I think the phrase that most sums up the weekend is, “So where does a book on koalas go?”
That is about the level of common sense questioning that evolves from a group of siblings banding together to “Clean Sweep” their parents’ house.
For those of you not addicted to TLC television network, “Clean Sweep” is a show where folks come into a residence and basically pull everything out and start from scratch. They organize, redecorate and consolidate the house, and throw out gobs of stuff. For those of you who have never seen the show, turn on TLC at any moment of the day, and it will be on. Sometimes, I am pretty sure they run a couple of episodes at a time.
On most of the shows, the house they are working on looks less like a house, and more like a place where someone dumped 10,000 storage sheds. Rooms are impassable, closets are so full they won’t open, and people are often trapped under the rubble. (I may be making up that last part.)
Fortunately, my parents’ house was not like the ones on the “Clean Sweep.” Rather, it was the standard house for a couple with four grown children. I feel pretty confident that, had each of us just taken our stuff as we left, we could have avoided the weekend.
The first thing we did was to take down all of the pictures, clear off the shelves, empty cabinets, etc. Everything would be sorted, cleaned, organized, etc. The two of the biggest piles that developed were of books and of my mother’s collectibles. (They were originally dubbed “knickknacks,” but I for one just can’t bring myself to say that, so I made the phrase verboten for the weekend. It was an edict that, despite my firm delivery tone, was not adhered to.)
The book pile was massive. Everyone in my family has always been a book junkie, as stands to reason for a family littered with writers and editors through the generations. But some of the books, well, maybe had a great purpose in a previous time, but were ready to move on to be enjoyed by others. (Hence the “koala” comment.)
The knick-kn...er...statue...piece...thingees presented a different challenge. My mother has several collections, and with collections, once folks realize you have a particular kind of item, the collection begins to multiply. For my mother, it’s owls and turtles. The turtles I understand, since my father is a biologist and studies turtles. Owls? No idea where that started. At one point, I asked my sisters, semi-seriously, “What happens if one day, she opens a present, sees an owl and just snaps – ENOUGH WITH THE OWLS ALREADY! I HATE THEM! FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, I SAY SOMETHING NICE ABOUT AN OWL JUST TO BE POLITE 30 YEARS AGO AND THIS IS WHAT I GET!?!?! A CERAMIC OWL BREEDING GROUND?!?!?!) (Editor’s note: Mom assures us she loves the owls.)
So after a few hours, we had accomplished the following: We had taken every possession of my parents and put it in piles around the house. So not exactly putting the “clean” in “clean sweep.”
After a while, there was a lot of breakable stuff on the floor, so my wife and sisters decided it was time for my brothers-in-law and me to, in essence, go away. We were banished to the basement, where we were tasked with tackling my dad’s card collection. You see, my dad is a sentimentalist, and he collects beautiful greeting cards. Ha! Little joke there. Actually, what my dad collects are playing cards. I would bet it is one of the largest collections of airline playing cards in the world. It’s certainly the largest I’ve seen. Upon his return, I told him I now know why Delta does give out playing cards: He has them all. So Jim, Keith and I began devising some cool display options for his cards. He has thousands of decks of cards, so we decided to start out with the basics: Domestic airlines, international airlines, and Delta airlines. (For what it’s worth, if you have ever received a deck of cards, I will bet you my dad has the same one. A dozen times over.)
Using our vast guy talents, we fashioned some very cool display boxes (yes, so my wife pointed out that my old insect collection display cases would work perfectly, but it still took ingenuity on our part to figure out how to hang them).
At the conclusion of day one, the house resembled one in which small explosive devices had been set off in each room. My sister assured me that, over the next two days, rooms would begin to come to order. I will share the conclusion with you next week. And let you know where the koala book goes.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Curiously entertaining
I knew it was going to be fun taking Parker to his first movie when I asked him what we would see the movie on and he said, “TB?” (I speak Parkerese, so I knew he meant television, not tuberculosis.)
Parker’s almost three, and this would be his first trip to see an actual, big screen performance. Allie was about this age when we took her to see her first movie, “Finding Nemo.” She enjoyed a good nine seconds of that movie before deciding to roam the aisles, play horsey on Daddy’s leg, try and pry Skittles off the floor to eat, etc.
But Parker’s different. Allie is like yours truly. Sitting still has never been a strong suit. (I will pause for a moment to allow any former teachers reading this to catch their breath after screaming themselves into near-hyperventilation, “NOT A STRONG SUIT?!?!! YOU THINK!?!?!?!”) But Parker can just chill out for hours. When he was about a year old, my wife came downstairs and saw Parker and me hanging out on the couch.
HER: What are you doing?
ME: Watching a movie. Parker’s just been relaxing the whole time.
HER: Is that Pulp Fiction?
ME: Relax. It’s on cable. They edit a lot out.
HER: Seriously, is that Pulp Fiction?
But the point is, he could sit and hang out perfectly still, even watching a movie that, quite frankly, is confusing. So I was eager to take Parker to his first movie, knowing that there was a good chance he not only had a great time, but also sat relatively still. And the timing was great, since a movie had just come out that was perfect for The Dude: the remake of the horror classic “When a Stranger Calls.”
Ha! Kidding, of course. We went to see “Curious George,” as Parker is a big fan of the books and of monkeys in general, partly because I told him that his sister is a monkey we found, and we shaved her and cut off her tail. (The older she gets, the less funny she find this. I am guessing come, say, prom night, it could result in full-scale meltdown.)
When we entered the movie theater, the first thing we noticed was a line at the concession area that stretched roughly to Cincinnati. I told Parker that we would come back shortly for popcorn, as the previews would soon be starting, and he needed to learn that previews are an integral part of the movie process. We entered the theater and I was pleased to see that there were only about six people in the place. And then I started walking down the aisle and realized that, in fact, there were WAY many more people, but that most of their heads did not make it over the back of the chairs. We kept walking, just looking for two open seats, which we did not find until the very first row. I turned to Parker. “Well, I guess these are our seats.” He was not listening. He was busy staring, mouth agape, at the biggest stinking “TB” he had ever seen.
“What do you think,” I said.
“Ge-oooooorge,” he whispered.
The movie, I am pleased to say, is the theatrical equivalent of a warm blanket. It is faithful adaptation of the books. As one review said, “If you like primary colors, you’ll like this movie.” It was a pure, innocent, kind, easygoing movie that Parker -- and everyone in the theater, so far as I could tell -- loved. Plus, the soundtrack was by Jack Johnson, so the formerly hip and cool parents could say out loud, “Yeah, just enjoying some Jack Johnson.” And then get back to secretly enjoying Curious George.
Oh, and we did get popcorn. Right as the movie was starting, I scurried to the lobby to grab a popcorn and a couple of drinks. I got two medium drinks, which was really not smart, because a medium movie drink would be roughly the equivalent of all of the liquids Parker had consumed in his entire life. Parker further illustrated that my choice of drinks was off when he discovered he could not hold it himself, dropping it on the floor and flooding about 18 gallons of Sprite onto the floor. Every mother in the theater was looking at me as if to say, “Why would you get him a medium?” Every dad was looking at the floor saying, “Ack! That’s $6!!!”
Drink crisis aside, the movie was a great treat. For the last 15-20 minutes, Parker opted to climb in my lap and lie down, but that’s partly because we were on the first row, and had been staring straight up at a giant monkey for an hour. In all, he proved that he is definitely game for the theater. I can’t wait to take him again. I wonder if they’ll re-release Pulp Fiction onto the big screen.
Parker’s almost three, and this would be his first trip to see an actual, big screen performance. Allie was about this age when we took her to see her first movie, “Finding Nemo.” She enjoyed a good nine seconds of that movie before deciding to roam the aisles, play horsey on Daddy’s leg, try and pry Skittles off the floor to eat, etc.
But Parker’s different. Allie is like yours truly. Sitting still has never been a strong suit. (I will pause for a moment to allow any former teachers reading this to catch their breath after screaming themselves into near-hyperventilation, “NOT A STRONG SUIT?!?!! YOU THINK!?!?!?!”) But Parker can just chill out for hours. When he was about a year old, my wife came downstairs and saw Parker and me hanging out on the couch.
HER: What are you doing?
ME: Watching a movie. Parker’s just been relaxing the whole time.
HER: Is that Pulp Fiction?
ME: Relax. It’s on cable. They edit a lot out.
HER: Seriously, is that Pulp Fiction?
But the point is, he could sit and hang out perfectly still, even watching a movie that, quite frankly, is confusing. So I was eager to take Parker to his first movie, knowing that there was a good chance he not only had a great time, but also sat relatively still. And the timing was great, since a movie had just come out that was perfect for The Dude: the remake of the horror classic “When a Stranger Calls.”
Ha! Kidding, of course. We went to see “Curious George,” as Parker is a big fan of the books and of monkeys in general, partly because I told him that his sister is a monkey we found, and we shaved her and cut off her tail. (The older she gets, the less funny she find this. I am guessing come, say, prom night, it could result in full-scale meltdown.)
When we entered the movie theater, the first thing we noticed was a line at the concession area that stretched roughly to Cincinnati. I told Parker that we would come back shortly for popcorn, as the previews would soon be starting, and he needed to learn that previews are an integral part of the movie process. We entered the theater and I was pleased to see that there were only about six people in the place. And then I started walking down the aisle and realized that, in fact, there were WAY many more people, but that most of their heads did not make it over the back of the chairs. We kept walking, just looking for two open seats, which we did not find until the very first row. I turned to Parker. “Well, I guess these are our seats.” He was not listening. He was busy staring, mouth agape, at the biggest stinking “TB” he had ever seen.
“What do you think,” I said.
“Ge-oooooorge,” he whispered.
The movie, I am pleased to say, is the theatrical equivalent of a warm blanket. It is faithful adaptation of the books. As one review said, “If you like primary colors, you’ll like this movie.” It was a pure, innocent, kind, easygoing movie that Parker -- and everyone in the theater, so far as I could tell -- loved. Plus, the soundtrack was by Jack Johnson, so the formerly hip and cool parents could say out loud, “Yeah, just enjoying some Jack Johnson.” And then get back to secretly enjoying Curious George.
Oh, and we did get popcorn. Right as the movie was starting, I scurried to the lobby to grab a popcorn and a couple of drinks. I got two medium drinks, which was really not smart, because a medium movie drink would be roughly the equivalent of all of the liquids Parker had consumed in his entire life. Parker further illustrated that my choice of drinks was off when he discovered he could not hold it himself, dropping it on the floor and flooding about 18 gallons of Sprite onto the floor. Every mother in the theater was looking at me as if to say, “Why would you get him a medium?” Every dad was looking at the floor saying, “Ack! That’s $6!!!”
Drink crisis aside, the movie was a great treat. For the last 15-20 minutes, Parker opted to climb in my lap and lie down, but that’s partly because we were on the first row, and had been staring straight up at a giant monkey for an hour. In all, he proved that he is definitely game for the theater. I can’t wait to take him again. I wonder if they’ll re-release Pulp Fiction onto the big screen.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Atlanta whirlwind
It’s a pretty good day when you can say that running the bases at Turner Field may not have been the coolest thing you did that day.
And don’t get me wrong – that is one of the coolest things I have ever done, especially since my kids ran it, too. But that was just a snapshot on of the busier days I have spent in Atlanta.
The Atlanta idea came together around Christmas, when my wife and her stepmom decided they were in dire need of a day at the spa. (Poor things.) The spa is in Atlanta, and has a very French sounding name, which means it is expensive. Well, needless to say, spas are meant to relax you, so the idea of having a couple of kids climbing over you knocking the cucumbers off your eyes does little on the relaxing side, so the kids and I would team up with my father-in-law and set off on our own Atlanta adventure.
My father-in-law decided it would be a good idea for us to go the recently opened Georgia Aquarium. I will spare you the suspense: The Georgia Aquarium is the greatest thing mankind has ever produced, and I include space travel and democracy in that list. It is, quite frankly, awesome.
The aquarium is so popular that they recommend you make reservations to go. Ours was for 9 a.m., which was good, because any time you have things planned with kids, you need to get it rolling as close to wake-up time as possible. Otherwise, you will hear “Is it time to go? Is it time to go? Is it time to go?” until it is time to go.
We decided our first stop at the aquarium would be the beluga whales, since word is that draws the biggest crowd. We figured we should get it out of the way before the late-reservation-having riff-raff started crowding the joint. When you walk in to the viewing area, you see why they are the most popular exhibit. The things are freaky, in a weird, hypnotic way. I am somewhat thinking that beluga whales do not, in fact, exist, but are very well done movie special effects. The way they slowly spin through the water and peer out at you is absolutely fascinating. Add to the fact that the Aquarium has this soothing, new age music playing and a soft-spoken, well informed guide telling you about the whales, and I am fairly certain they could start a cult-conversion and hook a a lot of people:
ANNOUNCER: The beluga whales are native to the Arctic region and live in communities known as pods. And now is the time to abandon your worldly possessions and come for a ride on the comet with your new family.
CROWD: Pods! How about that! Come on, kids. Time to get on the comet.
There are five main exhibit areas, and each one is very well done. Both of the kids enjoyed the viewing areas where you could just sit and watch the thousands of fish swim by. And Parker enjoyed the interactive exhibits where you could touch things such as stingrays and star fish. Allie? Not so much. But I understand that kids are sometimes squeamish when it comes to touching things, so I was kind and nurturing, telling her, “Allie, if you don’t touch the horseshoe crab, next Christmas is canceled.”
Ha! Kidding, of course. I would never do such a thing. Not with other people around.
While I could go on and on about the cool stuff there, I won’t, as you need to go check it out for yourself. We finished up shortly after noon, and decided to check out Turner Field, which was having Winter FanFest. For the FanFest, they open up the stadium and let you roam about, intermingling with Major League legends such as Joey Devine, who, I believe, may or may not be a Braves pitcher.
But the best part of FanFest, by far, was going down on the field and running the bases. While it seems goofy, your inner kid really comes out when you run the bases of an actual Major League stadium. Of course, when you see your daughter and son rounding third, it makes it even cooler, especially since my daughter’s dream is to be the first female Major Leaguer. (It’s either hers or mine. I get confused.)
Before we knew it, it was almost 2:30. My father-in-law was commenting on what a big day we had experienced already. Pretty solid tag-teaming, we said, applauding our awesomeness.
“Daddy,” Allie said, interrupting our self-congratulatory celebration, “do we get lunch?” Oh, yeah. Food. Probably should have been on the agenda. When we left the stadium, we went to a restaurant called Zesto’s. It’s like The Varsity, only without 48 trillion people inside. And if your cholesterol is ever dangerously low, I highly recommend the Chubby Decker with onion rings.
At the end of the day, all four of us were worn out, in a good way. I can’t wait to get back to the aquarium, and I am also looking forward to getting back to Turner Field. Hopefully, that will be before Allie’s first game there.
And don’t get me wrong – that is one of the coolest things I have ever done, especially since my kids ran it, too. But that was just a snapshot on of the busier days I have spent in Atlanta.
The Atlanta idea came together around Christmas, when my wife and her stepmom decided they were in dire need of a day at the spa. (Poor things.) The spa is in Atlanta, and has a very French sounding name, which means it is expensive. Well, needless to say, spas are meant to relax you, so the idea of having a couple of kids climbing over you knocking the cucumbers off your eyes does little on the relaxing side, so the kids and I would team up with my father-in-law and set off on our own Atlanta adventure.
My father-in-law decided it would be a good idea for us to go the recently opened Georgia Aquarium. I will spare you the suspense: The Georgia Aquarium is the greatest thing mankind has ever produced, and I include space travel and democracy in that list. It is, quite frankly, awesome.
The aquarium is so popular that they recommend you make reservations to go. Ours was for 9 a.m., which was good, because any time you have things planned with kids, you need to get it rolling as close to wake-up time as possible. Otherwise, you will hear “Is it time to go? Is it time to go? Is it time to go?” until it is time to go.
We decided our first stop at the aquarium would be the beluga whales, since word is that draws the biggest crowd. We figured we should get it out of the way before the late-reservation-having riff-raff started crowding the joint. When you walk in to the viewing area, you see why they are the most popular exhibit. The things are freaky, in a weird, hypnotic way. I am somewhat thinking that beluga whales do not, in fact, exist, but are very well done movie special effects. The way they slowly spin through the water and peer out at you is absolutely fascinating. Add to the fact that the Aquarium has this soothing, new age music playing and a soft-spoken, well informed guide telling you about the whales, and I am fairly certain they could start a cult-conversion and hook a a lot of people:
ANNOUNCER: The beluga whales are native to the Arctic region and live in communities known as pods. And now is the time to abandon your worldly possessions and come for a ride on the comet with your new family.
