled cheese, she said, not even needing a menu. Focus. Pure focus.
We entered the alley and found that it was jam packed. Lots of kids. Lots of balloons. Lots of gift bags. Lots of squealing. Lots of slow-moving bowling balls.
We waited in line behind a gaggle of kids and approached the counter. “Got a lane for two?” I asked.
“Which party are you with?”
“Just us,” I said.
He picked up a clipboard. “Wow...” he glanced back up at us. “It’s probably gonna be about three hours until I get a lane. I’m booked solid on parties.”
At this point, I had a decision to make. I could tell Allie that there was no room, and we would have to bowl another day, or I could go against everything I teach my children and say, “I’m sorry, I meant to say we we’re with THAT party.”
Knowing I had to do the right thing, I turned to the man and said, “Here’s $50. Make it happen, chief.”
Kidding. I wouldn’t have given him more than $20.
Actually, I turned to Allie and said, “Sweetie, there’s a lot of birthday parties here, and I’m afraid there isn’t room here for us.” I kinda nodded back to the guy behind the counter so her potential disappointment would be with him, and she could bring him up 20 years from now in therapy.
I watched her reaction, waiting for the waterworks. Or perhaps a tantrum. Or perhaps just a sad, hangdog look and subsequent shuffling of the feet.
“Daddy, what about the other bowling alley?”
Focus. Pure focus.
In no time, we were at the other bowling alley, and there was ample room for us there. The first order of business was shoes. The man behind the counter asked me what size shoes she needed. “Uh, 5-year-old girl size?” At that point I realized I have no idea what size shoes my kids wear. Perhaps I should know this, but my mother has always been the “Shoe Grandma,” meaning she takes the kids to get shoes all the time. I can only tell you when kids’ shoes are too small. Generally, that is when they scream when you try to get them on.
Eventually, we got the shoes squared away and were ready to roll. Allie headed to the line with her bright orange six-pound ball. Taking the standard stance of a kid bowling, she stood facing the pins, feet shoulder-width apart. Grasping the ball with two hands, she bent over and rocked the ball a couple of times, bringing the ball back between her legs for the final push. And at that point, the ball got wrapped in her dress and sent her stumbling back and the ball clunking to the ground. We realized we needed to do some quick-change dress modification, lest she knock herself down on future throws. Dress out of the way, she launched her first roll. As the ball approached the pins, I went and got us a couple of drinks, did my taxes, watched the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy, etc. Eventually the ball reached the pins. I was somewhat expecting it just to come to rest against the head pin. Instead, it gently nudge the pin over, which was kind enough to create a domino-effect and take out six of its friends.
We ended up bowling two games, and despite the length of time for each game, we had a blast. Since there was not a restaurant at this alley, Allie even conned me into taking her to Chick-Fil-A afterwards, which is like Ruth’s Chris Steak House to a 5-year-old. I was glad that Allie chose me as a reward, and can’t wait to do it again soon. Even if she opts for other rewards, I’ll come out on top in the end. Let’s see Mr. Snack Machine take her to Chick-Fil-A.

