Sick days

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

Cart games

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

Stick it to it

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

Pane pain

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

Cell out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bring the pain

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

You say you want a resolution...

Seems like most every year I write about my disdain for New Year’s resolutions. You set yourself up for failure, I say. But you know what? I think it’s about time that attitude changes. I mean, personal improvement is a fine goal, and there is no time like the dawning of a new year to kick things off. So while I have passed on New Year’s resolutions in the past, I will make up for the past and make a whole slew of them this year. Of the 10 resolutions below, if I only keep four of them, I will be in Ted Williamsesque rare air.
1. I resolve not to use awkward silence as a response to my wife. It turns out that when my wife offers up a 10-minute discussion of something that happened while she was in line at the drug store, the correct response is, “Wow, how about that?” or something of that ilk. Staring at her – or, even worse, saying, “What’s your point?” – will go bye-bye in 2007.
2. I resolve to accept the fact that children have a force field around them that makes it difficult for sound waves to penetrate their ears. Thus, when I say, “Go make your bed,” I will have a good understanding why the child instead continues trying to fill Mr. Potato Head with Play-Doh.
3. I resolve to purge my dresser of clothes that I have not worn in several years. Perhaps I need to come to grips with the fact that if I am embarrassed to wear a fraternity party T-shirt out in public because of its racy content, it should probably be purged from the stock.
4. I resolve to continue my ever-continuing goal of convincing myself that it’s just sports, life goes on, the sun will rise tomorrow. As a Falcons/Braves/Bama fan, I am thankful for their assistance in this matter through repeated lessons of “life goes on.”
5. I resolve to stick to the grocery list. I will go to the grocery store to pick up milk and will instead come home with, essentially, Kroger. I am not sure how it happens. I just wind through the aisles and stuff just starts appearing in my cart. I am so tired of getting home and having my wife look at the bags and say, “Uh, why did you get four turkeys?” and not have an answer. I don’t know why. So now I will stick to the list. And if “four turkeys” is on the list, I will call my wife and verify that one.
6. I resolve to open the grill before pre-heating it. This may seem like a no-brainer. And I thought I would never have to make such a evolution until last week. I heated the grill up and came out to throw some steaks on. As I approached the grill, I noticed an awkward smell. Definitely not a delicious pre-heated grill smell. When I opened up the grill, I found that the smell was coming from the melting plastic and metal from the grill utensils sitting on the grill getting roasted a balmy 400 degrees. For what it’s worth, I was able to clean the grill so that the steaks were not marinated in melted plastic.
7. I resolve to fix the towel rack once and for all. There are two towel racks in our bathroom, and one has been targeted for destruction by, I can only assume, my children. Every time I put it up, I walk in moments later to find it on the ground. On occasion, I find it being incorporated into a sword fight, which I immediately stop the moment my wife appears or someone draws blood. But I am going to put the rack back up, and I will anchor it to a wall stud and put video surveillance on it and, if I have to, stake Murphy the Attack Dachshund to protect it.
8. I resolve to figure out how to sell things on eBay. Fact of the matter is I am not going to listen to a CD of some band I absolutely loved in college but can’t even stand at this point, so there is no reason to keep an enormous box of CDs hanging around. I admit it. I’m old. And I might as well make a coin or two for someone who is just dying to learn about the Icelandic sensation “The Sugarcubes.”
9. I resolve to clean my garage and keep it clean. Hey, sometimes you make resolutions you have no plan on keeping. I feel obliged to include one as well.
10. I resolve to stick with decaf. I love my coffee. But when I had to give up caffeine last year, I had to kick my old friend to the curb. I have finally found some decaf I can like, and am even starting to look forward to my morning cup. I miss my old friend caffeine, but at least the coffee is back.
So I wish you well on your resolutions in 2007. I recommend that you, too, make as many resolutions as you can so that you are all but guaranteed some success in the New Year. It’s not about the six you won’t keep, but the four that you will.
Happy New Year!

Millennium Falcon moment

When was your Millennium Falcon moment?
I was talking with some college buddies the other day, and we were recounting the single greatest Christmas moments of our youth. By my count, 140 percent of the respondents said getting a Millennium Falcon. For guys my age, getting Han Solo’s super cool space ship toy is the ultimate Christmas memory. It is the item we reflect back on that sums up the excitement, the anticipation, the magic of Christmas. (Most of us put the Death Star as a close second.)
I asked my wife what her Millennium Falcon moment was, and she told me that every year, her mother would give her a porcelain doll, and she could not wait to find out which one she would get for her collection. Porcelain dolls are fine and all, but it is nowhere near as cool as the Millennium Falcon. Does a porcelain doll have a trap door to hide Han, Chewbacca and Luke Skywalker? I didn’t think so.
Anyway it is with eager anticipation that I gear up for Christmas, hoping to find what my kids’ Millennium Falcon Moment will be. Parker is 3, so he doesn’t have a singular thing he is geared up for Santa to bring him. Ask him from day to day what he wants, and it will change. Often, he says he wants Superman. And I don’t think he wants an action figure. I think he actually wants us to bring him Superman. He’s either a big fan or Lex Luther.
He’s really into bugs, so I am sure lots of his Christmas presents will center around that. Given his druthers, Parker would rather be outside, turning over logs and finding things to put in his bug house. Odd side note: The other day, he was carrying around a dead beetle in his pocket. (Not a dead Beatle. That would be weird). Anywho, I asked him the beetle’s name. Without so much as a pause, he said, “Hoo-Hoo Lava Jam Jesus.” Figuring he was just stringing together words, I asked him about an hour later what the beetle’s name was. Hoo-Hoo Lava Jam Jesus. We are two days removed, and he still answers unequivocally, Hoo-Hoo Lava Jam Jesus. I have no clue what to make of the name. Just figured I’d share.
The other thing he really loves is riding his Big Wheel, so the next logical step will be to from three wheels to two. Or, four, I guess, since it’s not very nice to put a kid on two wheels and just let him fall over.
Regardless of what Parker finds under the tree Christmas morning, it’s a safe bet that he will not have that Millennium Falcon moment. He’s still young, and he still gets excited regardless of the manner of presentation when he gets gifts. To a 3-year-old, Christmas and birthdays are not reserved for gift giving. Rather, it’s that every day should be for that, and they really don’t totally understand why EVERY day isn’t a day in which Matchbox cars magically appear.
Allie, however, could be approaching her Millennium Falcon moment. If it’s not this year, it will probably be in the next couple. She is uber-excited about Christmas, and is counting down the days.
Her Christmas list is growing quite lengthy, and I am to blame for much of that. I made the mistake a few weekends ago of letting her turn the television on one Saturday morning. Normally, this is not a problem, because she usually watches Disney or PBS, meaning no commercials. Network Saturday morning? Not so much. It did not take her long to come sprinting to me, almost out of breath. “DADDY – I have GOT to get Barbie: 12 Dancing Princesses and a Makeover Magic Camera and ...” At that point, it became all white noise. For what seemed like about 11 days, she rattled off toy after toy after toy, complete with a description of just HOW AWESOME!!! it really is and how she has GOT TO HAVE IT!!!!
Finally, I stopped her. “Allie. You need to take a breath. It’s been all exhale.”
I managed to remember 40-50 of the things that she told me about, which I relayed to her mother, who is our household’s Chief Santa Liaison (CSL). I was CSL for my daughter’s first Christmas. When a football and a baseball mitt came down the chimney, I was stripped of my title.
It’s probably better that my wife handles the CSL duties at this stage, since I get a little overwhelmed when shopping for her. If you have never shopped for gifts for a 6-year-old girl, I will let you know this: Roughly 85 percent of the world’s commercial products are geared for this demographic. There will never be a time when someone can honestly say, “I just couldn’t find a thing for a 6-year-old girl.” There could, however, be a time when someone says, “I just kept adding and adding and adding until the cart was piled 42-feet high, and in a flash I was covered in an avalanche of Barbie and My Little Pony.”
Regardless of what Christmas morning brings, I know this much to be true: My children’s eyes will light up at the wonders under the tree, and that’s a Millennium Falcon moment for me.