CROWD: Pods! How about that! Come on, kids. Time to get on the comet.
There are five main exhibit areas, and each one is very well done. Both of the kids enjoyed the viewing areas where you could just sit and watch the thousands of fish swim by. And Parker enjoyed the interactive exhibits where you could touch things such as stingrays and star fish. Allie? Not so much. But I understand that kids are sometimes squeamish when it comes to touching things, so I was kind and nurturing, telling her, “Allie, if you don’t touch the horseshoe crab, next Christmas is canceled.”
Ha! Kidding, of course. I would never do such a thing. Not with other people around.
While I could go on and on about the cool stuff there, I won’t, as you need to go check it out for yourself. We finished up shortly after noon, and decided to check out Turner Field, which was having Winter FanFest. For the FanFest, they open up the stadium and let you roam about, intermingling with Major League legends such as Joey Devine, who, I believe, may or may not be a Braves pitcher.
But the best part of FanFest, by far, was going down on the field and running the bases. While it seems goofy, your inner kid really comes out when you run the bases of an actual Major League stadium. Of course, when you see your daughter and son rounding third, it makes it even cooler, especially since my daughter’s dream is to be the first female Major Leaguer. (It’s either hers or mine. I get confused.)
Before we knew it, it was almost 2:30. My father-in-law was commenting on what a big day we had experienced already. Pretty solid tag-teaming, we said, applauding our awesomeness.
“Daddy,” Allie said, interrupting our self-congratulatory celebration, “do we get lunch?” Oh, yeah. Food. Probably should have been on the agenda. When we left the stadium, we went to a restaurant called Zesto’s. It’s like The Varsity, only without 48 trillion people inside. And if your cholesterol is ever dangerously low, I highly recommend the Chubby Decker with onion rings.
At the end of the day, all four of us were worn out, in a good way. I can’t wait to get back to the aquarium, and I am also looking forward to getting back to Turner Field. Hopefully, that will be before Allie’s first game there.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
The princess diary
White dress. Fancy shoes. Tiara. Wow, did I look pretty.
Ha! Kidding, of course. It was my daughter, decked out in her favorite princess attire for a recent princess party. The princess party came about as a result of a charity auction we attended a while back. My folks and my in-laws teamed up to bid on the party, which would bring her and her princess friends together for an afternoon of very princessly activities.
Allie is very much in the princess stage, as is required by the Federal Disney Regulation, which states, “Any girl between the ages of 4 and 7 must at all times be within the presence of no fewer than 41,000 princesses. And not those cut-rate generic princess. Real, licensed Disney princesses. Failure to comply will result in forced ostracism and future therapy bills taller than Cinderella’s castle.”
We are certainly in compliance. We have princess plates, princess pictures, princess toys. Even the occasional princess son, which I have tried to talk to my daughter about, but find it difficult when my son is saying, “NOOOOO!!!! ME PLAY PRINCESS!!!” And most times, when I try and convince him that it would be far better to play fireman or space ranger or Hugh Hefner, he runs from the room, princess dress trailing behind him. But that’s an issue for another day.
So we are very into princesses in my house. When we told Allie about the princess party, she was very excited and showed this by not sleeping for 23 days and only saying, “Is it time for my princess party? Is it time for my princess party? Is it time for my princess party?”
Eventually, the day arrived. Donned in a perfect princess outfit, she joined 11 of her friends at a bed and breakfast, where they were greeted by four different beauty queens, including Miss Aiken County. Now, perhaps you are not a 5-year-old girl. And perhaps you have never been one. Allow me to equate this. To a 5-year-old girl, entering a room and being greeted by Miss Aiken County is comparable to my entering a room and being greeted by Joe Montana. (Granted, I doubt Miss Aiken County could have hit that pass to Dwight Clark, so I claim a slight edge.)
Once the princesses were seated, the Fairy Godmother made her entrance. And I can say that for 11 of the girls, the Fairy Godmother was an instant treat. And for one of them, it was a reason to run crying from the room. Eventually, after several of us chased Allie down the block, we coaxed her to return. I am not sure why, but she has always gotten frightened at the silliest things. Well, I consider them silly. My wife generally thinks I am being insensitive. I still maintain “Wallace and Grommit” is only slightly more frightening than a piece of carpet fuzz.
When Allie got back in, Fairy Godmother did whisper something in her ear, and Allie seemed calmed by it. (Granted, she may have said, “Sit down and behave and your Dad will buy you a car when you’re 12.”) They proceeded to play some games and sing some songs with the Fairy Godmother, including the chicken dance. If you have never seen a gaggle of 5-year-olds do the chicken dance, I highly recommend it. It looks like a giant octopus having a seizure.
After the games, the girls sat for their princess cakes. One nice thing about a 5-year-old princess is that certain table manners can be placed aside during such events as cake, meaning the girls were free to eat as though it was their first meal in days, and they only had 15 seconds to eat.
Next up was the princess lessons. Two of the beauty queens gave all of the princesses lessons on how to wave, walk, sit, etc. During the wave lessons, I drew some curious glances when I blurted out, “Elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist.” I am not sure why I know that or why I felt the need to share it. I promised my wife an answer soon.
The party concluded with a horse-drawn carriage ride, which I added a little excitement to by running alongside and screaming, “OHMIGOSH!!! IT’S TURNING INTO A PUMPKIN!!! JUMP!!!” OK, I would never do that. Not with my wife AND mother watching.
In the end, the party was a great success, and I am not sure how we will top it. Unless we can get Joe Montana.
Ha! Kidding, of course. It was my daughter, decked out in her favorite princess attire for a recent princess party. The princess party came about as a result of a charity auction we attended a while back. My folks and my in-laws teamed up to bid on the party, which would bring her and her princess friends together for an afternoon of very princessly activities.
Allie is very much in the princess stage, as is required by the Federal Disney Regulation, which states, “Any girl between the ages of 4 and 7 must at all times be within the presence of no fewer than 41,000 princesses. And not those cut-rate generic princess. Real, licensed Disney princesses. Failure to comply will result in forced ostracism and future therapy bills taller than Cinderella’s castle.”
We are certainly in compliance. We have princess plates, princess pictures, princess toys. Even the occasional princess son, which I have tried to talk to my daughter about, but find it difficult when my son is saying, “NOOOOO!!!! ME PLAY PRINCESS!!!” And most times, when I try and convince him that it would be far better to play fireman or space ranger or Hugh Hefner, he runs from the room, princess dress trailing behind him. But that’s an issue for another day.
So we are very into princesses in my house. When we told Allie about the princess party, she was very excited and showed this by not sleeping for 23 days and only saying, “Is it time for my princess party? Is it time for my princess party? Is it time for my princess party?”
Eventually, the day arrived. Donned in a perfect princess outfit, she joined 11 of her friends at a bed and breakfast, where they were greeted by four different beauty queens, including Miss Aiken County. Now, perhaps you are not a 5-year-old girl. And perhaps you have never been one. Allow me to equate this. To a 5-year-old girl, entering a room and being greeted by Miss Aiken County is comparable to my entering a room and being greeted by Joe Montana. (Granted, I doubt Miss Aiken County could have hit that pass to Dwight Clark, so I claim a slight edge.)
Once the princesses were seated, the Fairy Godmother made her entrance. And I can say that for 11 of the girls, the Fairy Godmother was an instant treat. And for one of them, it was a reason to run crying from the room. Eventually, after several of us chased Allie down the block, we coaxed her to return. I am not sure why, but she has always gotten frightened at the silliest things. Well, I consider them silly. My wife generally thinks I am being insensitive. I still maintain “Wallace and Grommit” is only slightly more frightening than a piece of carpet fuzz.
When Allie got back in, Fairy Godmother did whisper something in her ear, and Allie seemed calmed by it. (Granted, she may have said, “Sit down and behave and your Dad will buy you a car when you’re 12.”) They proceeded to play some games and sing some songs with the Fairy Godmother, including the chicken dance. If you have never seen a gaggle of 5-year-olds do the chicken dance, I highly recommend it. It looks like a giant octopus having a seizure.
After the games, the girls sat for their princess cakes. One nice thing about a 5-year-old princess is that certain table manners can be placed aside during such events as cake, meaning the girls were free to eat as though it was their first meal in days, and they only had 15 seconds to eat.
Next up was the princess lessons. Two of the beauty queens gave all of the princesses lessons on how to wave, walk, sit, etc. During the wave lessons, I drew some curious glances when I blurted out, “Elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist.” I am not sure why I know that or why I felt the need to share it. I promised my wife an answer soon.
The party concluded with a horse-drawn carriage ride, which I added a little excitement to by running alongside and screaming, “OHMIGOSH!!! IT’S TURNING INTO A PUMPKIN!!! JUMP!!!” OK, I would never do that. Not with my wife AND mother watching.
In the end, the party was a great success, and I am not sure how we will top it. Unless we can get Joe Montana.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Bowling Allie
The time it takes you to ready this paragraph 41 times will be about the same amount of time it takes for a bowling ball released from the hands of a 5-year-old to reach the pins.
I learned this the other day when I took my daughter bowling. My wife has developed an incredibly intricate system of rewards for good behavior, and let Allie pick out some of the big scores she was working toward. I was pleased that one thing she wanted to earn was a bowling trip with Daddy. (She also wanted to earn “a trip to Daddy’s work to get Skittles,” but I think that shows more of an affinity to the snack machine.)
My wife and I have always tried to make sure we both made time for the kids individually as well as together, so that they can get some one-on-one time. (In the long-run, I think I will have the advantage, because you try and get a 15-year-old boy to spend a mommy-son day.)
So after several days of stellar behavior (good bedtimes, cleaning up, not packaging and mailing her brother), she earned the bowling trip.
So Allie and I headed off to the great bowling adventure. I told her that we would not only bowl, but get lunch at the bowling alley as well. Grilled cheese, she said, not even needing a menu. Focus. Pure focus.
We entered the alley and found that it was jam packed. Lots of kids. Lots of balloons. Lots of gift bags. Lots of squealing. Lots of slow-moving bowling balls.
We waited in line behind a gaggle of kids and approached the counter. “Got a lane for two?” I asked.
“Which party are you with?”
“Just us,” I said.
He picked up a clipboard. “Wow...” he glanced back up at us. “It’s probably gonna be about three hours until I get a lane. I’m booked solid on parties.”
At this point, I had a decision to make. I could tell Allie that there was no room, and we would have to bowl another day, or I could go against everything I teach my children and say, “I’m sorry, I meant to say we we’re with THAT party.”
Knowing I had to do the right thing, I turned to the man and said, “Here’s $50. Make it happen, chief.”
Kidding. I wouldn’t have given him more than $20.
Actually, I turned to Allie and said, “Sweetie, there’s a lot of birthday parties here, and I’m afraid there isn’t room here for us.” I kinda nodded back to the guy behind the counter so her potential disappointment would be with him, and she could bring him up 20 years from now in therapy.
I watched her reaction, waiting for the waterworks. Or perhaps a tantrum. Or perhaps just a sad, hangdog look and subsequent shuffling of the feet.
“Daddy, what about the other bowling alley?”
Focus. Pure focus.
In no time, we were at the other bowling alley, and there was ample room for us there. The first order of business was shoes. The man behind the counter asked me what size shoes she needed. “Uh, 5-year-old girl size?” At that point I realized I have no idea what size shoes my kids wear. Perhaps I should know this, but my mother has always been the “Shoe Grandma,” meaning she takes the kids to get shoes all the time. I can only tell you when kids’ shoes are too small. Generally, that is when they scream when you try to get them on.
Eventually, we got the shoes squared away and were ready to roll. Allie headed to the line with her bright orange six-pound ball. Taking the standard stance of a kid bowling, she stood facing the pins, feet shoulder-width apart. Grasping the ball with two hands, she bent over and rocked the ball a couple of times, bringing the ball back between her legs for the final push. And at that point, the ball got wrapped in her dress and sent her stumbling back and the ball clunking to the ground. We realized we needed to do some quick-change dress modification, lest she knock herself down on future throws. Dress out of the way, she launched her first roll. As the ball approached the pins, I went and got us a couple of drinks, did my taxes, watched the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy, etc. Eventually the ball reached the pins. I was somewhat expecting it just to come to rest against the head pin. Instead, it gently nudge the pin over, which was kind enough to create a domino-effect and take out six of its friends.
We ended up bowling two games, and despite the length of time for each game, we had a blast. Since there was not a restaurant at this alley, Allie even conned me into taking her to Chick-Fil-A afterwards, which is like Ruth’s Chris Steak House to a 5-year-old. I was glad that Allie chose me as a reward, and can’t wait to do it again soon. Even if she opts for other rewards, I’ll come out on top in the end. Let’s see Mr. Snack Machine take her to Chick-Fil-A.
I learned this the other day when I took my daughter bowling. My wife has developed an incredibly intricate system of rewards for good behavior, and let Allie pick out some of the big scores she was working toward. I was pleased that one thing she wanted to earn was a bowling trip with Daddy. (She also wanted to earn “a trip to Daddy’s work to get Skittles,” but I think that shows more of an affinity to the snack machine.)
My wife and I have always tried to make sure we both made time for the kids individually as well as together, so that they can get some one-on-one time. (In the long-run, I think I will have the advantage, because you try and get a 15-year-old boy to spend a mommy-son day.)
So after several days of stellar behavior (good bedtimes, cleaning up, not packaging and mailing her brother), she earned the bowling trip.
So Allie and I headed off to the great bowling adventure. I told her that we would not only bowl, but get lunch at the bowling alley as well. Grilled cheese, she said, not even needing a menu. Focus. Pure focus.
We entered the alley and found that it was jam packed. Lots of kids. Lots of balloons. Lots of gift bags. Lots of squealing. Lots of slow-moving bowling balls.
We waited in line behind a gaggle of kids and approached the counter. “Got a lane for two?” I asked.
“Which party are you with?”
“Just us,” I said.
He picked up a clipboard. “Wow...” he glanced back up at us. “It’s probably gonna be about three hours until I get a lane. I’m booked solid on parties.”
At this point, I had a decision to make. I could tell Allie that there was no room, and we would have to bowl another day, or I could go against everything I teach my children and say, “I’m sorry, I meant to say we we’re with THAT party.”
Knowing I had to do the right thing, I turned to the man and said, “Here’s $50. Make it happen, chief.”
Kidding. I wouldn’t have given him more than $20.
Actually, I turned to Allie and said, “Sweetie, there’s a lot of birthday parties here, and I’m afraid there isn’t room here for us.” I kinda nodded back to the guy behind the counter so her potential disappointment would be with him, and she could bring him up 20 years from now in therapy.
I watched her reaction, waiting for the waterworks. Or perhaps a tantrum. Or perhaps just a sad, hangdog look and subsequent shuffling of the feet.
“Daddy, what about the other bowling alley?”
Focus. Pure focus.
In no time, we were at the other bowling alley, and there was ample room for us there. The first order of business was shoes. The man behind the counter asked me what size shoes she needed. “Uh, 5-year-old girl size?” At that point I realized I have no idea what size shoes my kids wear. Perhaps I should know this, but my mother has always been the “Shoe Grandma,” meaning she takes the kids to get shoes all the time. I can only tell you when kids’ shoes are too small. Generally, that is when they scream when you try to get them on.
Eventually, we got the shoes squared away and were ready to roll. Allie headed to the line with her bright orange six-pound ball. Taking the standard stance of a kid bowling, she stood facing the pins, feet shoulder-width apart. Grasping the ball with two hands, she bent over and rocked the ball a couple of times, bringing the ball back between her legs for the final push. And at that point, the ball got wrapped in her dress and sent her stumbling back and the ball clunking to the ground. We realized we needed to do some quick-change dress modification, lest she knock herself down on future throws. Dress out of the way, she launched her first roll. As the ball approached the pins, I went and got us a couple of drinks, did my taxes, watched the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy, etc. Eventually the ball reached the pins. I was somewhat expecting it just to come to rest against the head pin. Instead, it gently nudge the pin over, which was kind enough to create a domino-effect and take out six of its friends.
We ended up bowling two games, and despite the length of time for each game, we had a blast. Since there was not a restaurant at this alley, Allie even conned me into taking her to Chick-Fil-A afterwards, which is like Ruth’s Chris Steak House to a 5-year-old. I was glad that Allie chose me as a reward, and can’t wait to do it again soon. Even if she opts for other rewards, I’ll come out on top in the end. Let’s see Mr. Snack Machine take her to Chick-Fil-A.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Dial-a-Dumpster
If you dial it, they will dump.
For those of you unaware, the City of Aiken has a new program called Dial-a-Dumpster, and I can safely say it if the finest addition to any municipality since running water.
