Hat-a-boy

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

Ice to see you

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

Fairy Tale

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

Fading fantasy

For the first time in 15 years, I will not be participating in fantasy football. And I could not be more thrilled.
For those of you not familiar with fantasy football, it is a colossal waste of time and one of the biggest drains of human production in the history of mankind. And painfully addicting.
Essentially, with fantasy football, sports fans get together and everyone picks a team made up of various NFL players. The players’ individual performances during that week translate into your team’s performance. If your guys put up better numbers than your opponents’ guys, you win. Simple as that.
The first year I played fantasy football was in college, back around 1991. We would all get together in a room and spend a few hours drafting players. I cannot say for certain, but I would assume beer was somehow involved, too.
Now, Old Man Mike will share something with the kids out there: Back in 1991, we had to wait until the next day to get our complete football stats. Someone had to go and get the Tuscaloosa News each Monday for the updated information. I know what you’re saying: Why not check the Internet? Well, son, because the Internet was in its beginning stages, and only one person in our fraternity house had a connection. He had a service called Prodigy, and it took about 11 hours to find out how many rushing yards Barry Sanders had. And since back then you had a limited number of free minutes, he was not real keen on having us rack up a $32,000 online bill.
I also know what you’re saying: But Old Man Mike, why not watch the crawl on ESPN or ESPN2 or ESPN the Ocho? Well, son, because back in my day, we only had ONE ESPN, and there was no crawl with continually updated stats. We survived on a bare-bones 56 channels, and if we wanted satellite, the dishes were the size of a swimming pool. Life was tough, but we somehow made it through.
But over the years, I continued to play fantasy football. The Internet certainly made fantasy football far more widespread. It also made people with no lives far more evident. When we used to pick players pre-Internet, we would usually have one football magazine that had done a little blurb for the fantasy geeks. I recall one season where there was an argument because one of the players refused to let anyone look at the magazine, since he had bought it. He learned a very easy and simple rule of life: Not sharing can result in wedgie rash, administered by an angry mob who will, by the way, get your magazine.
But the more the Internet stats became real-time, the more into it some people got. And from interest like that sprung a fantasy football cottage industry. There are now magazines. And websites. And books. And talk shows. And radio shows. I knew I was not long for this ride when an entire 30-minute radio show could field calls from people asking who they should “start” in their pretend football league.
My dwindling interest in the game was pretty evident last year, when I was chided on several occasions for being a ghost manager, one who never swaps out players or trades or, basically, plays. The fact of the matter, I was just not interested in spending hours and hours pouring over stats and digging into injury reports and the like. My time is so fractured these days that I simply could not muster the desire to care about the Chiefs’ back-up running back. My evening hours are few and far between to begin with, and I have ventured into such foolish areas as kids’ bedtime and sleeping.
So, with little remorse, I threw in the towel this year, deciding not to play fantasy football. I told my wife this, and when I said it, I was a little embarrassed at how I sounded. I made it sound like I had opted to have my left arm removed. I went on to tell her that it had been a big strain on me to try and keep up with the stats and the players and I just think that this is the best choice.
“Oh, honey,” she said. “I don’t care. I didn’t care about fantasy football when you did play, so why would I care about it now? Please, stop talking about it. I really, really, truly do not care.”
Clearly, she felt my pain.
So this year, I will just enjoy the games that I feel like watching, and peruse the standings and box scores on Mondays, just like in the olden days. That was a simpler time, one that I am more accustomed to, I suppose. In fact, all this talk of the good ol’ days has me yearning for more of the days of old. I’m thinking wedgie.

Hot about the A/C

A few weeks ago, I wrote about how I keep up my home warranty for the peace of mind it brings me.
Wow, how a few weeks can change things.
Our A/C, which was manufactured around the McKinley presidency, had been misbehaving. Something was causing it to drip water onto our ceiling, which caused a little brown spot near the return vent.
We positioned some buckets down below the vent, cut off the A/C and then called our warranty company. In order to get someone out immediately, it would have to be an emergency. This was not an emergency, they said, since our downstairs unit was working. Fine, whatever.
About two days later, a repairman came out. And guess what he found? That’s right. Nothing. Everything was working fine, he said.
Week later, drip, drip, drip. More spots on the ceiling. Let me just save everyone some time and let you know that we went through the exact thing again this time, as well as the next time. The only difference was that, on the third visit, the water stains were getting much larger, and the repairman made the comment to my wife, “Now, I’m not saying you’re lying about the leaks ...”
I am fairly sure it is by the good grace of deep breaths and happy thoughts that he did not take the express trip down the stairs. I think he was implying that we were trying to get a new air conditioner unit out of this. Well guess what, genius – we just want our current air conditioner to work, and not create nasty brown stains all over our ceilings. Yes, it’s an old unit, but plenty of old things work fine, including Roger Clemens and Paul Newman. Yet, neither Roger or Paul has damaged my ceiling. My A/C has.
So the fourth time this happened, I called my home warranty company and told them to get someone out there and it had better not be from the same company. They told me I would have to pay an additional service fee to get another company. I made it very clear that, in fact, I would not be paying a fee.
The fourth guy gets out there and, big shock, can’t find anything. He tells me that he would really have to be there when it was leaking to see what was happening.
It’s now a Saturday afternoon, about 4:30. Drip. Drip. Drip. Here it comes again. I call the home warranty company, and tell them it is now officially an emergency, and to get someone out NOW. She starts to tell me about “guidelines.” I cut her off and say, “Look, here’s the deal – it is now an emergency. You will get someone out here. And you will pay for it. If you do not feel you can do that, you can transfer me to your supervisor.”
By about 5, I had wrestled with the supervisor enough to win the “it’s an emergency” battle. I was told they would dispatch someone right away. Well, about 8:30, I called them back, and spoke with someone who, I can only hope, is not planning a career in customer service. She tells me that it’s a Saturday night, and there’s no one who can come out. I tell her hogwash, that the phone book is full of 24-hour places. She tells me that I can call one of them and get reimbursed. “Outside authorization,” she tells me. That’s what I have.
So I finally line up a local company (which I should have just called from the get-go), and he’s set to come out at about 10:30. I call back the home warranty company – as I was instructed – to tell them that someone is coming out, I will pay them up front, and they will reimburse me. “Sir, you can’t do that. You don’t have outside authorization.”
At this point, I began to develop that loud, heartbeat pounding sound in my temple that means I am about to possibly implode with anger. I mumbled something into the phone. “Excuse me?” the person on the other end of the line said. I said it again. My wife tapped on the shoulder and whispered, “Unclench your jaw.”
“SUPER... VISOR... NOW...” I said. A few minutes later, the world’s most deserving wedgie candidate got on the phone and began to tell me about how they don’t do that (they do) and they wouldn’t have done that (they did). I asked for the name of his supervisor. When he told me, I said, “Get him on the phone. Now.”
“Sir I can’t do that, it’s 10:30 on a Saturday. That would be unprofessional.”
“I’ll find his number. Get him on the phone or I will.”
He puts me on hold, and comes back a few minutes later. Amazingly, they suddenly DO do that, and DID give me authorization. Shock.
The local guy arrives and he diagnoses the problem, and sees about 800 other issues that the other guys – shock – missed. I had found the leak in the attic, and had placed a bucket up there, too. I kept about five gallons of water from seeping onto my ceiling.
I am in the process of getting reimbursed for my after-hours call, which I only hope I receive in a timely fashion. At that point, I will set my sights on getting them to pay for my ceiling. Sure, the fine print is in there about not paying for secondary damage. But the secondary damage was a little speck. Had it been fixed the first, second, third or fourth time, I wouldn’t be looking at an entire ceiling replacement.
I know that I have a long road ahead of my to wage war with the home warranty people. But I am diligent in these matters. I don’t like getting mistreated. When I do, it makes me angry, and I have no choice but to fight. I am ready to lock horns for what is right. I just need to remember to unclench my jaw.

