How baby toads and ponies are made

I am not prepared to talk about the birds and the bees. I certainly wasn’t prepared to talk about the toads.
My kids are 8 and 6, and I would like to think that I will never have to have that talk with them. Mainly, that is because my wife is in charge of all things technical and clinical.
When I am tasked with real-world issues, in particular ones that deal with the human body, I often try and come up with explanations that simply allow the conversation to end. For example:
CHILD: Daddy, what would happen if we didn’t make it to the bathroom.
ME: God would stop making ponies.
But on occasion, I am thrust into the real-world, real-time job of having actual heartfelt discussions on matters such as these with my kids. Such was the other day during the Earth Day even at Hopelands.
As we were walking around the pond, we heard the distinctive high-pitched sound of Southern toads, calling out amorously toward one another around the bay. Whenever we hear animals calling, my kids and I will stand very still and try to find the animal. This is easy with, say, a cow. But toads and frogs can get tricky.
We went into “listen for it” mode, in which for some reason you bend your knees slightly, put your hands out to your side and cock your head. I have no idea why people do this.
But you know that if you went into the stance in the middle of a crowded mall, most everyone would stop to see if they were missing some important sound.
So we wait for the sounds to pop up again. Immediately, Allie spots our target. “Daddy, in the water!” Parker sprints over to see where she is pointing.
And then he says, “Hey, they’re all riding piggy back.”
At that point, a couple walking a few steps ahead of us stop in their tracks. I am sure they are thinking, “Oh, we’ve gotta see how this one plays out.”
Parker turns to me and says, “So what are they doing, Daddy? Are they playing?”
The gentleman looks at me, waiting for my answer. He is clearly enjoying this.
“Well, son, they’re...”
A small voiced chimed. “Mating. Breeding. They’re making new toads, Parker.” Clearly, Allie had this under control.
“That’s right,” I said, “they’re making baby toads. So let’s leave them alone to... do... their... thing.”
Parker was not ready to move. First, he took some of the duck food he had and set it in front of each of the pairs. The gentleman and I surmised one might enjoy a sandwich or something of that ilk at that moment. Who knows.
And then Parker decided to get a closer look, in particular how exactly the toads were stuck together. After a brief discussion on how we should never do that again, we watched for a while as the recently detached male called out loudly for his lady toad friend.
We watched his throat swell out each time he called, and saw him navigating through the reeds in his quest. We eventually moseyed on down the trail, but I would like to think they were reunited.
My kids were very excited about the find, and told plenty of folks for the rest of the day about it. Nothing like livening up a grocery store trip with a hearty, “WE SAW TOADS MATING!!!” to ring through the aisles.
The fact of the matter is that it is just life, and I always want my kids to learn about the way the world works without mystery or intrigue where it serves only to confuse matters. It’s OK that they know how baby toads gets made. And why God makes ponies.

