Zoo creatures

Another trip to the zoo, another chance to treat the people there as their own zoo-wide exhibit.
I love going to the zoo, and every time I go, I spend as much time watching the people as I do the exhibits. I have written several columns over the years about some of the curious behavior of the people-beasts that inhabit the outsides of cages. I figured it was high time I began to classify some of them, so that someone who has an interest in Latin can begin assigning them scientific names:

The Animal Hater
This person would rather be anywhere but at a zoo. The Animal Hater we saw uttered this memorable phrase at a meerkat exhibit: “Who wants to see a &*$% rodent?” I hadn’t the heart to tell him they weren’t rodents. You know who would? This person:

The Animal Lover
The Animal Lovers don’t just appreciate wildlife. They’ve got a rather odd attachment to them. It really comes out in the reptile house, when the AL will stand, face pressed against the glass, waxing eloquent about the beauty of the animal. But it gets almost to the creepy point, where you feel there is a really strong possibility, were the cage open, they would reach in and try to bond with their new animal soul mate. And be subsequently bitten by a Gila monster.

The Lounger
The Lounger is most often a teen male. He is far too cool to be at a zoo. He must sit with his back to an exhibit, texting his friends expressing how uncool the zoo is. His texts will consist of such insights such as “Sup” and “dude z00 lame.” Oftentimes, he will sit at a key viewing point, not even realizing he is blocking people’s views, causing them to try and will the grizzly bear to just make one honest try.

The Jockey
This person has got to see that exhibit. If they do not get in there right then, they will miss the sea turtle that only swims by every 40 seconds or so. In order to jockey for position, this person will utilize various contortions and twists to slide around people and will also commit what should be a felony – placing a hand on my shoulder to balance themselves while stepping in front on me, muttering, “skyoozmee-skyoozmee.” Hi, welcome to Mike – thank you for not touching.

The Over Educator
I suppose I get lumped into this category on occasion. “Look, kids, a Scolopendra!” I say gleefully. “Daddy, that’s a big centipede.” “Yes! A Scolopendra!” They politely resist the urge to chant “nerd.”

The Speed Freak
This person is looking to get through the exhibit in about 11 minutes. And you are a mere speed bump on their path to a new world record in the 100-Meter Monkey House Dash. He will duck, spin, peer over you or even skip an exhibit to keep moving. It is possible that the Speed Freak is part shark and must keep moving to survive.

The Escaped Exhibit
These are only found in their juvenile state. Their parents fall into one of two subspecies: The Exasperated Wit’s Enders or the Oblivious Don’t Cares. I noticed one Escaped Exhibit showing a fantastic display of what happens when you are not allowed to get your own ketchup. He was wearing one of those backpack/leash things, which it turns out can turn into a dragging rope. I was informed that you are not supposed to laugh at a kid flailing his arms and legs as he is towed across a restaurant floor by his monkey backpack.

The Statue
This is usually some Brad Garrett-sized behemoth who finds an exhibit he likes and just turns to stone. You may want to see the tiger. But you will do it when he is done. And he will not be done for a long time. He is not intentionally doing this to hurt you. But you try moving along when you’re made of stone.

I am sure there are many more species (and countless subspecies). I look forward to going back and finding them. And then over-educating my kids about it.

Crape of wrath

A few months back, I shared my confession with you. I was a murderer.
A crape murderer, to be exact.
I had chopped down an enormous crape myrtle in my backyard, something that drew ire from some of the plant lovers of the community.
I tried to assure them that this was self-defense. The tree had grown so large, I had carved out a tunnel that you could drive a small car through.
OK, so not that big, but WAY bigger than a crape myrtle needs to be. (Oh, and a quick sidenote: It’s “crape,” not “crepe.” I had some spirited debate with some folks last time, some even pointing out that there is a Crepe Myrtle Court. So be it. But the tree I murdered was a crape. The pastry I just finished? A crepe. And delicious.)
Sorry, got distracted. Where was I? Oh, tree attacks, that’s right. Anyway, this thing got so big and unruly that when it rained it would droop down and cover my back door. Some of the branches would also scratch against my daughter’s window, making it sound like something was clawing at the screen, which is a fantastic lullaby. (I did offer to let her watch a movie to drown out the sound, but apparently “The Shining” just didn’t do it for her.)
So I murdered the tree one morning when my wife was gone and could not stop me. I managed to do so without losing any fingers or breaking any windows. I was left with a gigantic stump in the backyard, which I had planned to get to eventually. I asked some people who remove trees what’s the best way to get stumps out of the ground. Apparently it involves chains and the occasional backhoe. I have neither. And I can safely bet that should I try to get a backhoe into my backyard, it would not matter where my wife was. Her idiotdar would start beeping like crazy and she would be home in no time, standing in front of it like a Tiananmen Square recreation. (The idiotdar has previously gone off when I was stuck on the roof; when I tried to give our daughter a haircut; and when I decided to drive to a hurricane.)
The stump became a bigger issue when I noticed that the crape myrtle was growing back. Fast. All around the giant stump were these shoots that started spiking up. At one point, they were taller than my 5-year-old, and he used them as a super cool hiding place, which made me all the more the bad guy when he saw me bringing the hedge trimmers out.
After I leveled the first resurgence of branches, I began to seek other ways to get rid of the stump. I went to a home improvement store and asked a guy if he had chemicals that could kill a stump once and for all. He looked over both shoulders, then leaned in to me, “You didn’t hear this from me,” he said, and proceeded to detail a complicated, fiery plan to dispatch the stump. The idiotdar would have gone nuts.
I opted instead for a chemical that you pour into the stump and then pour hot water on top. It also says to light charcoal briquets on top. Seriously. I think they may just be seeing how much crazy stuff they can get you to do.
Now, before you get on to me about my abuse of this tree, you have to remember: (a) it’s out of control with growth, (b) it never should have been planted where it was and (c) it angered me by rapidly growing back to the point where I actually tried to mow the tree.
To complete the lethal injection, I had to drill a hole four inches deep into the stump. When I went to do this, I learned that crape myrtle stumps are actually made of solid lead, and no drill bit on the planet can bore into them.
So that’s where we stand. The stinking thing is still there, routinely sprouting up new branches just to mock me, the deadly chemicals sitting ineffectively on the sideline.
I have no idea how I am going to get the stump out of there. But if you hear a loud beeping, you can bet I got a backhoe.

The sting

Hey, did you know that yellow jackets can fly almost as fast as a grown man sprinting around a swing set? I do. Now.
It all started last week when I was having a fence installed in my backyard. The existing one did not resemble wood so much as it did thick cardboard. General rule: If a 10-pound dog scratches at a fence board and it comes apart like shredded wheat, it may be time to get some new fencing.
I considered doing the fence myself, but then it occurred to me that I did not want the top to look like an EKG line, so I should hire professionals.
As they were preparing to rip down the current fence, I glanced out the window and saw them standing about 15 feet from the fence. One was on a cell phone. This didn’t seem like the best way to put up a fence, so I went outside to see what was going on. Turns out, they had found a yellow jacket nest right near one of the fence posts. Angry yellow jackets. Angry yellow jackets who were quite content with the fence where it was. Both of the guys had already been stung. Not a lot of joy in the backyard.
I went and retrieved some wasp spray from the garage. It’s one of those ones that shoots a stream of chemicals about a quarter mile, so you can stand safely away and attack. “Fellas, your problem is about to be solved.” I located where the nest was and proceeded to empty the can. Take that, you winged devils!
Pitching the can aside, I began to stride inside, a little cowboy swagger in me, knowing I had just ruled this duel.
I headed on to work, confident that my picture may very possibly go up at the fence company’s HQ, under a banner that read “Our Hero.”
A little while later, I swung by the house to check on the status. Both men were getting in the truck. They told me they were going to the store to get some stuff to kill the yellow jackets. I reminded them that I had bravely launched a chemical attack on them. That, it turns out, only made the yellow jackets angry. Or, angrier, as it were.
Fast forward to lunch. I stopped by to check again. They had tripled my attack efforts, and made them triply mad. I peered over at the fence and could see a small cloud of yellow jackets. I told one of the guys that it was clear the nest was in a leaf pile, and if I could just dig some of that out, we’d be fine. He looked at me in much the same way as my wife when I say to her, “You know what would be awesome? A pinball machine in the kitchen.”
I decided it was time to armor up and take the fight to the ground. I went inside and put on a heavy winter coat. In the garage, I found a pair of work gloves and safety goggles. I donned the coat’s hood and pulled the draw string tight, leaving no skin exposed. When I walked out, pitchfork in hand, I glanced at the fence guy. I was expecting a slow clap for my bravery. I even considered walking in slow motion, like I was heading to the space shuttle or something. “They stung through blue jeans,” he said. I think the implication was that I was somehow not in the ideal protective gear.
Never mind. This was clearly foolproof. I went around the fence and approached the nest. There was still an angry posse hovering above the ground. I figured a quick thrust and pitch would open up the nest’s mouth, thereby clearing the path for an easy and final assault.
I drove the pitchfork into the ground and went to heave a huge chunk of leaves and dirt. I have no idea where the leaves and dirt went, as a giant plume of yellow jackets came billowing from the ground, an incredibly loud buzzing soundtrack accompanying it. Instinct took over, and before I knew what was going on, I was sprinting the other direction.
“THEY’RE ON YOUR COAT!!!” I heard him shout.
So there I was, sprinting across my backyard, trying to knock yellow jackets off my back with a pitchfork. (Haven’t we all been there?) Eventually, I dropped the pitchfork and shed my coat and goggles, still shooing away some that are still in pursuit.
Eventually, I made it clear of them, and the fence guys pretty much decided I had ended that day’s work. I ended up going to a professional, who wisely assessed the situation wearing a beekeeper’s outfit. When he went to treat it, he hit the nest a little, and the yellow jackets – who are in serious need of some psychological treatment – began to swarm again, leaving plenty of stingers in his outfit. He had to wait for about an hour for them to settle down before he could complete the mission. When he finally dug the nest out, he found it was four layers deep, and contained, by my estimate, every yellow jacket on the planet.
When the fence guys returned the next day, they were pleased to see that the nest was gone, and they could complete the job without risk of death by a billion stings. While I did have to call in some backup, I’d like to think my picture will still go on the wall.