The basis of the program is this: Round up four of your neighbors and all agree to have a big, hideous green trash bin roughly the size of a Great Lake plopped down on your street. That’s it. No charge. No heavy lifting. Just clear a spot in the street.
The Dumpster arrived on Friday morning, and was nestled snugly on the side of our cul-de-sac. The main reason I had wanted to get it is because I had a bunch of large items that could not be put out by the curb. Old pieces of plywood, a broken desk, my failed pool cover weight experiment consisting of numerous PVC pipes. That kind of thing.
When I first saw the Dumpster, I was amazed at its size. My first comment to my wife was, “It’s gonna be embarrassing if they come pick it up and there are only a couple of items in it.”
We quickly learned that would not be a problem. By Saturday afternoon, it was already nearing capacity. Everyone was heading into the deepest, darkest parts of their attics, garages and closets. Computer boxes. Skis. Stairs to a deck. A concrete rabbit. A foosball table. When someone made the comment as to how much money had been invested into actually accumulating the large amount of junk we were getting rid of, we all sighed. Some of us wept on the inside, realizing the number of mortgage payments now sitting in a giant pile of garbage.
Alas, it was not time for depressing reflection. It was time for cleansing. And cleanse we did. All day Saturday, soldiers marched from each of the neighborhood houses, a platoon of trash disposal. Said one neighbor, “I can walk in the garage now!” Said another neighbor, “Hey, what’s that you’re throwing away?” Said this neighbor: “What goes in the Dumpster stays in the Dumpster.”
Occasionally, several of us would meet at the Dumpster, peering in, proud of the quantity and quality of our trash. Often, we would exchange a King-of-the-Hillish “Yup” and then return to digging for stuff to dump.
On Monday, I found that the Dumpster can also provide a valuable service: It detects roof leaks. Having run out of things in the garage and attic to dump, I began to pilfer through some rarely used closets. I opened up one that I am fairly sure I have not been in since we bought the house. There, I noticed a box of old CDs. When I went to lift it, the sides of the box slid right on up. Amazingly, the CDs stayed perfectly still. Curious behavior for a box, I thought. I felt down below and noticed that where there was once a bottom of a box there was now just a moist, pulpy mess. I started checking around and noticed that about half of the floor was soaked. After a very short inspection, I looked and saw a quarter-size spot of daylight. I am no roofer, but I am fairly sure that one of the primary functions of a roof is to keep daylight, among other naturally occurring things, out of your house. I called my wife into the closet and had her stand in there while I went on the roof. I am not sure why I did this, but it seemed very necessary at the time.
Having only had the roof for a short while (previously it was open air), I called the roofing company, who came out and sealed the hole. He also suggested I rake my roof more often. I can safely say that is the first time I have been told that. I wonder if it is some roofing humor that they do, just to see how many dolts will climb on their roofs with rakes.
On the last day of our Dumpster, I was pleased to see that it was overflowing with stuff. I also hope that, when it is hauled off, they use some sort of tarp to cover it, lest the streets of our fair city be strewn with Styrofoam, broken coffee tables and dead trees.
I highly recommend you get together with your neighbors and Dial-a-Dumpster. When you think of quality of life improvements, you don’t think of Dumpsters. But you should. Because it will not only help you cleanse your home and your spirit. It will also fix your roof.
For those of you unaware, the City of Aiken has a new program called Dial-a-Dumpster, and I can safely say it if the finest addition to any municipality since running water.
The basis of the program is this: Round up four of your neighbors and all agree to have a big, hideous green trash bin roughly the size of a Great Lake plopped down on your street. That’s it. No charge. No heavy lifting. Just clear a spot in the street.
The Dumpster arrived on Friday morning, and was nestled snugly on the side of our cul-de-sac. The main reason I had wanted to get it is because I had a bunch of large items that could not be put out by the curb. Old pieces of plywood, a broken desk, my failed pool cover weight experiment consisting of numerous PVC pipes. That kind of thing.
When I first saw the Dumpster, I was amazed at its size. My first comment to my wife was, “It’s gonna be embarrassing if they come pick it up and there are only a couple of items in it.”
We quickly learned that would not be a problem. By Saturday afternoon, it was already nearing capacity. Everyone was heading into the deepest, darkest parts of their attics, garages and closets. Computer boxes. Skis. Stairs to a deck. A concrete rabbit. A foosball table. When someone made the comment as to how much money had been invested into actually accumulating the large amount of junk we were getting rid of, we all sighed. Some of us wept on the inside, realizing the number of mortgage payments now sitting in a giant pile of garbage.
Alas, it was not time for depressing reflection. It was time for cleansing. And cleanse we did. All day Saturday, soldiers marched from each of the neighborhood houses, a platoon of trash disposal. Said one neighbor, “I can walk in the garage now!” Said another neighbor, “Hey, what’s that you’re throwing away?” Said this neighbor: “What goes in the Dumpster stays in the Dumpster.”
Occasionally, several of us would meet at the Dumpster, peering in, proud of the quantity and quality of our trash. Often, we would exchange a King-of-the-Hillish “Yup” and then return to digging for stuff to dump.
On Monday, I found that the Dumpster can also provide a valuable service: It detects roof leaks. Having run out of things in the garage and attic to dump, I began to pilfer through some rarely used closets. I opened up one that I am fairly sure I have not been in since we bought the house. There, I noticed a box of old CDs. When I went to lift it, the sides of the box slid right on up. Amazingly, the CDs stayed perfectly still. Curious behavior for a box, I thought. I felt down below and noticed that where there was once a bottom of a box there was now just a moist, pulpy mess. I started checking around and noticed that about half of the floor was soaked. After a very short inspection, I looked and saw a quarter-size spot of daylight. I am no roofer, but I am fairly sure that one of the primary functions of a roof is to keep daylight, among other naturally occurring things, out of your house. I called my wife into the closet and had her stand in there while I went on the roof. I am not sure why I did this, but it seemed very necessary at the time.
Having only had the roof for a short while (previously it was open air), I called the roofing company, who came out and sealed the hole. He also suggested I rake my roof more often. I can safely say that is the first time I have been told that. I wonder if it is some roofing humor that they do, just to see how many dolts will climb on their roofs with rakes.
On the last day of our Dumpster, I was pleased to see that it was overflowing with stuff. I also hope that, when it is hauled off, they use some sort of tarp to cover it, lest the streets of our fair city be strewn with Styrofoam, broken coffee tables and dead trees.
I highly recommend you get together with your neighbors and Dial-a-Dumpster. When you think of quality of life improvements, you don’t think of Dumpsters. But you should. Because it will not only help you cleanse your home and your spirit. It will also fix your roof.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Time heals all wounds
If guys were in charge of giving birth, there is a fairly good chance that babies would not be born in hospitals very often. Rather, they would be born in bowling alleys, on the golf course, at work. Basically, wherever the baby decided, “ENOUGH! I’m outta here.”
That is because most guys are like me, and find that the best medical treatment is to not think about it, and engage in something healthy and distracting such as going to a football game.
I know I do it. And I know the guy who came to my house to fix a leaky pipe did. The line from under the sink that goes to the ice maker had decided to no longer work, and after two feeble attempts at plumbing repair, I called in someone to do it for me.
When he arrived, he told me that I was his last stop for the day. Since this was about 10 a.m., I said, “Half day?”
“Yeah, I think I’m gonna head to the emergency room when I’m done here.”
He proceeded to tell me that he had cracked a tooth up under his gum, and he had developed an abscess in his sinus, and he was in intense pain. I was in intense pain listening to it, so I can only imagine what it actually felt like.
Now, a sensible person would have said, “Hey, I have a searing pain in my face – I better go see a professional.” But guys are not sensible, and so he said, “Well, since I’m on this side of town, lemme knock this one out.”
I have a similar track record. I am the one who drove myself to the doctor prior to being admitted to the cardiac ward with an irregular heartbeat a few years back. The off-beat had been going on all day, but I was under the assumption that ignoring it would make it go away.
And then there was my friend Joe who had a terrible pain in his ear a few years back. Did he go to the doctor? No, he went golfing, because you don’t miss a tee-time. He later found out he had, wedged inside his head, a spider. Yes, an actual spider that came out with a little help from some baby oil.
A couple of weeks ago, my wife noticed that I had been grimacing on occasion. She asked what was wrong. I told her that my stomach had been hurting. She asked for how long. I told her about 10 days. Based on her reaction, I feel it is safe to say that 10 days is slightly beyond the length of time you should let a stomach ache linger.
So I went to the doctor and told him what the problem was. He ordered a series of tests, scans, pokes, prods and such. One concern that he had was a gall bladder issue. He went over some signs to be on the lookout for, and told me to call him or go to the ER if my eyes turned yellow. If there is one thing that does not need to be said, it is “Call a doctor if your eyes turn yellow.” Even I can figure that one out.
So all of my tests and scans came back and it basically said I was fit as a fiddle, healthy as a horse, quick as a wink. OK, not the last one. Speed was not measured. But everything else seemed fine.
At that point, I was given a series of medicines to make my stomach feel better, which had now been hurting for about two weeks. Some of the stuff seemed to help, at least easing the time between when it would hurt.
So I woke up the other morning and told my wife that my stomach was hurting again. She asked if I had been taking my medicine. I told her yes. She asked if I had been taking it like I was supposed to. I said nothing.
She then went on what can only be described as an hours-long rant about how I needed to take the medicine, and how I felt better when I took it, and there was a reason they said to take ALL of the medicine.
“I tried,” I told her.
She wasn’t buying.
So I go back to the doctor soon, and I will sheepishly confess that the medicine seemed to be working, that I possibly did not adhere to it in the strictest of regimens. I am fairly sure I will get a bad mark on my permanent chart. But honesty is the best policy. Well, second best policy. The best, of course, is to hope it magically goes away between now and then.
That is because most guys are like me, and find that the best medical treatment is to not think about it, and engage in something healthy and distracting such as going to a football game.
I know I do it. And I know the guy who came to my house to fix a leaky pipe did. The line from under the sink that goes to the ice maker had decided to no longer work, and after two feeble attempts at plumbing repair, I called in someone to do it for me.
When he arrived, he told me that I was his last stop for the day. Since this was about 10 a.m., I said, “Half day?”
“Yeah, I think I’m gonna head to the emergency room when I’m done here.”
He proceeded to tell me that he had cracked a tooth up under his gum, and he had developed an abscess in his sinus, and he was in intense pain. I was in intense pain listening to it, so I can only imagine what it actually felt like.
Now, a sensible person would have said, “Hey, I have a searing pain in my face – I better go see a professional.” But guys are not sensible, and so he said, “Well, since I’m on this side of town, lemme knock this one out.”
I have a similar track record. I am the one who drove myself to the doctor prior to being admitted to the cardiac ward with an irregular heartbeat a few years back. The off-beat had been going on all day, but I was under the assumption that ignoring it would make it go away.
And then there was my friend Joe who had a terrible pain in his ear a few years back. Did he go to the doctor? No, he went golfing, because you don’t miss a tee-time. He later found out he had, wedged inside his head, a spider. Yes, an actual spider that came out with a little help from some baby oil.
A couple of weeks ago, my wife noticed that I had been grimacing on occasion. She asked what was wrong. I told her that my stomach had been hurting. She asked for how long. I told her about 10 days. Based on her reaction, I feel it is safe to say that 10 days is slightly beyond the length of time you should let a stomach ache linger.
So I went to the doctor and told him what the problem was. He ordered a series of tests, scans, pokes, prods and such. One concern that he had was a gall bladder issue. He went over some signs to be on the lookout for, and told me to call him or go to the ER if my eyes turned yellow. If there is one thing that does not need to be said, it is “Call a doctor if your eyes turn yellow.” Even I can figure that one out.
So all of my tests and scans came back and it basically said I was fit as a fiddle, healthy as a horse, quick as a wink. OK, not the last one. Speed was not measured. But everything else seemed fine.
At that point, I was given a series of medicines to make my stomach feel better, which had now been hurting for about two weeks. Some of the stuff seemed to help, at least easing the time between when it would hurt.
So I woke up the other morning and told my wife that my stomach was hurting again. She asked if I had been taking my medicine. I told her yes. She asked if I had been taking it like I was supposed to. I said nothing.
She then went on what can only be described as an hours-long rant about how I needed to take the medicine, and how I felt better when I took it, and there was a reason they said to take ALL of the medicine.
“I tried,” I told her.
She wasn’t buying.
So I go back to the doctor soon, and I will sheepishly confess that the medicine seemed to be working, that I possibly did not adhere to it in the strictest of regimens. I am fairly sure I will get a bad mark on my permanent chart. But honesty is the best policy. Well, second best policy. The best, of course, is to hope it magically goes away between now and then.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
It will get better
Imagine you are asleep. You are gently nudged awake, and roll over. There you find me, standing there, and I say, “My pants fell down.”
Kinda creepy, yeah?
Well, for some reason, when a two-year-old does it, it’s hilarious. I awoke this way the other morning, and, because I am in the routine of having kids, I simple leaned over, hitched up his drawers, and sent him on his way. In no time, I was back to sleep.
Having two kids, the older being five, I am quite used to the daily hustle and flow and occasional pants falling incident. And no amount of explaining that you get used to the routine and that they eventually sleep is a bit of help to my neighbors, who are about a week into the having-a-kid thing. Surprisingly, they are finding things are slightly different than they were a couple of weeks ago.
The other night, I was taking my trash out to the curb. I saw my neighbor doing the same thing. Well, not the same thing. He was taking HIS trash out. We met in the street, and I commented that he looked somewhat tired. I believe my exact words were, “Dude, do you own a brush?”
Guys don’t sugarcoat things.
But he had this look that all new dads have. The slumped shoulders. The ruffled hair. The bags under the eyes that could be used to smuggle VCRs. And he also had that look of, “If one more parent tells me how it will get better, I will possibly beat them with a bottle warmer.”
I, of course, did not tell him that. As a guy, it is my job to be supportive to my friends, and let them know that I am there if needed. So I made repeated jokes. “Hey, and when the baby goes down, maybe you can put your shirt on right-side-out.” or “Man, I don’t know what to do with the next 10 hours, what with the kids asleep and all.” He was sleep deprived enough that I could easily get away from any attempted bottle warmer assaults.
I remember those days. When Allie was born, I quickly found out that sleep deprivation makes you really, really cranky. Nasty cranky. Yell at the dog cranky. Mumble to yourself cranky. At three weeks, she finally decided to start sleeping. The first night we got a decent night’s sleep, we awoke in a panic. It’s like we had forgotten what it was like to get a real night’s sleep.
Another thing my neighbor is experiencing is that new parent sensation of sheer terror whenever you hear a peep out of the baby. This usually happens right as your drift to sleep. The baby will say what babies say, which is not much, but it is enough to send you lurching out of bed, heart pounding, trying to collect yourself. It’s weird, because your brain is saying, “He’s OK. Babies cry. Be calm. Be cool.” But then the heart says, “BABY CRYING!!!! RUN!!!! COULD BE WOLVES!!!” The heart does not play well with others sometimes.
This phenomenon passes, too. With Allie, I was springing out of bed every few minutes, as was my wife. With Parker, he would have had to play a trombone to get me up. (For the record, this did not go over well with a certain other parent in my house, who insisted I was faking being asleep. For what it’s worth, I was not.)
Another interesting thing that my neighbors are finding out is that babies, well, they don’t do much. They sleep. They eat. They poop. Pretty much a full day’s work. I know that when we first had a child, I kept asking my wife when she would, well, do something. She would begin to give me the timeline for when babies crawl, stand, etc. I would cut her off, and say, “No, I mean do something cool. Like throw a curveball. Or not cry when I jump out from behind a door and scream ‘BOO!’” This is why my wife sighs a lot.
But I did find that a child’s firsts – be it crawls, steps, or laughing at being scared – are all pretty cool. And they will find this, too. And before they know it, they will be able to pass on the wisdom to other parents. The wisdom that it will get better. And it won’t matter a bit to the new parents they are trying to convince.
Kinda creepy, yeah?
Well, for some reason, when a two-year-old does it, it’s hilarious. I awoke this way the other morning, and, because I am in the routine of having kids, I simple leaned over, hitched up his drawers, and sent him on his way. In no time, I was back to sleep.
Having two kids, the older being five, I am quite used to the daily hustle and flow and occasional pants falling incident. And no amount of explaining that you get used to the routine and that they eventually sleep is a bit of help to my neighbors, who are about a week into the having-a-kid thing. Surprisingly, they are finding things are slightly different than they were a couple of weeks ago.
The other night, I was taking my trash out to the curb. I saw my neighbor doing the same thing. Well, not the same thing. He was taking HIS trash out. We met in the street, and I commented that he looked somewhat tired. I believe my exact words were, “Dude, do you own a brush?”