The mean dad

Apparently, I am a mean father. I base this on a co-worker’s comment, who hinted at this by saying, “You’re a mean father.”
To her, not letting one of your children sleep and leaving the other stuck in a tree constitutes being mean.
Well, I guess when you phrase it like that, I do not come across as exactly father of the year. But delve deeper, and you will see that I am not as awful as some believe.
Parker and I had been out cruising the town, running a few errands. In case you ever feel that you are going to the store and not identifying enough merchandise to purchase, I will let you borrow Parker. He will point out tons of stuff you missed and that you really “NEEEEEEDDDDD!!!”
Anyhow, I decided to stop into work for a minute. As I was pulling in, I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw that Parker was fast asleep. And that is not allowed.
I pulled into the parking lot and began tickling his feet and calling his name loudly. Over and over. Until he makes this scrunched-up looking face and glares at me through squinty, angry eyes. We then have this conversation:
ME: Wake up.
PARKER: I’m not asleep.
ME: You were.
PARKER: No I wasn’t.
ME: Then why were you eyes closed.
PARKER: My eyes were asleep. I was awake.
Tough to argue with this. But I continued to pester him to make sure he was good and awake. And why would I do such a thing, you ask? Because I think sleep deprivation is hilarious!
OK, that’s not it at all. The reason is because I want him to go bed before midnight, and if he takes a nap, you can forget about a normal bedtime. When I got into work, he was still a little cross with me, and even tried to nap on someone’s desk. I tickled him some more, and he gave this sad look as if he were the most mistreated child in the world, which of course some suckers buy into. Well, I’m no sucker, and when all the “Awwwws” start kicking in, I quickly inform them that I will let him nap, if they will plan to come over to the house and sit with him for the rest of the evening. I have yet to have anyone take me up on that.
But anyone who has tried to wean a child off of naps knows that it’s not easy, and you do feel like a bit of a heel doing it. But you have to do it. And even if they get tired during what used to be naptime, they snap out of it pretty quick. (I find two sodas and a bag of Oreos does the trick.) And when The Dude gets to bed at a decent hour, he gets a better night’s sleep. I’m not mean. I’m practical.
The other incident that labeled me as a mean dad was when I told someone about my daughter getting stuck in a tree. We have a big weeping willow in our backyard, and she has been eyeing this tree for years, hoping to climb up to a little crook in it where you can sit on a branch. Finally big enough to tackle it, she set off on her mission and, after a couple of failed attempts, was able to complete the ascent to the branch. Now, mind you, this branch was about four or five feet off the ground. It was low enough we could high five on her climb.
So she sat up there for a few minutes taunting her brother. “Hey, Parker, guess what – I can climb and YOUUUUUU CAN’T!!!!” That was followed by ducking to avoid a tennis ball. Ah, siblings.
So after a while, she called over to me. “Daddy, can you help me get down.”
I was quick to respond. “Of course not.”
She looked at me with a rather stunned expression. Daddies are supposed to help their kids out of jams, right? Well, sometimes. But not this time. So we had this conversation:
ME: Allie, you tried so hard to climb that tree, and you finally did it. Didn’t that feel good?
ALLIE: Yeah...
ME: But that’s only half the process. You have to learn to climb down, too. Won’t that feel good if you learn that!
ALLIE: No. Get me down, Daddy.
Because I believe that tree climbing is one of the basic rites of passage of children, I went on to explain to her that I knew she could do it, and she would need to have the tree descent knowledge for future tree climbing excursions. She was prepared for that. “But I don’t want to climb this tree again.”
I wouldn’t budge. I even told her that I was fairly certain no child had ever had to grow up in a tree because of an inability to climb down.
Now, I know you may be thinking that I am cruel and was maybe even putting my daughter in danger of falling and hurting herself. And you would be wrong. She has about the same descent getting out of bed in the morning. I went about my business in the backyard, and about eight seconds later she said, “DADDY!!!! I DID IT!!!” By “it” she meant climbed higher, necessitating a call to the fire department.
Ha! Kidding. She was down on the ground, and was pleased as punch at her accomplishment. In fact, she was excited enough that she did climb the tree over and over, and I did not have to assist her in getting down at all.
So you see, at first blush, what may sound like me being mean is actually my way of making better people out of my kids. Life is full of challenges, and I am here to help them be prepared for them. Imagine, as adults, how well adjusted they will be when they are at a job interview and need to stay awake or climb down from a tree. I’m building for the future.