Dial-a-Dumpster

If you dial it, they will dump.
For those of you unaware, the City of Aiken has a new program called Dial-a-Dumpster, and I can safely say it if the finest addition to any municipality since running water.
The basis of the program is this: Round up four of your neighbors and all agree to have a big, hideous green trash bin roughly the size of a Great Lake plopped down on your street. That’s it. No charge. No heavy lifting. Just clear a spot in the street.
The Dumpster arrived on Friday morning, and was nestled snugly on the side of our cul-de-sac. The main reason I had wanted to get it is because I had a bunch of large items that could not be put out by the curb. Old pieces of plywood, a broken desk, my failed pool cover weight experiment consisting of numerous PVC pipes. That kind of thing.
When I first saw the Dumpster, I was amazed at its size. My first comment to my wife was, “It’s gonna be embarrassing if they come pick it up and there are only a couple of items in it.”
We quickly learned that would not be a problem. By Saturday afternoon, it was already nearing capacity. Everyone was heading into the deepest, darkest parts of their attics, garages and closets. Computer boxes. Skis. Stairs to a deck. A concrete rabbit. A foosball table. When someone made the comment as to how much money had been invested into actually accumulating the large amount of junk we were getting rid of, we all sighed. Some of us wept on the inside, realizing the number of mortgage payments now sitting in a giant pile of garbage.
Alas, it was not time for depressing reflection. It was time for cleansing. And cleanse we did. All day Saturday, soldiers marched from each of the neighborhood houses, a platoon of trash disposal. Said one neighbor, “I can walk in the garage now!” Said another neighbor, “Hey, what’s that you’re throwing away?” Said this neighbor: “What goes in the Dumpster stays in the Dumpster.”
Occasionally, several of us would meet at the Dumpster, peering in, proud of the quantity and quality of our trash. Often, we would exchange a King-of-the-Hillish “Yup” and then return to digging for stuff to dump.
On Monday, I found that the Dumpster can also provide a valuable service: It detects roof leaks. Having run out of things in the garage and attic to dump, I began to pilfer through some rarely used closets. I opened up one that I am fairly sure I have not been in since we bought the house. There, I noticed a box of old CDs. When I went to lift it, the sides of the box slid right on up. Amazingly, the CDs stayed perfectly still. Curious behavior for a box, I thought. I felt down below and noticed that where there was once a bottom of a box there was now just a moist, pulpy mess. I started checking around and noticed that about half of the floor was soaked. After a very short inspection, I looked and saw a quarter-size spot of daylight. I am no roofer, but I am fairly sure that one of the primary functions of a roof is to keep daylight, among other naturally occurring things, out of your house. I called my wife into the closet and had her stand in there while I went on the roof. I am not sure why I did this, but it seemed very necessary at the time.
Having only had the roof for a short while (previously it was open air), I called the roofing company, who came out and sealed the hole. He also suggested I rake my roof more often. I can safely say that is the first time I have been told that. I wonder if it is some roofing humor that they do, just to see how many dolts will climb on their roofs with rakes.
On the last day of our Dumpster, I was pleased to see that it was overflowing with stuff. I also hope that, when it is hauled off, they use some sort of tarp to cover it, lest the streets of our fair city be strewn with Styrofoam, broken coffee tables and dead trees.
I highly recommend you get together with your neighbors and Dial-a-Dumpster. When you think of quality of life improvements, you don’t think of Dumpsters. But you should. Because it will not only help you cleanse your home and your spirit. It will also fix your roof.

Time heals all wounds

If guys were in charge of giving birth, there is a fairly good chance that babies would not be born in hospitals very often. Rather, they would be born in bowling alleys, on the golf course, at work. Basically, wherever the baby decided, “ENOUGH! I’m outta here.”
That is because most guys are like me, and find that the best medical treatment is to not think about it, and engage in something healthy and distracting such as going to a football game.
I know I do it. And I know the guy who came to my house to fix a leaky pipe did. The line from under the sink that goes to the ice maker had decided to no longer work, and after two feeble attempts at plumbing repair, I called in someone to do it for me.
When he arrived, he told me that I was his last stop for the day. Since this was about 10 a.m., I said, “Half day?”
“Yeah, I think I’m gonna head to the emergency room when I’m done here.”
He proceeded to tell me that he had cracked a tooth up under his gum, and he had developed an abscess in his sinus, and he was in intense pain. I was in intense pain listening to it, so I can only imagine what it actually felt like.
Now, a sensible person would have said, “Hey, I have a searing pain in my face – I better go see a professional.” But guys are not sensible, and so he said, “Well, since I’m on this side of town, lemme knock this one out.”
I have a similar track record. I am the one who drove myself to the doctor prior to being admitted to the cardiac ward with an irregular heartbeat a few years back. The off-beat had been going on all day, but I was under the assumption that ignoring it would make it go away.
And then there was my friend Joe who had a terrible pain in his ear a few years back. Did he go to the doctor? No, he went golfing, because you don’t miss a tee-time. He later found out he had, wedged inside his head, a spider. Yes, an actual spider that came out with a little help from some baby oil.
A couple of weeks ago, my wife noticed that I had been grimacing on occasion. She asked what was wrong. I told her that my stomach had been hurting. She asked for how long. I told her about 10 days. Based on her reaction, I feel it is safe to say that 10 days is slightly beyond the length of time you should let a stomach ache linger.
So I went to the doctor and told him what the problem was. He ordered a series of tests, scans, pokes, prods and such. One concern that he had was a gall bladder issue. He went over some signs to be on the lookout for, and told me to call him or go to the ER if my eyes turned yellow. If there is one thing that does not need to be said, it is “Call a doctor if your eyes turn yellow.” Even I can figure that one out.
So all of my tests and scans came back and it basically said I was fit as a fiddle, healthy as a horse, quick as a wink. OK, not the last one. Speed was not measured. But everything else seemed fine.
At that point, I was given a series of medicines to make my stomach feel better, which had now been hurting for about two weeks. Some of the stuff seemed to help, at least easing the time between when it would hurt.
So I woke up the other morning and told my wife that my stomach was hurting again. She asked if I had been taking my medicine. I told her yes. She asked if I had been taking it like I was supposed to. I said nothing.
She then went on what can only be described as an hours-long rant about how I needed to take the medicine, and how I felt better when I took it, and there was a reason they said to take ALL of the medicine.
“I tried,” I told her.
She wasn’t buying.
So I go back to the doctor soon, and I will sheepishly confess that the medicine seemed to be working, that I possibly did not adhere to it in the strictest of regimens. I am fairly sure I will get a bad mark on my permanent chart. But honesty is the best policy. Well, second best policy. The best, of course, is to hope it magically goes away between now and then.