Guys don’t sugarcoat things.
But he had this look that all new dads have. The slumped shoulders. The ruffled hair. The bags under the eyes that could be used to smuggle VCRs. And he also had that look of, “If one more parent tells me how it will get better, I will possibly beat them with a bottle warmer.”
I, of course, did not tell him that. As a guy, it is my job to be supportive to my friends, and let them know that I am there if needed. So I made repeated jokes. “Hey, and when the baby goes down, maybe you can put your shirt on right-side-out.” or “Man, I don’t know what to do with the next 10 hours, what with the kids asleep and all.” He was sleep deprived enough that I could easily get away from any attempted bottle warmer assaults.
I remember those days. When Allie was born, I quickly found out that sleep deprivation makes you really, really cranky. Nasty cranky. Yell at the dog cranky. Mumble to yourself cranky. At three weeks, she finally decided to start sleeping. The first night we got a decent night’s sleep, we awoke in a panic. It’s like we had forgotten what it was like to get a real night’s sleep.
Another thing my neighbor is experiencing is that new parent sensation of sheer terror whenever you hear a peep out of the baby. This usually happens right as your drift to sleep. The baby will say what babies say, which is not much, but it is enough to send you lurching out of bed, heart pounding, trying to collect yourself. It’s weird, because your brain is saying, “He’s OK. Babies cry. Be calm. Be cool.” But then the heart says, “BABY CRYING!!!! RUN!!!! COULD BE WOLVES!!!” The heart does not play well with others sometimes.
This phenomenon passes, too. With Allie, I was springing out of bed every few minutes, as was my wife. With Parker, he would have had to play a trombone to get me up. (For the record, this did not go over well with a certain other parent in my house, who insisted I was faking being asleep. For what it’s worth, I was not.)
Another interesting thing that my neighbors are finding out is that babies, well, they don’t do much. They sleep. They eat. They poop. Pretty much a full day’s work. I know that when we first had a child, I kept asking my wife when she would, well, do something. She would begin to give me the timeline for when babies crawl, stand, etc. I would cut her off, and say, “No, I mean do something cool. Like throw a curveball. Or not cry when I jump out from behind a door and scream ‘BOO!’” This is why my wife sighs a lot.
But I did find that a child’s firsts – be it crawls, steps, or laughing at being scared – are all pretty cool. And they will find this, too. And before they know it, they will be able to pass on the wisdom to other parents. The wisdom that it will get better. And it won’t matter a bit to the new parents they are trying to convince.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Bringing Christmas to light
Now that the big day has passed, I can tell you what I got my wife for Christmas: an idea.
Yes, an idea. A big ol' heaping helping of brain surging, topped off with an imaginary bow.
Perhaps some explanation is needed. (Editor's note: You think?) It all started when I went shopping about a week before Christmas. I do my shopping thusly: I postpone, postpone, postpone and then decide to bite the bullet and go on a mad Christmas shopping spree that takes about two hours but gets everything done.
I was in a store, browsing about for that perfect something, when I found exactly what my wife would want: lamps. Now before you award me Romantic of the Year, let me present my defense: A while back, my wife said she wanted lamps. And these were fine lamps.
For some reason, I decided to call my sister, who is a voice of reason. Something inside me said, "Mike, call a voice of reason."
So I had this conversation:
ME: I think I need you to go Christmas shopping with me.
HER: Why?
ME: I'm about to buy lamps.
HER: Don't buy her lamps.
ME: They're nice lamps.
HER: Stop. Now.
So I passed on the very nice lamps and agreed to meet my sister later for something less lampy. That evening, my wife asked me how my shopping went. At that point, I had to tell her about the lamp almost purchase. Little did I know that I had just given my wife her Christmas idea.
The next day, my wife came in beaming. "Guess what I got!?!?!!?"
"Uh, ESP? Tuberculosis? Scurvy?" (I'm terrible at the guessing game.)
"Lamps!"
I stared blankly back at her, because as nice as lamps may be, they've never actually made me giddy.
"Lamps! I got some lamps! Do you want to wrap them or can I go ahead and put them up?"
Far be it from me to ruin the Christmas miracle of new lamps. "Oh, go ahead and put them up. And Merry Christmas!"
Now, I know that many of you out there think I am about the worst husband/gift-giver on the planet. And you may be right. But my wife and I settled on something very early on: Honesty. If my wife wants something, expects something, needs something, she tells me. She doesn't assume that I can read minds or guess emotions. I can't. I don't even try.
One of the last things you will ever hear my wife tell me is "You should have known." She knows I don't know. Maybe she is thinking, "Tonight, I'd like to curl up on the couch and watch a movie." And there is absolutely no chance that I will pick up on that. Why? Because the one thing that is playing in my head at the moment is the blurb in Sports Illustrated about the passing of Negro League star Double Duty Radcliffe, who had "Thou Shalt Not Steal" written on his chest protector. I don't know why, but it struck me as funny, and is on continuos loop. And the only way to get it off the loop is for her to make eye contact with me and say, "Tonight, I'd like to curl up on the couch and watch a movie."
So I feel fairly confident that if she wanted, say, jewelry, she would say, "I want jewelry." And when she said she wanted lamps, she really meant that she wanted lamps. (My sister later told me the main reason she wanted me not to buy the lamps was that she feared I would be buying something akin to the leg lamp in "A Christmas Story." So she was questioning my taste, not my judgment.)
And in answer to the inevitable question, yes, I did get her something besides a self-selected lamp set. And upon seeing the ear rings I got her, she asked who picked them out for me. Apparently everyone thinks I have bad taste.
In all, it was a fine Christmas with some fine lamps, and I am just happy that my wife is happy. And that's a good idea.
Yes, an idea. A big ol' heaping helping of brain surging, topped off with an imaginary bow.
Perhaps some explanation is needed. (Editor's note: You think?) It all started when I went shopping about a week before Christmas. I do my shopping thusly: I postpone, postpone, postpone and then decide to bite the bullet and go on a mad Christmas shopping spree that takes about two hours but gets everything done.
I was in a store, browsing about for that perfect something, when I found exactly what my wife would want: lamps. Now before you award me Romantic of the Year, let me present my defense: A while back, my wife said she wanted lamps. And these were fine lamps.
For some reason, I decided to call my sister, who is a voice of reason. Something inside me said, "Mike, call a voice of reason."
So I had this conversation:
ME: I think I need you to go Christmas shopping with me.
HER: Why?
ME: I'm about to buy lamps.
HER: Don't buy her lamps.
ME: They're nice lamps.
HER: Stop. Now.
So I passed on the very nice lamps and agreed to meet my sister later for something less lampy. That evening, my wife asked me how my shopping went. At that point, I had to tell her about the lamp almost purchase. Little did I know that I had just given my wife her Christmas idea.
The next day, my wife came in beaming. "Guess what I got!?!?!!?"
"Uh, ESP? Tuberculosis? Scurvy?" (I'm terrible at the guessing game.)
"Lamps!"
I stared blankly back at her, because as nice as lamps may be, they've never actually made me giddy.
"Lamps! I got some lamps! Do you want to wrap them or can I go ahead and put them up?"
Far be it from me to ruin the Christmas miracle of new lamps. "Oh, go ahead and put them up. And Merry Christmas!"
Now, I know that many of you out there think I am about the worst husband/gift-giver on the planet. And you may be right. But my wife and I settled on something very early on: Honesty. If my wife wants something, expects something, needs something, she tells me. She doesn't assume that I can read minds or guess emotions. I can't. I don't even try.
One of the last things you will ever hear my wife tell me is "You should have known." She knows I don't know. Maybe she is thinking, "Tonight, I'd like to curl up on the couch and watch a movie." And there is absolutely no chance that I will pick up on that. Why? Because the one thing that is playing in my head at the moment is the blurb in Sports Illustrated about the passing of Negro League star Double Duty Radcliffe, who had "Thou Shalt Not Steal" written on his chest protector. I don't know why, but it struck me as funny, and is on continuos loop. And the only way to get it off the loop is for her to make eye contact with me and say, "Tonight, I'd like to curl up on the couch and watch a movie."
So I feel fairly confident that if she wanted, say, jewelry, she would say, "I want jewelry." And when she said she wanted lamps, she really meant that she wanted lamps. (My sister later told me the main reason she wanted me not to buy the lamps was that she feared I would be buying something akin to the leg lamp in "A Christmas Story." So she was questioning my taste, not my judgment.)
And in answer to the inevitable question, yes, I did get her something besides a self-selected lamp set. And upon seeing the ear rings I got her, she asked who picked them out for me. Apparently everyone thinks I have bad taste.
In all, it was a fine Christmas with some fine lamps, and I am just happy that my wife is happy. And that's a good idea.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Dishing the dirt
The next time you are in the market for a major appliance, I highly recommend you enlist my wife’s help. Do this, and you can make your entire appliance shopping time about 11 seconds.
I found this out recently when we decided to buy a dishwasher. Our dishwasher was not so much a washer of dishes anymore. It was more of a dishwetter. Plus, the springs that make the door open and close slowly snapped a while back, so whenever you opened it, if you weren’t careful the door would come crashing down on you, which would then make you say things that you wish you had not when children were in earshot.
The dishwasher was an older model, one from the 1820s, by my guess. I am fairly certain that the dishwasher was placed at the site of the house years ago, and the house was later built around it.
We have wanted a new dishwasher since we moved into the house. Somehow, we got distracted with things like raising children and forgot that our dishwasher was terrible. It finally came to a head one evening when my wife opened the dishwasher and discovered several previous meals.
“Did you run the dishwasher?” she asked.
Indeed, I had.
“Did you rinse off the plates?”
Indeed, I had not.
To me, a dishwasher has one singular purpose, and that is to clean my dishes. If I have to clean the dishes ahead of time, I am doing part of the dishwasher’s job. Where is a dishwasher’s self worth if I assist it with its sole purpose for being? Basically, if I put a live chicken in a dishwasher, I expect to be able to run a cycle and open it up to find shiny bones inside.
So we decided it was time. I shopped the way that I normally do for large appliances, which was to read advertisements and find one that looked cool. I pointed several of these out to my wife. She began asking questions. At that point, I said, “I think it looks cool and that’s really all I know. Perhaps you should take over the research.”
Armed with my criteria (looks cool, can blast dried lasagna out of a casserole dish), my wife embarked on her research. Several days later, she emerged from her Research Chamber (we also call it the playroom/office) with exactly what we were going to get. This sucker had adjustable shelves, a quiet purr when it was operating, and the equivalent of a gas-powered pressure washer to blast gunk off of dishes. It also had a delayed start, for those times when you’re just not quite ready to clean your dishes.
And then we waited. Again, this is where my wife came in handy. She had noticed that during my advertisement searches, there were occasionally deals on installation. (It was never even remotely a consideration that I install it. If I did try it, there would be a good chance rescue personnel would be summoned to extract me from the behind the dishwasher.)
Finally, the offer was on. Time to go buying.
We walked into the store and headed over to the dishwashers. My wife began surveying the selection, as though she were viewing a police lineup. She had armed me with exactly what I needed to know. No more, no less.
After a few minutes, a salesperson approached us. This is where my wife’s research and my subsequent training came into play. “Can I help you find something?”
“If you have the Whirlpool Gold with a black front in stock, we’ll take it,” I said.
A look of pride overcame my wife, who was most likely expecting me to have an appliance store spas-fit and blurt, “I want a flat-screen TV!!!!”
The salesperson gave me a quizzical look, probably not knowing what to do when a customer cut directly to the chase. “Uh....lemme check.”
In no time, we were heading out of the store, the wallet a little lighter but the dishwasher just days from being installed. Had I done this myself, I would have probably spent several hours in the store, and eventually found something that looked cool and I really, really hoped cleaned well.
When it was installed, I was excited about its inaugural run. I wanted to put it to the test right away. If it was a dirty dish, I was throwing it in, often to the cries of, “Hey, I’m still eating!”
As the first cycle was finishing, I stood by in nervous anticipation, illustrating perfectly how ragingly boring my life is. When it was done, I opened it and was pleased to find shiny, shiny bones.
Kidding. I don’t even know where to get a live chicken. (I tried, with no luck.) But I did find clean plates and bowls and cups and forks and knives and everything else. Shiny. No streaks. No stains. It was like, well, it was like my dishes had actually been washed.
So the appliance hunt is over, and I am thrilled with our new purchase. It’s nice to have a functioning appliance, and it was through my wife’s diligent research that it was so quick and painless. Now if I can just get her working on the flat screen TV.
I found this out recently when we decided to buy a dishwasher. Our dishwasher was not so much a washer of dishes anymore. It was more of a dishwetter. Plus, the springs that make the door open and close slowly snapped a while back, so whenever you opened it, if you weren’t careful the door would come crashing down on you, which would then make you say things that you wish you had not when children were in earshot.
The dishwasher was an older model, one from the 1820s, by my guess. I am fairly certain that the dishwasher was placed at the site of the house years ago, and the house was later built around it.
We have wanted a new dishwasher since we moved into the house. Somehow, we got distracted with things like raising children and forgot that our dishwasher was terrible. It finally came to a head one evening when my wife opened the dishwasher and discovered several previous meals.
“Did you run the dishwasher?” she asked.
Indeed, I had.
“Did you rinse off the plates?”
Indeed, I had not.
To me, a dishwasher has one singular purpose, and that is to clean my dishes. If I have to clean the dishes ahead of time, I am doing part of the dishwasher’s job. Where is a dishwasher’s self worth if I assist it with its sole purpose for being? Basically, if I put a live chicken in a dishwasher, I expect to be able to run a cycle and open it up to find shiny bones inside.
So we decided it was time. I shopped the way that I normally do for large appliances, which was to read advertisements and find one that looked cool. I pointed several of these out to my wife. She began asking questions. At that point, I said, “I think it looks cool and that’s really all I know. Perhaps you should take over the research.”
Armed with my criteria (looks cool, can blast dried lasagna out of a casserole dish), my wife embarked on her research. Several days later, she emerged from her Research Chamber (we also call it the playroom/office) with exactly what we were going to get. This sucker had adjustable shelves, a quiet purr when it was operating, and the equivalent of a gas-powered pressure washer to blast gunk off of dishes. It also had a delayed start, for those times when you’re just not quite ready to clean your dishes.
And then we waited. Again, this is where my wife came in handy. She had noticed that during my advertisement searches, there were occasionally deals on installation. (It was never even remotely a consideration that I install it. If I did try it, there would be a good chance rescue personnel would be summoned to extract me from the behind the dishwasher.)
Finally, the offer was on. Time to go buying.
We walked into the store and headed over to the dishwashers. My wife began surveying the selection, as though she were viewing a police lineup. She had armed me with exactly what I needed to know. No more, no less.
After a few minutes, a salesperson approached us. This is where my wife’s research and my subsequent training came into play. “Can I help you find something?”
“If you have the Whirlpool Gold with a black front in stock, we’ll take it,” I said.
A look of pride overcame my wife, who was most likely expecting me to have an appliance store spas-fit and blurt, “I want a flat-screen TV!!!!”
The salesperson gave me a quizzical look, probably not knowing what to do when a customer cut directly to the chase. “Uh....lemme check.”
In no time, we were heading out of the store, the wallet a little lighter but the dishwasher just days from being installed. Had I done this myself, I would have probably spent several hours in the store, and eventually found something that looked cool and I really, really hoped cleaned well.
When it was installed, I was excited about its inaugural run. I wanted to put it to the test right away. If it was a dirty dish, I was throwing it in, often to the cries of, “Hey, I’m still eating!”
As the first cycle was finishing, I stood by in nervous anticipation, illustrating perfectly how ragingly boring my life is. When it was done, I opened it and was pleased to find shiny, shiny bones.
Kidding. I don’t even know where to get a live chicken. (I tried, with no luck.) But I did find clean plates and bowls and cups and forks and knives and everything else. Shiny. No streaks. No stains. It was like, well, it was like my dishes had actually been washed.
So the appliance hunt is over, and I am thrilled with our new purchase. It’s nice to have a functioning appliance, and it was through my wife’s diligent research that it was so quick and painless. Now if I can just get her working on the flat screen TV.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Get the belt
Don't make me get the belt.
It's the phrase we have all heard, and when we become parents we all know at some point we will have to use.
It took us about five years to get to that point. And I have to say, it went about as well as trying to go bowling with a cinder block.
My wife and I have never been big on corporal punishment. (I'm not going to debate the pros and cons of it because, quite frankly, I don't feel like it. I think whatever side you fall on, you make great points. Nice view up here on the fence.) Sure, there has been the occasional swat on the little hand that is reaching for the sleeping dog's mouth, or the swat on the rear that gently moves someone who is standing RIGHT in front of the Bama game. But nothing that I think you would even put in the category of the mildest corporal punishment.