For the birds

So I get out of a meeting the other day and head back to my office. There, on my keyboard, is a note: “Call your wife – there’s a bird in the house!”
I then noticed I had a text message on my phone: It read “There is a bird in the house! HELP!!!!!!!”
Have you gotten the idea that my wife is less than fond of birds?
I called her, and, taking breaks between laughs, I asked her what the bird status was.
“I have no clue. I left.”
She did not see the humor in the situation that I did. And partly, I think, she was a little miffed at me for having allowed the bird invasion to begin.
It started a few months ago, when a wren began building a nest in our garage.
When the first few pieces of pine straw came in through a cracked window, my wife suggested I close the window and redirect the nest construction project.
I responded by saying, “Look, kids – a bird is making a nest in the garage!!!”
Needless to say, you can’t really stop the nest process once interested kids are involved. Not exactly fair play on my part.
And then about a week ago, we heard the tiny little chirps of baby birds.
The kids were excited that they were going to get to see them leave the nest, and my wife was excited that she was not going to have birds swooping in and out of the garage every time she went to her van.
At that point, our birds showed an uncanny knack for survival.
When they left the nest, there were two ways they could leave the garage: Through the window at the back of the garage, or through the garage door.
Simply hopping out of the garage door seems the easiest, most direct route.
It’s also the quickest path to an army of neighborhood cats that had begun circling my garage.
So the window was the survivor’s approach. Only problem – the window was rather high for baby birds.
It was going to take a few days of learning to fly before they were able to get up there.
So they took dominion over our garage.
The adults were swooping in and out of the window, I assume trying to teach the little ones how to fly, how to not get eaten by a cat, etc.
And this is where I am guessing the security breach occurred.
As best I can tell, someone left the door from the kitchen to the garage ajar, and one of the adults, tired of swooping out the window, decided to investigate. In doing so, the tiny, harmless wren created an evacuation normally reserved for hazardous chemical spills.
In short order, I had arrived to save the day.
My son was eager to assist me. My daughter? She was fine staying back with Mom.
We entered the house slowly, mainly because I was still stopping every two steps to double over laughing.
When we entered the house, I saw the bird flitting about in our sunroom.
Parker and I planned our strategy, and it was one of the more complex in the history of such missions.
It involved:
1. Go to sunroom
2. Open door
3. Watch bird fly out
And there you go. Practically Navy SEAL stuff, huh?
My wife reluctantly admitted that she PROBABLY could have handled that task, and that a wren was probably not going to take her down.
Eventually, the baby birds did learn how to get up to the open window, and all of the birds have vacated the garage, which means there is just one thing left to do: Shut that window.

Oh, the pain

It started about 6 a.m. I awoke, thinking that the tingling in my stomach was the excitement of knowing it was almost time for the kids to get their Eater baskets. Ever since my daughter was a little girl, the Easter Bunny has left the baskets outside, because, quite sensibly, she did not want a giant rabbit sneaking in her room as she slept.

So I woke up and headed out to my car, where the Easter Bunny leaves the baskets each year and relocated them to the front porch. I was heading back to bed when I noticed that the tingle was growing. Easter excitement!

About halfway up the stairs, someone, from somewhere, punched me in the stomach. I did not see the person, but it was a well-placed punch that dropped me to a knee. Clutching the bannister, I steadied myself and made my way up two more steps when I was punched again. Note to self: Ask pest control company to spray for phantom gut punchers.

Eventually, I made it back to bed. I figured the best cure for such an ailment was to curl in the fetal position and moan. This failed to wake my wife. Or, more appropriately, failed to wake her enough to roll over and tell me that I was the sickest anyone had ever been.

Eventually, I was able to drift back to sleep, despite having the worst pains anyone on the planet had ever endured. After a short while, my kids came in and decided to jump on the bed and announce that it was Easter. This was enough to wake my wife. She looked over and said, "Uh, are you OK?" I am not positive, but I think she might have been tipped off that I was slightly ill because I was clutching my stomach, rocking back and forth making growling noises.

I composed myself long enough to tell my wife - the woman who spent roughly 4,000 hours giving birth to our children - that I was experiencing the Worst. Pain. Ever. She responded by taking the kids downstairs, which would have been a really callous response had an alien shot out of my stomach a short while later. Which it didn't. Of course had it shot out of my gut, I am sure she would have felt guilty. Or, just to one-up me, she would have said something snarky like, "Oh, yeah? Come see me when TWO creatures come out of you." Always a competition.

After a little bit longer in bed, I noticed that the stomach cramps seemed to be subsiding. Hey, I thought. Maybe this was a temporary thing! Maybe I'm getting better! Hey, why are the cramps moving ... up ... up ...

Let's skip to the part where I am underneath a bath mat, sweating profusely, feebly hitting my hand on the ground in hopes that my wife will hear me and come find out that I actually am somewhat sick. As an added touch, I whispered, "Jeeeeeeennnnn ... " and reached my hand in the air. Quite dramatic.

Eventually, my daughter came into the room, presumably to use the bathroom and not to save me. "Daddy, why are you under the rug?" "Get ... Mommy ... " was all I could muster.

My wife came in and agreed that I had seen better days. We had several big Easter plans for the day, including Easter lunch at my parents' house and a neighborhood cookout that evening. I told my wife that I would be OK and that I would fight through it and grace everyone with my presence. I was a gamer.