It will get better

Imagine you are asleep. You are gently nudged awake, and roll over. There you find me, standing there, and I say, “My pants fell down.”
Kinda creepy, yeah?
Well, for some reason, when a two-year-old does it, it’s hilarious. I awoke this way the other morning, and, because I am in the routine of having kids, I simple leaned over, hitched up his drawers, and sent him on his way. In no time, I was back to sleep.
Having two kids, the older being five, I am quite used to the daily hustle and flow and occasional pants falling incident. And no amount of explaining that you get used to the routine and that they eventually sleep is a bit of help to my neighbors, who are about a week into the having-a-kid thing. Surprisingly, they are finding things are slightly different than they were a couple of weeks ago.
The other night, I was taking my trash out to the curb. I saw my neighbor doing the same thing. Well, not the same thing. He was taking HIS trash out. We met in the street, and I commented that he looked somewhat tired. I believe my exact words were, “Dude, do you own a brush?”
Guys don’t sugarcoat things.
But he had this look that all new dads have. The slumped shoulders. The ruffled hair. The bags under the eyes that could be used to smuggle VCRs. And he also had that look of, “If one more parent tells me how it will get better, I will possibly beat them with a bottle warmer.”
I, of course, did not tell him that. As a guy, it is my job to be supportive to my friends, and let them know that I am there if needed. So I made repeated jokes. “Hey, and when the baby goes down, maybe you can put your shirt on right-side-out.” or “Man, I don’t know what to do with the next 10 hours, what with the kids asleep and all.” He was sleep deprived enough that I could easily get away from any attempted bottle warmer assaults.
I remember those days. When Allie was born, I quickly found out that sleep deprivation makes you really, really cranky. Nasty cranky. Yell at the dog cranky. Mumble to yourself cranky. At three weeks, she finally decided to start sleeping. The first night we got a decent night’s sleep, we awoke in a panic. It’s like we had forgotten what it was like to get a real night’s sleep.
Another thing my neighbor is experiencing is that new parent sensation of sheer terror whenever you hear a peep out of the baby. This usually happens right as your drift to sleep. The baby will say what babies say, which is not much, but it is enough to send you lurching out of bed, heart pounding, trying to collect yourself. It’s weird, because your brain is saying, “He’s OK. Babies cry. Be calm. Be cool.” But then the heart says, “BABY CRYING!!!! RUN!!!! COULD BE WOLVES!!!” The heart does not play well with others sometimes.
This phenomenon passes, too. With Allie, I was springing out of bed every few minutes, as was my wife. With Parker, he would have had to play a trombone to get me up. (For the record, this did not go over well with a certain other parent in my house, who insisted I was faking being asleep. For what it’s worth, I was not.)
Another interesting thing that my neighbors are finding out is that babies, well, they don’t do much. They sleep. They eat. They poop. Pretty much a full day’s work. I know that when we first had a child, I kept asking my wife when she would, well, do something. She would begin to give me the timeline for when babies crawl, stand, etc. I would cut her off, and say, “No, I mean do something cool. Like throw a curveball. Or not cry when I jump out from behind a door and scream ‘BOO!’” This is why my wife sighs a lot.
But I did find that a child’s firsts – be it crawls, steps, or laughing at being scared – are all pretty cool. And they will find this, too. And before they know it, they will be able to pass on the wisdom to other parents. The wisdom that it will get better. And it won’t matter a bit to the new parents they are trying to convince.