But how do you discipline, you ask? Simple. Isolation and deprivation.
Ha! Kidding. We don't do that. Any more. What we opt for varies with the children. With Parker, time-out seems to work. Although, in fairness, he's a bit solitary by nature, so sending him to his room is actually what he prefers. So if we catch Parker using a marker to redecorate the couch, we send him to his room, and he has a blissful good couple of hours. Maybe we should rethink that. "Parker, DO NOT eat the dog food. That does it young man - we're taking you to a social function!"
With Allie, we started off with distraction. If she was, say, brandishing scissors, we would gently trade out the scissors for something less pointy. But as she got older, we found that the best way of punishment was empty threats. "Allie, clean up your room or I'm throwing out every toy that's on the floor." "Allie, sit down and eat your dinner, or you will NOT get to watch a movie." "Allie, sit still in church, or we WILL put you in the circus." Standard stuff, and it seemed to work well
So a few nights ago, Allie was getting ready for bed. And, as usual, she was stalling. We kept telling her to brush her teeth, and she kept stalling. For various reasons, I was just tired of dealing with the particular stalling session, and I, quite frankly, had enough. And there it came: "Don't make me get the belt."
Allie continued stalling, and in one fluid motion, my belt was off and in my hand. She stopped and stared. I stepped toward her. And then, in a moment that will be indelibly inked in our family history, I pulled the belt back and in a flash, I threw it onto the bed where my wife was sitting and said, "You do it. I can't."
The look my wife gave me was if I had thrown her a dead squirrel. "I'm not gonna do it! You're the one who threatened her!"
Immediately, I fired back, "Look, we can't have empty threats any more. We need to follow through. Do it."
So there we were: My wife and I at the realization that we were just not equipped for old-school discipline. Allie was realizing this too, and pretty much thinking she had punched her fun ticket for eternity.
Finally, I called Allie over and had her sit down on the bed with us. "Allie," I said, "I know I told you that I would spank you with the belt if you didn't brush your teeth. But I'm not going to. I can't, and your mother can't."
Allie stared at me, and I can only wonder what she was thinking. Most likely, she was thinking her parents were weak-kneed and easily played. I knew this was a critical discipline moment, and had to salvage some shred of future control (and a smidge of dignity).
"So we won't spank you. But you need to brush your teeth ... or I take away your Barbie Christmas tree in your room."
Her teeth were brushed and she was in bed within 60 seconds.
It's the phrase we have all heard, and when we become parents we all know at some point we will have to use.
It took us about five years to get to that point. And I have to say, it went about as well as trying to go bowling with a cinder block.
My wife and I have never been big on corporal punishment. (I'm not going to debate the pros and cons of it because, quite frankly, I don't feel like it. I think whatever side you fall on, you make great points. Nice view up here on the fence.) Sure, there has been the occasional swat on the little hand that is reaching for the sleeping dog's mouth, or the swat on the rear that gently moves someone who is standing RIGHT in front of the Bama game. But nothing that I think you would even put in the category of the mildest corporal punishment.
But how do you discipline, you ask? Simple. Isolation and deprivation.
Ha! Kidding. We don't do that. Any more. What we opt for varies with the children. With Parker, time-out seems to work. Although, in fairness, he's a bit solitary by nature, so sending him to his room is actually what he prefers. So if we catch Parker using a marker to redecorate the couch, we send him to his room, and he has a blissful good couple of hours. Maybe we should rethink that. "Parker, DO NOT eat the dog food. That does it young man - we're taking you to a social function!"
With Allie, we started off with distraction. If she was, say, brandishing scissors, we would gently trade out the scissors for something less pointy. But as she got older, we found that the best way of punishment was empty threats. "Allie, clean up your room or I'm throwing out every toy that's on the floor." "Allie, sit down and eat your dinner, or you will NOT get to watch a movie." "Allie, sit still in church, or we WILL put you in the circus." Standard stuff, and it seemed to work well
So a few nights ago, Allie was getting ready for bed. And, as usual, she was stalling. We kept telling her to brush her teeth, and she kept stalling. For various reasons, I was just tired of dealing with the particular stalling session, and I, quite frankly, had enough. And there it came: "Don't make me get the belt."
Allie continued stalling, and in one fluid motion, my belt was off and in my hand. She stopped and stared. I stepped toward her. And then, in a moment that will be indelibly inked in our family history, I pulled the belt back and in a flash, I threw it onto the bed where my wife was sitting and said, "You do it. I can't."
The look my wife gave me was if I had thrown her a dead squirrel. "I'm not gonna do it! You're the one who threatened her!"
Immediately, I fired back, "Look, we can't have empty threats any more. We need to follow through. Do it."
So there we were: My wife and I at the realization that we were just not equipped for old-school discipline. Allie was realizing this too, and pretty much thinking she had punched her fun ticket for eternity.
Finally, I called Allie over and had her sit down on the bed with us. "Allie," I said, "I know I told you that I would spank you with the belt if you didn't brush your teeth. But I'm not going to. I can't, and your mother can't."
Allie stared at me, and I can only wonder what she was thinking. Most likely, she was thinking her parents were weak-kneed and easily played. I knew this was a critical discipline moment, and had to salvage some shred of future control (and a smidge of dignity).
"So we won't spank you. But you need to brush your teeth ... or I take away your Barbie Christmas tree in your room."
Her teeth were brushed and she was in bed within 60 seconds.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Fan-tastic
I am fairly certain that when I open my ceiling fan installation business, it will take off like gangbusters.
The main reason for that is that I can guarantee that not only will I install your fans with stunning efficiency, I will also guarantee that a whopping 75 percent of the glass domes will be intact when I am finished.
I base this business model on a recent afternoon of fun and excitement spent installing ceiling fans at my mother’s house. A while back, she bought four of them and made casual mention that she was going to pay to have them installed.
She said this in front of my brother-in-law and me, and the idea of having someone else come in and do guy stuff made our testosterone surge. Before we knew it, we had volunteered to do the fans, boasting that we could knock it out in a matter of minutes.
I am not really sure why we volunteered to do this. While my brother-in-law is more handy that I am, neither of us are exactly lighting up the Bob Vila circuit. And when you add in electricity, well, that’s just asking for trouble. I once tried to fix a broken light socket, and found out that there is a whole bunch of electricity in those little wires. (Note to self: If a light socket is broken, you will not know if you turned off the correct breaker. Well, there is a way you can know, but it hurts. Bad.)
So we geared up for an afternoon, figuring that between the two of us, we could piece together the installation. Fortunately, ceiling fan companies have realized that some people who install ceiling fans have the home improvement skills of a gecko and have made it fairly idiot proof.
I am sure you are surprised that the first fan took us a very long time. (That included a call to an actual electrician, who seemed to find our questions rather quaint.) As we sat there with all of the pieces spread out, we began trying to assemble the parts. After about 20 minutes of doing the world’s most difficult jigsaw puzzle, my brother-in-law said, “Hey, here’s an idea...”
I was thinking we would just go with what we have and hang it up there semi-assembled. Turns out, his idea involved following the directions that came with the fan. Risky, I thought, but worth a go.
Once we began to follow the steps, it was amazing how fast it went. Part A connects to part B. Part C to Part D. Wham, bam, thank you, fan.
After we finished the first one, we assumed that the others would go rather quickly. And we were pleased to find out that was, for the most part, pretty accurate. The one minor hiccup came when my wife decided to interject her opinions into the issue.
“Uh, why is the globe on that one hanging down?”
Looking up at the dome on one of the fans, I noticed that, in fact, it was hanging crooked. “It’s fine,” I said.
My brother-in-law, clearly no longer on my side, said, “Dude, that’s pretty bad.”
The dome was held by three little screws, and I had apparently missed one of them, so it was more or less dangling from the base of the fan. “Fine,” I said, grabbing the step ladder to put it up the way SOME people just have to have it.
Now this was the time that I think my brain took a quick hiatus. I reached up and unscrewed one of the two screws that was in correctly. And at that point, our good friend gravity paid a visit, showing us what he thought of an unsecured glass dome.
As luck would have it, this fan was right over a solid wood ledge by some stairs, so when it crashed, it not only obliterated but also spread glass down the stairs and throughout the hall. And, as an added bonus, it distributed several shards into my hands. Several of us began cleaning up the glass, at which my point my wife said for me to stop picking up the pieces. “I’m being careful,” I told her.
“It’s not that. You’re getting blood on the carpet.”
Duly noted.
Fortunately, the cuts were not that bad. They just opted to bleed a lot. And with the globe being solid white, it was easy to pick the pieces out of my hands. (Am I the eternal optimist or what?)
After several hours, we completed the installation of the final fan. By the fourth one, we were a well-oiled machine of fan installation. So call us when you need one installed. I’ll try not to bleed on your carpet.
The main reason for that is that I can guarantee that not only will I install your fans with stunning efficiency, I will also guarantee that a whopping 75 percent of the glass domes will be intact when I am finished.
I base this business model on a recent afternoon of fun and excitement spent installing ceiling fans at my mother’s house. A while back, she bought four of them and made casual mention that she was going to pay to have them installed.
She said this in front of my brother-in-law and me, and the idea of having someone else come in and do guy stuff made our testosterone surge. Before we knew it, we had volunteered to do the fans, boasting that we could knock it out in a matter of minutes.
I am not really sure why we volunteered to do this. While my brother-in-law is more handy that I am, neither of us are exactly lighting up the Bob Vila circuit. And when you add in electricity, well, that’s just asking for trouble. I once tried to fix a broken light socket, and found out that there is a whole bunch of electricity in those little wires. (Note to self: If a light socket is broken, you will not know if you turned off the correct breaker. Well, there is a way you can know, but it hurts. Bad.)
So we geared up for an afternoon, figuring that between the two of us, we could piece together the installation. Fortunately, ceiling fan companies have realized that some people who install ceiling fans have the home improvement skills of a gecko and have made it fairly idiot proof.
I am sure you are surprised that the first fan took us a very long time. (That included a call to an actual electrician, who seemed to find our questions rather quaint.) As we sat there with all of the pieces spread out, we began trying to assemble the parts. After about 20 minutes of doing the world’s most difficult jigsaw puzzle, my brother-in-law said, “Hey, here’s an idea...”
I was thinking we would just go with what we have and hang it up there semi-assembled. Turns out, his idea involved following the directions that came with the fan. Risky, I thought, but worth a go.
Once we began to follow the steps, it was amazing how fast it went. Part A connects to part B. Part C to Part D. Wham, bam, thank you, fan.
After we finished the first one, we assumed that the others would go rather quickly. And we were pleased to find out that was, for the most part, pretty accurate. The one minor hiccup came when my wife decided to interject her opinions into the issue.
“Uh, why is the globe on that one hanging down?”
Looking up at the dome on one of the fans, I noticed that, in fact, it was hanging crooked. “It’s fine,” I said.
My brother-in-law, clearly no longer on my side, said, “Dude, that’s pretty bad.”
The dome was held by three little screws, and I had apparently missed one of them, so it was more or less dangling from the base of the fan. “Fine,” I said, grabbing the step ladder to put it up the way SOME people just have to have it.
Now this was the time that I think my brain took a quick hiatus. I reached up and unscrewed one of the two screws that was in correctly. And at that point, our good friend gravity paid a visit, showing us what he thought of an unsecured glass dome.
As luck would have it, this fan was right over a solid wood ledge by some stairs, so when it crashed, it not only obliterated but also spread glass down the stairs and throughout the hall. And, as an added bonus, it distributed several shards into my hands. Several of us began cleaning up the glass, at which my point my wife said for me to stop picking up the pieces. “I’m being careful,” I told her.
“It’s not that. You’re getting blood on the carpet.”
Duly noted.
Fortunately, the cuts were not that bad. They just opted to bleed a lot. And with the globe being solid white, it was easy to pick the pieces out of my hands. (Am I the eternal optimist or what?)
After several hours, we completed the installation of the final fan. By the fourth one, we were a well-oiled machine of fan installation. So call us when you need one installed. I’ll try not to bleed on your carpet.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Bedtime blues
It was another quiet evening in the Gibbons household.
My wife and I talked at increasingly elevated levels so that we could continue our “How was your day” conversation. The decibel level had to rise, so that we could top the growing list and growing volume of my daughter’s bargaining offers for watching a movie rather than go to bed.
Our son added to the serenity by doing somersaults around the room, screaming, “LOOK AT MY TICK!!!” I think he meant trick. I hope he meant trick.
Ah, life with children.
Once again, bedtime has reached a new level in child rearing. For a while, we had it all worked out. Allie would gently fall asleep as a book was read to her. Parker would take in a book, then climb in his bed and drift off by himself. That lasted, by my estimates, two nights.
Our children have now formed an unbreakable, tag-team insomnia alliance.
Allie has had trouble getting to bed for much of her life. By her second birthday, she had slept a total of 16 minutes. And those were done in the car.
But over the past few months, my wife and I have worked hard at getting her in a go-to-sleep routine. Actually, my wife has. My wife has patience. I have a screwdriver with which to turn the door handle so that the lock is to the outside. (My wife nipped that one in the bud.)
But on nights when she gets a little tired — and therefore a lot cranky — she has begun to put up resistance. And resistance comes in one of two forms: Bargaining or pain.
First, the pain. She begins to have all kinds of mysterious ailments. Her toe will hurt. Her leg will hurt. Her hair will hurt. One time, she told us her “escalator” hurt. We think she meant abdomen. Now I know what you’re saying. You’re saying “escalator?” But you are also thinking, “Hey, what if she’s really hurting?” Well, just take it on parental instinct that when a child is told to put on pajamas and suddenly develops a limp, there may be more to the story.
The bargaining is difficult to deal with, because it often leaves us doing our best not to start laughing out loud. “OK, OK, OK, how about this: I watch ONE movie, and then I go to bed in your bedroom, and when I’m seven I’ll sleep in my bed?” “OK, OK, OK, how about I watch TWO movies, go to sleep in your bed, and then have a sleepover at Grandma’s?” “OK, OK, OK, how about instead of bed, we make cookies and get a puppy?”
She drives a hard bargain.
Once we get her to her room, there is usually a series of back and forths to her room. She needs a water. She has to go the bathroom. She needs a hug. Yes, we do keep going back in there, but let’s not forget who put the skids on turning the doorknob around.
Parker, meanwhile, has just decided that he has no use for bedtime. It used to be relaxing to put him to bed. I would sit at the computer, turn on some music, and surf the web while he sat in my arms and fell asleep, usually in a matter of minutes. Now, he does not go to sleep. Rather, he comments on the Web sites I’m surfing. And his comment is either “FOOTBALL!!!” or “NO, FOOTBALL!!!” Show the kid a picture of football, he’s a happy camper.
So what inevitably happens is, after a while, I decide to put him in his room. He asks for me to pat his back for a few minutes, and then summarily dismisses me. Seriously. “Daddy, go.” Fair enough. But then comes the caveat. Leave the light on, and keep the door open. The light on I can deal with. But the door open? Yeah, tried that a few times. Wanna guess how long an antsy two-year-old stays in a room with an open door? Generally, after about four seconds, Parker will come bounding downstairs. “Good morning! Me wake up!” I find it disheartening that at that age, my son is already trying to con me. He knows quite well it is not morning and he has not just woken up, the little scammer.
So what invariably happens is I will end up doing a final good-night, and leaving him in his room to let us know just what he thinks about our decision to install those child-proof door handles on his door. I figure it’s only a matter of time until he cracks the code.
I suppose this cycle will end soon, and before we know it they’ll be easy to get to sleep again. Or my wife and I may just let it ride. And take them over to Grandma’s.
My wife and I talked at increasingly elevated levels so that we could continue our “How was your day” conversation. The decibel level had to rise, so that we could top the growing list and growing volume of my daughter’s bargaining offers for watching a movie rather than go to bed.
Our son added to the serenity by doing somersaults around the room, screaming, “LOOK AT MY TICK!!!” I think he meant trick. I hope he meant trick.
Ah, life with children.
Once again, bedtime has reached a new level in child rearing. For a while, we had it all worked out. Allie would gently fall asleep as a book was read to her. Parker would take in a book, then climb in his bed and drift off by himself. That lasted, by my estimates, two nights.
Our children have now formed an unbreakable, tag-team insomnia alliance.
Allie has had trouble getting to bed for much of her life. By her second birthday, she had slept a total of 16 minutes. And those were done in the car.
But over the past few months, my wife and I have worked hard at getting her in a go-to-sleep routine. Actually, my wife has. My wife has patience. I have a screwdriver with which to turn the door handle so that the lock is to the outside. (My wife nipped that one in the bud.)