"Uh, don't take this personally," she said, "but no one is going to want be around you."

I took it kind of personally.

By the end of the day, the breakout of my day was:

-- 49 percent: on bathroom floor, quivering, groaning

-- 49 percent: in bed, quivering, groaning

-- 2 percent: Walking downstairs to make sure anyone who was there knew I was quivering, groaning

When I woke Monday morning, I was pleased to find that I had healed. The only pain was from lying down for the majority of the previous 30 hours, which sounds like it would be fun until you do it. My wife asked me how I felt, and I told her that I was fortunately feeling much better. "I guess it was just a one-day thing," I told her. It's nice when the pain goes away quickly. Like after you give birth, right?

Radiator springs

So, I was pulling into my parents’ driveway when I smelled what I thought was antifreeze.
Weird, I thought.
I reasoned it this way: I had cut my air conditioner on for the first time this year. That must be what caused it.
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking – what does your air conditioner have to do with antifreeze? To which I answer – I have no clue. But I needed cause and effect.
I got out of the car and went to the front. The smell was stronger. And my engine was steaming. And hissing. And there was a small puddle developing under the car.
Most likely not the air conditioner, I brilliantly concluded.
I went on inside and was talking to my dad. “I think my car’s broken,” I said. He asked what was wrong.
I told him it was steaming and dripping from the radiator.
He stared at me much in the same way you would stare at someone who had just intentionally stuffed a fork in his own eye.
It was evident that this was not the kind of thing you merely walk away from, shrug and hope it fixes itself.
I went back outside and popped the hood.
Normally, with car repair, I might as well open the back door and look for the problem because I have no idea what to look for.
The only way I would have been able to fix it is if there was a large button that read “PUSH TO MAKE RADIATOR STOP LEAKING.”
Surprisingly, I was able to notice something that was amiss. There is a large container under the hood, with the phrase “Radiator coolant” on it.
It was right next to the windshield wiper fluid reservoir, so I was well versed in opening this complex device.
I popped it open and noticed that it was bone dry. I went back inside and told my dad it was dry.
“Should I put water in it?” He said yes, but I feel certain his brain was screaming, “No, genius, fill it with mustard.”
When I got home, I called a neighbor over to take a look.
He knows way more about cars than I do, and even has those ramp thingees that you drive your car up on so that you can climb under it for some reason.
I popped the hood and handed him a flashlight. He asked me if I had checked the radiator fluid.
At that point, I realized that there was another place to put water directly in the radiator, in addition to the reservoir.
I opened it up and noticed it, too, was quite dry.
I filled it up with water and cranked the car.
Based on the spewing water and the developing puddle underneath my car, one might surmise that the leak had not magically fixed itself.
At that point, I called my brother-in-law, who is a mechanic. I explained to him what was wrong.
“You need a new radiator.” I asked him if I could fix the leak. “No, you need a new radiator.”
After about the 11th question, I think he was growing tired of saying, “No, you need a new radiator.”
The next day, I called around several places to get estimates.
Apparently, installing a radiator is the mechanical equivalent of tying a shoe.
Everyone I spoke to told me that they could do it, that it would only take a few hours, and that they would most likely do it during a nap break since it was such a breeze.
Sure enough, in a couple of hours (and a few hundred dollars later), my car was fixed, and there was no longer a smelly puddle underneath my car every time I stopped.
While I would rather not have had to spend the money, it was nice to know it could be fixed with relative ease. Next time something like this happens, maybe I should try to fix it myself.
I could even borrow those ramp thingees. For some reason.