The first of first

The first day of first grade – an emotional roller coaster of fear, excitement, nervousness and anticipation, right? Whatever.
For Allie, this was a pretty routine today. Sure, she was excited. But we’re talking about the kid who is easier to get to bed on school nights because you can have this conversation;
ME: Allie, you really need to go to bed now. You know what tomorrow is?
ALLIE: Tomorrow? What?
ME: Thursday!
ALLIE: So I get to go to school again!?!?!?!
ME: YEAH!!!! (under my breath) sucker.
As the first day approached, she did seem to wonder what all the fuss was about. Grandparents and aunts were calling to wish her good luck and ask her questions about her school. With each phone call, she had a look of “It’s just school – what’s wrong with you people?”
When the big day came, my wife and I were well prepared. We always try to get everything ready the night before, with lunches packed and clothes set out. My wife has yet to embrace my brilliant time and money saver, which is to have the kids sleep in their clothes. Not only can they spring out of bed and be ready to go in seconds, think of the money you’ll save on pajamas.
The hardest part of the first day of school for many people is getting up early. Now, early rising has never been a problem for me. (My wife? Not so much.) But with the exception of special occasions when I had to get up extra early, I haven’t used an alarm clock in years, specifically six years, since that is how long I have had children.
For the past six years, when morning comes, I am woken up by the pawing of a small child, who wants a drink of water, a Pop-Tart, to take the dogs out, to read a book, to play trains, etc. I always gently lean in and whisper, “No, you want Mommy... Mommy. Go.”
Alas, the average life expectancy of a child-based alarm clock is three years, so when Allie reached three and began to find out how awesome sleeping in could be, my wife had two choices: Buy an alarm clock or have Parker.
Well, now Parker is getting to the age where, on occasion, he will sleep in. And I am pretty sure that it would be bad form for Allie to tell her teacher, “Sorry I’m late. My little brother forgot to wake up Daddy.”
So we have begun setting the alarm again. This is how the alarm scenario goes:
6:15 a.m. – First alarm goes off, set to NPR. I lie in bed listening to the news. My wife sleeps.
6:16 a.m. – I can listen to news later. Hit snooze. My wife sleeps.
6:22 a.m. – More news. Snooze. My wife sleeps.
6:29 a.m. – WE GET IT, NPR!!! TROUBLE IN THE MIDDLE EAST!!! CAN I PLEASE GET SOME SLEEP LIKE MY WIFE!?!?!?
6:30 a.m. – Second alarm goes off, this one a series of loud, horrific beeps that were designed by the Torture Institute of America. I spring from bed, ninja-like, hit snooze and start to go to partial panic mode because we are slightly behind schedule. I go to wake my wife, only to see her standing in the bathroom, dressed and blow drying her hair. I am not sure how she does this, but I am starting to think she can control time. Or she may be using one of those papier-mâché dummies like in “Escape from Alcatraz.” Either way it’s kinda freaking me out.
We have mastered the art of waking up sleepy children. Rather than asking them over and over to get out bed, we simply walk in, pull back the covers, and dump a huge bucket of ice water on them.
Ha! Kidding. We would never do that. My wife has assured me of that. No, all that you do is pick them up gently and stand them up. I have yet to see one of them fall down. They do this kind of jelly-legged groan, but eventually their brain says, “Yeah, we’re tired, but the legs are heading out. We better go with ’em.”
OK, so I have rambled way off topic. Not that that’s an uncommon occurrence. But back to the first day of school. It was just no big deal for Allie. She had a great first day, and was very excited about being in first grade. One thing I have noticed is that I have to fight the urge to say, “I can’t believe she’s in first grade.” It’s really not that big of a leap of faith to assume your child makes it there. It would be one thing if we were saying, “I can’t believe our little six-year-old is going to med school!”
So I do believe that she is in first grade, and I am glad that she is enjoying it. It’s an exciting time, where she meets new friends and has tons of new experiences. It’s fun sitting back and watching her grow up, and seeing her become a little more independent each year. Sure, it’s kinda scary to think that each year that passes puts her a little closer to being a grown up. But just think, years down the road, she may be coming home to visit us with her own kids. Which means I can finally turn off the alarm clock.

The New Addition

We certainly weren’t looking for a dog. We’ve got two dogs. Big, old cranky dogs. So the last thing we were planning on adding to the family was a little Dachshund that weighed about what one of our dog’s meals does.
But sometimes, life plays by weird rules, and this was one of those times. His owner passed away, and I was trying to find homes for his two dogs. The first I found a home for in a matter of minutes. The second was Buddy, a sweet and gentle little dog that just loved being loved.
We had a couple of possibilities lined up, and for various reasons the chips never fell in place. We brought Buddy back to the house, certain that the next day we could easily find him a good home. That night, it became evident that my wife had found him a very good home.
“You know,” she said, “if we DID decide to keep him, we should probably give him a new name. We could keep Buddy as his middle name, but I think Murphy would be a good name for him.”
My wife maintains that this pronouncement did occur, but insists that I was the one who was really convinced to keep him, and that she was trying to offer up her approval. We decided that we would offer one final test to see if Buddy/Murphy would fit into our household. Enter the gauntlet of big cranky dogs.
Montgomery and Maggie have lived together for the past decade, and have very set rules and routines. Any time something throws off the balance, things get a little dicey. So I was curious to see what would happen when this dog smaller than our cat would finally meet the resident canines. Montgomery, the purebred Alabama Dumpster Hound, gave one sniff, and then went to the water bowl. That would pretty much sum up how much he cared. Maggie, our Basset hound, was a little more interested. But only a little. It took only one growling snort to send the message that romantic interludes were not welcome in her world, a message that rang loud and clear. It seemed clear that the resident dogs really did not care whether or not we added a Murphy to the mix. And so we did.
Murphy did not take long to get acclimated to his new home. He pretty much operated on this premise: Wherever someone was, he would like to be there, quietly curled up and just hanging out. He is the most unobtrusive creature I have seen. On numerous occasions, I will realize I have not seen him for while, and set off to find him. I usually get about two steps when I hear him stand up under my chair, where he has been sitting, just enjoying being there.
I’ve never had a small dog before, and up until Murphy never thought I wanted one. I always assumed small = yappy. Boy, was I wrong. Murphy hardly ever barks, and when he does, it’s at least at something. Montgomery is prone to barking at the air, which, by my count, is not something.
We were also wondering how the kids would get along with him. Turns out, a little too well. A few nights into his residency, I was reading my daughter a bedtime story. Murphy had hopped up on the bed and was enjoying Angelina Ballerina. (Or, at least pretending to. He’s polite that way.)
My wife and Parker stopped in to say goodnight, at which point Parker decided it was woefully unfair for Murphy to get to read bedtime stories with Allie, demanding that Murphy get a Bob the Builder bedtime story. Murphy is now a time-share bedtime story dog, which he finds to be quite acceptable.
And while I consider myself a manly man, I have found that I really like having a dog that likes to hop in your lap and just hang out there. However, I cannot in good conscience have a lapdog. So, I was fortunate to discover during a recent baseball game that, if I doze off, he will hop up on me on the couch and fall asleep, thereby qualifying as a napdog, which is certainly acceptable.
While I wish I never had to be in the situation to take Murphy, I am glad I have been able to give him a good home. He was obviously cared for and treated well, and giving him a good home is something that is important to me. He has acclimated well, and has even started to have the occasional conversation with the other dogs. I think he’s content with his new home, and I know we’re content having him here. Plus, he’s great for excuses. “Honey, I HAVE To take a nap. Murphy needs to rest.”