But on nights when she gets a little tired — and therefore a lot cranky — she has begun to put up resistance. And resistance comes in one of two forms: Bargaining or pain.
First, the pain. She begins to have all kinds of mysterious ailments. Her toe will hurt. Her leg will hurt. Her hair will hurt. One time, she told us her “escalator” hurt. We think she meant abdomen. Now I know what you’re saying. You’re saying “escalator?” But you are also thinking, “Hey, what if she’s really hurting?” Well, just take it on parental instinct that when a child is told to put on pajamas and suddenly develops a limp, there may be more to the story.
The bargaining is difficult to deal with, because it often leaves us doing our best not to start laughing out loud. “OK, OK, OK, how about this: I watch ONE movie, and then I go to bed in your bedroom, and when I’m seven I’ll sleep in my bed?” “OK, OK, OK, how about I watch TWO movies, go to sleep in your bed, and then have a sleepover at Grandma’s?” “OK, OK, OK, how about instead of bed, we make cookies and get a puppy?”
She drives a hard bargain.
Once we get her to her room, there is usually a series of back and forths to her room. She needs a water. She has to go the bathroom. She needs a hug. Yes, we do keep going back in there, but let’s not forget who put the skids on turning the doorknob around.
Parker, meanwhile, has just decided that he has no use for bedtime. It used to be relaxing to put him to bed. I would sit at the computer, turn on some music, and surf the web while he sat in my arms and fell asleep, usually in a matter of minutes. Now, he does not go to sleep. Rather, he comments on the Web sites I’m surfing. And his comment is either “FOOTBALL!!!” or “NO, FOOTBALL!!!” Show the kid a picture of football, he’s a happy camper.
So what inevitably happens is, after a while, I decide to put him in his room. He asks for me to pat his back for a few minutes, and then summarily dismisses me. Seriously. “Daddy, go.” Fair enough. But then comes the caveat. Leave the light on, and keep the door open. The light on I can deal with. But the door open? Yeah, tried that a few times. Wanna guess how long an antsy two-year-old stays in a room with an open door? Generally, after about four seconds, Parker will come bounding downstairs. “Good morning! Me wake up!” I find it disheartening that at that age, my son is already trying to con me. He knows quite well it is not morning and he has not just woken up, the little scammer.
So what invariably happens is I will end up doing a final good-night, and leaving him in his room to let us know just what he thinks about our decision to install those child-proof door handles on his door. I figure it’s only a matter of time until he cracks the code.
I suppose this cycle will end soon, and before we know it they’ll be easy to get to sleep again. Or my wife and I may just let it ride. And take them over to Grandma’s.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Get ready to Wiggle
As I walked toward the busy street, my wife called for me to be careful, as traffic was whirring by.
Unfazed, I continued at my pace, stepping off the curb and moving across the street.
“Honey,” I said, “I just survived 70 minutes of The Wiggles. Clearly, I am invincible.”
For those of you without small children, you have no idea what I am talking about. For those of you with young children, you are now saying over and over, “Do the monkey!!!!”
The Wiggles, for the uninitiated, is a musical group that is required cult-like viewing for any child 5 and under. They are four Australian men who sing such songs as “Fruit Salad, Yummy Yummy” “Toot, toot, chugga chugga, big red car” and “Mommy’s wallet is in her purse.” (Not completely sure about that last one. They all run together.)
The Wiggles’ North American tour visited Columbia recently, and my wife somehow caught wind of this, despite my efforts to limit any and all forms of Wiggles-related communication to enter our home.
This was not the first Wiggles concert for my children. They went to one a while back in Atlanta. I tricked my father-in-law into going by hyping them up, telling him what a special time it would be to spend with his grandchildren. He is still considering whether he wants to speak to me ever again.
This concert was to begin at 3 p.m., so we left with what we thought was ample time to get in our seats. This was before we found out that, in Columbia, there are approximately four parking spaces available for concert-goers. We sat in traffic for what I believe was 11 days. (Time tends to crawl when you have “Are we at The Wiggles yet? Are we at The Wiggles yet?” coming at you in stereo from the back seat.
Eventually, my wife and I decided to split up. (No, not that kind of split up. Trust me, if there is ever a time when a husband and wife need to be there for each other, it’s going to see The Wiggles.) My wife decided to take our daughter, Allie, to the ticket booth, while I would sit in traffic. Parker would assist me by screaming, “ME GO WITH MOMMMMMMMYYYYY!!!!’
When we finally got near what I thought may have been a parking lot, a man in a very official vest said, “Sorry, all lots are full.” I asked him where we could park. He helpfully said, “Nowhere. Lots are full.”
Well, turns out that a restaurant about eight blocks away was not full, and I was soon on my hike to the arena, really hoping that the “Customer Parking Only” was not a strictly enforced rule.
Eventually, we made it into the arena. Allie was bounding ahead, ready to dance and sing and do all of the stuff you are supposed to do at a Wiggles concert. Parker, meanwhile, was awestruck. When we walked down the tunnel to our seats, he saw The Wiggles’ set. He beamed wild-eyed, turned to me and screamed, “WIGGLES!!!!” OK, so even a cynical crab like me can admit that the excitement he was experiencing would make it worth it.
When The Wiggles came out, we were first informed that Greg, the leader of the Wiggles, was not on tour, as he was in Australia having hernia surgery. I don’t know about you, but I think a crowd full of kids would have been fine with being told Greg had a “tummyache.” Granted, my wife, being the kind of person who has no problem discussing clinical things over the dinner table, told Allie, “Remember when Parker had hernia surgeries? That’s what Greg’s having.” Tummyache, dear. Tummyache is fine.
I will have to give The Wiggles credit on one thing: They definitely become one with the crowd. All of the Wiggles run through the arena, stopping and chatting up kids and such. I guess when the worst thing an obsessed fan will do is spit up on you, you’re pretty safe heading into the masses.
At one point during the show, the four Gibbonses were going through the motions, doing the monkey, one of the Wiggles more popular dances. I looked around and saw thousands of other parents doing the same thing. I am sure there were scads of people who once considered themselves cool or hip or at least slightly with it. At that moment, there was not a cool one in the bunch, but rather a bunch of us waving our arms up and down hollering, “Ooooh-ooooh, eeeh-eeeh, ooooh-ooooh, eeeh-eeeh.”
Truth be told, it was actually a fairly tolerable event. The kids had a great time, which is the most important thing. And I have discovered I am, in fact, invincible.
Unfazed, I continued at my pace, stepping off the curb and moving across the street.
“Honey,” I said, “I just survived 70 minutes of The Wiggles. Clearly, I am invincible.”
For those of you without small children, you have no idea what I am talking about. For those of you with young children, you are now saying over and over, “Do the monkey!!!!”
The Wiggles, for the uninitiated, is a musical group that is required cult-like viewing for any child 5 and under. They are four Australian men who sing such songs as “Fruit Salad, Yummy Yummy” “Toot, toot, chugga chugga, big red car” and “Mommy’s wallet is in her purse.” (Not completely sure about that last one. They all run together.)
The Wiggles’ North American tour visited Columbia recently, and my wife somehow caught wind of this, despite my efforts to limit any and all forms of Wiggles-related communication to enter our home.
This was not the first Wiggles concert for my children. They went to one a while back in Atlanta. I tricked my father-in-law into going by hyping them up, telling him what a special time it would be to spend with his grandchildren. He is still considering whether he wants to speak to me ever again.
This concert was to begin at 3 p.m., so we left with what we thought was ample time to get in our seats. This was before we found out that, in Columbia, there are approximately four parking spaces available for concert-goers. We sat in traffic for what I believe was 11 days. (Time tends to crawl when you have “Are we at The Wiggles yet? Are we at The Wiggles yet?” coming at you in stereo from the back seat.
Eventually, my wife and I decided to split up. (No, not that kind of split up. Trust me, if there is ever a time when a husband and wife need to be there for each other, it’s going to see The Wiggles.) My wife decided to take our daughter, Allie, to the ticket booth, while I would sit in traffic. Parker would assist me by screaming, “ME GO WITH MOMMMMMMMYYYYY!!!!’
When we finally got near what I thought may have been a parking lot, a man in a very official vest said, “Sorry, all lots are full.” I asked him where we could park. He helpfully said, “Nowhere. Lots are full.”
Well, turns out that a restaurant about eight blocks away was not full, and I was soon on my hike to the arena, really hoping that the “Customer Parking Only” was not a strictly enforced rule.
Eventually, we made it into the arena. Allie was bounding ahead, ready to dance and sing and do all of the stuff you are supposed to do at a Wiggles concert. Parker, meanwhile, was awestruck. When we walked down the tunnel to our seats, he saw The Wiggles’ set. He beamed wild-eyed, turned to me and screamed, “WIGGLES!!!!” OK, so even a cynical crab like me can admit that the excitement he was experiencing would make it worth it.
When The Wiggles came out, we were first informed that Greg, the leader of the Wiggles, was not on tour, as he was in Australia having hernia surgery. I don’t know about you, but I think a crowd full of kids would have been fine with being told Greg had a “tummyache.” Granted, my wife, being the kind of person who has no problem discussing clinical things over the dinner table, told Allie, “Remember when Parker had hernia surgeries? That’s what Greg’s having.” Tummyache, dear. Tummyache is fine.
I will have to give The Wiggles credit on one thing: They definitely become one with the crowd. All of the Wiggles run through the arena, stopping and chatting up kids and such. I guess when the worst thing an obsessed fan will do is spit up on you, you’re pretty safe heading into the masses.
At one point during the show, the four Gibbonses were going through the motions, doing the monkey, one of the Wiggles more popular dances. I looked around and saw thousands of other parents doing the same thing. I am sure there were scads of people who once considered themselves cool or hip or at least slightly with it. At that moment, there was not a cool one in the bunch, but rather a bunch of us waving our arms up and down hollering, “Ooooh-ooooh, eeeh-eeeh, ooooh-ooooh, eeeh-eeeh.”
Truth be told, it was actually a fairly tolerable event. The kids had a great time, which is the most important thing. And I have discovered I am, in fact, invincible.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Bring in The Funk
We try to be a sharing family. I now see this is a mistake.
I came to this conclusion around 10 p.m. Saturday night, curled up my bathroom floor, shivering and sweating at the same time, whimpering to my wife, "make...it...go...away..."
Yes, we have been passing around The Funk in my house, and I think the best way to stop the spread is to demolish the house and rebuild, possibly out of wood that has been soaked in Purel.
It started last week. My wife told me she wasn't feeling so great. I offered up this sage medical advice: Something must be going around. She countered that she works in a school, which is essentially the genesis of every funk on the planet, so something is always going around. For someone who works around kids to get sick, something extra special has to take hold.
I assured her she would be on the mend in no time. A short while later, I was being pushed aside, Heisman-like, as she sprinted to her new best friend, the bathroom, where she would spend the next few days.
Trying to keep the rest of the house blech-free, I did my level best to tend to kids without my wife having to leave the comfort of the bathroom mat. That evening, however, I found my daughter had contracted The Funk.
She came to me about 3 in the morning and said, "Daddy, by tummy hurts. And it's moving up to my chest..."
Immediately, I knew where the next move was, and I escorted her to the bathroom ("Step over your mother, sweetie...") and spent the rest of the evening holding her hair as she tried to turn herself inside out.
The next day was a hole-up-in-bed day for those two, while Parker and I continued our quest for continued health. We also shopped for bubbles.
By Saturday, my wife and Allie were both on the mend. That evening, however, I had the sneaking suspicion that The Funk had taken up residence in me. I base this on the fact that, every few minutes, my stomach would make a gurgling noise. It sounded as though I had a coffee pot inside of me brewing. And, in some ways, it felt like I had a coffee pot inside of me. A very pointy coffee pot.
By about 10 that evening, I had assumed my wife's well-worn spot on the bathroom floor. Oftentimes, my wife and I have epic struggles of competitive sicknesses. I will have, say, a backache, and will tell her it is more extreme than any pain she will ever know. She will point to our two children. I tell her that she gave birth with the benefit of epidurals, doctors, etc. I, meanwhile, have to endure on sheer toughness alone.
But this time was different. My wife, having gone through the same thing just days before, had gobs of sympathy for me. I think we can agree that true love is patting someone gently on the back as they uncontrollably heave and then whispering softly to them, "Hang on...there's some in your hair."
I spent the next 13 or so hours in a quasi-coherent stage. I would nibble on a cracker, sip some ginger ale, sleep a little and, I am told, babble quite a bit. At one point, my wife said I stood up in the middle of the bedroom and had this conversation:
ME: HURRY! HURRY!
HER: What!?!?!?
ME: Skribble rabble garble. Zzzzzzzzz.
By the next evening, I was able to eat something, and was pretty much feeling better. I had the day-after blahs, which are never fun. My wife is an unfortunate carrier of the migraine gene, and coming in a close-second in discomfort to migraines is the day after, which she calls the migraine hangover. Having never experienced a migraine, I am glad I don't know what that day after feels like. But I did have what can be described as The Funk hangover. I felt as though I had entered a sit-up contest, and later served as a pi & ntilde;ata at Albert Pujols' birthday party.
Hopefully, The Funk has made its rounds and has moved on. While I don't wish it on others, I do wish it out of my house. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work. The wood is done soaking.
I came to this conclusion around 10 p.m. Saturday night, curled up my bathroom floor, shivering and sweating at the same time, whimpering to my wife, "make...it...go...away..."
Yes, we have been passing around The Funk in my house, and I think the best way to stop the spread is to demolish the house and rebuild, possibly out of wood that has been soaked in Purel.
It started last week. My wife told me she wasn't feeling so great. I offered up this sage medical advice: Something must be going around. She countered that she works in a school, which is essentially the genesis of every funk on the planet, so something is always going around. For someone who works around kids to get sick, something extra special has to take hold.
I assured her she would be on the mend in no time. A short while later, I was being pushed aside, Heisman-like, as she sprinted to her new best friend, the bathroom, where she would spend the next few days.
Trying to keep the rest of the house blech-free, I did my level best to tend to kids without my wife having to leave the comfort of the bathroom mat. That evening, however, I found my daughter had contracted The Funk.
She came to me about 3 in the morning and said, "Daddy, by tummy hurts. And it's moving up to my chest..."
Immediately, I knew where the next move was, and I escorted her to the bathroom ("Step over your mother, sweetie...") and spent the rest of the evening holding her hair as she tried to turn herself inside out.
The next day was a hole-up-in-bed day for those two, while Parker and I continued our quest for continued health. We also shopped for bubbles.
By Saturday, my wife and Allie were both on the mend. That evening, however, I had the sneaking suspicion that The Funk had taken up residence in me. I base this on the fact that, every few minutes, my stomach would make a gurgling noise. It sounded as though I had a coffee pot inside of me brewing. And, in some ways, it felt like I had a coffee pot inside of me. A very pointy coffee pot.
By about 10 that evening, I had assumed my wife's well-worn spot on the bathroom floor. Oftentimes, my wife and I have epic struggles of competitive sicknesses. I will have, say, a backache, and will tell her it is more extreme than any pain she will ever know. She will point to our two children. I tell her that she gave birth with the benefit of epidurals, doctors, etc. I, meanwhile, have to endure on sheer toughness alone.
But this time was different. My wife, having gone through the same thing just days before, had gobs of sympathy for me. I think we can agree that true love is patting someone gently on the back as they uncontrollably heave and then whispering softly to them, "Hang on...there's some in your hair."
I spent the next 13 or so hours in a quasi-coherent stage. I would nibble on a cracker, sip some ginger ale, sleep a little and, I am told, babble quite a bit. At one point, my wife said I stood up in the middle of the bedroom and had this conversation:
ME: HURRY! HURRY!
HER: What!?!?!?
ME: Skribble rabble garble. Zzzzzzzzz.
By the next evening, I was able to eat something, and was pretty much feeling better. I had the day-after blahs, which are never fun. My wife is an unfortunate carrier of the migraine gene, and coming in a close-second in discomfort to migraines is the day after, which she calls the migraine hangover. Having never experienced a migraine, I am glad I don't know what that day after feels like. But I did have what can be described as The Funk hangover. I felt as though I had entered a sit-up contest, and later served as a pi & ntilde;ata at Albert Pujols' birthday party.
Hopefully, The Funk has made its rounds and has moved on. While I don't wish it on others, I do wish it out of my house. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work. The wood is done soaking.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Ice to see you
It has taken me five long years, but I have finally bested my foe.
For half a decade, we have waged an epic battle of wits, a struggle pitting cunning and wile.
As I celebrated my victory, performing a ceremonial victory dance that has been years in the making, my wife, sensing this great moment, said, “You outsmarted a 5-year-old. I don’t think taunting is in order.”