Troll attack

Curious thing, the Internet.
Perhaps most curious is the notion that every single thing on it must be for every single person’s interest and entertainment, and if somehow it does not appeal to you, you should lash out with unfettered anger and criticism, the likes of which you would dare not do if someone knew who you were or, much less, was within arm’s length.
I base this on a few comments I have read of late, in particular some directed at me. Now, first let me tell you this: I have incredibly thick skin. You don’t get into this business and stay for long if criticism is your kryptonite. But it still struck me as odd when someone decided to line me up in his sights. For a couple of weeks, someone who is a clearly big fan of the newspaper and me has posted some commentary on our website regarding my column. I can’t print the quotes in their entirety, as SOMEBODY uses words not fit for a family newspaper. But I will address the main point: I don’t recall my column ever running on the front page, nor do I recall asking the reporters to stop gathering news so we could gather ’round the campfire and hear Uncle Mike spin a yarn or two ’bout the young’uns.
Another comment was on a YouTube posting of my kids on Christmas morning. The post read: “Y do I wanna watch ya’ll on christmas day.”
Now, I am not sure who asked this. However, I am fairly certain it is not Grandma, Grandpa, Nana, Pop, Gran or Granddaddy, for whom the video was intended. The main reason I am sure of that is my parents and in-laws know spelling and capitalization and crazy things such as that. (You + all = Y’all. Proper apostrophe placement is key. Otherwise, it appears you are doing a contraction of “Yay” and “Ill,” which I guess means you are celebrating someone’s poor health.)
The grandparents liked being able to see their grandkids, at the time ages 4 and 7, open what Santa brought them. I should hope you would not want to watch this if you do not know them. There are no doubt thousands of Christmas morning videos online, and I can safely say I have watched one: my own. Should I come across someone else’s Christmas morning video, I will simply, gee, I don’t know – maybe not watch it? I certainly won’t take the time to comment on it. A quick keyword search on YouTube reveals plenty of videos I will neither watch nor comment on:
-- How to make butter
-- Paint drying
-- Jerry Lewis impersonations
-- Eating Ramen noodles
-- Bea Arthur singing in the Star Wars Holiday Special from 1977. (OK, that one is worth watching.)
The amazing thing is each of those videos have plenty of comments from people who sat and watched them and then shared their very personal feelings. What in the world is it about the Internet that drives someone to watch or read something they don’t like and then make their feelings so known? I have a few theories:
1. It’s finally a chance to throw out a controversial opinion, when you know that in real life offering up silly (or profane) commentary would get you publicly rebuked, privately chastised or, most likely, sensibly ostracized.
2. You haven’t the courage of your convictions. Otherwise, you’d have no problem attaching your name to something.
3. You’ve been on the receiving end of countless wedgies, nerples, swirlies and noogies, and you are finally channeling some of that anger in a new and unhealthy avenue.
Whatever the reason, it sure seems like people could do better things with their time than watch or read things they don’t like. I could sure think of something better to do. Such as watch Bea Arthur sing.

Cart conversion

It was a shameful confession. She wouldn’t even make eye contact with me. A friend of mine, head bowed, said that she was “that person.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant. Vampire? Cannibal? Auburn fan? No, far more shameful. She admitted that, on occasion, she was one of those people who leaves the grocery cart sitting in the middle of the shopping center parking lot.
She decided to plead her case. Sometimes you’re juggling kids and the weather looks rough and it’s just a harried day and you have to just get in the car and get rolling, leaving collateral cart damage behind.
Donning my powdered wig (what, you don’t have one?) I ruled swiftly: GUILTY!
She again tried the argument, which had been previously struck down in the Court of Mike: The argument that returning the cart would be next to impossible, as the children were acting like jackrabbits on speed. It seems valid at first. One child is busy trying to take off a diaper while the other one is trying to eat through your recently purchased loaf of bread.
The weather is clouding up, and the heavens are going to open up any second now. You’ve got a small window to tether your children and throw the groceries in the back. No time for marching all the way over to the cart corral, right?
However, the reason this argument does not allow for cart abandonment is that you should have strategically parked from the get-go. Immediately upon entering the car lot, pull right up beside a cart corral. That way, when you leave, your cart is already home.
You can even give it a cool little hip bump to send it the final few feet, just to show what kind of happenin’ person you are.
And I know the counter arguments to this:
1. “What if it’s raining? Don’t you want to park as close as possible?” Answer: If you are a parent, you are most likely covered in drool, Cheez-It crumbs or the remnants of the melted Nerds you just sat in, so a hardy downpour might do you some good.
2. “What if it’s hot? That’s a long walk.” Answer: Let’s be honest – if we were to find the largest parking lot at a grocery store and park at the very end, it would never be considered a long walk. Consider it your daily cardio.
3. “But what if I am pregnant and want to park in that parking space with the little stork sign that reads, ‘Expectant Mothers only’?” Answer: I have never had that problem.
4. “I am special. Little people will gather the carts for me.” Answer: No you’re not. Put your cart back.
I know that I harp on this one issue a lot, but I have to be honest with you: This affects each and every one of us far more than something like social security or a natural disaster in a country we are not entirely sure how to pronounce.
But, Mike, you say, how is that? To which I answer: Stress. It is estimated by me just now that 95 percent of all deaths in the U.S. are stress related. And think about the number of times you go to pull into that prime parking space, only to have to slam on the breaks when you see the lone cart (or, even worse, several of them, huddling together in a “Lord of the Flies” grocery cart commune).
And think about what you mutter under your breath. (Nice language, by the way.) I don’t want you to become a statistic. Imagine a world in which every prime parking spot is just that – a wide open swath of asphalt, just waiting for your SUV to ease into. What’s that? Bluebirds chirping? Sounds like serenity to me ...
Alas, I will conclude with some good news. Shortly after my friend’s confession, I received an e-mail from her. It read “At least for today, I am not ‘that person.’ I strategically parked and returned my cart to the corral!!!”
One convert. A billion to go.

A few random thoughts

Not so much a regular column today but rather just a few musings I felt like sharing. I know, I know – and break from the usual coherent stream of logic?

— I think my crusade for making people return their shopping carts to the proper locale is gaining steam. The other day, I was able to eye someone across a parking lot who was clearly considering abandoning it in a perfectly good spot. Sensing my stare-down, she went and ahead and took the cart the extra 20 feet to the corral. Success through stinkeye.
— I read a column by P.J. O’Rourke recently, and one part resonated with me. In regard to the world being fair, O’Rourke wrote: “I’ve got a 10-year-old at home. She’s always saying, ‘That’s not fair.’ When she says this, I say, ‘Honey, you’re cute. That’s not fair. Your family is pretty well off. That’s not fair. You were born in America. That’s not fair. Darling, you had better pray to God that things don’t start getting fair for you.’”
If you are a parent, prepare to paraphrase that 43 billion times a week.
— Yes, it is hot. It’s the summer. We live in the South. And I have bad news for you: My grandmother, who lived through eight decades in the South, once confided in me a secret: You never get used to it. Ever. That’s why God invented air conditioning.
— A neti pot is one of the grossest things I have ever seen. And, I have to admit, one of the most awesome. For those of you not familiar, Google it. As someone who has some of the worst sinuses on the planet, I’m willing to try anything. While it’s not something I suggest breaking out at the dinner table during a first date, if you’ve considered using one, take the plunge. After the date, of course.
— My son added to his bite list. When a carpenter ant got hold of him the other day, he was quite proud. Between bites and stings, he has been tagged by a yellow jacket, a hornet, a wolf spider, four snakes, a lizard, a dog, an alligator and an Allie. (The spider and Allie bites were in self-defense.) I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry: Only the lizard and alligator were voluntary.
— My children are at the age where they hear EVERYTHING Mommy and Daddy say. We certainly try to set a good example but, as I argued to my wife, I maintain that I was perfectly justified the other day in the car when I said, “Yes, ‘stupid’ is not a nice word. But sometimes, grown-ups have no choice but to ask out loud, ‘What are you, stupid?’ This is often said to someone who stops for a green light.” My wife says I am teaching them road rage. I don’t think she meant that as a compliment.
— Wendy’s should be the model of setting up a fast-food line. Building on the brilliance of Disney’s line-standing strategies, Wendy’s has queue lines. I cannot stand when there is just a chaotic blob of people milling around, hoping to dart into the next available spot. And you always have that one person who is acting like Rickey Henderson, looking to spring into the first available spot before anyone notices. Queue lines cure the Ricky Hendersons.
— My daughter was being pestered by her brother the other day and complained to me about it. I told her to go into a different room. She said that he was being the pest, so why did she have to leave? I explained to her that he was a little brother and that’s what little brothers do. They annoy big sisters. The best defense mechanism is to lock yourself in a little brother-proof room. Trust me, I said, I know – I have three older sisters. Allie said, “But Daddy, you didn’t do that to my aunts when you were a kid, did you?” My sisters and I had a good chuckle over that one.
— Quite a few readers have remarked on the frozen T-shirt column from a few weeks back. And the verdict is split on whether I cheated in the competition. Since it was not unanimous, clearly there was a reasonable doubt, and I therefore declare myself not guilty.
Well, I guess that is all for today. And remember to enjoy your life. It’s quite unfair. Fortunately.