Beach bash

Two hours before the wedding, I started to wonder how good of an idea this was.
Parker and Allie were set to be the ring bearer and flower girl on the beach, and we were there for pictures. It seemed simple enough: Show up at the beach, take some pictures, and then wait around for a while until the wedding began.
Allie was decked out in a smart little white dress, while Parker would match the groomsmen — khakis and white button-down shirt. My wife tasked me with a simple mission: Keep them clean.
The wedding was to be a small affair. Our friend Missy, who had technically been the kids’ baby-sitter but had become part of the family, wanted the kids to be part of her wedding. The kids were ecstatic, and had been practicing for weeks prior to the day. My wife and I kept our fingers crossed that their extensive practice would translate into a few minutes of good behavior for the wedding. It got off to a rocky start.
When we arrived, the groom, his family and the groomsmen were there. The kids were thrilled to see Adam, and immediately figured, “Hey, let’s play!!!”
Adam was your typical groom — somewhat distracted a couple of hours before he gets married. I, for one, was the same way. In fact, at my wedding, the coordinator came to a room at the church we were getting married and scolded us for not being in the sanctuary on time. I countered that anyone who wanted us to be on time should not have put us in a room with a pool table.
I think Adam somewhat welcomed the distraction, because he let the kids drag him around the boardwalk and show him such things as the two dead fish they found.
After a few minutes, it was time for the groomsmen to take pictures. It was there we found a curious part of human nature: Most people have no regard for other people. When there are five guys all dressed alike and a photographer lining up to take their pictures, maybe – just maybe — this is a signature event in life, and they don’t want a fat, hairy guy in a Speedo in the background. This, apparently, does not occur to most fat, hairy guys in Speedos, who see nothing wrong with leisurely strolling into the picture, despite the fact that there is an entire beach in which he could roam.
Parker was in a few pictures, which was enough to keep him fairly occupied. Then came the downtime. Combine downtime and a beach and a 3-year-old, and you can pretty much guess what happened next.
First came the digging. Then came the sand kicking. Then came the rolling. Parker was quickly a sand-coated ringbearer, and thought this was far better than any other attire he could have. His mother, however, disagreed. And she made this clear by saying. “MICHAEL!!!!”
That was all she had to say. She can say, “MICHAEL!!!!” about 42 different ways, and each tone means a different thing. This one meant, “Get your son, get him out of the sand, or I will hold you accountable.”
I went to get Parker, who realized he had MILES of sand to play in. I know I am faster than my son. I also know that breaking into a dead sprint after him might draw some eyes, so I opted for that parent speed walk that you do, trying to convey your message that, if I do in fact have to run, it will be bad news.
Parker saw this as a challenge. The beach decided to lend an assistance and tripped him up. A brief struggle ensued with Parker proclaiming to everyone that he was going to PLAAAAAAYYYYYYY. I am fairly sure Castro heard his cries. I finally got him off the beach (where I found several folks had enjoyed the chase), and tried to get him settled. Allie, fortunately, is at the age where, when you dress her up nicely, she will sit quietly and make sure she doesn’t get dirty. I don’t think boys reach that age.
We made a couple more trips down to the beach, each time ending the same way. (Yes, I should have learned my lesson.) When the wedding approached, my wife and I strategized on how we would handle Parker’s inevitable collapse during the wedding. Shortly before the wedding began, Missy called Allie and Parker over to tell them what they would be doing. I don’t know what she said, but I can only guess that both kids sensed a bride on her wedding day was no one to trifle with. When game time arrived, they were golden. Parker stood at Adam’s side and resisted the urge to dig, kick, etc. I highly recommend you hire Missy out for pep talks to ringbearers prior to weddings.
The wedding itself was a beautiful affair, with the Gulf of Mexico serving as a picturesque backdrop to the beginning of a new life for a couple. I was pleased with the ways the kids performed, even if it was a little touch and go early on. Perhaps we were being a little overly concerned. I mean, you put a kid on a beach and he’s gonna dig, right? In the end, it all worked out, and years from now, they will flip through their wedding album, fondly reminiscing, when they pause and say, “Who’s the fat, hairy guy in the Speedo?”

Contrary to popular opinion

I feel confident that those gathered were in two distinct camps: Those who thought a father was abandoning his young son and those with children.
It all started last weekend, when my wife and daughter skipped town. (Day at the track or whiskey run. Can’t really recall.) Anyhow, The Dude and I would be batching it for the weekend, which meant it was time for us just to hang out. It was the first time in about a year that just the two of us had the run of the house. One morning, we decided it would be a cool thing to head out to Hopelands Gardens and feed the ducks. At least, that was my suggestion to Parker. Parker is a major league contrarian right now, so he firmly stated that we were NOT going to feed the ducks, but rather the fish and turtles. Very well, I thought. You take it up with the ducks when they eat your turtle/fish food.
As anyone who has (or has had) a 3-year-old knows, you get to this point where whatever you say, he will say the opposite. We have these sorts of riveting conversations:

ME: Parker, do you want oatmeal?
PARKER: No. Dog.
ME: You want a dog for breakfast?
PARKER: Yes.
ME: We don’t eat dogs.
PARKER: YES WE DOOOOOOO!!!!!!