St. Parker's Day, 6

The Dude is now 6.
Yesterday, we celebrated St. Parker’s Day, the famed celebration of the Patron Saint of Being Born on St. Patrick’s Day.
So, I offer these few Parker tidbits:
• We had our annual breakfast tradition of Waffle House before school. There is no better way to start the day than a waffle and a Cherry Coke.
• His favorite song in the world is the “Boom De Ya Da” commercial for Discovery Channel. If you have not seen it, YouTube it. I challenge you not to feel a little better after seeing it.
• His second favorite song is a commercial for a video game, a song that offers the chorus of, “Oh Know You Didn’t!” My sister finds it less than delightful that Parker has taught his 2-year-old cousin to sing this. In the middle of Wal-Mart.
• Parker blazes his own fashion trail. At this age, I see no problem letting kids dress themselves and set their own style, as there is little chance of being labeled “That Kid” for the way you dress. Of course, I may be labeled “That Parent,” in particular “That Parent Without A Hairbrush for His Child.”
• He’s the bug-huntingest dude you will ever meet. Case in point: The other day, at my parents’ house, he asked for me to come up with a scavenger hunt list for him. One of the things I put on the list was a bessie bug. It took him roughly eight seconds to produce one. He would have rocked on “Let’s Make a Deal.”
• He is very much a little brother. I try to explain this to his sister. At one point, I said, “Allie, ask your aunts what I was like when I was a kid. I was the same way.” She seemed shocked by this. “You were ... mean to them?” I explained to her that “mean” was a kind term for what little brothers can be, and that the best defense is a locked door.
• But he also looks up to his big sister. One of the best sounds in the world is on a Saturday morning when the kids wake up, and Parker heads into Allie’s room with a book, asking her to read to him. (The following sounds are then either additionally sweet or tragically screeching, based on her decision on whether to read.)
• He’s a momma’s boy sometimes, and that’s OK. Sometimes, when you skin a knee or someone hurts your feelings, you need your momma.
• But he’s a tough dude, too. The other day, he came home from school with a note explaining the enormous knot on his head (he and a classmate bonked; she won). For the next few days, Parker made sure his hair did not cover up the nasty bruise on his forehead. Always show off the cool stuff.
• Gotta love his imagination. The other day, we were playing pirate in the den. He had brought his pirate ship downstairs, along with a few toys. How did it end? Jack Sparrow drove Clark Kent’s Daily Planet truck onto the ship and then used a lightsaber to catch a pterodactyl. Top that ending, Disney!
• He clearly differentiates between good and evil. Whenever he sees a Star Wars character, he asks, “Daddy, is he a good guy or bad guy?” He is not grasping the gray area of “bad but awesome,” known as the Boba Fett exception.
• I still get a chuckle when he shares his favorite snack with Grandpa – pickled herring. Not many kids knock back a jar of pickled herring on a regular basis. At least not non-Viking children.

I’m looking forward to year 7, which will include milestones such as starting first grade, losing teeth, painting the dog (just a hunch). I certainly hope it will be a good year, and it will be exciting to see him grow up. Of course, you always hope a part of him stays a kid. After all, somebody’s gotta catch the pterodactyls.