Check it out

By my estimate, there were two of us who should have been in line. Everyone else should have been … elsewhere.
It was a Sunday at 1:40 p.m., and I ran to the store to pick up a few items. When I entered, I was amazed to see every open register line 10 deep with people. Apparently, the store was having a super-duper sale on some stuff, and everyone had flooded the place to get a hold of great deals.
I grabbed my two items and found the line that was the least brutal looking. There was a guy in front of me, looking as exasperated as I felt. “I’m not really sure why all of these people had to be here RIGHT at 1:30 p.m.,” I said.
“The sale,” he said, holding up a flyer.
I looked around the store. There were still plenty of sale items left. The 1-cent folders? Enough to crush a buffalo. The erasers? You could make a life raft out of what was left. There was no need to have clogged the arteries of the store.
He turned to me and asked a fair question: “So why are you here then?”
I gave him my answer: Kit Kittredge. He stared at me and probably considered moving to a different line. I explained that I was getting a printer cartridge for something my wife had to print that afternoon. My wife was taking my daughter to see “Kit Kittredge: An American Girl,” and it started at 2:45 p.m. I had to get the cartridge ASAP.
He nodded, giving his approval for my being there. “What about you?” I asked.
“I’m not from here. I’ve been waiting since 10:30 a.m.” Ah, a blue law casualty. (Granted, he could have killed the time by going to a grocery store, grabbing a six-pack, a lottery ticket and a carton of smokes. That should have kept him busy until he was able to buy … a stapler.)
Anywho, as we surveyed the crowd, we both came to the conclusion that we were probably some of the few shoppers who had a justifiable reason to be there at that time. I was working on a deadline, and he had just been paroled from blue law prison. Everyone else? Just snapping up a Trapper Keeper.
That’s when we decided stores should have the Expedited Shopping Lanes. First, you go to a store mediator and present your case as to whether or not you should get to go to a speed line. It’s sort of the carpool line of checkouts. For example:
MEDIATOR: State your case.
SHOPPER 1: My daughter’s hair bow just broke, and her dance recital is in 15 minutes.
MEDIATOR: Approved. Next.
SHOPPER 2: I figured I’d stock up on these 10 for $10 jars of relish, since I was out and about.
MEDIATOR: DENIED! To the long line.
Now, to any of you who were in that line the other day, I am doing this for your own health. There is no need to stampede a store right when it opens just to get a good deal on school supplies. (A) They aren’t going to run out. (B) If they do, and you have to pay about a dollar more, ask yourself what your time is worth. Personally, I’ll gladly pay a little extra to avoid having to stand in a long line or lock horns with a mom over the last Spider-Man backpack. On a similar note, I remember years ago when my wife took me out people-watching on the day after Thanksgiving. We were in a mall in Florida, and we walked passed a toy store having sales of up to 25 percent off. A line snaked around the store and out into the mall. There, at the back of the line, probably an hour away from checking out, was a woman holding a Monopoly game. I don’t know about you, but I’m not standing in line for an hour to save $4, especially to buy a game that is federally required to be in every game cabinet in America.
While the day may never come when my brilliant idea is embraced by the masses, I will keep a glimmer of hope alive. Until that day comes, however, I know one thing is certain: I’ll just avoid Sunday matinees.

I sawed that

It’s the same predicament you’ve all been in – standing on the top of the roof, chain saw-on-a-stick in hand, when you pull the extension cord and knock over the gas can right where the kids are drawing with their chalk.
Really? Just me? Hmm.
It happened the other day when I decided to break my sworn vow to stay away from ladders and chain saws. But I had noticed that a few limbs had grown to the point where they reached the roof-line and, in some instances, were leaning against Parker’s window, meaning when the wind would blow it sounded like badgers were trying to get in.
So I decided to cut them down. I retrieved my chain saw-on-a-stick, affectionately known around the neighborhood as the “bad idea on a stick.” Some of you may recall that I swore off chain saws and ladders last year after nearly killing myself by cutting the tree that my ladder was leaning against. I am skilled that way.
But, a year later, I guess I assumed I was somehow immune to that kind of foolishness. Also my wife was inside and couldn’t see what I was doing and therefore could not stop me.
So I put the ladder up on the tree and headed on up. I was about 12 feet up, and the pole extended out about six feet. At this height, if I jumped I might be able to trim a little of the branch before I crashed to the ground. Even I knew that was a bad idea.
I surveyed my options. The easiest way to get to the limbs would be to get on the rooftop. While I am not scared of heights, I am very much afraid of falling off my second-story roof, which has a pitch at about 80 degrees by my estimate. The next best option would be the roof over the front porch. I would be able to climb up there and extend the saw to my side, trimming the limbs. No sweat.
I perched the ladder up against the house and began my ascent. My wife’s special “My Husband’s an Idiot” sense kicked in and she came outside. I got to the top of the roof and was standing there, straddling the peak. I extended the chain saw and fired it up. It breezed through the first branch, which crashed into the bushes below. Awesome. Perfection. For a second.
The next branch was a little farther away, and I figured I needed a little more extension cord. I gave the cord a quick tug. Little did I know the cord was behind the gas can, which I had failed to put up after gassing up the mower. The cord hit the can, tipping it over, spilling some gas on the driveway. My wife said, “MICHAEL!!!!” And she has mastered numerous inflections to my name, where all she has to say is “MICHAEL!!!” and I will immediately say, “Gas? Where?” (Other “MICHAEL!!!!” calls result in such diverse responses as “I wasn’t looking at her. I was looking at … something behind her” and “But he needs to learn how to use an ax at some point!”)
I looked down and saw the can on its side. It then occurred to me – I am standing on a roof with a chain saw-on-a-stick. I am not really in first responder mode. “Uh, I don’t really think I’m in a position to help right now.”
My wife agreed that she would have two big messes to clean up if I tried to hustle down to our little chemical spill, and instead opted to stand the can upright and move the kids to a different slab of concrete. There wasn’t much spilled, so she and a neighbor were able to serve as warning tape until it evaporated.
Eventually, I was able to finish my trimming without causing any more hazardous situations, on the ground or the roof. I even managed to get off the roof without a hitch. In fact, aside from the gasoline spill, I’d say it was one of the more successful chain saw-on-a-stick plus ladder days I’ve ever had. I should do them more often.
I have a hunch my wife’s special sense just kicked on.

WALL-E to WALL-E fun

It’s always nice to have something of a reward to hang over the kids in exchange for good behavior. My latest was a trip to see the new Pixar movie, WALL-E. (Rewards such as “dinner” and “getting to sleep inside” no longer have the shine.) So the kids were golden throughout the day, as they were jazzed to see the movie. And I know some of you say that being good should be its own reward, and that children should not be bribed for good behavior. To that I say: HA! Good stuff, there.
Anyway, we bought tickets online, which was a first for me. I lag behind lots of things in terms of online convenience. Back when I was in charge of household finances, I wrote checks for every bill, some of them even on time. My wife saw this as a less than ideal way to manage your budget/keep the electricity on, so she opted to do most of our banking online. Should my wife decide to run off to Tahiti, it will be only a matter of time until creditors descend on me, as I will have no clue when/how/where to pay any bills.
When we got to the theater, I was glad that I had ventured into the online world, as I saw person after person being turned away at the box office. I overheard this conversation:
PATRON: Two tickets to WALL-E.
BOX OFFICE: It’s sold out.
PATRON: Sold out?
BOX OFFICE: Sold out.
PATRON: Completely?
At this point, I mentally awarded the Medal of Restraint to the box office worker who simply nodded, rather than saying, “No, it’s sold out, but not completely sold out. It’s just a ruse to trick those who are not clever enough to ask.”
When we got in the theater, I had to do some serious strategic planning. There were quite a few issues at play:
-- The movie was sold out, meaning we had to scramble to find three seats together
-- Concessions were a must
-- Parker was doing an interesting little dance/hop, which meant somebody needed to get to the bathroom quickly.
Fortunately, both kids are at the age where they are a little more independent and responsible. It’s nice to get to the point where you don’t have to actually stand in the stall when your child is going to the restroom, doing that over-the-top conversation that lets other people know that you are a perfectly normal adult standing in a stall talking about potty time. It also helps to know that you can have your eyes off of your kids for three seconds and know that they will not, say, eat a rock.
Because of these two developmental milestones, I was able to put Allie at our seats while Parker went to the restroom and I stood in line at the concession stand. I am still somewhat paranoid, and did make a point of standing where I could see our seats and the bathroom door. I probably looked like someone with a nervous tic, or perhaps someone watching a tennis match, as I swiveled my head back and forth to keep an eye on things.
When Parker was done, he came to assist me at the concession stand. After explaining to him where his college fund went (“You HAD to add Skittles...”), we settled into our seats. Parker, showing the gentle sensitivity of a child, announced, “That man’s head is big. Can I sit in your lap?”
After moving away from Mr. Big Head, we were settled in. One nice thing about going to a Saturday matinee of a G-rated movie is that you are surrounded by families, and people understand that it is not exactly a quiet zone. While you don’t want it to turn into a Chuck E Cheez, some chattering will go on. Actually, truth of the matter is, the most common thing you hear during a movie is the parents talking to their kids, saying “SHHH!!!!” and “Stop talking!!!” and “You have to pee again!?!!?”
The movie itself was fantastic. I rank it was my new favorite Pixar movie (booting the first-place tie between Finding Nemo and Monsters, Inc.) and one of the best films I have seen in a long time. While kids can certainly enjoy it, it’s just a beautifully done movie that any fan of film will enjoy. In fact, I found it so entertaining, I may take the kids to see it again. If they behave.

Gauging your clerks

There were a mere three things on my shopping list: Outdoor thermometer, rain gauge, bug spray.
Seeing as how I am the most awesomely efficient shopper in the history of mankind, this would be a task almost too easy for someone of my caliber.
I needed the rain gauge and thermometer to replace my outdoor weather station, which never quite worked the way it was supposed to. And by “the way it was supposed to,” I mean “at all.”
Part of the unit was a canister that sat outside, supposedly taking weather readings. It then relayed them inside to a digital display. Of course, the display never quite worked, and would give me temperature readouts of, say, the letter B and an upside down seven.
I think it has something to do with the energy sphere over my house. I call it that, as that is the only sci-fi kind of name I can figure out for the way wireless devices tend to act (or rather, not act) at my house.
Several years ago, my wife got my inner child a gift, the most awesome Dukes of Hazzard remote control car ever. And I could never get it to work. I returned it, got a new General Lee, and had the same result.
After about four remote control cars, I sat my inner child down and told him it wasn’t meant to be. He was disappointed, but it will make him stronger and more able to handle inner bullies when he’s an inner teen.
Anywho, since the energy sphere appeared to affect my weather station, too, I was going to go low tech and get a plain old rain gauge and a plain old thermometer.
The bug spray was because I am simply the most delicious person on the planet, and mosquitoes come from miles around to taste me. They also feast on my son, yet have never bitten my daughter. I told her that is because (a) she is sour and (b) they don’t like monkey meat. She finds neither of these very funny.
So back to my shoptasticness. I loaded up the kids and headed to the store, pretty sure I would be so efficient that I may actually go back in time. I went into the first store and quickly found the bug spray and a thermometer. I figured the rain gauges would be nearby, but saw nothing.
After a few minutes, I opted to ask a clerk for help.
“Rain gauges are over by the thermometers,” I was told, the clerk motioning to where I had just come from.
I went back, scoured the shelves, and found nothing. I returned to the clerk and told her I could not find the rain gauges.
“Oh, we’re out of them. But that’s where they would be.” I stared at her for a second, I guess waiting for her “Gotcha!” moment. No. No Gotcha! moment.
She had honestly just told me where a product I was shopping for would be if they had it, even though they didn’t, as if routine product placement tests were being done by shoppers.
Resisting the urge to delve into this one, I put the thermometer and bug spray back and headed out to the next store.
Much like the previous store, I quickly found the bug spray and a thermometer. I spied a clerk and asked him where the rain gauges would be.
“Rain gauges are over by the thermometers,” he said. I stared at him for a second, thinking there was no possible way this could happen again.
I went back to the thermometers. Nothing. I returned to the clerk. “Oh, we’re out of them. But that’s where they would be.” Seriously. At that point, my daughter asked why people didn’t just tell us they were out of them. From the mouth of babes…
Beaten down, I headed to a third store. I vowed that I would speak to no one. I would not be led astray again.
I found the thermometers tucked away in a corner. Knowing full well that if rain gauges existed they would be here, I scanned the shelf. And there it was, tucked away in a corner, a small orange plastic gauge, all $2.49 of it begging to go home with me, a thermometer and some bug spray.
I am glad that I finally found the items I needed, but can’t believe it took me as long as it did. On the upside, if I ever need a rain gauge again, I know where they’re kept. If they have them.