When he can’t convince you that we do, in fact, eat dogs for breakfast, he launches into the Why? campaign.
ME: Parker, you know we have oatmeal for breakfast.
PARKER: Why?
ME: Because that’s what we bought.
PARKER: Why?
ME: Because that’s what you picked out at the grocery store.
PARKER: Why?
ME: Because … you decided on that.
PARKER: Why?
ME: I HAVE NO CLUE!!! Eat your oatmeal!!!
PARKER: Why?
ME: Because you’ll starve otherwise.
PARKER: Why?
Eventually, you just start giving nonsensical answers to distract/confuse him long enough to get through breakfast.
ME: Come on, man. Eat.
PARKER: Why?
ME: Because, last time there was a meteor shower, two tigers were found with oatmeal, and that means you have to eat it or you can’t go to the zoo again.
PARKER: Uh….
So we headed out to the pond (stuffed fully with oatmeal), bag of bread in hand. It’s always entertaining to me when kids feed animals at ponds. For one thing, they take it very personally if a turtle opts not to eat the bread offered up, as though it is somehow a personal affront to the child. “Daddy - he won’t take it!!!!” Apparently, as a father, my role is to wade into the water and force a turtle to eat bread.
So after about an hour and a loaf of bread, I decided it was time to head home. We made our way back to the car, and about halfway there, Parker decided that, in fact, it was NOT time to go home. He stopped dead in his tracks, digging his feet into the ground and producing the kind of resistance normally reserved for one of those pickup truck commercials that shows you its towing moxie. He made it clear that he needed to see the ducks again.
At that point is when I made my pronouncement. “Fine. Go see the ducks. I’m going home.”
After about two steps toward the car, Parker screamed at the top of his lungs, “DADDY DON’T LEAVE ME!!!!!” and began sprinting my way.
Now, you nonparents out there (and in particular those at Hopelands that day), surely thought I was the worst parent on the planet, preying on my child’s fears of abandonment. You, however, would be wrong.
I was simply engaged in a game of behavioral chess with my son. He knows I am not going to leave him. He was making his stubborn show, and I was countering with the checkmate parenting move of calling his bluff. Had he turned and made a beeline to the ducks, yes, I would have retrieved him. But when it comes down to a showdown of stubbornness, son, let me tell you - I’ve seen stubborn, and you’ve only scratched the surface.
He fussed for a minute, but after I got him in the car, he knew he had been bested. It’s hard to be 3 at times, so as a parent I have to know how to handle situations like this. Once he calmed down, I praised him for getting himself composed. “You’re doing great, son,” I told him. “In fact, so great, it’s time for lunch. How about dog?”

Talking 'bout my generation

I want the 80s back.
I’m not trying to be one of those people. You know, the ones who bark that their generation is the only generation to make a lick of difference in the world. Sure, plenty of generations did, in fact, make a big difference in the world. But it wasn’t me and my fellow children of the 80s. While teens of other generations fought wars, led cultural revolutions, or were the poster children for modern medical breakthroughs, me and my fellow 80s kids, well, wore bad clothes and listened to bad music. Change was not our strong suit. Bad taste was.
So I apologize in advance if I am overreacting the recent surge in popularity of “80s parties.” For those of you not familiar with them, it’s when people get together, wear clothes reminiscent of the 1980s, maybe throw in “Breakfast Club” and crank up some Men at Work or Spandau Ballet. Seems harmless enough, right?
Wrong. You see, for those of from the 80s, all we have is our memories. We don’t have lasting cultural change. The big sweeping impacts that were courtesy of the 80s came from adults. (Specifically, I credit/blame the adults for cocaine, AIDS and Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker.) The fact that one of the lasting footprints from our generation is the Rubik’s cube can tell you we weren’t exactly upending the world.
The 80s were my formative years. In 1984, my sisters went to see Duran Duran, Men at Work, Culture Club and Hall & Oates in concert. (My parents were cruel, so I had to hang out with my dad outside of the concert, and wait until the ticket takers were no longer caring. I saw the end of some great concerts.) For you young folks who love 80s bashes now, you might think that’s just absolutely retro to see those bands. For those of you older than I, you are wondering what in the world a Duran Duran is. Well, excuse me for not having the Beatles or Elvis during my youth. We played the cards we were dealt, and those cards included Soft Cell and a-ha.
Again, I know you are wondering why it would bother me that someone would latch on to my generation. And the reasoning is simple -- because despite our quaintness, we were a historically lame generation. The 1960s and 1970s have always been popular retro decades, and the people from those generations are certainly secure enough in their place in cultural character not to care if you go wear bell bottoms. But for crying out loud, these people made it into the history books, while we made it into “The Wedding Singer.”
I guess I just don’t see why our 1980s and our “Weird Science” attachments have to be shared. You’ve got your own decade. Were the 90s so bad that you have to revert to Jams, Members Only and white Topsiders?
When you delve a little deeper into my unfortunate psyche, I think you will find another reason that I am a little territorial when it comes to the 80s is my resemblance to one of the more recognizable faces of the 1980s to my generation, Anthony Michael Hall. While I may not look a lot like him now, my high school yearbook photo could have been a publicity still from “Sixteen Candles.” I was Farmer Ted. (Note to those of you who have not seen “Sixteen Candles”: Farmer Ted was the character played by Hall, and is listed in the credits simply as “The Geek.”) Sadly, when I say I was Farmer Ted, I mean I WAS Farmer Ted. I had a shirt in high school with it on the back. There was no escaping it. I was..The Geek.
So all I am saying is give us back our little slice of nonhistory. We tried to make a major impact on the world, but we were too stinking busy buying Swatches and watching little kids get pulled out of wells. We didn’t bring a lot of important change to the world, and for that, we’re sorry. All we did is produce bad music, garish clothing and the occasional good sports highlight (here I am thinking The Catch).
I am sure the 1990s had plenty of things you can latch on to. Heck, my youth spilled over into the 90s, and so I know there are plenty of things as cultural insignificant as the 80s to latch onto. Look hard. You can find them. Make them yours. You’ll be proud that you did. Andthen protect it from those kids of the 00s.

Spark an interest

I figure it is just a matter of time until I am called to head up a pit crew for a NASCAR team.
The reason for this, of course, is that my legendary mechanic skills have probably already reached the highest levels of auto repair, after my heroic triumph as a mechanic.
Granted, some of the naysayers out there say what I did was not car repair, but rather maintenance. To which I say: Pshaw. I changed out three – THREE – of my car’s spark plugs. That, my friend, is as complicated as it gets.
OK, it’s as complicated as I get. I don’t do car repairs. I have the folks at the auto store change out my wiper blades. I have no idea how oil gets changed. I am not even sure if I have a tire gauge.
Recently, my neighbor said that my car needed new spark plugs. I, of course, assumed this was a joke. I laughed, slapped him on the back and said, “Spark plugs. Good one.”
Apparently, spark plugs are in fact part of a car, and apparently a critical part. He said that changing spark plugs was easy, and that if I picked up four at the store, we could do it in no time.
I am not sure why, but I decided to comply. I went the auto parts store, and recalled the numerous times I have sounded like a complete moron asking for something. So I decided to lay it all out for the guy behind the counter. “Hi, I know nothing about cars, but my neighbor said I need four spark plugs.” The guy stared at me with a rather sad look. I think he felt sorry for me, and certainly for my children.
When I got back to the house, my neighbor was ready to tackle the problem. He brought over a tool chest that weighed slightly less than Buick. And in the chest were about 400,000 socket attachments. He fiddled with piece after piece until he found the exact perfect combination. I think he may have been bluffing, because all of the pieces looked the same to me.
After we popped the hood, he gave me a basic primer on what we would be doing. He popped a cap off of the first one, slipped the socket down into the cylinder, and, after a few turns, pulled out a spark plug. Easy as that. I decided I would contribute by opening a beer.
Turns out, I would have more responsibility than that. “Here,” my neighbor said, handing me the socket. My first inclination was to set in back in the tool chest, because I could think of no other reason he would hand it to me. Apparently, I was supposed to take it from there.
So I just decided to follow his lead. I popped off the cap and slid the socket down in the cylinder. As I was about to loosen the spark plug, my neighbor said, “Be gentle. You don’t want to break it.” He told me it would be “bad.”
At this point, I felt like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters, “fuzzy on the whole good/bad thing.”
If you recall, in Ghostbusters, “bad” was defined thusly: “Try to imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light.”
While I don’t think we were going to that extreme, it would certainly involve WAY more than me, a neighbor, a socket set and some beer. The main tool needed to repair that would be a checkbook.
So I was gentle. Very gentle. Like I was holding a duckling gentle. And, I am pleased to say, I did not break anything. The spark plugs came right out, and the new ones went right in. After the fourth one was installed, I was so pleased with myself I hopped in the car and cranked it. To my somewhat amazement, it cranked right up. I got out of the car to share a testosterone moment when my neighbor said, “Hey, one thing – generally, when you have a four cylinder, you want all four to work.” The little cap thing that goes over the spark plugs is, apparently, also critical. Or at least advised.
And while some of you may still say that what I did was mere maintenance, I maintain that, when you sum up my entire history of working on cars, this is by far the most extensive thing I have done under the hood, thereby qualifying it as repair. It was a learning experience, and I am glad I took part in it. Next time, I know exactly what I’ll do. I’ll see if they can change them at the auto parts store.