Locked in and out

Had I been considering a career in burglary or safecracking, I would have to think again.
It all started a few weeks ago when I went to leave the house. We have dead bolts on our doors, and you need a key to open them. We had them installed when we moved into the house some eight years ago. While keeping bad guys out is one perk, the main reason we got them was to keep little ones in. I have heard the story of, when I was 3, having pushed a chair up to our front door, unlocking the chain and moseying out into traffic. Next time you drive past Blockbuster, think of me circa 1975, quite a few unpleasant motorists backed up on Silver Bluff Road and my mother in a dead sprint toward me, possibly saying something that started with “You little ...”
So anywho, back to the keys. I went to our usual spot where they live. Nothing there. No surprise. They often migrate away, to coat pockets, counter tops, inside of a kangaroo puppet’s pouch. Usual stuff.
Eventually, I was able to find a key to open the locks, which is good because you don’t really want to have to take your child into school late and sign them in with the reason “locked self inside house.” But one set of keys did not emerge during the quest. And, unfortunately, this was the set that had a key to the lock on the pool gate. I searched and searched, to no avail. So, I did what any sane person would do, and, in a bit of a huff, dragged a drill out at 9:30 at night and tried to break into my own pool gate.
I know what you’re thinking – Mike, why not just call a locksmith? Or find some bolt cutters? Or ... simply not do that? And the answer is simple: because my wife was not home.
The reason I opted for the drill is because I had successfully employed that method a few years back. I remember it being quick and easy. I think my memory is skewed. Donning some work gloves (safety first!) I began to drill out the lock. I recalled that the last time, I simply put the drill bit where the key would go, gunned the drill and click – open sesame. Apparently, however, this lock was made with some otherworldy metal that’s impervious to regular drills.
I assumed that the drill bit I had was simply the wrong size, so I switched it out with a smaller one, thinking maybe I just needed to needle my way in there. Sure enough, putting some muscle into it, I was able to start grinding out the center of the lock. In no time, I figured, this sucker would be open. After about 10 minutes, I saw the drill bit crawl out of the top of the lock. I backed the bit out of the lock and gave it a tug. Still locked. Grrr.
Clearly, another bit was necessary. I went into my tool chest and found a masonry bit. If it’s good enough for concrete, it good enough for a lock. (Tremendous logic, huh?) After about five minutes, I had proceeded to make the hole in the lock slightly bigger, the masonry bit slightly bent and the lock still completely locked.
Because it was getting late (and well past most communities’ outdoor drilling-into-metal ordinances), I opted to hang it up for the night. The next day, I went around the neighborhood asking for bolt cutters. Surprisingly, no one had any. I tried several other approaches, one in which involved ruining a perfectly good pair of hedge trimmers. I also tried using a hacksaw. I am pretty sure the lock actually chuckled at that attempt. I tried to pry it off, when it occurred to me that would more than likely pry off the gate hinge, not the lock.
As a last-ditch effort, I decided to get the largest drill bit I could find. At the very least, I would carve out more of the lock, potentially removing some of its clearly dark soul.
I grabbed the lock, put the drill bit to the bottom and squeezed the drill’s trigger. Click. Lock open. Uncle. Mercy. Call it what you will. I call it victory. And I think we can all take away a very important lesson from this: If I ask to borrow your hedge trimmers, say no.

Twitter tweet

I’m having Twitter issues.
Namely, I can’t figure out what in the world Twitter is.
I have heard the term Twitter used on occasion, but just assumed it was something that I could continue to ignore and be fine, much like oil changes for my car.
Then I learned you could Twitter the Aiken Standard website. Or it was being Twittered. Or something involving Twittering, whatever that is.
Following the links, I was escorted to a page where I could sign up for Twitter. After entering a few fields I was signed up. For something I don’t understand. And can’t figure out how to use. Yea, me!
I asked several people to explain Twitter. No one could do it. I was directed to a “Daily Show” segment on it, which was funny, but still shed no actual light. So I went to the one source for accurate information on internet issues: Wikipedia.
The beauty of Wikipedia is that it is correct because it was put on the Internet by someone who claims to have knowledge of something. Good enough for me.
So Wikipedia says this of Twitter:
Twitter is a social networking and micro-blogging service that allows its users to send and read other users’ updates (known as tweets), which are text-based posts of up to 140 characters in length.
So there you go. It is an avenue for me to say things. Short things. How long is 140 characters you ask? Exactly this many, as I determined by typing it into the Twitter site, which counts down the number of characters you have left to post:
Exactly how many characters are made up in a 140-character post on Twitter? The answer may surprise you. Also, my Master Card number is 3340
Oooh. So close.
So basically Twitter is currently a character countdown machine. I type, and a little “140” on the screen counts down as long as I type. I suspect there is more intended by this.
Apparently, there are “followings” and “followers” on Twitter. I think I am supposed to follow the Twitterings of other people, and they are encouraged to follow me. I am a rather self-involved person, so I think I will focus more along the follower route.
But alas, how do you find people to Twitter with? Supposedly there are millions of people using Twitter. Surely I will know some of them, right? After all, my entire high school is on Facebook, which I still barely understand, so this can’t be too different, right?
Shocker – I found no one. I even went to the part of their site where they will automatically search your e-mail address book to see if any of your contacts are on Twitter. And I willingly entered in my e-mail address and password and sat there dumbly as it searched.
I think it’s a brilliant idea just to randomly go entering your e-mail passwords on websites. After all, I use the high-tech security program known as “hoping for the best.”
I later received a rather exasperated tutorial from a couple of newsroom Twitter experts. They explained to me that it could give me a constant news feed, from any site I choose, be it aikenstandard.com or cnn.com or espn.com or ... well, you get the picture. From any Twitter-friendly site.
“Can’t I just go to those sites?” I asked.
Based on the sighs and shaking of the heads, that is not the point. The point is...something. I think that it’s a NEW way to get an aggregation of news fed onto my computer screen (and apparently my phone, should I so choose).
If you care to see how it plays out, follow along with my tweets (look for StandardMike) and find out just how exciting my day can be. I plan to log a solid day of tweets today. I know you can’t wait to experience it. I look forward to your thoughts about it. All 140 characters of them.