Makeup Wakeup

I can honestly say it is the first time I have said to my wife, “Does my eyeliner look OK?”
But if I am going to do my Streisand show, by-gum I’m gonna do it right!
Ha! A little humor there to deflect my innate discomfort at wearing makeup! Just ol’ guy’s guy Mike joking with you!
Sigh. Yes, I am finally getting used to wearing makeup, as it is required for the play I am in. I was told that if I did not wear make-up, the stage lights would make my face look like a big white blob with two black dots. I was not sold. My wife then told me, “You have no choice.” Sold.
Truth of the matter is I didn’t so much have an issue with wearing it. The problem I had is that I have the artistic ability of a goat. Putting on make-up is, essentially, the equivalent of painting your face, and I am never going to win a “color inside the lines” contest.
I decided I would give it a go, though, because I am a trooper. That, and no one offered to help. I was told that I needed to put on base or powder or something like that on my face. “Get rid of the shine,” I was told. Also, I had to apply eyeliner around my eyes, which seems like a ridiculous thing to do. I have used pencils all my life and NEVER found a good reason to stick one right up under my eyeball.
When I emerged from my first makeup application attempt, I could tell by the reactions that I had not done a very good job. Most people kinda cocked their heads to the side and said “Awwww...” like they were looking at a 2-year-old who was trying to dress himself but was instead wearing a lamp shade and a pillow case.
Apparently, my big mistakes were (a) applying the base stuff WAY too thick and (b) putting on the eyeliner much the same way an athlete applies the black steaks under his eyes, except all the way around my eyes. I kinda resembled the love child of a raccoon and a half-baked gingerbread man.
It didn’t take long for someone to take pity on me. Several women, my wife included, decided to take on my makeup application. I’m not saying this was my plan all along, but I do note that on the times I have shopped for clothes for my wife, I have gotten a similar reaction. I walk up to a sales clerk, hold up, say, a shoe-shine kit, and say, “Do you think my wife will like this?” Bam – instant personal shopper.
So my wife was in charge of applying the base and powder, while the mother of a cast member took on the eyeliner task. When people asked why I had two people working on my makeup, I explained that as important as I am, I needed a makeup team. My makeup team would respond, “We’re not his team. He’s incompetent.”
On a couple of occasions, several other cast members would let me know that the base and eyeliner was not enough. “You need cheeks,” they would tell me. I was fairly certain I had cheeks, but they were not convinced, and before I knew what was going on, someone was coming at me with a brush and something they called “fig.”
Another fun little joke they would play on me was to tell me I needed lipstick. Yes, lipstick. “We can’t see your lips,” they would say. I think this is complete and total nonsense, and I was not going to be tricked into putting on lipstick. Never. Ever. At least not the stuff with glitter.
One of the toughest things about having to put on stage makeup was facing my friends afterwards. After one performance, I got home, scrubbed my face with Easy-Off and a Brillo pad, and decided to head over to my neighbors’ house, where several friends were enjoying a cold beverage. I walked into his garage bar, where guys were sitting around, playing poker, throwing darts. It’s our clubhouse, if you will. Our inner sanctum. And then someone looks at me and says, “Uh, you missed a little eyeliner there, beautiful.” Yes, nothing collapses the time-honored tradition of guys being guys like one of said guys coming in wearing eyeliner. I might as well have walked in made up like Tammy Faye Baker. I suspect I will be living that one down, oh, right about the time the earth crashes into the sun.
Truth be told, I know that it is a necessity of being on stage to wear makeup. The grief that I take comes with the territory of being a guy. And if there is one thing I know, it’s that I have given out my fair share of grief to my friends, so I really have to take it.
As the performances continue, I have the routine fairly down pat, and I am flinching far less when the eyeliner is being applied. While not something I will ever be completely accustomed to, I know it’s a necessity for being in a play. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some Christmas shopping to do. I am thinking my wife would love a shoe-shine kit...

Light it up

So there I was, perched atop the ladder, when I looked out over my neighborhood and saw three other neighbors on their ladders. And all I could think to myself was, “We’re idiots.”
Yes, every year we trot out the ladders and the lights to decorate our homes for Christmas. We live in a cul-de-sac, so you can’t be the one house in the neighborhood that doesn’t decorate, lest you look like this enormous anti-Christmas black hole.
Several neighbors trimmed their roof lines with lights, something I did a couple of years ago. I no longer do this for a couple of reasons: (1) I have not developed the ability to hover and (2) I saw a neighbor fall off his ladder two years ago and break his ankle.
It was one of the surreal moments. Another neighbor and I were standing in our respective yards and heard that horrible sound of a ladder sliding against the roof. Anyone who has ever been on a ladder knows the sound. Even if the ladder shifts a millionth of an inch, it gives the little grating noise that immediately jump-starts your brain to thinking. ‘WE’RE GONNA FALL!!!!” (Same thing happens when you’re on the roof, take a step, and a little of the roof grit gives way.)
So we heard the sound and looked up just in time to see him go splat. We both sprinted over to him (we were both holding out kids, who were 1 at the time, so it was more of a brisk walk) to see if he was OK. I am not sure how much help we thought we could have been since we were both holding babies. Perhaps drool has a magical curing ability.
Several neighbors opted for a new approach this year, which required some ladder use, but not full-out extension ladder/plummet-to-your-death potential. Using a really long pole, they extended the lights up to roof and inserted a special clip under the shingle. While it took some effort to navigate a 30-foot pole, it seemed to beat the alternative, which was walking with a limp. Of course, you do have to be careful that the extension cord you use to test the lights doesn’t tug on the recently strung roof lights, lest your two hours of work come crashing down on you. I was not there when it happened, so when I heard about it my initial inclination was to laugh hysterically. But to the witnesses who saw it happen, there was nothing funny at all. No jokes were made. No eye contact was made. Everyone just kinda backed away. I talked to my neighbor about it later, and it sounded like he was moments away from actually tearing his house down just so he could stomp on his roof line.
Eventually, he got his lights back up, and I highly recommend the lights stay up, lest they get a Hulk-style smashing. Ah, Christmas joy!
As for our house, since we’re not doing the roof line thing, we do it pretty simple. I only had to get on the ladder to hang a wreath over the porch, so my time off the ground was minimal.
The main thing we do is to cover the bushes with net lights, which are one of the greatest inventions of all time. Each year after Christmas, I try and pick up a couple of them on the cheap. Eventually, I want my yard to look like a giant lighted safety net.
I always let the kids help me when I decorate, and it follows a fairly familiar script: (1) I pull all of the boxes out of the attic, and the kids get all excited about decorating, and (2) I turn around to close up the attic, and turn back around to see that, in four seconds, they have removed the contents of all of the boxes and spread the contents around the house. This year was no different, and after I corralled the lights and tried unsuccessfully to argue with Parker on some of his decorating choices (“Fine, the snowman cookie jar goes on the couch”), I headed outside.
While net lights offer a convenience that traditional strands of light do not (namely, you don’t have to deal with tangles and ultimately end up saying things that your children shouldn’t hear), there is one drawback. The first part in net lights is “net,” and when little hands and feet are involved, the net aspect works quite well. About a third of the decorating time was spent freeing children from the nets. It’s like trying to put up lights with salmon jumping at you.
After not too much time, my modest little attempt at lighting the house for Christmas was completed. Sure, it doesn’t compete with the grand displays of some of my neighbors. But, since my house is lighted to some degree, at least the cul-de-sac on the whole looks complete. And I didn’t get a limp in the process, so I’d say all is right with the season.