The Worminators

I have written on several occasions about how my children on occasion, oh, what’s the right way to say it -- lock horns in an epic battle royale with the sole goal of annihilation.
They’re siblings. They fight sometimes. I did with my sisters, and I am sure you did with your siblings, unless you were an only child, in which case you never got to experience the emotion of having to have the exact same thing that someone else had all of the time. Case in point: When my kids go swimming, the only pool toy they want is the one the other one has. There are roughly 500 various floats and noodles and balls and such out there, but rest assured, if one grabs the Finding Nemo kickboard, that is the ONLY toy around.
So anywho, I was pleased the other evening when I finally found something to bring my children together. And you can have all of your fancy parenting magazines and coping techniques and generous bribery moments to bring harmony into your house. But if you really want to find a new blissful sibling union, ask yourself this: “Have you gone worm stomping?”
We were sitting at my parents’ house, enjoying a nice evening on the deck. My dad noted that it had rained earlier in the day, and that the ground was damp. “You know, I wanna try something,” he said, standing from his chair and grabbing a broom. Sweeping, I thought. Not the most over-the-top daredevil attempt, but try away.
Instead, he took a few steps into the yard, turned the broom upside down and began pounding it on the ground. After about 10 seconds, the earth began to move. Big, long worms started to break the surface, wiggling around in the moist soil.
Most of us had heard of some variation of bringing worms to the surface, but we had never actually tried it. My guess is that this is probably something that plenty of folks know, and that somewhere there is an old farmer who would have eyed us with an amused look, whistled for his trusty horse to come up to commence stomping its hoof, bring the bait to the surface.
I decided to take a turn. Same results. Parker was having a field day, grabbing the worms and putting them in a small box nearby. Allie was being a cautious observer and occasional worm spotter for Parker. After find success with the broom, we tried several other techniques, such as (a) putting a metal pole in the ground and taping it with a hammer, (b) stomping my foot and (c) yelling “COME HERE, WORMS!!!!” The metal pole and worm calling were ineffective. The stomping method brought worms up, but you can guess what happened a few stomps later.
Although we had seen successes, we were not totally sure how we could quantify our results. Ten worms? Twenty? Clearly, this needed some scientific study. We picked out a nice little plot that was about one square foot. I began pounding with the broom, and the worms came gushing. At this point, there were so many, everyone was grabbing worms and putting them in a small mason jar, which was soon full. We transferred the worms into a cigar box and decided it was time to figure out what our haul was. Allie and Parker formed a worm counting team. Parker would take one worm out and transfer it to another box, and Allie would record the tally.
She gave us updates throughout the count, usually on the tens, but occasionally other intervals (“We’re at 27 — TWENTY SEVEN!!!!”) When they were done, Allie and Parker came over to announce the tally — 71 earthworms. Or, as I told them, enough for breakfast AND lunch.
Now, you may think that the idea of grabbing 71 earthworms is not your cup of tea. And you may be right. Of course, to me, filthy, slimy hands mean you’ve had some fun. The kids definitely have a new hobby, and we have tried out hand worm stomping a few other places. You will be able to tell quickly if they are around, because they come right out to greet you. Keep at it, and when you find a place where the soil is moist and loose and crawling with worms, you’ll be amazed at the ease of bringing them up. It’s enough to make you forget about the Finding Nemo kickboard.

Summer fun sleep over time

My daughter has gotten to the age where she is starting to have sleep-overs with friends. Which means my son has begun his intense Little Brother training.
Allie is 7, and Parker is 5, which means (a) Parker really wants to play with Allie and her friends and (b) Allie and her friends really don’t want Parker to play with them.
I know this well, as I am the Little Brother. I have three older sisters, so I had three times the opportunity to torment them and their friends. I recall one of my sister’s less tolerant friends responding to my delightful hijinx by spitting a mouthful of milk in my face. Crude, but effective.
To be fair to Parker, he just wants to be part of the action. And to be fair to Allie, there is no reason she should have to include him in the action and have said action be on his terms.
For example, I made dinner for everyone, and being the super awesome cool dad I am, I told them they could eat their pizza in the den and watch some TV. I told Allie’s friend she could pick what they would watch. Because it is genetically hard wired in 7-year-old girls, she is limited to only choosing “Hannah Montana” or “High School Musical.” (I currently have the song “Fabulous” from “HSM2” stuck in my head. For those of you with young daughters, I apologize unleashing that earworm on you. For those of you without young daughters, I recommend you not try to figure out what I am talking about. Think of dentist’s drills or Rosie Perez cackling or anything. Trust me.)
So anywho, Parker decided they should watch “Diego” (which, ironically, stars Rosie Perez). I told him no. He told me, through his subtle body language, that this was not exactly the answer he was looking for. (Said language including lying on the floor, stomping his feet and then barking, “I...WANT...DIEGO.”)
The urge is always there to say, “Girls, just switch to ‘Diego.’” That’s a problem on numerous fronts. First, you’re rewarding a temper tantrum. Second, you’re going back on letting the girls have their choice of shows. And third, you’re inviting Rosie Perez into your home, which is a tremendous “Lost Boys” style mistake.
So I did what any good parent would do. I locked him out back and turned the music up loud. Ha! Little abandonment humor there.
Actually, I took Parker to his room, where he continued to plead his case. For what’s it’s worth, if he’s ever to be an attorney, he really should work on a better delivery. Pounding your fists, clenching your jaw, wrinkling your brow and saying, “I..JUST...DON’T...WANT...MY...CLIENT...TO...GO...TO...JAIL...” probably isn’t that effective.
Once I calmed him down a bit, we had this conversation:
ME: Parker, has anyone ever gotten their way in this house because of a temper tantrum?
PARKER: (staring me down, taking a deep breath) No.
ME: Do you think today is the day you START getting your way with a temper tantrum?
PARKER: Um...yes?
ME: Try again.
PARKER: No.
ME: So, what should we do?
PARKER: Not watch “Diego.”
We didn’t even get into the fact that “Diego” is Tivo’d and can be watched whenever. I figured not to push the issue. In a matter of a few minutes, he was downstairs, watching TV and enjoying some pizza, taking a few minutes out of his busy sister-harassing schedule.
As Allie continues to have friends over to play, I am sure the dynamic will continue to be interesting.
They will play with dolls. He will take one hostage.
They will put on music for a “dance party.” He will replace it with a CD of insect sounds.
They will try to jump rope. Parker will tie them up.
Ah, the joys of little brothers. Here’s hoping none of her friends likes milk.

Tips for travel

For those of you not familiar with traveling with a small child, I suggest this easy experiment:
1. Go to four or five yard sales
2. Buy everything at all of them
3. Cram the recently purchased items in your car.
4. Head on your way
I am not sure how something so small as a child can require so much stuff. I remember the first time we traveled after our daughter was born. Our Ford Explorer was filled for a two-day trip to Atlanta. There was a stroller, a portable crib, a second stroller (just in case), another portable crib, a portable playpen, that toy with the flashing lights, that toy with the shiny wheel and roughly 65,000 diapers, as the possibility of your child contracting dysentery had somehow snuck into your sleep-deprived brain.
We also took three huge suitcases of clothes. Of course, for some parents that is necessary, as some babies, such as our daughter, throw up for the sheer sport of it.
As the kids gets older, I am glad to report that the amount of stuff we travel with has diminished greatly. There are numerous reasons for this:
1. As children get older, they usually stop expelling disgusting things at mind-blowing rates. This is a very nice stage to reach, almost as nice as the “can blow their own nose” stage.
2. It doesn’t take long for parents not to care very much about their clothing. Not that we resort to donning burlap sacks or anything, but you can be sure that it didn’t take much for me not to care about the Shoulder of Drool.
3. You realize that strollers the size of forklifts don’t always have to go. I am fairly certain that most umbrella strollers are purchased, taken on a trip and then abandoned before returning home. My wife and I even took to not taking strollers if we were going somewhere we could rent them. (Hint: Two kids? Get two strollers. NEVER get suckered into the double. Tired kid + tired kid + double stroller = Someone getting kicked, pinched, bitten, ejected from the stroller, etc.)
But the best improvement we made in traveling with kids is adding movies in the car so that they stare hypnotically at Shrek through four states. I have heard people comment numerous times how “we didn’t have DVD players when WE were kids, and we used to take road trips – eight of us in a tiny clown car with no AC – and drive to Brazil.” Yes, you are a trooper. And I am pretty sure that if I got into a time machine and took a DVD player to your parents just before one of these trips, they would say, “So, let me get this straight, Future Man – This little screen opens up, and the kids can just watch cartoons on the whole drive to Brazil? And they won’t ... talk? And they might even fall asleep? Wow, the future really is a wonderful place.” Or they might be kinda freaked out by me showing up in my future outfit and handing strange technologies to them. I don’t know your parents.
We first added the moving pictures to our vehicle when we took a fantastic drive from Florida to South Carolina – eight hours – with a little background music I like to call “Child Screaming So Loud Cars Were Pulling Over Thinking It Was a Police Siren.” Finally, we simply gave in and let her drive.
Ha! Kidding. But for the next trip, I took a small TV we have in our kitchen and fastened it to the console with bungee cords. I got a little converter so that we could plug it into the car. Our next trip: Five hours of Elmo on constant repeat. And it was beautiful.
Eventually, we upgraded to one of those VCR-TV units that hangs from the back of the seat. That was good for a while, until someone learned that little toes could reach it and mess with the buttons.
By the time Parker was old enough to care about watching something, we had bought one of those little DVD players that we could just sit on the console. This was much nicer than the original TV because I didn’t have something the size of a cinder block strapped in next to me.
We have since added a van, and it has the DVD player built into the car. And I think that’s a more important purchase than seat belts. For what it’s worth, I have heard quite a few movies that I have never seen. I can quote “Cars” for you. Never seen it. I saw about four seconds of it when SOMEBODY in the car suggested I move my seat back from the fully reclined position, despite the fact that (a) she was supposed to be asleep and (b) it was a very straight and empty road. And to keep harmony in the car, my wife gave each of the kids a little DVD holder, and they take turns picking the movie. If we can just figure out a way to agree on who picks the first movie, we’ll be fine.
Again, I know plenty of you think those dadgum kids today with their spoiled ways and their movies in cars.
But really, what is the difference? We all had diversions when we were on road trips. Just because ours were a little lamer than watching “The Incredibles,” it doesn’t mean they’re spoiled.
It means they just may not ever know the joy of finally – FINALLY!!! – seeing a Hawaii license plate.