Have a seat

At what age do children actually learn to sit in chairs and on couches as nature intended?
I ask this question because it is clear that my kids – 5 and 8 – have no concept of how to actually use what seem like fairly basic devices. These are kids who can use a Wii. They can TiVo their favorite Disney shows (which is necessary because if you are not careful, you may miss one of the Hannah Montana shows that is only shown 54,000 times a day). They can somehow figure out how to construct an elaborate enough combination of sticks and ropes so as to get one of them stuck in a tree. But sitting? Well, for my kids, that’s just practically like doing the math in “Good Will Hunting.”
For example, we have an island in our kitchen. You get used to swimming around after awhile.
Ha! Get it? Island ... Oh, never mind.
Anyway, there are two high-back bar chairs that sit at the island. My wife and I often enjoy our dinner here, after children have gone to bed. “Why,” you are no doubt asking, “don’t you eat at 5:30 p.m. with your family, after walking in, putting your coat and hat on the hall tree and calling. ‘Honey, I’m home!’” And the answer is no, because I do not live in a 1950s television show.
My kids usually eat before I get home, and my wife and I enjoy a nice – albeit late – dinner together, where we can sit and chat and compare notes over who had the longer day.
When my wife and I eat, we have the whole chair thing down pat – we sit. And that is all. My kids, however, see these chairs as the most awesome, spinning, merry-go-rounds right there in the kitchen. I am fairly sure that, when my kids reflect on their childhood, one recurring memory will be of their father bellowing, “FOUR ON THE FLOOR!!!”
Of course, when they are in the chairs, even balanced on one leg, that is at least a step in the right direction. I am still working to keep them from sitting on the counter. We have a small TV in the kitchen because we cannot risk going from the den to the playroom and missing some Hannah Montana. On occasion, I will find the kids sitting on the counter right by the TV, often having helped themselves to a snack. So I get to offer up such gems as:
— “I make your lunch there. You seriously want to sit there?”
— “Five seconds. See if you can go just that long without staring at a TV.”
— “Where did you find a bag of potato chips that big? You’re sitting in it for crying out loud!”
But the worst infractions occur on the couch. We have two big comfy couches in the den. These couches are perfect for sitting on and even occasionally kicking off your shoes and relaxing for a baseball nap. (A baseball nap, for what it’s worth, is a nap that take about two to three innings. They are best done on a summer Saturday afternoon, between the third and fifth innings. Baseball is a great sport because you can nap during it and not really miss anything. That said, you do not have to actually have a baseball game on to take this kind of nap. It’s just that Hockey Nap sounds odd.)
But my kids do not treat the couches as couches. For starters, it’s like a pillow fire sale – every pillow must go! Some are stacked as new, makeshift chairs. Some are used as fort walls. Some are merely flung, discus style, in an attempt to knock over a big sister.
Second, there is not actual sitting on the couch part. The arm? Sure. The back? You bet. Halfway on, halfway on the floor? Why not? Underneath? As far as they can fit. When I tell them not to sit on the couch in that manner, they act as though I have just asked them to lift a Subaru and commence the most labored grunting and groaning as they move toward the normal, human sitting mode.
Like most everything else with kids, I guess this will just take time. At some point in time, they will learn how to sit in a chair. Or on a couch. Or not on a counter. Until then, I think I’ll make the lunches somewhere else.