Act now

Prepare for my triumphant return to the stage.
You see, the curtain is about to be lifted on my moving performance as Jean Valjean in the Broadway production of “Les Miserables.”
Or I’m the dad in “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.” I get confused.
It all started a few months ago when my daughter decided she wanted to audition for a play. She was in a play last year and had a really good time doing it. When she mentioned wanting to do it again, I told her that would be a great idea, since she and her brother have until their teen years to financially support their parents. It doesn’t matter the career path you take, so why not try acting?
Tryouts were over two nights, and after the first night, Allie came home and asked me if I would try out for the play, too. “You could be the daddy!” she said excitedly. I explained to her that I would not be typecast, and that, thank you very much, I would try out for the role of the mother or perhaps a baby angel.
So fast forward to my getting the part of dad (Allie stole my baby angel role). I will be stepping on-stage for the first time in nearly 20 years, as my last performance was in 1989, in the Aiken Community Playhouse production of “A Merry Medieval Christmas.” The main thing I remember from that was that I played the part of God and got to sit atop a ladder and eat popcorn.
But I have not acted in years. Well, not actually acted. I was an extra on a television show when I lived in Orlando. But 20 hours sitting around in full alien makeup so that you can walk in front of Peter Deluise on “SeaQuest” does not an acting gig make.
For those of you not familiar with “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever,” it is the story of the Herdman family, the rough and tough bad kids of town, who take over the church Christmas pageant. It’s a great story and a great family play. It’s a huge cast, with nearly 40 people in it, most of them much, much shorter than I. I think it goes without saying that if you go see one play this year – check that, if you decide to venture out of your house just one time this year – go see this play. (Editor’s note: Not even putting a thin veil on that shameless plug, huh?)
At the first rehearsal I was really impressed with how well most of the kids knew their lines. I was sitting with a fellow actor, watching the kids sling their lines left and right. We looked at each other and gave an “Uh-oh, we REALLY need to be studying our lines more” exchange of glances.
On a few occasions, I would rehearse my lines at home with Allie. She doesn’t have a speaking part in the play, but certainly was eager to feed some lines to me. This was both good and bad. On the one hand, I had a good rehearsal buddy I could practice with. On the other hand, she apparently has a glue strip for a brain and has now memorized all of my lines, and, after each rehearsal, has a laundry list of where I missed a word here or a word there. She’ll turn to me and say, “Daddy, during the dinner scene, you said ‘two days.’ You’re supposed to say, ‘three days.’” This is from the little girl who can’t remember where she left her shoes. Don’t have room in your craw for where you keep the basic necessities in life, but plenty of space for my play lines? Yeah, that makes sense.
One of the things about memorizing lines that you learn quite quickly is that you don’t just memorize your lines. Kinda helps to know what lines yours come after. I know that seems like a no brainer, but there would be times during rehearsal where I would be sitting there thinking to myself, “OK, I know my line perfectly. Uh-oh, when do I say it?” Randomly blurting out a line for no reason is not only bad acting, it makes people think you might have a medical condition.
As opening night approaches, we are still working on our timing and costumes and props, etc. Each time we rehearse, the play gets a little more crisp and things come together a little more. I am sure by opening night we will be clicking on all cylinders, and it will go off without a hitch. There will be zero flubbed lines, no missed entrances and flawless prop transitions. It will be, quite frankly, “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.”
If it’s not, just pretend it was. You, too, can act.

The buzz on fireplaces

Ah, the first fire of the season — the embracing warmth, the comforting glow, the shrieks as your wife sprints away from wasps.
Yes, the first fire made for good times, as we discovered that a family of nasty little buggers had taken up root in our chimney. And, we found, they either really hated smoke or really loved what we were watching on TV.
Before you get an idea that it was like some B-movie with a six-foot swath of hornets streaming out, let me assure you — it was far worse. I am clearly the bravest man you have ever encountered.
OK, so maybe they kinda trickled out one or two at a time, but regardless, it was no joy.
It started he other night when my wife and I decided to sit down and watch one of our shows together. We don’t watch a lot of TV, but we do have a couple of shows we make a point of watching. This night was “Grey’s Anatomy.” The other show we watch is “Desper...Uh...Monday Night Football.” Yes, that is it.
My wife was in the den and I had just started the fire. It was a cold night, and what better way to top it than by a warm fire, a good TV show, and a big bowl of chili? As I was bringing dinner out, I saw a flash go by me. Trying to figure out what was going on, I turned to see my wife sprinting out the door and scaling the back fence.
Perhaps I am being a wee little bit overdramatic. Truth is, she came at a rather brisk pace and said, “MICHAEL!!! A WASP JUST CAME OUT OF THE CHIMNEY!!” And she said “MICHAEL!!!” in a way that implied it was somehow my fault, as though I had trained it to come out at just the right time.
So I put down my chili and went in to assess the situation. I turned to her and said, “Are you nuts? I don’t see anything. Are you sure you’re not hallucinating or going crazy or something?” Poetic justice would have been had the wasp stung me at that point, but instead I just got my wife coming in and pointing to where the wasp was on the ceiling.
I made several requests to the wasp to return outside, and he showed defiance at each request. Finally, I said, “Look, this is your final chance. Go outside, or I beat you to death with a rolled-up Sports Illustrated.” He just stared at me with his waspy eyes. Unacceptable. WHAP!
So after I dispatched the first intruder, we sat down and started dinner. When my wife climbed over the couch and threw the Sports Illustrated at me, I sensed something might be wrong. Indeed, another wasp had made an entrance. I didn’t make small talk with this one. My show was on and my chili was getting cold.
After about the 20th time this happened, I was pretty much at a loss. My first thought was, hey, why don’t I close the chimney flue? My second thought was, hey, why don’t I NOT fill my house with smoke since there is a fire going and it is kind of essential to have said chimney open?
The easiest course of action was to let the fire slowly burn out and send the death WHAPS! to any wasps that decided to head out in the meantime. Once the fire was out, I closed the flue to keep any more of them from coming out.
The next day, my wife asked me what I was going to do about it. We had this conversation:
HER: So should we call the pest control company or a chimney sweep?
ME: (rubbing my chin, looking thoughtfully at the fireplace): Hmmmm.
HER: Hmmm what?
ME: (turning to her, still rubbing my chin): I think I need to get a flashlight and take a look..
HER: And what happens if you see a big wasp’s nest?
ME: Hmmmm.
HER: ARRRG!!!!
For what it’s worth, this is not the first chimney animal encounter I have experienced. A few years ago at my parents’ house, my dad was preparing the first fire of the season when we saw him lurch back. Then we saw why — he was dodging an owl that flew out of the chimney. It flew right up past his face and proceeded to land on my mother’s china cabinet. We eventually used a butterfly net to get the owl out.
A second time, I was at my parents’ house when I stuck my foot in to jostle a log. I don’t know if I had super great timing or what, but just as I put my foot in, something plopped down on it. “Uh, Dad,” I said, pulling my foot out of the fire and extending it toward him, “there’s a mockingbird on my foot.” Sure enough, this thing fell right on my foot, and was apparently dazed enough from the smoke to just kind of hang on my shoe for a few minutes. I was able to get him outside before he flew off.
So I am sure you are wondering what my final decision is. Well, guess what — so is my wife. I have not done a thing, because, quite frankly, I’ve been busy. Maybe if I give it enough time, an owl or a mockingbird will take care of it.