Yes, so I finally chalked up a win against Allie, who since birth has figured out ways to dupe me. She has always been the Queen of Technicalities, and has always figured out a way to get her way without me knowing. I’ll throw down the “Because I’m your father!” gauntlet, and before I know it, she has criss-crossed the board and nailed me with a checkmate.
I am not sure how she does it. I think it is something along the lines of the old “duck season, rabbit season” bit. Or perhaps chemicals. But whatever it is, the end result often tends to be my concession that she can, in fact, stay up and watch Shrek while having licorice and a milkshake for dinner.
And the beauty of her game is that she somehow makes me feel as though I have scored a major victory.
Now, I know that a lot of you are saying, “Why, I wouldn’t let some kid dictate how I run my household! I’m the parent, bygum, and what I say goes!” And I agree 100 percent, which makes it all the more frustrating to be having to admit defeat. For example, a while back I shared in a column an event in which Allie was helping me finish off my lunch, also known as stealing my potato chips. When she began chewing with her mouth wide open, I told her not to open her mouth when she chewed her food. She turned her Bambi eyes on and said, “But it’s not MY food. It’s YOUR food.”
Let me add the disclaimer that Allie is a great kid. It’s just that she’s 5, and that age tends to see the world differently. Our most serious squabbles are over insignificant things, and are usually wrapped up in a matter of moments. (Skittles having an amazing way of bringing opposing parties together.)
So our latest tussle occured a few mornings ago when we were getting the kids ready for school. Allie had a snappy little number set out, which was picked out by her mother, who guarantees snappiness with every number. Allie came into our room and began a Nancy Kerrigan-like sobfest. “I....want...to...wear...a....skirt....”
Apparently, the snappy number involved pants, and foregoing a skirt would possibly collapse the earth into the sun.
At first, I tried reasoning. “Allie, pants will not crash us into the sun.”
Cue blank stare.
She continued to plead for a skirt, which was obviously the difference in a happy childhood and a future in crime.
After several minters of back and forth, I decided to up the stakes. After a quick trip downstairs, I returned to the room.
“Allie, if you were to wear a skirt, how far down your leg would the skirt go?”
Another blank stare.
I pointed at her knee. “How far down would your skirt go?” I asked. She hitched up her pants leg to around her knee. At that point, I placed the freshly retrieved ice cube on her leg. She gave me a look that conveyed I was no longer operating on the same plane.
“Wh...what are you doing?”
“It’s cold outside. I just want to make sure you can handle the cold.”
She stared down for a brief moment, and then said, “Uh, pants are fine.”
Now, you may think that I am being mean by putting ice on her leg. But you would be wrong. Allie and I have a long tradition of unconventional father-daughter roughhousing that lends well to our relationship. She appreciates a goofy production. She expects it. Some of you may remember my telling of the game bumrush, in which I sprint into a room and go airborne, tackling her while screaming “BUMRUSH!!!!” Some may find this disturbing. Allie finds it hilarious. (Note to doctors, social workers, grandparents, etc.: I don’t go Ray Lewis on her. Give me some credit.)
So to make sure she knew that the ice-capade was just me being me, I concluded the lesson by taking the ice, and putting it down the back of my wife’s shirt when she entered the room. I think that illustrates quite well what my wife means when she refers to her three children.
So in the end, everything worked out. Allie got dressed with the pants. I won an epic struggle. And my wife got to experience life married to a third grader. I’d call that a win all around.
For half a decade, we have waged an epic battle of wits, a struggle pitting cunning and wile.
As I celebrated my victory, performing a ceremonial victory dance that has been years in the making, my wife, sensing this great moment, said, “You outsmarted a 5-year-old. I don’t think taunting is in order.”
Yes, so I finally chalked up a win against Allie, who since birth has figured out ways to dupe me. She has always been the Queen of Technicalities, and has always figured out a way to get her way without me knowing. I’ll throw down the “Because I’m your father!” gauntlet, and before I know it, she has criss-crossed the board and nailed me with a checkmate.
I am not sure how she does it. I think it is something along the lines of the old “duck season, rabbit season” bit. Or perhaps chemicals. But whatever it is, the end result often tends to be my concession that she can, in fact, stay up and watch Shrek while having licorice and a milkshake for dinner.
And the beauty of her game is that she somehow makes me feel as though I have scored a major victory.
Now, I know that a lot of you are saying, “Why, I wouldn’t let some kid dictate how I run my household! I’m the parent, bygum, and what I say goes!” And I agree 100 percent, which makes it all the more frustrating to be having to admit defeat. For example, a while back I shared in a column an event in which Allie was helping me finish off my lunch, also known as stealing my potato chips. When she began chewing with her mouth wide open, I told her not to open her mouth when she chewed her food. She turned her Bambi eyes on and said, “But it’s not MY food. It’s YOUR food.”
Let me add the disclaimer that Allie is a great kid. It’s just that she’s 5, and that age tends to see the world differently. Our most serious squabbles are over insignificant things, and are usually wrapped up in a matter of moments. (Skittles having an amazing way of bringing opposing parties together.)
So our latest tussle occured a few mornings ago when we were getting the kids ready for school. Allie had a snappy little number set out, which was picked out by her mother, who guarantees snappiness with every number. Allie came into our room and began a Nancy Kerrigan-like sobfest. “I....want...to...wear...a....skirt....”
Apparently, the snappy number involved pants, and foregoing a skirt would possibly collapse the earth into the sun.
At first, I tried reasoning. “Allie, pants will not crash us into the sun.”
Cue blank stare.
She continued to plead for a skirt, which was obviously the difference in a happy childhood and a future in crime.
After several minters of back and forth, I decided to up the stakes. After a quick trip downstairs, I returned to the room.
“Allie, if you were to wear a skirt, how far down your leg would the skirt go?”
Another blank stare.
I pointed at her knee. “How far down would your skirt go?” I asked. She hitched up her pants leg to around her knee. At that point, I placed the freshly retrieved ice cube on her leg. She gave me a look that conveyed I was no longer operating on the same plane.
“Wh...what are you doing?”
“It’s cold outside. I just want to make sure you can handle the cold.”
She stared down for a brief moment, and then said, “Uh, pants are fine.”
Now, you may think that I am being mean by putting ice on her leg. But you would be wrong. Allie and I have a long tradition of unconventional father-daughter roughhousing that lends well to our relationship. She appreciates a goofy production. She expects it. Some of you may remember my telling of the game bumrush, in which I sprint into a room and go airborne, tackling her while screaming “BUMRUSH!!!!” Some may find this disturbing. Allie finds it hilarious. (Note to doctors, social workers, grandparents, etc.: I don’t go Ray Lewis on her. Give me some credit.)
So to make sure she knew that the ice-capade was just me being me, I concluded the lesson by taking the ice, and putting it down the back of my wife’s shirt when she entered the room. I think that illustrates quite well what my wife means when she refers to her three children.
So in the end, everything worked out. Allie got dressed with the pants. I won an epic struggle. And my wife got to experience life married to a third grader. I’d call that a win all around.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
To diet for
I’m on a diet.
I’ve never been on a diet before, because for the past decade, I have maintained my strapping weight of around 165.
So the diet is not a weight issue, but rather a sleepy issue. You see, for the last few weeks, every day after eating lunch I would get incredibly sleepy. Rip Van Winkle sleepy. Want to curl up under my desk like George Costanza sleepy.
Normally, to counter this, I would take a brisk walk around the office and tell everyone how tired I was. Perhaps my subconscious was driving that bus, and it was thinking that if I got hit in the head with a stapler from an annoyed co-worker, it would wake me up.
So one day at home, I was telling my wife how sleepy I kept getting after lunch each day. Her first suggestion was not so much a suggestion, but a lengthy discussion of how she operates on a mere 10-15 minutes of sleep each night, and still works and volunteers and takes care of the kids and if I would stop for two seconds and realize that sometimes – SOMETIMES – making the bed is the LAST thing on her mind and quite frankly, I could make it myself that morning.
About half-way through, she stopped and realized I was just talking about how it set in just after lunch, and was not waging a “Who’s More Tired?” contest.
She asked me what I was eating for lunch. I told her a handful of Ambien and a bottle of gin. She did not find that funny.
Most days, my lunch is something pretty standard, usually, a couple of sandwiches, some chips, a dessert and a milk. Same basic lunch I have been having since I first cut teeth.
“Well there’s your problem,” she said. Apparently, for three decades sandwiches and chips and Little Debbie peanut butter bars had been my friend, but had suddenly turned on me.
She began to lecture me on carbs and blood sugar and such, and made a less-than-kind face when I said, “So busy, yet you still had time to go get a medical degree?”
At that point, she conducted a doctoresque reflex test which showed I am still quick.
My wife, or Dr. Wife, as I guess I should call her henceforth, suggested I stop eating a couple of sandwiches and the dessert each day, and opt for more protein. The blank stare I gave her led her to say, “Just meat. No bread.”
Immediately, I saw what she was doing. “You’re trying to put me on the Atkins Diet!”
Although I have never been on a diet, I can certainly tell you that I am not a big fan of diet crazes. I am sure some have their merits and such, but the big problem I have – in particular with the Atkins – is the major side effect is creates, which is an inability to go four seconds without telling someone you’re on the Atkins Diet. While some of you out there may have quite fine upstanding low-carb dieting folks, several of your fellow dieters ruined it for you by constantly making bullhorn proclamations, especially in restaurants: “Yeah, I’ll have the bacon burger with extra bacon, BUT HOLD THE BUN – ATKINS! Oh, and throw a pork chop and a wheel of cheddar on top.”
Sensing I was getting a little testy on the subject, my wife informed me that (a) the Atkins Diet was about as much of a craze these days as a Rubik’s Cube and (b) I should just give her suggestion a try. Take some meat, maybe some fruit, some cheeses, and see how I feel.
So the next day, I did as she advised. I had some steak left over from the night before, some onions I had cooked, a side of green beans, and a chunk of cheddar, which, quite frankly, should be served with every meal.
After lunch, I waited for my near-narcolepsy to kick in. And I waited. And I waited. And I waited. And sure enough, I stayed quite alert.
I called my wife and told her that I felt great, and that I would try it again the next day. She said, “Try some peanuts and an orange juice for a snack later.” I think she may just be messing with me, slowly building up how much she gets me today. After a couple of days, she’s going to say, “OK, around 11ish, you need to drink the blood from a baby sparrow, and eat your left thumb. Do it. Now.”
So the results seem to be working. I have actually enjoyed my lunches of late, particularly because I don’t have a desire to put my head down and nap in the cantaloupe halfway through. I guess as I get older, my metabolism is changing. To counter that, I suppose I will need to alter some of my dining habits. I hope I can still type without my thumb.
I’ve never been on a diet before, because for the past decade, I have maintained my strapping weight of around 165.
So the diet is not a weight issue, but rather a sleepy issue. You see, for the last few weeks, every day after eating lunch I would get incredibly sleepy. Rip Van Winkle sleepy. Want to curl up under my desk like George Costanza sleepy.
Normally, to counter this, I would take a brisk walk around the office and tell everyone how tired I was. Perhaps my subconscious was driving that bus, and it was thinking that if I got hit in the head with a stapler from an annoyed co-worker, it would wake me up.
So one day at home, I was telling my wife how sleepy I kept getting after lunch each day. Her first suggestion was not so much a suggestion, but a lengthy discussion of how she operates on a mere 10-15 minutes of sleep each night, and still works and volunteers and takes care of the kids and if I would stop for two seconds and realize that sometimes – SOMETIMES – making the bed is the LAST thing on her mind and quite frankly, I could make it myself that morning.
About half-way through, she stopped and realized I was just talking about how it set in just after lunch, and was not waging a “Who’s More Tired?” contest.
She asked me what I was eating for lunch. I told her a handful of Ambien and a bottle of gin. She did not find that funny.
Most days, my lunch is something pretty standard, usually, a couple of sandwiches, some chips, a dessert and a milk. Same basic lunch I have been having since I first cut teeth.
“Well there’s your problem,” she said. Apparently, for three decades sandwiches and chips and Little Debbie peanut butter bars had been my friend, but had suddenly turned on me.
She began to lecture me on carbs and blood sugar and such, and made a less-than-kind face when I said, “So busy, yet you still had time to go get a medical degree?”
At that point, she conducted a doctoresque reflex test which showed I am still quick.
My wife, or Dr. Wife, as I guess I should call her henceforth, suggested I stop eating a couple of sandwiches and the dessert each day, and opt for more protein. The blank stare I gave her led her to say, “Just meat. No bread.”
Immediately, I saw what she was doing. “You’re trying to put me on the Atkins Diet!”
Although I have never been on a diet, I can certainly tell you that I am not a big fan of diet crazes. I am sure some have their merits and such, but the big problem I have – in particular with the Atkins – is the major side effect is creates, which is an inability to go four seconds without telling someone you’re on the Atkins Diet. While some of you out there may have quite fine upstanding low-carb dieting folks, several of your fellow dieters ruined it for you by constantly making bullhorn proclamations, especially in restaurants: “Yeah, I’ll have the bacon burger with extra bacon, BUT HOLD THE BUN – ATKINS! Oh, and throw a pork chop and a wheel of cheddar on top.”
Sensing I was getting a little testy on the subject, my wife informed me that (a) the Atkins Diet was about as much of a craze these days as a Rubik’s Cube and (b) I should just give her suggestion a try. Take some meat, maybe some fruit, some cheeses, and see how I feel.
So the next day, I did as she advised. I had some steak left over from the night before, some onions I had cooked, a side of green beans, and a chunk of cheddar, which, quite frankly, should be served with every meal.
After lunch, I waited for my near-narcolepsy to kick in. And I waited. And I waited. And I waited. And sure enough, I stayed quite alert.
I called my wife and told her that I felt great, and that I would try it again the next day. She said, “Try some peanuts and an orange juice for a snack later.” I think she may just be messing with me, slowly building up how much she gets me today. After a couple of days, she’s going to say, “OK, around 11ish, you need to drink the blood from a baby sparrow, and eat your left thumb. Do it. Now.”
So the results seem to be working. I have actually enjoyed my lunches of late, particularly because I don’t have a desire to put my head down and nap in the cantaloupe halfway through. I guess as I get older, my metabolism is changing. To counter that, I suppose I will need to alter some of my dining habits. I hope I can still type without my thumb.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Halloweens of half a painting
I would be hard pressed to come up with a favorite all-time Halloween costume, but I think it’s a real comment about who I am that my most memorable ones were as an adult.
As a kid, I opted for the standard stuff: Monsters, superheroes, baseball players, Cher, etc. Like most people my age, one of the most memorable things about trick-or-treating as a kid is getting snapped in the face by that weak little elastic string that was used to hold a flimsy plastic Casper mask on your face. Fortunately, my mother would usually intervene with tape before my dad got to us with a stapler.
As I moved into my 20s, Halloween costume parties became more of a creative exhibition, and my wife and I always tried to come up with costumes to amuse and entertain. The two most memorable ones were tandem get-ups.
A friend of ours used to have a huge Halloween party every year upstate, and we would make the trek, costumes in tow, to join the festivities. This was a real showcase of imaginative costumes, so we had to be on our a-game for this one. I am not sure how we came to this particular costume, but I was a lost person on a milk carton. My wife designed the carton, which was a giant cardboard box with a place cut out for my face. And the brand of milk? Holy Cow. My wife’s costume? A holy cow, complete with wings, halo and udders. And if you have ever tried to eat or drink while wearing a cardboard box, I assure you it is not easy.
The next year, we again opted for a joint costume, this time selecting the famed painting American Gothic. I don’t mean the people in the painting. I mean the actual painting. Again, my wife was in charge of costume construction, since she is far more talented in that arena than I. If I were to try and do it, it would end with me being superglued to the garage floor.
My wife recreated the painting in two parts, frame and all, and made cut-outs for our faces. She hooked up some rigging so that we could slip our respective half painting on, put our face in the cut-outs, stand together and boom -- instant masterpiece. While we looked great standing together, we looked somewhat odd when we were apart.
PARTYGOER: What are you supposed to be?
ME: Gothic. American’s in the den.
PARTYGOER:
But once my 20s became more defined by parenting rather than partying, we have shifted out attention to our kids’ costumes. This will be the second year in a row that my wife has opted for matching costumes for our kids. I think this is because she has found resistance from me when trying to dress them in matching outfits in their everyday attire. The resistance comes from my ignorance, because I am afraid that if I were in charge of matching outfits, my son would end up in an oversized dress. Matching is for gamedays, as far as I am concerned.
Last year, they went as Raggedy Ann and Andy. My son, Parker, didn’t particularly care one way or the other what he wore at that age, so it was pretty easy. When you’re one-and-a-half, every day presents new things, so he probably just assumed that a spot of red on his nose was just something you did. Allie, meanwhile, insisted on wearing her outfit until around March.