Sing a song

I can’t sing. Well, I can sing, but you don’t want to hear it. When I was in high school, for our senior class play, I had the role of someone who was supposed to sing off key. That aspect was removed from the play. I apparently even sing off key wrong. That is how bad I am.
So I pretty much don’t sing, unless I am by myself in the car and there is a chance for me to make a fool of myself at the stop light. Generally, it will be one of those moments where I think I’m all alone, and SURELY no one will actually see me singing along to the Huey Lewis/Gwyneth Paltrow remake of “Cruisin” when just as I horribly croon “ I love it when we’re cruisin’ together” I look over and see that the car next to me is filled with ex-girlfriends, high school crushes, former coaches, etc. And before you criticize me for that particular song, I guarantee each and every one of you has your guilty pleasure song. Sure, you may be super cool and hip and keep the latest cool bands in your CD case, but you just know as soon as, say, The Monkees “Daydream Believer” comes on, you suddenly turn into the Karaoke Kid, so don’t you judge me.
I even avoid singing in church. I used to do this low, humming lip sync that my wife informed me was even more annoying than bad singing. I’ve heard before that there is no such thing as bad singing in church. I beg to differ, as does anyone who has ever sat near me.
But my inability to sing well makes it all the more strange that my daughter is a nonstop singer. Loves it. It sounds great to me, but of course, with parents, everything their children do is adorable and perfect:
PROUD PARENT: Awwww!!! Look what little Suzie did!!!
EVERYONE: Ewwww.
But there she goes, singing along. She wakes up in the morning, and we hear her singing. She goes to have breakfast, she sings. She gets dressed ... well, you get the trend. It is all singing, all the time for her.
She also uses singing as a bit of a calming mechanism. The more stressed or scared she gets, the louder the singing gets. For example, we took her little brother to the doctor for shots. He was not pleased with this, and decided to engage the nurse in hand-to-hand combat. Allie’s response? Sing a VERY loud song that she made up on the spot. She just stared ahead, belting out some song about a princess. I can imagine her getting pulled over for speeding in 20 years.
COP: License and registration, ma’am.
ALLIE: POLLY WOLLY DOODLE ALL THE DAY!!!
COP: Pardon?
ALLIE: MY GAL SAL, SHE’S A SPUNKY GAL!!!
COP: OK, step out of the car.
My wife and I pretty much just let her go wild with the singing. It’s obviously something that she really loves, and with things like that, if it makes them happy, let them go. True, that cannot be an overriding philosophy for children. There are a lot of things that would make my children happy that they are not going to get. I am sure they would love cookies for dinner and a 10 p.m. bedtime, but that ain’t happening. At least not unless their mother goes out of town.
Allie doesn’t care where she is when she’s singing, but we do try and temper it somewhat when we’re out in public. And it’s a delicate balancing act to explain to her that the song she is singing is very nice, but that maybe not EVERYONE at the restaurant wants to hear “Over the Rainbow.” Of course, she will then look at us with this confused look. “Why would you NOT want to hear ‘Over the Rainbow’?” At that point, I excuse myself to the restroom and let my wife handle it.
Hopefully, she will continue to enjoy singing. It seems to relax her, and she certainly gets into it. Not very often you find things in life that bring that double dose to you. I have decided that my role in song is to be a fan of my daughter’s. I don’t think there will be any duets with Dad in her future. I guess I’m just no Huey Lewis. But really, who is?