Toys R Me

It was me versus the toys. And I finally won.
For years, I have waged this war with the toys. They multiply. They spread out around the house. They attack you in the middle of the night (I am CERTAIN that a Buzz Lightyear was not in the middle of the hallway when I went to bed).
I often complain about the toys, and I often do it in one of the most annoying ways possible for a spouse. I mumble under my breath and start talking about the toys and kinda stomping around occasionally raising my voice enough so that my wife will hear me say, “...might as well just flush money down the toilet...” The first few times I did this, my wife would engage me in a conversation about the toys and what we could do to corral them. These conversations never went well, because it always culminated with my suggestion that we remove every toy from the house, along with ever other non-essential item in the house. We each get a bowl, a fork and a cup. And one towel each. Pick out a shirt you like, because THAT IS IT. (When you’ve got a Buzz Lightyear stuck to your foot, you tend to go for drastic measures.)
My wife ends these conversations by making this noise that, I think, might have been what small dinosaurs sounded like. Whatever it is, it is definitely the sound of exasperation. She will sometimes roll not just her eyes, but her whole head, and leave the room.
So the other night, my entire family was asleep. I’m a bit of a night owl, so I am often the last one up in the house. And there I was, standing in the playroom, looking at toys and toy pieces and thinking, “...might as well just flush...” when it occurred to me -- hey, everyone is asleep. No one can stop me. It’s me versus the toys, and they have NO ONE here to protect them.
After about 30 minutes, I had thrown every single toy that my kids had in the trash. Gone.
I will now pause to allow for you to offer me an apology for the nasty thing you just said about me. Of course I didn’t throw out my kids’ toys.
In our playroom, we have a closet with some shelves and also a large cabinet that holds a bunch of other toys. Over time, these storage areas have become less than organized, much the way homes become less than organized after a tornado tears through them. So the first order of business was to pull all of the toys out of both areas. After a few minutes, the room was knee-deep in toys. I am not sure where some of these toys came from. I know some were gifts, some were bought and some were hand-me-downs. But the only other explanation for some of them was that they randomly formed over time. Despite the debate that rages in the toy community over toyvolution, it is an undeniable fact. There is simply no way to explain how, in a closet cut off from the rest of the world, two-thirds of a train set that I have never seen in my life can suddenly appear.
As I surveyed the room, it occurred to me that I might have bitten off WAY more than I could chew. However, I knew it would be very bad form to go wake my wife up and say, “Uh, yeah, I pulled every single toy the kids have into the middle of the room for some reason. Could you clean them up?”
I decided the best approach to try and dig out of this mess was to start organizing things in piles. I had a pile for dress-up clothes, a pile for trucks, a pile for dolls, and a pile for puzzles. The final -- and largest -- pile was a pile for everything else. I quickly learned that this approach was not going to work, as the pile for everything else was taking up the better part of the room.
I shifted gears for a different approach. First up -- hang all the dress-up clothes up. If you have a daughter and cannot find a princess dress for her, I apologize, as it is clear that we own them all. My daughter could dress up as a different princess every 15 minutes and would MAYBE be done by the time she’s 40.
The next step was to tackle the trucks and trains. My son loves to play with trucks and trains, but he clearly likes tearing them apart more than driving them around. I weeded out the ones that were no longer functioning toys but rather awkwardly shaped stabbing devices and found we now had a much more manageable group that fit nicely on a shelf.
I continued to tackle individual section of the toy populace, and after a few hours, I noticed that the room was actually coming together. When I came to bed at nearly 2 a.m., my wife awoke and asked why I was coming to bed so late. I told her it wasn’t late, and that she’s dreaming. I was too tired to have to defend my toy tackling.
I awoke the next morning to my wife getting ready. “Hey, go check out the playroom,” I said. She looked at me with concern, as she immediately knew I had done something that could be very bad.
A few minutes later, she came back into the room. “Uh, do I want to know what you did with all of the toys?” I assured her that I had not thrown out anything that was not comparable to a homemade weapon, and gave her the grand tour of the new and improved organization system. She seemed pleased, as did the kids, who were able to find their toys and put them back where they belonged. I am sure this will only last a short while, and things will collapse back into toy chaos soon enough. But that’s OK, because I now know what I need to do. I’ll just throw everything out.

Safety last

So with the turn of the screwdriver, I left behind a stage in my life.
Yes, just one turn, and I closed the chapter known as the “OMIGOSH DON’T PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!!!” You see, I recently removed all of the safety latches from our cabinet hardware.
When I grew up, I am pretty sure the kid safety market consisted of those Yuckmouth stickers on bottles of things that you weren’t supposed to drink. Of course, having three older sisters, I thought it was far more entertaining to try and stealthily place one on their backs and run through the house shrieking “YOU’RE A YUCKMOUTH!!!” Hmmm. Wonder why my sisters would often tell me that Han Solo was outside and then lock the door when I went out to find him...
Anyway, the safety market today is a billion-dollar industry, based on a statistic I guess could be true. There are safety products for safety products. My wife and I stuck with the basics – cabinet locks, door knob locks and outlet caps. My mother once tried to get me to get the padding that goes around coffee tables. I told her that the kids live in a world with corners. Time to adjust. And I also asked her why she was so suddenly concerned with kids’ safety. Where were the corner pads when I was a kid? She responded by telling me Han Solo was outside.
The doorknob locks are these plastic caps that fit over the knobs, and you had to squeeze them to get the door open. Both kids mastered these around age 2. When Allie was little, she got around those by standing at the door and knocking over and over and over, saying, “LET ME OUT. LET ME OUT. LET ME OUT.” Pretty sure that after about 10 minutes of that, the neighbors might start to think you have caged your child, so you let them out of their room.
Parker, meanwhile, took the more guy approach. He just broke them apart. He would grab them and pull on them, hang on them, hit them with a book ... whatever it took. He would bash his way out, and then come out holding the two pieces, grinning, as if he was very pleased that he had solved the puzzle we had put forth.
The outlet caps always served a good purpose, namely countering that innate human inclination to see what happens when Mr. Fork meets Mr. Outlet. Be totally honest with yourself – you’re either very curious about it or already know what happens. There is something hardwired in us that makes us really want to do it. It’s like touching a hot plate or touching an electric fence. And it kinda makes you wonder how we managed to scramble to the top of the food chain. Eventually, you learn to control the urge. Even though most of our outlets still have the caps, we have pretty much convinced the children to stay away from them. My wife opted for the calm, discussion approach, explaining that you could really hurt yourself, etc. She rejected my plan, which started off with “Here, take this fork...”
So the last protection item in my house were the cabinet locks. The stated intent is to keep kids away from harmful products such as cleaners, which is noble. We, however, keep our cleaning supplies in a cabinet above the sink, so this is really not an issue. But the safety latches did serve two very valuable purposes:
1. They kept kids out of the food.
2. They kept kids out of the cabinet with the pots and pans.
The first issue was the food. We don’t keep a lot of junk in the house, because our children need something to complain about when they get older. (“We had the most horrific upbringing – not a Twinkie to be found...”) But, on occasion, we do allow for the occasional fruit snack or bag of Skittles. But let me tell you – those little critters are like raccoons when it comes to going through food. On the off chance there are fruit snacks or Skittles or something else in the pantry, you can believe they will find it. There is nothing like coming into the kitchen and seeing bread and peanut butter jars and canned goods strewn on the floor while a 3-year-old sits on a shelf and tries to gnaw through a Skittles bag.
As for pots and pans, those locks were used to keep the pots and pans safely stowed, rather than as part of a band ensemble. We are all for getting loud and having fun and throwing an impromptu parade, when the time is right. But it’s no fun to have to delay dinner because you have to go search behind the couch, under the bed, in the shower, etc. for the pots and pans. Also, those who suffer from migraines will tell you, pot-and-pan parades are only a notch above boxing on the desirability scale during a headache.
But alas, Parker has now mastered entry into the cabinets, meaning the locks serve little more purpose than to frustrate me when I try to open them. So, off they came.
Hopefully, the kids are now getting old enough that we don’t have to worry about pots and pans being spread about, or food being torn through as if they were starving bears. My wife and I will just have to remain diligent in making sure we teach them that they are not to enter the cabinets whenever they want, and that they need to ask Mommy or Daddy before getting something. And, if that doesn’t work, I’ll just tell them Han Solo is outside to see them.