Summer breeze

Ah, summer. It’s almost here. And as I look back on the summers of old, I realize that I am about to embark on a new era of summers for me. I think pretty much everyone’s summers are packaged into convenient blocks of time that change as you go through life. Here are mine:
SUMMER ERA 1: Do nothing. This is when I was a first born and up until I was 4 or so. I have no recollection of this. Plus, I wasn’t in school and couldn’t hold down a job, so I guess I just kinda sat around. My parents could have had a chimp for four years and it would have been the same. Except they could have probably taught the chimp to vacuum.
SUMMER ERA 2: Awareness. This is the time you start to become aware of summer. It also the time you are still unaware of sunburn and dehydration. My mom started most every summer morning this same way:
MOM: Kids, come on! It’s a beautiful summer day!!!
KIDS: (running out the back door) YAY!!!!
MOM: (SLAM. Click.) Suckers.
We would pretty much spend the entire summer outside, tromping through the woods around my house. I would let my kids do that, but those woods are now subdivisions, and I am guessing some of those folks wouldn’t appreciate a tree fort like the days of old.
SUMMER ERA 3: Hello, driver’s license. That made summer infinitely more fun even if the bulk of driving consisted of driving to and from the pool. And for what it’s worth, I still think that the age for getting a driver’s license should be somewhere around 35. I recall my friends and I would sometimes hop in the car and crack the windows just enough to be able to breathe and drive the few blocks to the pool. We had convinced ourselves that the water would feel SO good after having been in the super hot car that it would be worth it to have traveled in a motorized crock pot.
SUMMER ERA 4: College. Welcome freedom. I usually stayed at college, working and taking classes. For two summers, I worked as a counselor for incoming freshman showing them the ropes. Each of my freshmen learned Mike’s three rules of college to live by: (a) Just go to class and you’ve won half the battle (b) It’s OK if don’t know what you’re going to be when you grow up; you probably won’t for at least a decade and (c) make sure you ask someone to go on a date while she’s standing in a crowd of her friends and can turn you down very publicly. Trust me, the rest of your year will seem fine in comparison.
SUMMER ERA 5: After college. This was the time I had some realizations to grasp, the main one being that I only got two weeks off a year, if I were lucky. Bye-bye, summer break. Gone. Forever. Or at least until I (a) win the lottery or (b) land that seven-figure job, which was no doubt in my plans.
SUMMER ERA 6: Small kids. These were the summers of firsts for me as a parent. I took my kids to the beach to be terrified of waves for the first time. I let them run around barefoot so that they can step on a piece of glass and cut their foot for the first time. I let them take that first dip in the pool, so they can feel what it’s like to go into a gigantic bath, and since normal sized baths are such a hoot, they can have their first outdoor bath tantrum.
SUMMER ERA 7: That’s where we are now. The kids are definitely in Summer Generation 2. Parker is out of school, and Allie can see the summer finish line. They cannot wait for having an entire summer to themselves. It’s almost as if they can hear it calling. And it’s saying, “Kids, come on! It’s a beautiful summer day.”
(SLAM. Click.)

My Aiken back

It’s not a good sign when, two minutes into a two-hour nature hike, you are wondering if you will, in fact, be able to walk another step.
I was taking my daughter’s Brownie troop on a walk in the woods. The girls were heading down a steep path, and I decided to get ahead of them so I could help them down toward the bottom. I darted between a few trees and jumped the last five feet or so. The moment I landed, two things went through my mind:
1. Ouch.
2. You are with a Brownie troop. Just stick with saying “Ouch.”
A wretched pain shot up through my back and neck. Had I been at home, I would have probably just dropped down right then and called for my wife, who would have found me hours later in the backyard. But I was not about to be the first one to drop on a Brownie hike.
Straightening up as best I could, I got to the bottom of the hill and helped them down the hill. I was hoping that the back pain was a temporary thing and it would work itself out over the walk. I should have also wished for the ability to fly because that wish would have had the same success.
As we walked, it got worse. The pain was more and more, and it was starting to restrict my movement. Someone would call for me to look at something, and rather than being able to turn my head, I would have to swivel like Robocop to face someone. It was also a joy when I was turning over logs to look for critters or trying to look up to show the girls birds or trees.
After about a half hour, I just decided that I was going to block out the pain and soldier on. I was going to refuse to acknowledge the discomfort and have the best nature walk ever. The pain disagreed and told me I would, in fact, acknowledge it, and it was going to enjoy the nature walk, feasting on my delicious discomfort.
We eventually made it through the walk, and I think I was able to do it without complaining. When we started home, I called my wife and told her what had happened. “Oh, no...” she said.
I would like to think that it was an “Oh, no, my poor husband is hurting.” I think the more realistic one was “Oh, no, I have a giant baby coming home who will let me know that this is the single worst pain any human has ever endured.”
When I got home, I went straight upstairs to lie down. This did not make my back feel better, so I tried complaining to see if that would help. Also not helpful.
I made it through the day without much relief on the back. When I went to bed that night, I figured a nice night’s sleep would be all I needed to take care of it. Turns out, when your back is making you contort like Quasimodo, it’s hard to get a good night’s sleep. I woke up the next morning and guess I forgot about the pain because I made the unforgivable mistake of trying to step out of bed. My wife has assured me that there are better ways to wake her up than with a shriek of pain.
My wife told me that I needed to take some medicine and get back in bed. I told her I wasn’t sleepy. She told me the medicine would take care of that.
Prior to doing that, I told her I wanted some time to see if it would work itself out. Plus, Allie was singing in church that morning, so I felt I needed to be there. Fast forward to halfway through the service. The pain had gotten to the point where I could hardly stand up, and my wife was having to help me up. When I was sitting, I was leaned over, angling my head the only way I could to keep the pain level somewhere between sheer and excruciating.
Eventually, I made it home, trying my best to appear as normal as possible. My wife got me set up with some medicine and a heating pad. Truth be told, I was in so much discomfort, I hardly remember climbing into bed. All I know is I turned on the television and saw that an Indiana Jones marathon was about to start. I remember the start of “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” When I woke up, it was the end of “Temple of Doom.”
When I awoke, I sat there for a minute doing a pain inventory. Didn’t really hurt. I started to sit up. No girlish shrieks coming from my mouth. Looked left. My head moved. Looked right. Moved that way, too. Wow, this was heading back into almost-human area.
While I still had a little stiffness and discomfort, it was miles away from what it was. After a couple of days, I was pretty much completely healed. It was far from fun, but at least I know that I am at least as tough as a Brownie.

Agree to disagree

It was time for another talk. My kids and I have these talks a lot. They’re both very good kids, but being the wise, sage dad I am, I feel it necessary to impart my wisdom. My wife, being the wise, sage mom she is, rolls her eyes and sends the very clear message, “Kids, let him go. It makes him feel important.”
We’ve had a lot of talks. Some are about how to treat other people. (“It doesn’t matter if it’s funny, some people DON’T like wet willies. Especially that police officer.”)
Sometimes it’s about how we act in public. (“Pants. On. Now.”)
Sometimes it’s just about the little philosophical things in life. (“Oh, because unmade beds make all of your teeth fall out.”)
This talk was more about sibling relationships. In a tender and gentle voice, I said, “CAN YOU TWO PLEASE AGREE ABOUT SOMETHING!?!?!?”
Allie said yes. Parker? Nope.
They are at the stage where disagreement is a sort of sport. Among some of the disagreements of late:
– I decided to treat them to lunch out last Saturday. I asked where they wanted to go. “McDonald’s!!!” Parker said. “Chick-fil-A!!!!” Allie countered.
– We were making breakfast the other morning. Allie: Waffles! Parker: Pancakes!
– I told them they could go play outside for a little bit before bedtime but had to pick the front or back yard. Allie said front. So Parker picked back.
I was not going to be able to convince the sides to come together, so I simply made a neutral ruling, in the above instances: Burger King; cereal; on the roof.
I know siblings are going to disagree on occasion. It happens. I have three older sisters. We certainly didn’t agree on... well, anything. I shifted my life lesson to thoughts on compromise. And here’s where Allie had the big issue.
ALLIE: Why do I always have to do what HE wants?
ME: You don’t.
ALLIE: Yes, I do.
ME: No, you don’t. But you’re the big sister, and sometimes you let your little brother have his way.
ALLIE: But he always gets his way.
ME: No, he doesn’t.
PARKER: Yes, I do.
ME: You’re not helping.
I see Allie’s point, and we work hard to make sure she’s not always conceding to the whims of Parker. There are plenty of times when we endure some hemming and hawing from Parker because of the catastrophic event of letting Allie pick out grape popsicles. Reasoning with him on that is always fun, too.
PARKER: I don’t WANT grape!
ME: Well, Allie gets to pick this time.
PARKER: It’s not FAIR!!!
ME: You’re right. You pick out a flav...
MY WIFE: HEY!
ME: My bad. Allie picks.
ALLIE: HA!
ME: You’re not helping.
There are other ways I am working to avoid disagreements. For example, if you offer only one decent alternative, they have no choice but to agree. For example, for dinner: “You can have hot dogs, a pile of dirt, or the insole of my tennis shoe.” Of course, Parker is a 5-year-old boy, so you have to be careful on daring him to a gross-off.
We tried for a little while to work on letting the kids compromise, but we quickly learned they had teamed up their disagreements to get more loot.
This became clear when we were debating on where to go dinner one night. Allie said O’Charley’s. Parker said Red Lobster. Allie then said, “OK, we can go to Red Lobster tonight, and just do O’Charley’s, say, tomorrow night.”
It didn’t take long to realize this was a devious little plot they had conjured up, so my wife and I are migrating to a more sensible approach: Don’t let a 5- and 7-year-old be involved in decisions:
– “You can play out front if you want to, but if you even look at the backyard, I give away your toys.
– “We’re going out to eat. You will know where when we get there. And if you complain, you go to time-out in the kitchen while we eat in peace.”
– “There is actually no difference in any popsicle, as it’s just sugary, gooey frozen yech, so just take whatever gross flavor it is and move on to something important, such as whether Spider-Man could beat up Strawberry Shortcake.”
Don’t get me wrong. My kids aren’t always at each other’s throats. They do get along most of the time. It’s just that sometimes siblings have differences of opinion. It’s the nature of being siblings. Granted, my sisters don’t agree with that, but what do they know?