Superman falls

Last week, I informed you I am invincible. This week, I would like to repeat that I am still invincible, much in the way Superman is invincible, even when he lost all his powers for a brief spell.
If you recall, I told you of how my family had succumbed to weakness and gotten sick for a two-week stretch. It started with my wife, who passed it on to our son, who shared it with his sister. I, of course, am too awesome to get sick. At least with their pitiful strain of sickness.
Clearly, the sickness that overtook me the very same day that column was published was from a different strain – one most likely created in a lab for use as chemical warfare but deemed far too cruel for use on actual humans. That is the only explanation as to how I got sick. Or, as I was quick to remind my wife, sicker than anyone on the planet had ever been.
It started with a bit of a tickle in the throat. Just something in the air, I assumed. Nothing that a constant, vocal, annoying clearing of my throat wouldn’t cure. Because this was an aggressive and angry version of sickness, the tickle quickly moved to a full-blown hacking, disgusting cough, one of those uncontrollable, full-body seizing coughs that causes you to lunge forward and your eyes to water and creates a general full-body quake that makes you look like you’re doing a Joe Cocker impersonation, to the point where your wife then says, “Seriously? The interpretive dance part? A little much.”
While it would have probably been in the best interest to have myself immediately admitted into the finest medical facility in the world so that I could offer medical specialists an opportunity to study the world’s most ferocious sickness, my wife suggested I instead take some NyQuil and go to bed. I reminded her that my sickness was nothing like the ones she and the kids had experienced.
I did not sleep well that night, mainly because I had convinced myself that my sickness would turn to a flesh-eating virus any time now. By morning, I decided I would get up long enough to take our son to school, and then I would come home and wail and moan loudly until I realized no one was there to hear it.
My wife called and asked me how I was feeling.
“Auuuggghhh,” was my response.
She asked me if I was running a fever, as she and the kids had all topped 102 during their pedestrian sick time. I told her that I did have a fever and that 98.8 was a far worse fever because it is so close to NOT having a fever that it lulls you into thinking you’re not sick. At that point, something must have happened with the phone line, as it went dead suddenly. Perhaps my sickness ate through it.
That night, as I was packing a bag for my inevitable medical experiment ship-off, my wife again suggested I take some NyQuil. And the sooner the better. She told me she was tired of hearing about it, which, as you know, means that it was taxing on her to constantly hear the horrors of my sickness, much like hearing the anguished cries of a loved one having their flesh attacked by piranhas. (I have not actually heard someone be attacked by piranhas, but I would imagine the cries are quite anguished.)
By the next day, I was feeling much better, which shows that my sickness was clearly not related to theirs, as the three of them stretched it out for two weeks. Fortunately, like Superman, I was able to overcome and defeat it and was soon back in top form. I know my wife was glad to see that I was better, as it had to be painful witnessing the horror that I had endured and to know that I had taken on the insidious sickness to spare my family. The things I do for these people.
I know some of you are relishing in what you perceive as me having jinxed myself. To which I say, “Pshaw.” Clearly, I did not have the same illness. Mine, like kryptonite, was probably not of this world. But, like, Superman, I fought valiantly and am once again invincible. Except for this little tickle that’s back in my throat ...