Birthday baffled

So let’s keep today’s column just between you and me. You see, I’m trying to figure out what to get my wife for her birthday, and, quite frankly, I’m stuck.
My wife is one of the hardest people in the world to shop for, and it’s not because she’s selective or picky. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. She’s just giddy about anything you get her. Seriously. She is one of the last hold-outs of the “thought that counts” cliché, which makes it a lot tougher, because you have to put incredible scrutiny into what you buy. If it was all about flash, that problem’s easily solved. But when your thoughts and motivation are analyzed, you have to be careful: “Uh, why would you think I want a set of men’s golf clubs?”
And I know what you are thinking. And you are wrong. She is not just saying that. I have known my wife for a very long time, and trust me – I can tell when she’s mad. Plus, one thing my wife and I agreed on long ago was that management of expectations was key to a happy coexistence. For example, Valentine’s Day. My wife does not care about Valentine’s Day. How do I know this? Because she told me she does not. She has said before, “If you want to go to dinner or something, that’s fine, but don’t spend $75 on flowers for a made-up holiday.” And you may think she’s just saying that. However, I know she is not, because I have gone against her Valentine’s wishes and gotten her something, which usually resulted in a lecture on fiscal responsibility. (If you would like for your children to be fiscally responsible, I highly encourage you have my wife come and talk to them. She can go on and on and on about how you should pay the bills each month and balance the checkbook and blah blah blah. It’s boring, but eventually you just say, “Fine, I’ll send the power company a check if you’ll JUST STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.”)
Pretty much the only time we exchange gifts is for birthdays and Christmas. For our anniversary each year, we usually have take-out Chinese food, because that’s what we started doing when we were newlyweds, and, quite frankly, we like Chinese take-out. For Christmas, we will usually agree on one big thing for the house. Nothing spreads Yuletide joy like a new dishwasher.
Birthdays have always been the wildcard. Sometimes we get wild and crazy and get each other big whopping gifts. Other times, we play it low key. We have birthdays fairly close together, so sometimes we simply opt to split the difference and go have a nice dinner between the two dates. This year, for my birthday, my wife got pneumonia. I told her that I had not, in fact, asked for my wife to have a debilitating illness for my birthday, something she found funny until she began coughing to the point that she almost fell out of bed.
At one point that day, my wife, partially woozy from cough medicine, began to apologize profusely for not doing anything on my birthday. I reminded her that, based on the medications currently in her system, any attempt to try and do anything for my birthday would have probably been a very bad idea.
My wife and I did go shopping a few days ago, and she pointed out numerous things that she liked. My wife and I rarely go shopping because we have different shopping styles. Her mission is to slowly absorb everything in the store and memorize its placement on the shelf and compare prices at other stores. My method is much like Jim Brown in “The Dirty Dozen” – sprint in, take care of business, and get out of there as fast as you can. Unlike Brown, I have completed each mission and have not been shot on my way to the car.
She did give me some hints the other day when we went shopping. With four new stores in one shopping center, I figured I needed to get out and see where my wife would be spending much of the future. As we strolled the aisles, my wife would point out this item and that item, and say what a nice addition this would make or that would make. Here’s the problem – the whole time she was talking, I was busy looking at other things. One of the main areas I found myself focusing on was – and hold off the creepy factor for a minute – the girl’s clothes. My daughter is six, and I looked at a lot of the young girls’ fashions, and all I can say is, “I sure hope muumuus are fashionable when my daughter is a teen, because that’s what she’ll be wearing.”
Sorry, got sidetracked. So the bottom line is I really did not pay much attention to what she pointed out. An even if I had, the list was rather extensive. I don’t think my wife was actually expecting to get all of the stuff, but rather just casually telling me what she found appealing. (Remember – this column is between us. Don’t tell her I wasn’t listening.)
So over the next few days, I will figure something out, I suppose. I may go to those stores that we went to and hope that I randomly hit on something that she had pointed out. I, of course, am open to suggestions. And please don’t suggest I get pneumonia. But whatever it is, if I put solid, earnest thought into, I am sure my wife will be thrilled. Who knows – maybe she’s always wanted a new set of men’s golf clubs.

The old college try

The best thing about going back to college is I get to relax and be myself. A lottery winning emu rancher.
Yes, my wife and I made our annual pilgrimage back to college, and yes, I am still hoping my voice returns in the next few days. Each year, we head back to the University of Alabama for a fraternity reunion. Since she and I dated during my fraternity days (I know, lucky her), it is a reunion for her, too, as she gets to see not just her husband but plenty of other college friends as we revert back to idiot phase.
This year, we traveled with a full van of folks. My wife and I were in the front, and three guys from college were in the back. Because the van was not loud enough, we stopped in Birmingham to pick up another person. My wife merely rolled her eyes as we went through story after story of pranks and parties and, of course, road trips (One was recounted thusly: “It was akin to a Viking raid: We came for their food, drinks and women.”)
Of course, this trip would be far more tame. We’re grown-ups now. We have families and jobs and responsibilities. And, in my case, a chaperone.
The first night we were there, there was a lot of catching up with people, some of whom I had not seen in more than a decade. We also got to know some of the current house members and their friends, which is how I came upon my $8 million in lottery winnings.
You see, if someone I am never going to see again is going to ask me what I do for a living, I find it far more entertaining to find memorable occupations. Steamboat pilot. Emu rancher. Professional fencer (for the pride of Luxembourg, no less). Or even independently wealth, courtesy of a correct lottery pick. When I spin the yarn, the reaction is one of two things: (1) A roll of the eyes, followed by a “Seriously, what do you do?” or (2) The wide-eyed look of amazement at ACTUALLY meeting a someone who tests zero gravity suits for a living.
My wife says I am an idiot, but I think she means that in a loving way. She did enjoy this exchange as well.
CO-ED: How old are you?
ME: How old do you think I am?
CO-ED: Ummm....24?
MY WIFE: Ha!
CO-ED: Are you his sister?
MY WIFE: Uh, yes, his twin.
CO-ED: I can tell.
MY WIFE: 24, you said? Yes, I am definitely his twin. (Under her breath: Bless you, you poor little dumb child.)