Sounds cool to me

Every year, when it comes time to renew our home warranty, my wife and I have the same conversation:
ME: Should we renew our home warranty?
HER: Have you suddenly learned how to fix things?
So we always renew. Some people scoff at the home warranty notion, saying you never get your money’s worth out of it. More than likely, if I were to add up the cost of annual home warranties that I have paid, it would be WAY more than the replacements and repairs I have had done. That said, the amount I have paid in home warranties, I can only guess, is WAY less than the damage I would have caused had I tried to fix it myself.
A few years ago, our hot water heater developed a leak. For the price of a service fee, some people came out, took away the old one, and replaced it with a brand spanking new one. Without the home warranty, there is a good chance that I might have discovered the problem when my wife was not around, and I might have tried to repair it myself, which would have probably resulted in, at minimum, the collapse of the house. So in some ways, a home warranty for me is not just insurance, but a guarantee that I will behave.
Of course, there are the times when the home warranty repair guy comes out and performs a repair that is so simple, I am pretty sure I could have turned it over to my 3-year-old to solve. In these instances, the repairman usually looks at the situation, then looks at me as if he is on some hidden camera show, because there is NO WAY someone would call for a repairmen to fix the problem at hand. (“It’s not a leak. That’s the faucet. Turn this handle and the water stops.”)
That was somewhat the case with our latest home warranty call. For several weeks, we had a terrible knocking in our wall, right by our bedroom. Something in the air conditioning unit would start this terrible clanging, like someone was trying to crawl up the ducts. While they swung hammers. It was less than pleasant.
I called the home warranty folks and told them I need to place a service call. She asked what the problem was, and I said, “My children can’t sleep through the night.” There was a pause on her end, possibly as she contemplated career choices. We then had this conversation:
ME: See, there’s this knocking sound, I think associated with the air conditioner, and it wakes everyone up at night.
HER: Is the unit cooling the house?
ME: Yes, but it knocks.
HER: But it IS cooling the house, right?
ME: Not the point.
HER: Sir, is the unit cooling the house?
ME: If I answer yes, will you still come here and fix it?
HER: sigh.
Eventually, she managed to convince me that she was just getting as much information as possible to relay to the company. The repairman came when I was at work, so my wife handled it. She told him about the noise, and they proceeded to wait for about two hours to hear the noise. The A/C knew they were there, and remained silent. They’re sneaky like that.
Eventually, he went up in the attic and poked around for a few minutes. Turns out, there are three lines that feed from the attic unit down through the duct work. One had gotten some slack in the line, and when the A/C kicked on, this line was flailing back and forth, clanging the inside of the duct-work. He told my wife that I could fix it “with just a flashlight.” Yeah, me in a dark attic armed with a flashlight, trying to fix my air conditioner. No potential hazard there.
We haven’t heard the noise in a while, which has been nice. At one point, I told my wife that I was a little bummed that we had spent good money to have someone come cinch up the slack on a hose. She quickly put my mind at ease: “Oh, honey - you wouldn’t have had a clue what you were looking for up there.” Hopefully the problem is solved for good. If the noise starts again, I know exactly what I’ll do: I’ll get my wife a flashlight. I sure won’t know what to do.

Old Man Montgomery

I guess I just have to accept that he’s getting to be an old man. Or, dog, as it were.

Montgomery has been my faithful pal since 1993, when I got him from an SPCA in college in Tuscaloosa, Ala. He was four weeks old, and had gotten the rather unloving start of being left at the shelter door taped in a cardboard box. He had rickets, where his little legs looked like they were bending when he ran. He had worms. Someone had tried to trim his ears in a ragingly inhumane way, so he’s got, to this day, this scalloped trim around them. He was, for lack of a better term, a wreck.

But my purebred Alabama Dumpster Hound had something about him that made him the perfect dog. He just had that look. When I went into the room with the dogs that day, all of the dogs did their usual thing where they run to the front of the cage and bark and yap. Montgomery, though, sat at the back of his cage, and just cut a glance over at me, as if to say, “I’m four weeks old and I’ve been through this. What more can you do?”

Montgomery first lived in the fraternity house, and was always available to loan out to friends in need of a prop on the Quad to strike up a conversation. When I moved to Orlando right after college, Montgomery was my roommate. He was always there when I got home from work, and every night had a delicious dinner waiting on me. Or he had eaten the couch cushions. One of those. I can’t really remember.

While once a ball of energy who could never sit still, Montgomery has slowed down of late. And he shares his grumpiness whenever he can. He barks. A lot. At nothing. He will stand in the yard and just bark. And bark. And bark. We try to keep an ear out for when he starts barking so we can bring him inside, which, of course, means he immediately settles and calms down.

HA! Of course that doesn’t happen. Montgomery merely comes inside and barks more, and louder. Sometimes, I am fairly sure he has my daughter’s toy microphone.

Rarely a night goes by where I don’t make two or three trips downstairs to assure Montgomery that there is nothing to bark at, which he responds by barking at me. I will reach my hand down and soothe him, and he will reassuringly bark at me.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s not barking like he’s going to bite or anything. He just points his head up and barks. And barks.

And then sometimes he barks at Maggie, our Basset hound. Maggie will be lying down, just being a Basset hound, and Montgomery will stand over her and bark. And bark. And bark. And Maggie will have this look on her face that says, “Seriously, I’m just trying to be a Basset Hound here. Knock it off.”

The other night, Montgomery was barking up a storm about 3 a.m. I was well into a good night sleep. And when I get into a good sleep, you can pretty much go ahead and perform open heart surgery on me, because I’m not waking up. My wife tried to wake me to get him to be quiet. After several nudges, pushes, and, I’m guessing, eye pokes, she said I sat up and said, “Just go tell him you’re a Bama fan.” I have no idea what that means or how that was supposed to make him stop barking, but it still strikes me as funny. (Eventually, she put Maggie in another room, and Montgomery went to sleep.)

Even as he turns into a grumpy old man, he still shows occasional signs of being the spry dog I have always known. He used to be an ace Frisbee-catcher, and has always loved fetching tennis balls. Even if he’s having one of those slow-to-get-up days, he still will go nuts if you throw a tennis ball. He will fetch it with the most fervor he can, and bring it back to you so incredibly happy that he has just simply brought you a ball. As my brother-in-law once said: “Montgomery just wants to be Mike’s dog.”

And that’s what he is. He’s my dog. He has always been there to make me happy. Bad day at work? Montgomery’s happy to see me. Car trouble? Montgomery’s happy to see me. Accidentally put a co-worker in intensive care with the unfortunate “exploding desk” prank? Montgomery’s happy to see me. And I have tried my level best to reciprocate that. Sure, he may be getting old and crotchety now, but you know what? I’ve probably been pretty grumpy about silly things over the years (Note from Mike’s wife: You think?), and Montgomery always greeted me the same way: just happy to see me.

In 1993, I had been dating someone for about three weeks when she accompanied me to the shelter to pick out a dog. We walked out of there with Montgomery. She and I have now been married for eight years. He’s her dog, too. And we both agree. He can be a grumpy old man. He’s earned it.