Bringing Christmas to light

Now that the big day has passed, I can tell you what I got my wife for Christmas: an idea.

Yes, an idea. A big ol' heaping helping of brain surging, topped off with an imaginary bow.

Perhaps some explanation is needed. (Editor's note: You think?) It all started when I went shopping about a week before Christmas. I do my shopping thusly: I postpone, postpone, postpone and then decide to bite the bullet and go on a mad Christmas shopping spree that takes about two hours but gets everything done.

I was in a store, browsing about for that perfect something, when I found exactly what my wife would want: lamps. Now before you award me Romantic of the Year, let me present my defense: A while back, my wife said she wanted lamps. And these were fine lamps.

For some reason, I decided to call my sister, who is a voice of reason. Something inside me said, "Mike, call a voice of reason."

So I had this conversation:

ME: I think I need you to go Christmas shopping with me.

HER: Why?

ME: I'm about to buy lamps.

HER: Don't buy her lamps.

ME: They're nice lamps.

HER: Stop. Now.

So I passed on the very nice lamps and agreed to meet my sister later for something less lampy. That evening, my wife asked me how my shopping went. At that point, I had to tell her about the lamp almost purchase. Little did I know that I had just given my wife her Christmas idea.

The next day, my wife came in beaming. "Guess what I got!?!?!!?"

"Uh, ESP? Tuberculosis? Scurvy?" (I'm terrible at the guessing game.)

"Lamps!"

I stared blankly back at her, because as nice as lamps may be, they've never actually made me giddy.

"Lamps! I got some lamps! Do you want to wrap them or can I go ahead and put them up?"

Far be it from me to ruin the Christmas miracle of new lamps. "Oh, go ahead and put them up. And Merry Christmas!"

Now, I know that many of you out there think I am about the worst husband/gift-giver on the planet. And you may be right. But my wife and I settled on something very early on: Honesty. If my wife wants something, expects something, needs something, she tells me. She doesn't assume that I can read minds or guess emotions. I can't. I don't even try.

One of the last things you will ever hear my wife tell me is "You should have known." She knows I don't know. Maybe she is thinking, "Tonight, I'd like to curl up on the couch and watch a movie." And there is absolutely no chance that I will pick up on that. Why? Because the one thing that is playing in my head at the moment is the blurb in Sports Illustrated about the passing of Negro League star Double Duty Radcliffe, who had "Thou Shalt Not Steal" written on his chest protector. I don't know why, but it struck me as funny, and is on continuos loop. And the only way to get it off the loop is for her to make eye contact with me and say, "Tonight, I'd like to curl up on the couch and watch a movie."

So I feel fairly confident that if she wanted, say, jewelry, she would say, "I want jewelry." And when she said she wanted lamps, she really meant that she wanted lamps. (My sister later told me the main reason she wanted me not to buy the lamps was that she feared I would be buying something akin to the leg lamp in "A Christmas Story." So she was questioning my taste, not my judgment.)

And in answer to the inevitable question, yes, I did get her something besides a self-selected lamp set. And upon seeing the ear rings I got her, she asked who picked them out for me. Apparently everyone thinks I have bad taste.

In all, it was a fine Christmas with some fine lamps, and I am just happy that my wife is happy. And that's a good idea.