That evening, there was a band party at the house. And that evening I made a deal with myself and the world – I am going to stop trying to dance with any rhythm whatsoever. I have no soul. My wife, bless her heart, has worked with me for 13 years trying to make dancing a possibility, but I just always have this look like I am about to sit down and then decide against it. Basically, I do this over and over and over and consider it dancing. I also occasionally put my fist in the air for some odd reason. I am a mess. But I have to come to terms with it. This, ladies and gentlemen, is my dancing. Don’t tell me it stinks. I already know that. It’s what I can do, it’s what the music drives me to do. It’s sad and pathetic, but, quite frankly, it’s me.
The next day, we opted out of going to the game, even though they were giving away tickets. Seriously. Around kickoff time, three Ole Miss fans (representing roughly half of the Ole Miss contingent), asked us where the Bear Bryant Museum was. That’s how excited they were about the game.
We opted to head to the stadium and see the new Walk of Champions, featuring statues of the coaches who have won national championships at Alabama. There, with the years of their titles, were Wallace Wade, Frank Thomas, Bear Bryant and Gene Stallings. And just to make sure the pressure is on, there was a fifth spot reserved for the coach who brings home Alabama’s 13th national title. Bear, of course, drew the biggest crowd, although we stopped for a moment of reverence for Ol’ Bebes Stallings, since he won his title when we were in school.
We returned to the house to watch the game, where a cooler, a bathroom and a huge buffet of Big P fried chicken were at our disposal. Big P has been the cook at the fraternity house for roughly 800 years, and I have to say – I weep for you, knowing that you have never had Big P’s fried chicken. Think of the greatest fried chicken you have ever had. Now think of that ss roadkill squirrel. That is how good Big P’s chicken is. I am not positive, but I am fairly sure Big P’s fried chicken, if you asked it nicely, would loan you money. It is that good.
We had a band party that night as well, and we all stayed up WAY past our bedtime. The next morning, most everyone had very little voice left. Unlike our college days, when it may have been from screaming at the top of our lungs, this was from trying to shout above the band, “MAN, THIS IS LOUD.”
After a very long ride home, we were happy to be back in the present. We missed our kids, our pets, our home. I love going back to college. I love getting home even more. Guess that’s what happens when you’re old. And an emu ranching millionaire.

Sick days

I made it through one of the most difficult weeks of my life. You could not begin to understand the pain, the difficulty, the hardship I endured.
My wife probably had it kinda rough, too, since she was the one with pneumonia.
It started on the weekend, when my wife woke up and started to say that she felt warm, but instead began coughing to the point I was pretty sure she was about to expel major organs. I tried to get her to relate, explaining to her that launching her pancreas across the room could leave a nasty stain on the wall.
When she finally stopped hacking, I felt her forehead and it did, indeed, feel warm. Actually, it felt like the hood of car in the summertime. She asked me to get the thermometer. I told her that would not be necessary, since I was aces at gauging this type of thing. I put my hand to her forehead again. “163,” I said. She began to tear up a little, most likely because she was so proud of my medical skills.
She spent much of the day in bed, and I did the sensible thing, which was to clear out of the house with the children. Bless their hearts, when a parent is sick, kids try their best to make you feel better, but have not quite honed that nurturing skill. Our son, who is 3, made an attempt to make Mommy feel better by licking her. He looked a little hurt when I explained that we do not, in fact, lick people, and that goes double for sick people.
That night, I kicked my nursing skills into high-gear, which was to ask her every four minutes if she wanted some NyQuil, which is the single greatest product America has ever made. Fever? NyQuil. Sniffles? NyQuil. Stubbed toe? NyQuil.
OK, so I am not actually a NyQuil junkie. I just know that when I have had a cold in the past, if I take some NyQuil, I generally wake up four days later feeling great. Eventually, I convinced my wife to take some (“Yes, dear, the label says two bottles at bedtime”) but she was still hacking to the point that even the vaunted NyQuil could not knock her out.
After a very restless evening (I kept waking up because SOMEBODY kept coughing and coughing and coughing), my wife made her way to the doctor. She still had a fever and wicked cough. And she had that sick person look about her that people get when they just have this defeated my-cat-just-got-run-over look.
The doctor gave her some cough medicine, which, judging by the warning labels, was NyQuil on steroids. Alas, this was not going to do the trick either. Another night like the one before. The next day, my wife called the doctor again, who called her in another prescription. This one came in a black bottle with a little skull and crossbones on it. OK, so it didn’t but the warning labels were far direr that most (“Prior to taking the medication, tell your family you love them, and apologize in advance for things you may say. Do not operate heavy machinery while taking this medication. In fact, do not even think of heavy machinery, as this medication gives you the power to control dump trucks with your mind. Do not mix this medication with anything, including oxygen or water. Do not think about this medication, as opening the pathways of your brain to it will allow it to use you as a conduit to conduct its evil bidding.”)
The morning of this ubermedicine, the kids were at school, and my wife was entering her semi-coma for the first sleep she had gotten in days. After a few hours, my phone rang. “Can you come home? I feel like I’m going to faint.”
I got there as fast as I could, and when I entered the bedroom, I saw my wife, sitting in the middle of the bed. The TV was on, but she was kinda staring at the wall. “Uh, you OK?” I asked.
“No. This medicine makes me feel really weird,” she said.
“Uh...where are the sheets? And the comforter?” I asked.
“In the wash. But I got dizzy.”
At that point, it was clear that this medicine needed to work quick, because prolonged use of it might result in the police finding my wife wandering down the stream babbling about her days as a Navy man.
The next day, she was somewhat on the mend, which was a relief, because it meant that she would be able to go back to the warm embrace of Dr. Q.
We’re more than a week removed from the initial sickdown, and she is feeling much better, which is a good thing. It’s a lame feeling to see your spouse sick as a dog and not be able to really do much for her. Oh, and for those of you who think laughter is the best medicine, I can assure you that, when you have pneumonia, laughter is not only not a good medicine, it is ill advised. On the rare occasion you can eke out a laugh, it results in a 20-minute fit of convulsive coughing.
So the house is coming out of quarantine now, and we can get back to the routine of living our lives. I am just thankful she’s better. I was getting tired of being woken up all the time.