Zoo do you love

A couple of Saturdays ago, my wife and I were having breakfast when I asked her what she wanted to do today. She thought for a moment, and then said, “How about we go to the zoo?”
She knew this was a long shot, because I am about as spontaneous as a glacier. My idea of a rousing, impromptu good time is deciding to sit on a different couch to fall asleep on while watching the baseball game. Yes, I know — lucky her.
And she also knew it was a long shot because my Saturdays are usually my only time to do stuff around the house. I actually enjoy doing yard work and stuff, and feel a great sense of accomplishment when it’s done, so that’s kind of something I look forward to.
Both of those reasons tell you exactly why I was very surprised to hear myself say, “OK. Let’s do it.” Kinda sad that my wife actually gets a surprised look on her face when I agree to go to the zoo. Perhaps my spontaneity is in need of some revival.
Truth of the matter is, I love the zoo. Just love it. Even the nasty smells. Just something cool about seeing all of the animals. And the kids love it, too, so we always have a good time when we go.
The first animal we saw upon entering the zoo was a baboon. And, I am sure, you can guess the first thing my children wanted to know about it. “Diaper rash,” my wife said dismissively. I, of course, am not going to allow my children to be fed such nonsense, and explained to them that if you tell a lie, disobey your parents, or date before you are 25, that’s what happens to you. Education is key.
Next up were the tigers, which started as a big thrill, but ended in a bit of a disappointment for Parker who found it woefully discourteous of a tiger not to roar back. Of course, I am sure the tigers were sitting there saying, “Wow. A roar. How original. Hey, why don’t you come a little closer and let me hear it. Don’t worry about me. Just a lazy, ol’ tail-swatting tiger...”
One of the cooler things at the zoo is the lorikeet room, a big cage you can enter and have colorful birds land on you. You get these little paper cups of nectar, and the birds will come up and drink while perched on you. My wife decided that she would let me take the kids into the room, and she would stand as far as possible from the cage. In case you can’t tell, she doesn’t like birds. At least not on her.
So the kids were a little jumpy at first, as the birds flew around and hopped here and there. One landed on a nearby fence, and I saw this as a great time to let the little guy land on my hand and sip some nectar. He, however, saw this as a time to bite my finger, causing me to let out this muffled grunt of pain, trying my best not to let my kids know that I was trying to get them close up to a feathered finger vise. Allie proved to be the sensible one of the three of us and set her nectar cup down for the bird. Good move.
Next up was the penguin house, which is always cool to see. By the way, if you go to www.riverbanks.com, you can watch the penguin-cam. As I type this, a zoo worker in a yellow suit is pressure washing the rocks while the penguins waddle along around the worker. Undoubtedly, they are saying, “Where’s the fish? Where’s the fish? Seriously. Where’s the fish?”
Of course, one of the biggest hits of the zoo trip is the gorilla house. Invariably, one of the gorillas will be sitting near the big viewing window, and it is certainly fascinating to watch. Another thing I find very interesting in primate behavior is the need for some of the older ones to have complete and total disregard for the smaller ones. In particular, I am most fascinated by the big, lumbering primates on our side of the glass, who see no reason why they should stand behind a 5-year-old to view a gorilla. I am taller than the average person, and certainly taller than any of the children in the mix, so I make an effort to get out of the way of the little ones — or even the littler-than-me ones. Guess what — if you’re taller than someone and stand behind them, you can still see! Brilliant! But every time, there will be some big dolt pressed up against the glass, with the kids trying to peer around him to see something. I think that is why the gorilla often turns its back to us. It refuses to acknowledge our kind.
In all, the trip was a great success, as evidenced by the fact that Parker fell asleep before we were out of the parking lot. My wife was thrilled that I was willing to be spontaneous, even if it was something as plain-Jane as going to the zoo. Who knows — maybe this is a start of something new for me. Maybe I will be the most spontaneous person around from now on. Maybe next weekend — I nap upstairs during the game.

I saw(ed) it

As we have well established, I am a problem solver.
Take for example, the time I got stuck on the roof. Or the time I nearly electrocuted myself trying to change a light bulb. Or the time I ended up upside down behind my dryer.
OK, I’m not a problem solver. When problems present themselves, I am generally the first person you can call if you want the problem to be accelerated into a full blown crisis. So imagine my surprise when my wife called me the other day to enlist my support in solving a problem.
Normally, when problems present themselves at home, my wife surveys the situation, comes up with a solution, and solves it, usually in the matter of about four minutes. She’s good like that. And she usually does all of this without telling me, because she’s afraid I will try and help, and that will only make things far, far worse.
But this time, she called me because it was a problem that had presented itself before, and I had actually solved it with minimal damage to our home.
When my wife called, I could tell it was one of those moments where she was not interested in solving any problems, and was quite possibly considering dropping the kids off at work with me and heading to the islands for four for five years. The phone call went like this:
ME: Hey, how’s it going?
HER: The pantry is – PARKER GET OFF OF THE TABLE – stuck shut and – ALLIE, DO NOT HELP YOUR BROTHER OFF THE TABLE -- I can’t get it open – PARKER, THAT IS DOG FOOD!!! – the easel is stuck again. – ALLIE, THAT IS DOG FOOD!!!
Ain’t summer grand!
Fortunately, I knew exactly what she was talking about. We have this plastic easel that the kids use to draw on when the walls are fully saturated with their art work. For some ill-conceived reason, we continue to store it in our pantry, and on occasion it will fall against the door and block us from entry.
In the past, I have been able to open the door enough to wiggle the easel out of the way and get the door open. This time, it had decided to get wedged in nice and firm where there would be no wiggling.
I know what you’re thinking: Why continue to store the easel there? Look, when you’re spending time convincing your daughter that getting her little brother to eat dog food is a bad idea, easel storage is WAY down on your list.
Being the super awesome husband I am, I assured my wife that it would be OK, and that I would solve it when I got home. My wife said something under her breath that I am fairly sure I am glad I didn’t hear.
When I got home, I went to work. As with any problem of this nature, the first thing to do is use brute strength and stern words. After nearly dislocating my shoulder, I concurred that my wife was correct in her assessment that it was, in fact, jammed in there pretty good.
The last time this happened, I was able to use a yard stick and slide it up under the door to dislodge the easel. My wife told me she had tried that, but I was fairly certain she had not REALLY tried it, otherwise the easel would be free, right?
About the moment the yardstick snapped in half, I heard the voice of my daughter, standing about six feet away, commenting on how I “broke Mommy’s ruler.” Thanks for the play-by-play, Vin Scully, How about you go watch the Disney Channel while Daddy solves problems?
The problem, as I could see it, was that a yardstick wasn’t quite sturdy enough to dislodge the easel this time. Being a guy’s guy, I went to my garage to retrieve the perfect tool. Let’s just say that, as far as tool guys go, I’m WAY down on the totem pole, since my first two choices were a license plate and a shish kebob. Neither worked quite well, as I am sure you are shocked. Neither of these conventional tools were long enough or sturdy enough to get some leverage on the easel and knock it free. Then I spied a handsaw. Perfect, I thought. My wife’s at the store, making this possibly ill-conceived plan even MORE perfect, I thought.
Sure enough, I was able to squeeze the saw through the crack in the door and lift the easel out of the way. And it only took out about half of the items in the pantry when it came crashing down. But it was open, even if the door frame was a little, um, sawed and such.
When my wife got home, she was pleased to see that it was free. Not so pleased about the door frame. But I managed to keep her focused on the important issues, and knew a simple way to get her mind off the scratched up door frame. I started to eat some dog food.

A heart day's night

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

Beach bums

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

Oh, the horror

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