Feeling squirrely

I call it the Murphy Effect — it’s when my wife initially turns her nose to an idea, but then slowly — often secretively — starts to warm to it.
It’s named after our dog Murphy, a dog we took care of after his owner passed away. “We are NOT getting another dog,” she told me, knowing what I was thinking. Later that evening, when she floated out a possible name that would suit him, as well as some Dachshund facts she had learned — just because she was curious — I knew Murphy had found a home.
The latest Murphy Effect is Skip, a baby flying squirrel found in a fallen tree. Skip was brought to us for Parker to see, you know, just to let him see what a flying squirrel is like. “We are NOT getting a flying squirrel,” my wife said. The kids were thoroughly in love with Skip, a name bestowed upon him that day by Parker. (His original choice, Squirrel, was vetoed by me.) The kids wanted to keep him. I wanted to keep him. My wife? Not so much.
But I knew it was a done deal when I getting ready to go bed. My wife was at the computer and casually mentioned, “You know, flying squirrels are really good pets...” Sold.
So we ended up keeping Skip, who we later found out was a girl, leading the kids to modify her name to Skipsina, which I guess is feminine enough so as not to give her a squirrel complex.
I know a lot of you are thinking that it’s weird to have a pet squirrel. But the truth of the matter is, squirrels are a lot like hamsters and guinea pigs and the like. In fact, they’re better, because when is the last time you put a hamster on your son’s shoulder and had it fly to you?
All of the research we did said that you really needed to bond with the squirrel. One way was to keep them in your shirt pocket when they are babies. Among the candidates for bonding:
Parker — the problem here was that Parker does not like the idea of the squirrel sitting in his pocket. He wants to pet her. And talk to her. And kind of help with whole flying thing.
Allie — the problem here was that she was OK with touching the squirrel or admiring it from afar, but she would rather have a pocketful of raw oysters than a wiggling squirrel.
My wife — the problem here is that while she was keen on the idea of a pet squirrel, toting it around for hours in your pocket? Not so much.
So I became Mama Squirrel. And Skip and I bonded quickly. She would jump to me and scurry about, usually making a beeline for my pocket. If I came downstairs with her near the dogs, she would leave my pocket and head to the top of my head. Apparently getting as far away from dogs is hard-wired.
We’ve now had her for a couple of weeks, and she is definitely developing a cool personality. She takes to me still, which is good, because it’s always fun to say to someone on the phone, “Hang on a sec — I gotta get my squirrel off my head.”
I have also started a nightly ritual of Flight School. I know she’s a flying squirrel and just kind of knows how to do it, but I want to be a good Mama and teach her right. (For what it’s worth, they don’t actually fly. They jump and then spread out flaps of skin on their sides, gliding to the target. I would like to craft her a tiny helicopter, too, just so she can show up the flying squirrels outside.)
Flight School consists of me taking Skip to various places and having her jump to me. We started Flight School with Parker’s shoulder. This worked on occasion, when we could get Parker to stand still. But telling a 5-year-old to stand still while an incredibly pettable squirrel is perched on his shoulder is comparable to putting a pork chop in a dog’s mouth and telling him to chill for a bit. I have moved Flight School to various places around the house, such as on the mantel. I will put Skip there, stand a few feet away, make a clicking noise, and wait for her to jump. And wait. And wait. And then realize she is far more interested in eating the candle that is there. So I try a different spot. Eventually, I get her undivided attention, and she crouches down, pumps a couple of times and launches. (Important lesson when conducting Flight School: Do not crouch to eye level. They will jump to your face. Had I had my mouth open one time, I would have possibly eaten Skip.)
Skip has also progressed beyond the pocket and loves to take laps around my shirt, often climbing inside of it. I have taken to wearing two shirts, as while she is a great little pet, even I would rather not have a squirrel climbing up my stomach and chest. The rest of the family is enjoying her, too, as she continues to progress with her flying. I am hoping that I can replicate what I have read on some websites, with people saying they can train their squirrels to fly across the room. Maybe it’s just me, but I think it would be only the most awesome thing ever to be, say, signing for a UPS package, make a few clicking noises, and have a squirrel come zipping to your shoulder.
So I guess Skip is a full-fledged member of the Gibbons household. She may not be the most conventional pet. But, hey, nobody ever said we were the most conventional family.

Ten spot

Ten years ago this Friday, I got yelled at for not being in the church on time. I blame the folks who allowed my groomsmen and me to have access to a ping-pong table.
Yes, my wife and I are celebrating our 10-year anniversary. Much has changed in 10 years. A decade ago, I didn’t know how to change a diaper. I didn’t know that minivans were the greatest cars in the world. I didn’t know that it was a better idea NOT to stay out until 4 a.m.
Like anyone who celebrates their 10-year anniversary, we have changed over the years, hopefully for the better. Today, I figured I would share a few things about my wife and me that helped us reach 10 years.
1. First off, we have to keep reminding ourselves that it’s 10 years, because we actually dated for five years before we got married. My wife did the sensible thing and had me pass through a few phases of idiocy before we got married. She dated Fraternity Mike. She dated Fresh-Out-of-College Mike. She dated What Does He Want to Be When He Grows Up Mike. (For what it’s worth — a professional baseball player.) But five years of growth certainly did not hurt our chances at reaching the 10-year mark.
2. My wife does have a name. Someone pointed out a while back that I have never mentioned it in a column, but only referred to her as “my wife.” Her name is Jennifer, but I call her Jenn, as does her mother. Everyone else calls her Jen, which is clearly wrong, yet she will not even admit that. Her mother and I just sigh and shake our heads. She only calls me Michael. Well, that’s not ALL she calls me, but that’s the only actual, proper name she calls me.
3. I am very pleased with the progress my wife has made with animals. When we first met, she liked the following animals: newborn puppies. That is all. Since then, she has warmed up to big dogs and evil cats and snakes and turtles and flying squirrels and such. I think she finally came to the realization that the animals were going to keep on coming, and she might as well learn to, at the very least, not cringe when she sees them. (She’ll still take a pass on birds, however.)
4. She really means it when she says don’t get her anything for Valentine’s. Early on, we learned the key to a successful marriage: Don’t assume I can read minds. If you say, “Don’t get me a card” guess what — I’m not getting you a card. And for everyone who is fighting back the urge to say. “Oh, she SAYS that...” I assure you — she means that.
5. But, you’re saying, not wanting to leave No. 4, what about a 10-year anniversary gift? Well, first off, the traditional gift is tin or aluminum. Nothing says “I love you” like Reynolds Wrap. Second, I have a little confession — she handles all of the finances in the house. I used to, but apparently companies want you to send them checks EVERY month. I found it a hassle. My wife took over the finances, and in about 10 minutes had the vast majority of our bills online and automated. Granted, it’s not like I don’t have a checkbook, but it’s not really romantic or surprising to say, “Honey, I’d like buy you something extra special — which account should I write it out of?”
6. It’s nice to be at a stage when you can be honest with each other. If she asks me to pick between two shirts, I feel comfortable saying, “I really don’t care.” Rather than be offended, she will appreciate my candidness and say, “Seriously — pick one.” I will then offer my honest opinion (“The...blue one?”) and we move on. Similarly, she will offer suggestions to me, usually about how it was neat of me to spin around 1,000 times to the point of blind dizziness before picking out a shirt and tie, but how about I go with a different — and matching — combination.
With 10 years behind us, the natural thing for us to do is to look forward to the next 10 years and wonder what that will hold. On our 20th anniversary, our kids will be 17 and 15, so that is only slightly terrifying. Hopefully, the next 10 years will be rewarding, though, with more laughter than tears, more good times than bad. When we reach that milestone, I look forward to looking into my wife’s eyes and saying, “Can I have the checkbook? I want to buy you something special.”