Dumb-ocracy

Well, it’s that time again – the time where I think to myself, “Democracy – is it such a great idea?”
Now, now, settle down. And remember that mob violence flies in the very face of democracy. I, of course, love democracy. Yea, democracy! It’s just unfortunate that it spawns one of the most vile, despicable creatures on earth – political campaigns.
I am not sure when political campaigns evolved into their current unsavory status. My guess is that they have always been dirty, underhanded efforts (“Abe Lincoln: A man of values. Unlike Stephen Douglas, who once ate a kitten”). With the Internet and television, of course, the campaign weaselness has been catapulted to new highs (or lows, as it were).
That’s why this year, I challenge each and every one of you to take charge of our political system. Let’s stop letting people whose moral switch is set to “evil” fill us with the skewed knowledge when we elect our leaders. So let’s change a few things this year. Who’s with me? I call this the Mike Gibbons Election Year Challenge. I challenge you to:
1. Question everything. Next time a commercial comes on that says, “Bob Crabapple voted against small businesses...” don’t let them get away with it. Call up the offending campaigner and say, “Yeah, when exactly did Congress hold a thumbs-up/thumbs-down on whether people were for small business?” When they say, “Bob Crabapple wants to take away your right to...” call and ask for the bill number, and, if it exists, go read it and see what it really says. We have got to stop letting these people get away with saying ridiculous generalizations about their opponents.
2. Accept that things change. If you step out of your partisan shackles, you can logically see a couple of things. First, someone can vote for something and, later on down the line in the legislative process, vote against it. Happens all the time, since politicians change a bill more times than most people change socks in a lifetime. Second, someone can have you read his lips that he won’t do something, but then have to go back on his word. Plenty of fine people on this planet said “till death do us part” and went on to part ways. Things happen.
3. Accept that your guy is not perfect. You should not agree with everything your guy says. If you do, there is a problem. You should never agree completely with something another person says. My wife will attest to that.
4. Accept that the other guy is not pure evil bent on your destruction. For the most part, pure evil stays out of the political spotlight, instead lurking in the shadows, feasting on the flesh of freshly killed goats that have been snatched up from fields that the campaign bus travels by.
5. Your demographic is not under attack, so don’t let them convince you it is. Sure, as a nation we face a frightening enemy in terrorism. But the vast majority is far too busy to make hating a subset of society a priority. And don’t get me wrong – I know there are pockets of hate and prejudice in the world. But I feel confident that most people are just like you and me – just trying to make it through the day. We have some common enemies that we can all agree on. After that, people are just trying to scare you into voting for them.
The simple fact of the matter is that we are an incredibly uninformed group of voters, and we keep getting worse off by avoiding the hard part of doing the research. Instead, we let our politicians or talking heads tell us what to think. Let me prove my point. Take this little quiz. Be completely and totally honest with yourself:
1. Should stems cells be used for medical purposes?
2. Is global warming occurring?
3. Should we be in Iraq?
Now, do the same with these questions, without citing a politician, Rush Limbaugh, Michael Moore, or agenda-driven entertainer or politician:
1. What is a stem cell and where does it come from?
2. What is global warming?
3. How many troops (and from how many nations) are currently in Iraq?
Now, I am sure some of you out there scored a whopping 6-for-6. However, I would argue that vast majority, deep in your soul, can admit that you have very strong opinions on some things you know nothing about. And if you think I am being condescending, I can tell you that I, too, have very strong opinions on some stuff that, when I am being totally honest with myself, know very little about. And I have no one to blame but myself. It’s amazing that we can get passionate about things we have no hard, factual data on.
Think of it this way: Suppose my 6-year-old daughter suddenly approached you and began giving you her take on why the designated hitter is ruining baseball. You might be convinced by her argument. But if you stopped and said, “Allie, what’s a designated hitter?” and saw the blank look on her face, you would probably stop listening to her argument. So let’s stop listening to people’s hollow arguments, and let’s stop making them ourselves. Let’s start being informed. Look, we’re not going to agree on a lot of things, but at least let’s get all the information before we solidify our opinions. And we have a very simple reason why you should do this: Because I wouldn’t lie to you.

Hat-a-boy

Once again, it took a kid to make me not take myself so seriously.
A few months back, I told you the story of walking into the kitchen and seeing my son sitting at the table, happy as could be, chugging a bottle of syrup. When he saw my wife and me staring at him, he put down the bottle, looked at us and said, “YUM!”
Sure, he was sticky and nasty and didn’t sleep for the next 11 days, but by gum, it felt good, so he did it.
My wife and I on occasion remind each other to chug syrup when the other is being a little too caught up in the insignificant things in the world. It’s not in one of those cheesy, new-wave manners, either. It’s usually me going to the cabinet and getting the bottle of syrup and offering to pour for her, which she finds just hilarious. (Let’s just say if there is ever a pillow dodging competition, I will be an early front runner for the gold.)
But anyway, I have found the concept of syrup chugging to be a solid one. Recently, my son tacked on a new one that definitely led to a good day. And when I am having a bad day, I think back to this and realize there is enough seriousness in the world. Lighten up once in a while.
Parker and I were getting ready to leave for school. I was in the kitchen and called for him to come downstairs. I went to the stairs to help him get his shoes on, when I saw him start down the stairs. While wearing a sombrero.
We then had this conversation:
ME: Uh, what you wearing?
PARKER: A hat.
ME: That’s a sombrero.
PARKER: And a hat. I’m gonna wear it to school.
ME: You can’t wear a sombrero to school.
PARKER: Why?
I started to answer, when it occurred to me, I have no idea why you can’t wear a sombrero to school. I mean, they may have rules about hats and such in the school, but why can’t you throw on a sombrero and wear it on the way to school?
ME: You know what, Parker? Wear the sombrero.
PARKER: I am. To school.
When we got to school, Parker hopped out of the car and adjusted his sombrero. He had a little spring in his step, what with his fancy new topper. As we prepared to cross the road, a car passed by. I noticed the driver glanced over at Parker and had a nice little chuckle. Way to pay it forward.
When we got to school, Parker went past his classroom and to my wife’s classroom. (I suppose it goes without saying that she teaches there. She has not been held back in kindergarten for three decades.)
He strolled into her room and said, “Look, Mommy, a sombrero.” My wife looked at me. I shrugged and said, “Why not?”
Parker left his sombrero with Mommy, and I headed off to face the day, certainly taking myself a little less seriously than I normally would.
Maybe it’s something that just fades as you get older. I can see my daughter starting to care on occasion what people think. She’s six now, and we sometimes have lengthy debates on what clothes should be worn or what shoes go with what. Allie hates it when I’m in charge of getting her dressed in the morning, because I am always pushing the one outfit I can do: blue jeans, sweatshirt, ballcap. She prefers these incredibly complicated dresses that require bows to be tied and hair clip-thingees to be put in and matching shoes. Let’s be honest – as I type this, I am not sure if my socks match. No clue. I am not the best choice to be coordinating accessories.
But then there are the other times when she exhibits some of the carefree nature that feels so liberating. Can you recall the last time you were in a store and decided it was the perfect time to sing “Under the Rainbow”? And most of the people who see this find it refreshing. (Granted, some people grumble and stomp and curse under their breath about how kids today don’t behave and a kid should be seen and not heard and how back in their day, when they went to the store, so much as a peep would result in a trip to the switch aisle. Hopefully, these people were on their way to the syrup aisle.)
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating strolling through the store in a Cinco de Mayo get-up while belting out show tunes. I will admit that would be somewhat disturbing. But consider a quick ride on the back of the grocery cart. High five your drug store clerk. When someone catches you singing in the car, roll down your window and say, “Come on, you know the words! Sing along!”
Sure, being goofy once in a while may elicit stares. But don’t worry about that. The people with a little bit of life left in them will feel something stirring. It’s the fun side of you. And it’s wanting to see daylight, just every once in a while. And the people who don’t feel it? They just need some syrup.