This year, they are going to be Mickey and Minnie Mouse. Parker is showing that he is his sister’s brother, and has, for the most part, worn a Mickey Mouse outfit for the past week.
I think I may have to return to my costume roots this year and find something to don when I take them trick-or-treating. (Commence Goofy jokes.) Maybe I’ll enlist my wife’s help, so I can avoid damaging myself and possibly the house.
There are scads of possibilities that I am sure I can come up with. Even though I don’t go to big Halloween parties any more, I suppose that’s no reason not to enjoy the evening and have some fun with the kids. Plus, if I dress up, I won’t feel as bad taken a cut of the candy haul.
As a kid, I opted for the standard stuff: Monsters, superheroes, baseball players, Cher, etc. Like most people my age, one of the most memorable things about trick-or-treating as a kid is getting snapped in the face by that weak little elastic string that was used to hold a flimsy plastic Casper mask on your face. Fortunately, my mother would usually intervene with tape before my dad got to us with a stapler.
As I moved into my 20s, Halloween costume parties became more of a creative exhibition, and my wife and I always tried to come up with costumes to amuse and entertain. The two most memorable ones were tandem get-ups.
A friend of ours used to have a huge Halloween party every year upstate, and we would make the trek, costumes in tow, to join the festivities. This was a real showcase of imaginative costumes, so we had to be on our a-game for this one. I am not sure how we came to this particular costume, but I was a lost person on a milk carton. My wife designed the carton, which was a giant cardboard box with a place cut out for my face. And the brand of milk? Holy Cow. My wife’s costume? A holy cow, complete with wings, halo and udders. And if you have ever tried to eat or drink while wearing a cardboard box, I assure you it is not easy.
The next year, we again opted for a joint costume, this time selecting the famed painting American Gothic. I don’t mean the people in the painting. I mean the actual painting. Again, my wife was in charge of costume construction, since she is far more talented in that arena than I. If I were to try and do it, it would end with me being superglued to the garage floor.
My wife recreated the painting in two parts, frame and all, and made cut-outs for our faces. She hooked up some rigging so that we could slip our respective half painting on, put our face in the cut-outs, stand together and boom -- instant masterpiece. While we looked great standing together, we looked somewhat odd when we were apart.
PARTYGOER: What are you supposed to be?
ME: Gothic. American’s in the den.
PARTYGOER:
But once my 20s became more defined by parenting rather than partying, we have shifted out attention to our kids’ costumes. This will be the second year in a row that my wife has opted for matching costumes for our kids. I think this is because she has found resistance from me when trying to dress them in matching outfits in their everyday attire. The resistance comes from my ignorance, because I am afraid that if I were in charge of matching outfits, my son would end up in an oversized dress. Matching is for gamedays, as far as I am concerned.
Last year, they went as Raggedy Ann and Andy. My son, Parker, didn’t particularly care one way or the other what he wore at that age, so it was pretty easy. When you’re one-and-a-half, every day presents new things, so he probably just assumed that a spot of red on his nose was just something you did. Allie, meanwhile, insisted on wearing her outfit until around March.
This year, they are going to be Mickey and Minnie Mouse. Parker is showing that he is his sister’s brother, and has, for the most part, worn a Mickey Mouse outfit for the past week.
I think I may have to return to my costume roots this year and find something to don when I take them trick-or-treating. (Commence Goofy jokes.) Maybe I’ll enlist my wife’s help, so I can avoid damaging myself and possibly the house.
There are scads of possibilities that I am sure I can come up with. Even though I don’t go to big Halloween parties any more, I suppose that’s no reason not to enjoy the evening and have some fun with the kids. Plus, if I dress up, I won’t feel as bad taken a cut of the candy haul.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Tragically unhip
Apparently, I am unfashionable.
I know, I know. I was shocked, too. But the guilty verdicts came at me from a variety of sources.
The first shot came from some of my younger co-workers. I am not really sure how the conversation started, but it somehow got around to how incredibly unhip I am. The main reason for this? Pleats. I apparently missed the last fashion newsletter, but according to my 20-something fashionistas, wearing pleats is the fashion equivalent of wearing a Carmen Miranda hat.
They also attacked my choice of socks. Apparently, your socks are supposed to match your shoes. Or not. I can't remember. But whatever the correct choice was, I had done it wrong. I generally opt for this method of selecting socks: Reach in drawer. Grab socks. Find out later if they are, in fact, a matching pair.
I didn't realize socks were supposed to be a fashion issue. I thought they were a functional item, much like a coffee maker. A coffee maker's job? Make coffee. A sock's job? Be a sock, right? Apparently, it is also tasked with "tying the outfit together," whatever that means. I for one do not consider anything I wear an "outfit." I consider it pants, a shirt, some shoes, etc. An "outfit" is what my wife has 46,000 of in her closet.
The next hit came from my wife. We were getting the kids ready for school, and I was on Parker duty. Whenever I get the chance, I opt to dress Parker because he is (a) two and (b) a boy. The combination of those two factors mean that I can dress him in pretty much whatever I can grab. I could send him to school wearing a blanket and a baseball cap and he would be perfectly content. Allie, on the other hand, is becoming fashion conscious, and is also really into dresses. And the few times I have tried to match her up with a dress, her mother raises the Eyebrow of Disapproval, and then asks why I have dressed Allie in a Little Mermaid outfit.
Additionally, there is the hair issue. I don't do hair. Not that I don't want to. I can't. My one attempt at putting Allie's hair in pigtails resulted in many, many tears.
I used to enjoy dressing Allie, back when she was too small to object. A quick check of pictures when she was a toddler makes it very easy to see who dressed her each day. Cute little dress, matching hair bow? Mom. Overalls, T-shirt, shoes that may or not match? Yours truly.
But I digress. So I dress Parker one day, and I actually am somewhat proud of my choice for The Dude. Looks pretty sharp, I'm thinking. We march downstairs, and the first thing my wife says is, "He doesn't match."
Now, my first reaction was to argue with her. After all, he had some snappy pants on and a slick looking shirt. Add to that his favorite shoes ever (really cool, really small work boots). To me, he looked like he hopped off the cover of Hipster Toddler Monthly. (If there is such a publication, help us all.) But rather than argue, I opted for a learning experience. After all, as far as I could tell pants + shirt = match. Not really sure how you can go wrong.
"He's got green pants and blue in his shirt," my wife said, as if she were explaining the most basic foundations of the world.
"But his shirt his red," I countered.
"With blue in it."
At this point, we just had to accept that we were at an impasse. I did the only thing I could at this point: "You know where his shirts are if you don't like it." This was not the best choice.
So I guess I will continue to go through life clueless. I don't particularly care about fashion (clearly), so I don't really feel like expending the energy to learn all of the nuances. I am happiest in a worn pair of blue jeans, a T-shirt from college, and my well-broken-in tennis shoes. But on the occasions where I have to go beyond comfort attire, I will be unfashionable. As I write this, I am wearing pleated slacks. Strike one. They are green (or olive or whatever that color is). My shirt has blue in it. Strike two, apparently. My socks? No clue. Haven't checked to see if they match yet. Strike three. I'm out. Of touch.
I know, I know. I was shocked, too. But the guilty verdicts came at me from a variety of sources.
The first shot came from some of my younger co-workers. I am not really sure how the conversation started, but it somehow got around to how incredibly unhip I am. The main reason for this? Pleats. I apparently missed the last fashion newsletter, but according to my 20-something fashionistas, wearing pleats is the fashion equivalent of wearing a Carmen Miranda hat.
They also attacked my choice of socks. Apparently, your socks are supposed to match your shoes. Or not. I can't remember. But whatever the correct choice was, I had done it wrong. I generally opt for this method of selecting socks: Reach in drawer. Grab socks. Find out later if they are, in fact, a matching pair.
I didn't realize socks were supposed to be a fashion issue. I thought they were a functional item, much like a coffee maker. A coffee maker's job? Make coffee. A sock's job? Be a sock, right? Apparently, it is also tasked with "tying the outfit together," whatever that means. I for one do not consider anything I wear an "outfit." I consider it pants, a shirt, some shoes, etc. An "outfit" is what my wife has 46,000 of in her closet.
The next hit came from my wife. We were getting the kids ready for school, and I was on Parker duty. Whenever I get the chance, I opt to dress Parker because he is (a) two and (b) a boy. The combination of those two factors mean that I can dress him in pretty much whatever I can grab. I could send him to school wearing a blanket and a baseball cap and he would be perfectly content. Allie, on the other hand, is becoming fashion conscious, and is also really into dresses. And the few times I have tried to match her up with a dress, her mother raises the Eyebrow of Disapproval, and then asks why I have dressed Allie in a Little Mermaid outfit.
Additionally, there is the hair issue. I don't do hair. Not that I don't want to. I can't. My one attempt at putting Allie's hair in pigtails resulted in many, many tears.
I used to enjoy dressing Allie, back when she was too small to object. A quick check of pictures when she was a toddler makes it very easy to see who dressed her each day. Cute little dress, matching hair bow? Mom. Overalls, T-shirt, shoes that may or not match? Yours truly.
But I digress. So I dress Parker one day, and I actually am somewhat proud of my choice for The Dude. Looks pretty sharp, I'm thinking. We march downstairs, and the first thing my wife says is, "He doesn't match."
Now, my first reaction was to argue with her. After all, he had some snappy pants on and a slick looking shirt. Add to that his favorite shoes ever (really cool, really small work boots). To me, he looked like he hopped off the cover of Hipster Toddler Monthly. (If there is such a publication, help us all.) But rather than argue, I opted for a learning experience. After all, as far as I could tell pants + shirt = match. Not really sure how you can go wrong.
"He's got green pants and blue in his shirt," my wife said, as if she were explaining the most basic foundations of the world.
"But his shirt his red," I countered.
"With blue in it."
At this point, we just had to accept that we were at an impasse. I did the only thing I could at this point: "You know where his shirts are if you don't like it." This was not the best choice.
So I guess I will continue to go through life clueless. I don't particularly care about fashion (clearly), so I don't really feel like expending the energy to learn all of the nuances. I am happiest in a worn pair of blue jeans, a T-shirt from college, and my well-broken-in tennis shoes. But on the occasions where I have to go beyond comfort attire, I will be unfashionable. As I write this, I am wearing pleated slacks. Strike one. They are green (or olive or whatever that color is). My shirt has blue in it. Strike two, apparently. My socks? No clue. Haven't checked to see if they match yet. Strike three. I'm out. Of touch.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Happiness is chugging syrup
They call them the Terrible Twos, and frankly, I think that's just wrong.
For one thing, anyone who has had children knows that the "terrible" stage starts well before the second birthday. I guess "Terrible Nineteen Months" just doesn't have a good ring to it.
My son, Parker, is now 2-and-a-half, and he is anything but terrible. Sure, he has the occasional fits and spurts that any child has, but more than anything, I think a good adjective to describe him, like most two-year-olds, would be, well, insane. But not in a clinical way. It's in a funny way, as Parker has developed a personality that I applaud: Do things that amuse you. If it's fun, do it.
Among some of the things Parker has done for his own amusement:
1. I came over to pick him up from my parents' house the other day, and when I came in, my mother said, "I swear I did not put him in there." Yet there was Parker, perfectly content sitting in a pet carrier. (Don't worry; he had a water bowl.)
2. My wife summoned me from the den recently with, "Come look at your son." I turned the corner to find Parker seated at the table, a bottle of pancake syrup turned upright. When he saw us staring, he pulled it back (letting it drip all over of himself) and said, "YUM!!!"
3. Parker is at the age where he likes to help get dressed. Most times, he opts to put his pants on his head, and then sprints around the room laughing.
4. If it moves, it can growl. If Parker ever approaches you with a stuffed animal, it will, without a doubt, growl at you. Snakes growl. Birds growl. Fish growl. Cows growl. Old McDonald's farm, I assume, would be very growly in his world.
5. Around bedtime or naptime, Parker will often go in his room and lie down. On more than one occasion, we peek in to find out that he is not sleeping, but rather singing. While standing on his head. Sometimes naked. But when you let him know you are there, he will look over at you, say, "Hi, Daddy," and get back to his upside down naked singing.
6. Parker does not see why adults cannot have fun. For example, Parker thinks cardboard boxes are fun. Great forts. (Great place to store your growling items.) But he also finds no reason not to expect, say, Grandma to play in the cardboard box.
7. Parker can make fun out of the most mundane tasks. Laundry time? Why, the faster you get the dirty clothes into a pile, the sooner you have a landing pad for your Couch Diving exhibition. (For the record, the adults in my house were split 50-50 on whether Laundry Pile Couch Diving was acceptable.)
For some reason, as we get older, we start to become very aware of our surroundings, and very conscientious when it comes to doing something that might make us look bad in the eyes of others. Words such as "immature" and "juvenile" and "childish" are used in a derogatory manner because we adults have lumped all of this behavior as something uncalled for.
Sure, I can see why folks wouldn't want to see me chug a bottle of syrup next time I'm at breakfast. But when is the last time you sang in a grocery store? Waved at a flock of birds? Said hi to the person next to you at the stoplight? Asked your grandmother to climb inside a cardboard box? (OK, maybe the last one is crossing the line.)
In a lot of ways, I think grown-ups might be a little better off if we took some cues from this kind of behavior. After the Braves' 18th inning heartbreaker of a loss on Sunday, I was sharing misery with a couple of neighbors who are also Braves fans. As we were leaving, one said, "And Parker is just happy either way." Nice to not care about the things that don't really matter, and just enjoy life. I, for one, am going to try and adopt more of this in to my life. I hope you like how I wear my pants from now on.
For one thing, anyone who has had children knows that the "terrible" stage starts well before the second birthday. I guess "Terrible Nineteen Months" just doesn't have a good ring to it.
My son, Parker, is now 2-and-a-half, and he is anything but terrible. Sure, he has the occasional fits and spurts that any child has, but more than anything, I think a good adjective to describe him, like most two-year-olds, would be, well, insane. But not in a clinical way. It's in a funny way, as Parker has developed a personality that I applaud: Do things that amuse you. If it's fun, do it.
Among some of the things Parker has done for his own amusement:
1. I came over to pick him up from my parents' house the other day, and when I came in, my mother said, "I swear I did not put him in there." Yet there was Parker, perfectly content sitting in a pet carrier. (Don't worry; he had a water bowl.)
2. My wife summoned me from the den recently with, "Come look at your son." I turned the corner to find Parker seated at the table, a bottle of pancake syrup turned upright. When he saw us staring, he pulled it back (letting it drip all over of himself) and said, "YUM!!!"
3. Parker is at the age where he likes to help get dressed. Most times, he opts to put his pants on his head, and then sprints around the room laughing.
4. If it moves, it can growl. If Parker ever approaches you with a stuffed animal, it will, without a doubt, growl at you. Snakes growl. Birds growl. Fish growl. Cows growl. Old McDonald's farm, I assume, would be very growly in his world.
5. Around bedtime or naptime, Parker will often go in his room and lie down. On more than one occasion, we peek in to find out that he is not sleeping, but rather singing. While standing on his head. Sometimes naked. But when you let him know you are there, he will look over at you, say, "Hi, Daddy," and get back to his upside down naked singing.
6. Parker does not see why adults cannot have fun. For example, Parker thinks cardboard boxes are fun. Great forts. (Great place to store your growling items.) But he also finds no reason not to expect, say, Grandma to play in the cardboard box.
7. Parker can make fun out of the most mundane tasks. Laundry time? Why, the faster you get the dirty clothes into a pile, the sooner you have a landing pad for your Couch Diving exhibition. (For the record, the adults in my house were split 50-50 on whether Laundry Pile Couch Diving was acceptable.)
For some reason, as we get older, we start to become very aware of our surroundings, and very conscientious when it comes to doing something that might make us look bad in the eyes of others. Words such as "immature" and "juvenile" and "childish" are used in a derogatory manner because we adults have lumped all of this behavior as something uncalled for.
Sure, I can see why folks wouldn't want to see me chug a bottle of syrup next time I'm at breakfast. But when is the last time you sang in a grocery store? Waved at a flock of birds? Said hi to the person next to you at the stoplight? Asked your grandmother to climb inside a cardboard box? (OK, maybe the last one is crossing the line.)
In a lot of ways, I think grown-ups might be a little better off if we took some cues from this kind of behavior. After the Braves' 18th inning heartbreaker of a loss on Sunday, I was sharing misery with a couple of neighbors who are also Braves fans. As we were leaving, one said, "And Parker is just happy either way." Nice to not care about the things that don't really matter, and just enjoy life. I, for one, am going to try and adopt more of this in to my life. I hope you like how I wear my pants from now on.
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