What a chore

So it was Saturday morning, around 10. “Sit. Both of you,” I said to my kids. At that point, I proceeded to give a stirring lecture on teamwork, the need for all parts of a machine to function together, the integrated workings of a fine-tuned family unit. Blank stares.
Somewhat frustrated that they did not get my brilliant — and might I add inspiring — words, I summed up, “I’m making a chore list. You both get chores.”
Allie raised her hand. “But I don’t want to clean up any of Parker’s messes.” I explained that we all worked together, and sometimes we cleaned up messes we made. I reminded her that I clean her clothes, yet don’t recall wearing any of her dresses. “They wouldn’t fit you,” she replied, somehow thinking she justified not having to clean up Star Wars figures.
So I went to the computer and made up two lists — one had everyday chores, such as putting dishes in the sink or making beds or figuring out what magic force field had covered the clothes hamper, keeping dirty clothes at least six feet away from it. Then there was the one-time chore list — put bikes back in garage, remove all small, plastic animals from underneath couch, undress dog, etc. I would assign them some chores from each list, set them free, and then have them wake me in my hammock when they were done.
In short order, I was told this was an idea only slightly better than a mesh boat. My wife informed me of its key flaws: (1) it was not color-coded and (2) there was no exciting game that went with assigning chores. Apparently, the only way for a chore list to be effective is to mate “Let’s Make a Deal” with the terror threat level.
In no time, my wife had bunches of slips of papers — some had blue writing (daily chore), some had green (one-time chore), some had red (combat terrorism chore). Color fun!
And there were hats to draw them out of — a Santa hat for Allie and a Spiderman one for Parker. Exciting game! We decided to let the kids take turns choosing chores. Figuring I could rig this like a third-world election, I gently guided Parker’s hand into the hat, fully expecting him to draw out what was supposed to be something appropriate for a 5-year-old, such as gather newspapers or put toys in toy boxes or dive from the back of the couch into the laundry pile. Allie, meanwhile, would get — in my crooked election — things geared for a 7-year-old, such as folding towels or gathering up dishes or staring hypnotized at “Hannah Montana” despite the fact that I am four inches from her saying, “Allie. Allie. Allie. Allie. Allie.”
Well, let’s just say that if any of the presidential candidates are looking for me to “tweak” this year’s election, look elsewhere.
Parker’s first three picks: Help make lunches; dust; vacuum upstairs.
Translation: Be covered in peanut butter; climb the bookshelves; lose a toe.
Allie’s first three choices: Trash bags upstairs; books on shelf in Parker’s room; sweep
Translation: Pass; pass; sweep
Eventually, my wife and I managed to switch some chores around to more appropriate places (which, for the record, would have been easily accomplished by my admittedly plain but astoundingly effective original list). Surprisingly, the kids embraced their chores. They would grab a slip of paper and run off and do their chore, and then come back when they were done. They kinda turned it into a game, seeing who could finish things faster. (And if there is one thing that is certain, the faster a 5- and 7-year-old cleans, the more clean it will be.)
After only a short while, the lists were pretty much done, and the kids were amazed at how much they had accomplished in a short period of time. I began my speech on WHY they were so effective and ways that we would be able to reduce our chore load in the future by a constant and continual diligence — hey, where are you going! Hey, come back! Man, my kids did the same thing. Fine. I’ll stop lecturing on the finer points of cleaning.
Anyway, I’m glad to see they have embraced the team concept. They are old enough to be integral members of Team Clean. Plus, it’s color-coded and therefore fun!

Tent city

We may be a ways off from actual camping. But we’re getting closer.
My wife got me a nice, big dome tent for Christmas, which at first I thought was a not-so-subtle way of kicking me out, as my wife is quite fond of the outdoors, so long as she can view it from, at the very least, a screened-in patio.
Turns out she truly was thinking a camping adventure would be a good family outing. I told my wife that we should find a place in the North Georgia mountains...no, wait, Smokies, up in North Carolina...no, better — to the beach!!!
She gave me a condescending “Easy there, Sparky” look. “How about we take it for a test drive in the back yard first?”
Fine, whatever.
A couple weeks ago, the weather was warm enough to go ahead and get the tent out. I asked a friend of mine — an accomplished camper — how long it would take to set up the tent. “Probably 10 minutes,” he said. “For you? An hour, maybe.” Ringing endorsement.
I unpacked the tent and decided to enlist the help of my kids, which is kinda like asking squirrels to help. Actually, it would be like asking squirrels to help if the squirrels kept running off with critical pieces of the tent. I finally convinced them that (a) they could not take any parts away and (b) they needed to hold onto a corner and not move, or the tent would blow away and would eventually land on and crush a puppy or a pony or perhaps a litter of adorable kittens.
Turns out, the tent was a snap to set up, and only took about 10 minutes. (Take THAT, doubters!!!) It has a divider in the middle so that it can be broken into two rooms. Allie immediately claimed one room, leading Parker to immediately claim the same room. When Allie conceded that room to him and went to the other room, Parker immediately claimed the other room, too. Being the Solomon – like father I am, I gathered them both together and said, “Pick a room or I sell all of your toys.”
They ended up playing in the tent for hours. They had lunch out there. Allie brought some books out to read. Parker brought out a box of toy animals and set up a little zoo. Even when some rains came, I was pleased that it stayed dry inside, at least on the parts where the flaps were zipped. Where they weren’t zipped? Not so much. But easily cleaned up.
I left the tent up overnight and even offered the kids the chance to sleep in it. You would think I offered them a chance to sleep in a haunted house. The next morning, they were thrilled to see the tent was still up, as if tent bandits were going to creep into our back yard or something. They asked if they could have their breakfast out there, which was fine. Sprinting with their wholesome, well-balanced, Dad-approved breakfast of chocolate chip cookie dough Pop-Tarts, they sprinted through the drizzle to the tent. I sat and watched at the sheer joy and carefree happiness my kids had. I think some soft piano music played in the background.
They unzipped the flap and both turned on a dime. The sheer joy was now the look of sheer terror, and they sprinted back at double-time to the porch. I could only assume there was a crocodile or a homeless person or something. I flung open the door. “What’s wrong!?!?!?!”
“There’s....a....” Allie was trying to catch her breath.
“A what?”
“A....a....” she had to stop for a bite of Pop-Tart. Parker filled in. “A cat!”
Seriously? A cat? A cat? A regular cat? Not a tiger or a puma or Cat Stevens? A house cat? I went out to the tent and looked inside. Sure enough, a terrifying house cat that looked me right in the eye and said, “Meow.” It then walked over and rubbed against my leg while purring. The horror.
Eventually, I convinced them to head back to the tent (I think my words were, “It’s a cat, for crying out loud!”). When they were done, we packed it back up, which was pretty much as easy as putting it up. I have put the tent out one other time, again with relative ease. That time, there was no rain, but we found out that it could endure pretty substantial winds. That is, after you stake it down. Prior to that? Kind of a big, warped beach ball.
I am sure that we will need a few more test drives before we dive into the wild with the tent. Probably our first night will, in fact, be in the back yard. I would love to head out into the mountains and rough it for a few days, but let’s be honest — the woods aren’t always safe. Think of how many cats could be there.

Come on in. The water's fine

My daughter decided that pool season has begun. I have decided she’s nuts.
It happened last weekend, when I was working in the backyard. Allie and Parker asked if they could come into the pool area with me and help. By “help,” they mean, “Constantly have Daddy say, ‘I am serious – do NOT do that or I will back a dump truck up and fill the pool in.’” Normally, the offenses at the pool are:
1. Running. I am still waiting to find out what age children develop a speed other than “sprint” and “asleep.”
2. Playing with the cleaning supplies. A 10-foot net in the hands of someone 4 feet tall is begging for someone to get smacked in the head.
3. Digging things out of the pool filter and throwing them at your sibling. Not surprisingly, these usually are thrown by a brother at a sister.
So they were “helping” when Allie asked if they could get in. I told them they could stand on the steps. The pool water was 62 degrees, so I figured this would not last long. Allie stepped on the first step, and then the second step. “Feels good!” she remarked. Her brother then followed her to the second step. I probably should have suggested he pull up his blue jeans. He didn’t seem to care.
I told them it was time to get out, and they both protested the point, saying the water felt just perfect. Bluff calling time – “OK,” I said. “If it feels so good, go get your swimsuits on.”
I figured that would nip it in the bud. I now figure I am a dolt for figuring that.
With shrieks of excitement, they began sprinting to the house, ready to go. “NO RUNNING!!!” I said to no one in particular, since they were already well inside.
(Oh, quick answer to your probable question -- of course my wife was not home. Do you think we’d have even made it to the steps if the voice of reason were there?)
In a few minutes, Allie came downstairs wearing her swimsuit. Parker came down wearing his birthday suit, since he could not find his swimsuit. Probably not the best choice. After a few minutes, I found a swimsuit for him, a hand-me-down from a friend that should fit him perfectly when he’s about 22.
We got out to the pool, and I bet the kids they wouldn’t stay in for more than 30 seconds. Allie said 30 seconds would be no problem. Parker said, “No! Forty hundred seconds!!!” Time isn’t his strong suit.
I told them I would count to three, and they both would jump in. When I got to three, Allie sprung off the side. Parker started to go, and then hesitated. “I don’t wanna go.” Forty hundred seconds, my eye.
Allie surfaced, and told me that the water felt GREATTTT! “Come on in!!!!” Yeah, right. She turned to Parker and told him that it was the best water EVER. For some reason, he believed her. He jumped in, went under water, and immediately broke the surface and began hurriedly swimming to the side. “IT’SCOLDIT’SCOLDIT’SCOLDIT’SCOLD.”
When he got out, his teeth were already chattering and he was shivering like crazy. I wrapped him in a towel and told him to head inside. “Allie, the water’s too cold. Come on out.”
She didn’t hear me, because she was busy doing somersaults and diving to the bottom and swimming around. I am fairly certain that she is part halibut.
I eventually got her attention, and we had this conversation:
ME: Allie, time to get out.
HER: Why?
ME: Because the water is freezing.
HER: It’s not 32. I checked the thermometer.
ME: Stupid science class.
Eventually, I convinced her that it was time to get out. She asked me for two more minutes, and I conceded, figuring surely the cold would catch up to her any second now. When two minutes were up, she reluctantly swam to the side and climbed out, throwing a towel on as if she had just climbed out of a hot tub.
Since that day, she has wanted to go swimming most every day. We have not yet been back in, mainly because the times when it would have been good for swimming have either been rainy or filled with roughly 5,000 events we were going to.
It’s good to know that her immunity to cold water will lengthen the season for the pool. I mean, most people are still a month or so away from swimming regularly. And that’s like, forty hundred days away.