Ice to see you

My parents insist I ice skated when I was three. Since I have no memory whatsoever of it, I hardly think that qualifies me as being good, or even capable of it.
So imagine my surprise when, at an ice skating rink, my son told me he wanted me to go ice skating with him, and, without missing a beat, I said, “Sure!” Immediately after my mouth blurted that out, my brain said, “What are you doing? You don’t know how to ice skate.” My mouth responded, “I am sure I can learn,” which caused several people nearby to move a few steps away.
It all started when my wife enrolled my son in a beginner hockey program. It’s a six-week deal, and he learns the basics of hockey. My neighbor, who plays in an adult league, suggested we get Parker involved, since he, well, likes running over people and hitting things with sticks. “He’s got a hockey mentality,” my neighbor said. I think he meant, “Let’s channel the aggression,” but he could have meant, “He should only be around people in body armor, because he’s going to hurt someone.”
When we arrived at the ice rink, the folks there told us it was time to get Parker dressed. There were boxes and boxes of shin guards, hockey pants, helmets, etc., and we moved down the assembly line turning Parker into a heavily-protected Michelin man. He loved the fact that, when he fell, he just kinda bounced and rolled.
Once Parker was fully suited up, we noticed Allie watching him closely. She looked over and saw a little girl her age putting on her hockey gear, and my wife and I immediately knew what she was thinking: She was thinking she wanted a pony.
But she was also thinking she might want to try hockey. In a flash, she joined her brother, ready to go as the three-foot Granatos. (You see, Tony and Cammi Granato were brother and sister, and they played hockey, and ... oh, nevermind.)
When it was time to hit the ice, the coaches for the clinic helped them onto the rink. They divided the kids into two groups: Those who could skate, and those who couldn’t. It was easy to tell which group was which: One group was skating, and the other group was on the floor looking like a bunch of awkward turtles.
To teach the kids how to skate, they start with plastic chairs. The kids put their hands on the seat of the chair for stability and move along, using it kind of like a walker. After a few tries, Allie got the hang of it and was moving at a pretty good clip. Parker? Not so much. He really had no desire to go anywhere. He was perfectly content. My wife and I watched across the ice as several coaches tried to convince him to skate. At one point, they got him grabbing the chair and we saw him gliding across the ice. We then noticed his legs weren’t moving. He was basically getting an escort around the ring. Another coach carried him for a lap, at which point he had decided he had had enough.
He came off the ice and told us he didn’t want to skate anymore. I sat him down, gave him a hug, and said, “Quitters don’t get lunch.”
Ha! Kidding. My wife and I both tried to encourage him to get back on the ice, to no avail. As the clinic began to come to a close, Parker had an apparent change of heart, at which point he said I would be his on-ice guide.
My kids are still at the age where they think Daddy can do anything. Daddy can make it stop raining. Daddy can bring a squished ladybug back to life. Daddy can reattach Elmo’s severed head. It’s amazing what good timing, a little sleight of hand and a lot of distraction can do for your credibility. But I figured there was no way to fake my way through this one. I told my wife what the plan was, and that I would need a few minutes to, well, learn how to ice skate.
As I was lacing up my skates, the woman at the rink asked me if I was a good skater. “I don’t remember ever having skated before,” I responded. She chuckled, which did not bode well for me. “Just remember to march,” she said. I nodded, although I still have no idea what she meant.
When I got to the ice, I saw all of these little kids zooming about. I am sure they would have loved to see a grown-up sprawled on the ice, flopping around like an octopus as I tried to avoid a concussion. I set one skate on the ice, and then the second. I stood for a moment, took a deep breath and ... wanna guess what happened next?
I skated. Just glided across the ice. Fortunately, I have roller bladed for years, and that skill apparently translates quite easily. I took a few quick laps and got Parker on the ice, who was now just thrilled about going skating. (Allie opted to go eat some lunch, saying the hockey clothes were “smelly.”)
Our first couple of laps were done with me standing behind Parker, holding his hands while he skated. When it became evident that continued skating while hunched over and holding a 3-year-old would most likely send me to traction, I opted for the chair approach. Parker held on, moving his little legs as best he could, sometimes going four or five steps before faltering. After about an hour, he had shown a lot of improvement, and within a couple of clinics, I bet he will be skating on his own.
I’m glad he got back on the ice, and he has shown excitement about going back and trying again. When the kids take on any activity, I only have two requirements: Try your hardest, and have fun. If you do that, you’ll do fine. And you’ll get lunch.

Fairy Tale

My wife and I recently completed one of the more difficult financial transactions we have ever had to endure: We negotiated with the Tooth Fairy.
It was an exciting time leading up to the my daughter’s first tooth coming out. (Yes, “exciting” is relative. When you’re married with kids, wiggly teeth tends to get you all riled up.) My wife first noticed it and showed it to me. I immediately cringed and looked away. I don’t like seeing loose teeth, and for this I blame one of my sisters.
You see, one time when I was a child and had a loose tooth, one of my sisters decided she would help me get it out. The tools she would need: Some thread from Mom’s sewing cabinet and a doorknob.
I am not sure who actually came up with this idea, but it was clearly an older sibling. I wonder if such an extraction has ever actually worked. She sat me down in a chair and, for some reason, I let her tie the string around my tooth and then to the doorknob. And slam went the door. And nowhere went the tooth. What she WAS able to accomplish was to shred my mouth up with the door-slam speed of thread zipping across it.
I am not sure how that tooth (and any others) came out, but I assure you it was done without breathing a peep of it to my sister.
But ever since then, the idea of teeth coming out of your head? Just not so pleasant to me. But my wife insists that I take part in all of these defining moments. Since we have had kids, I have looked at more unpleasant things at my wife’s behest than I care to imagine. And I am not sure why. The conversation usually goes like this:
HER: Hey, take a look this.
ME: Ewww.
HER: Oh, quit being a dork. It’s your child. Does it smell funny?
ME: Ewww.
HER: Yeah, I thought so, too. Hmmm. We’ll keep an eye on it. So, what should we do for dinner?
I finally mustered up the courage to wiggle Allie’s tooth a little. Partly, I did this because in addition to my wife informing me that I was a scaredy-cat, my daughter was chiding me, too. There is just so much emasculation you can take from a 6-year-old before you belly up to the bar.
Once I confirmed what we already knew – yes, it’s loose; congratulations – I removed myself from the process. “Let me know when it falls out,” I told my wife.
A few days later, we were getting the kids ready for bed, when I went in the bathroom and saw my wife and daughter up close to the mirror, my wife looking as though she was trying to fit her entire hand in my daughter’s mouth. “Uh, what are you doing?” I asked.
“Grabble frobba toof,” Allie said.
“Trying to get the tooth out,” my wife translated.
I just left the room, thoughts of thread racing through my mind.
Apparently the tooth was still hanging in there, so they decided to let nature and gravity take its course. A few mornings later, we were awoken VERY early to a very excited girl, showing off her brand new gap-toothed grin. She was excited about the tooth finally coming out, but even more excited about the Tooth Fairy’s pending visit.
Later that day, it occurred to my wife and me that it had been many moons since the Tooth Fairy had paid us for our used body parts. (She is undoubtedly the inspiration for the kidney thief urban legend). Way back in our day, I believe the Tooth Fairy dealt in coins.
I considered setting the stage for coins by explaining to Allie something like, “Back when your mother and I were kids, the Tooth Fairy didn’t give us money. Instead she put us to work in the tooth mines. For every tooth we lost, we had to log 40 hours, breaking big rocks into smaller rocks and smaller rocks in new teeth. And if we stopped working for even a minute, she’d have the Easter Bunny come over and punch us in the small of the back. So be thankful for whatever you get, because it will undoubtedly be better than getting kidney punched by a giant rabbit.”
I was shocked when my master plan was vetoed. Instead, we started asking around, and found that inflation had driven the tooth industry well into the paper money realm. Anywhere from a buck on up to $5. The Tooth Fairy has apparently had some investing luck to be able to turn around that kind of dough.
We went back and forth on the issue (“Two dollars? Three?” “How about we go back to the tooth mine/Easter Bunny story?” “Why do I bother including you?”) and finally came to terms with the Tooth Fairy. She would be offering up $2 for each tooth. Allie was very pleased with the trade (although she did tell her aunt that she was hoping for something in the $5 range; good luck with that).
She is now checking her other teeth on a regular basis, since she has realized she can get straight up cash for her teeth. I need to remind her that it is a one shot deal, and getting her brother to knock out permanent teeth is no way to make cash. When the next one comes loose, I know she will be eager for it to fall out. I hope she doesn’t call my sister.