It's Girl Scout cookie time

So, do I get a merit badge? It can be shaped like a cookie, since I successfully completed my stint as a Girl Scout cookie seller.
OK, before you get the image of me as a giant creepy Girl Scout, let me explain. My daughter, Allie, is in Brownies, and this was her first year selling Girl Scout cookies. And part of the way they make sure every citizen has at least 35 Girl Scout cookie-related encounters each day is to set up cookie selling tables around town. Strategic footholds in the war on sweet-deprivation, if you will.
I became involved because (a) I am a concerned and caring dad and (b) I accidentally volunteered for something before I knew the details. My wife and I had this conversation:
HER: Allie’s got cookie sales tomorrow, but I can’t do it.
ME: I can do it.
HER: You’ll sit with her for two hours at Wal-Mart while she sells Girl Scout cookies?
ME: It’s too late to turn this around, isn’t it?
HER: Yes.
She further solidified my tour of duty by screaming down the hall, “ALLIE — DADDY’S SELLING COOKIES WITH YOU TOMORROW!!!”
When it came time to go, my wife debriefed me on a few things:
1. Allie REALLY liked doing the money box. However, the other girl may also want a turn, so gently remind Allie that equal time is part of the deal.
2. This is an unpaid gig. Want a cookie? Buy a cookie.
3. It would not be necessary to loudly announce that I was here with my daughter. Safe bet that people could figure that out, much like when they see men holding a purse or buying feminine hygiene products at the store. Rarely is someone going to say, “Gee, Bill, who knew?” And if they do, Bill should consider different, more intelligent friends.
When we got to the store, Allie decided that she would spend an hour working the cash box, while the other girl stood out front and steered potential customers our way. After an hour, they would switch. My job, clearly, was to stay out of the way.
So I opted for people watching. I quickly began to separate the people coming and going into demographics. Some of the more noticeable:
— Those who have already bought Girl Scout cookies, and understandably explain, “I am sorry, but there are roughly 400 Girl Scouts in my neighborhood, and I am fairly sure I have about two acres of Samoas at home right now.”
— Those who are health conscious. Often, they will make derogatory comments about their own weight. At one point, I chimed in that the chocolate chip cookies were sugar free. The look I received told me that my comment was not needed.
— Those who were sent by central casting after asking for someone to play the role of “scary biker dude.” By far, these were the most likely to buy cookies. The bigger and burlier, the more likely they were to melt when a 7-year-old served up the sales pitch.
— Those who pretend that they have no peripheral vision and no hearing and must sprint past the ruthless gauntlet of terrifying Brownies, because goodness knows a polite “No, thank you” would really kill you. On the upside, should the Girl Scouts ever come out with a “Recognizing Social Misfits with no Sense of Common Courtesy” Merit Badge, they will qualify immediately. Fortunately, this was a very small demographic.
But the most common overriding theme was folks enjoying the nostalgia of Girl Scout cookies. They are delicious, and there is something about Girl Scout cookie time. When I was a kid, I knew it was time to see just how well my dad thought he could hide the Thin Mints in the freezer. (As if hiding them INSIDE a roadkill raccoon would stop us. Puh-leeze.)
For what it’s worth, my personal favorite are the Tagalongs, which made my tableside purchase of the chocolate chip cookies even more difficult. I only had enough cash in my pocket for one box, and I was all set to wolf down a row of Tagalongs myself. Allie then told me she wanted the chocolate chip cookies, and batted those big doe eyes at me. It was like kryptonite. I am glad she did not ask for a pony at that point.
In all, it was a fairly painless exhibit. I enjoyed getting to spend time with my daughter, watching her really become her own person. She’ll always be my little girl, but even at 7 I can see her growing up, right before my eyes. It just make me so... so... that does it – I’m getting her a pony right now.

Five-o

If you are trying to wake up your little one for school, and he's having a bit of a rough time getting up, there is one can't-miss thing you can say to get him up and going: "Dude - you're 5 today!"
And with that, Parker came to life. "I'm FIIIIIIIIVE!!!!" Great way to start the day.
Parker turned 5 on Monday, or St. Parker's Day, as it is known in my house. Parker was originally going to be named Patrick. Then, around 4:30 p.m. on March 17, 2003, as he took his first breath of air, my wife made an executive decision. "HIS ... NAME ... IS ... PARKER ..."
The doctor told her that we didn't have to name him right then. "PARKER. PARKER." Even though she was strapped to an operating table, we were not about to argue with her.
Parker is a happy kid, mainly because he finds joy in the little things in life.
Pile of laundry? Oh, that's good for diving in.
Banana? Also a sword.
Need to get somewhere in a hurry? Just yell "SUPER SPEED" and you will certainly run faster.
Although I am not always successful, I do try and keep my perspective by watching my kids and remembering what keeps them happy.
I wrote in a column a few years ago that the happiest I've ever seen Parker was when I walked into the kitchen and saw him sitting there, a bottle of pancake syrup turned up. "Drink syrup" has become the new "Lighten up - it's only life" in our household. Some other things I have learned from Parker:
- Some people miss the forest for the trees. Parker would argue you're missing the smaller things ON the trees. Go anywhere near a tree with Parker. He will stop and say, "Look - lichens." He loves finding lichens. Most of us never notice lichens. But start looking at trees you walk pass. Lichens are everywhere. And while you may not particularly care as much about lichens as Parker, keep in mind to look at the little things. And then look a little closer. You may find what you didn't even know you're looking for.
- When you're tired, go to sleep. Don't fight it. Just go get some rest. Granted, I don't suggest crawling under the table at Chili's and catching some shuteye if you are an adult, but you get the gist. Don't push yourself.
- Try every food you can. If you don't like it, you don't have to eat it again. But you never know when you'll hit a homerun. Parker's favorite food in the world: Pickled herring. Seriously.
He and his Grandpa sit down and eat jars of it (with bagel chips, of course). When he was about 2, we asked the pediatrician if it was OK for him to eat pickled herring and onions. He stared back at us for a moment and then said, "I can honestly say no parent has ever asked me that before."
- When you find a friend, accept that he changes. For Parker's case, that would be Jonathan, a friend who we have never seen, as he is invisible to everyone but Parker.
But in his time, Jonathan has been a giant moth, a tiny little boy and a giant boy. Jonathan seems to be the reason for many of Parker's missteps. Parker normally takes care of this by assuring us that he has put Jonathan in time-out.
- Find simple solutions in life. We were having breakfast at Waffle House the other morning, and he noticed the basket full of eggs in their fridge.
Parker suggested that, rather than keep the eggs there, they should simply get a chicken to keep out back. I told him this would be a problem, as they were close to a busy road. Parker quickly said, "Daddy, they'd have to put a gate up." Duh.
- The best medicine is some ice and a Band-Aid. Parker has had his share of spills, tumbles, bumps and knocks. And when he does, we (a) get a bag of ice that he holds on the spot for roughly a half a second and (b) put a Band-Aid on it, even if it's a bruise. Ready for action.
- Circle the wagons and protect your own. Parker and his sister both subscribe to the tenet of "You can't do that to my family. Only I can do that to my family." Parker and Allie may scrap once in a while. But that's family business. They've got each other's back.
- You'll have plenty of time to wear shoes when you're an adult. Try as I might to keep shoes on him, he just needs the liberty of bare feet.
Even if I put the shoes on him, chances are I will find them in the yard later on. Just go with it, and accept that his nasty little feet will look like mud for most of his childhood.
- Find a puddle. Stomp in it. It is clearly good for the soul.
So as we embark on the next year, barreling toward kindergarten, I will try and keep my Parker perspective, and learn from the little guy about how to stay happy and hope you will do the same thing.
In short, drink syrup.

Fall into the Gap

My children learned one of the most important lessons a child will ever learn this weekend: Lob one snowball high in the air, and while the person follows the arch, peg ‘em with the second one.
My family was in the mountains for the weekend, and we were fortunate enough to have a snow that allowed for the family bonding experience of pelting one another with snowballs. We went to Windy Gap, a Young Life camp just north of Asheville. My wife went there often when she was in high school, and I was excited to get to experience it for myself.
Windy Gap is by far one of the most beautiful places I have seen, surrounded by mountains, its rolling green hills the perfect place to pick up your son and say, “Hey, Parker, ROLL!” and send him to the bottom in a Princess Bride-style tumble. (He liked it. His mother? Not as much.)
It started snowing around breakfast on Saturday morning. While there was not a big accumulation, it snowed most of the day and snowed enough for the requisite snow games. Among the weekend highlights:
– I sled down a hill much faster than Parker. We were both using Frisbees to slide down a big hill when I sent him on his way. I followed after him and found myself picking up speed and gaining on him. Quickly. As the gap got closer, I realized that sitting on a Frisbee, legs in the air, sliding sideways was not the best for steering. Parker saw me coming and fortunately bailed out in time not to become a bowling pin.
– Despite her protests, my wife has fun sledding down a hill on a Frisbee. With the racket she was making when she was being gently encouraged, you would have never thought it would be fun.
– My daughter is getting to the point where we embarrass her in public. She told my wife to stop dancing. I am fairly sure that some just-for-fun dancing pales in comparison to things I can do to embarrass her. Just so we are clear, I would never do something simply to embarrass my daughter. However, I will do something that embarrasses my daughter AND makes boys go away.
– Speaking of embarrassing, she seems to have NO problem getting on a stage with me as I – and four other dads – try to put a carrot in a milk jug. Did I mention that the carrot was dangling behind me, tied around my waist? Yes, the image in your head is as lovely as it sounds.
– I fear no ropes course. The Windy Gap ropes course is a series of wires about 30 feet in the air. You navigate each section while holding onto the cable above you. Toward the end of the course, I was perched on a tiny platform, looking down at the snow-covered rocks and the chilly creek below me. The ropes guide perched along with me told me that I needed to grab the zip line and just step off the platform. I had been fairly solid on the ropes course so far, but I had been in control of every step I took. There was no leap of faith. “Just step off?” “Just step off.” And so I stepped off. And, sure enough, I breezed through the trees into the awaiting cargo net. The ropes course concluded with a second leap of faith, where you have to jump to a trapeze bar that is stationed, by my estimate, 400 feet away. After successfully making the leap, I looked down at the tiny girl holding the other end of the rope. “So I just let go?” “Just let go.” Despite my concerns that someone not much bigger than my 7-year-old was in charge of me not plummeting to the ground, I let go, and she set me down with ease.
– Before you agree to letting your 4-year-old sleep on a top bunk, ask yourself, “Does my 4-year-old flip and spin and writhe in his sleep as if he were in a commercial clothes dryer? Does he often get up and walk around in the middle of the night?” If you answered yes to either of these, ask yourself a third question: “Why would I even CONSIDER offering him the top bunk?” This was one of those cases where I had to ask myself what I was thinking well before my wife could. Eventually, I convinced him to sleep on the bottom bunk, which was a good idea, considering his 3 a.m. quest to find me.
– I did not get to see the talent show on Saturday night (Parker crashed out at dinner, and it’s generally considered bad form to leave your sleeping kid in a mountain cabin and head on out). But the reviews are in, and word is “The Wild Girls” are the next big thing. Records execs, go ahead and cut me a check.
– My wife is constantly getting on to me about not paying attention when I am driving, which makes it all the more curious that, on a two-lane mountain road, she would shout, “LOOK AT THAT!! WHAT ARE THOSE THINGS!?!?!” The one time when I can’t look, and she’s encouraging it. On the ride back, we determined they were possibly alpacas.
All in all, it was a great family weekend, one that I hope we get to do again soon. I’ve got some killer dance moves to try out in front of my daughter.