Strong like bull

One thing that is clearly evident after the last two weeks: I am invincible.
I base this on the fact that the rest of my family contracted some vicious alien illness that rendered my house a sick bay.
It started with my wife. She went to bed on a Saturday night, saying she wasn’t feeling that great. Might have a bit of a cold, she thought. She decided to invite our good friend NyQuil over and see how it goes. When she finally got out of bed about three days later, she still felt lousy. It was tough on me, too. I had to feed the kids, get them dressed, help them with homework and the like. You know, the things she does every day. Hardly fair to me.
But she was kind enough to get up long enough to get our son Parker sick. He took the funk baton from her and ran with it. Most kids, when they get sick, like to curl up on the couch, maybe take in a movie, snuggle up with Mommy or Daddy. Not Parker. The more the fever ticked up, the more wired he got.
100 – Sprinting through the den, singing Diego theme song.
101 – Sprinting up and down the stairs, screaming Diego theme song.
102 – Swinging from ceiling fan, emitting a hum that, I think, may have been a rapidly condensed Diego theme song.
Bedtime was a treat, too. Normally, Parker goes to bed quite well. Bath, teeth brushed, swig of NyQuil Jr. (OK, there is no such thing as NyQuil Jr. I checked.) But when he was fired up with fever, there would be no bedtime. I would sit with him, and he would get stiff as a board and say, “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.” So Mommy would come in. “Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.” We both would come in. “Diego. Diego. Diego. Diego.”
After a few days, his fever was down, and he was on the mend, meaning that his sister had her turn. She had been somewhat jealous of all of the attention her brother got. About two days into her illness, she confessed that she had kinda wanted to be sick, but now that she had headed down that path, she would like to pass on it. No can do, you who tested positive for flu. She was miserable, with a fever comparable to Parker’s. Her difference is that she opted for lying in bed, watching the Disney channel, on occasionally moaning loud enough so that we could hear her. There were three mains moans: “Water”; “Take my temperature”; “Get Parker out of here.”
But through it all, one thing remained constant: My refusal to get sick. Some would chalk it up to having gotten a flu shot. Other might call it dumb luck. Clearly, that is insane, as the only sensible answer is that I have an unparalleled strength, and I refused to allow sickness to win.
I know what you’re thinking – you’re thinking it’s only a matter of time until I get sick, especially having said that. To which I say: Pshaw. I do not believe in jinxes. But I believe in submersing myself in a tub of Purel for hours on end.
So I will consider myself victorious in the battle that claimed three in my household. I am the last man standing. For I am strong. Although I do feel a tickle in my throat...

Down memory lane

My kids have taken a curious interest in what things were like when I was a kid. This started a while back when I pointed out the house I lived in until I was 4, which was on Silver Bluff Road. They were fascinated to learn that the BI-LO shopping center was a neighborhood and that a parachutist landed there once. I am not sure why a parachutist chose a neighborhood to land in, but I am fairly certain it was a mistake. Perhaps he was aiming for the large field, across the street, which I refer to as the Kroger shopping center, only to have to say, “No, wait, the old ... oldish ... Krog ... Old Navy shopping center.”
We moved from that house when I was 4, but I still have some memories, in particular of my sisters teaching me how to climb a large magnolia in our neighbors’ yard. They did not, however, teach me the art of climbing DOWN a magnolia tree. I also have another oh-so-fond memory of the time my sisters told me we were going to play Peter Pan. There was a rope with a clip on the end that was hanging from a tree branch. They clipped the end of it to my back belt loop, leaving me hanging in the flying position. They told me to close me eyes, and they would spin me. When I opened my eyes, I would fly!
OK, anyone wanna guess what happened when I opened my eyes? I am still not 100 percent sure how I got down, but I do think my sisters stayed in hiding for a while.
So after sharing these stories, the kids have been asking about various buildings. Among the places we have talked about:
1. The current Aiken County Complex — I was paying a tax bill there, and I explained to Parker that I was born there. He looked up and down the halls. It did not appear to be the best place to give birth. I told him it probably looked a little different then.
2. Mitchell Shopping Center — We were in the Post Office inside Unique Expressions, which used to be, I told him, Woodruff’s Drug, and how I could ride by bike from Grandma’s and Grandpa’s house. That shopping center also used to house an Edwards department store, where I remember shopping one year and finding a gigantic stack of Tupperware containers that I absolutely had to get for my mom’s birthday. I was so excited, I gave it to her about two weeks before her birthday. To my mother, of course, it was the most perfect and fantastic setup of containers EVER. There was also a candy store there, where we used to get either candied apples or popcorn balls, depending on whether you ask me or my sister. Also, where the billiards place is now, was a Brindle’s and a Service Merchandise at various times, one of which is where my Millennium Falcon was purchased.
3. Zaxby’s — While Zaxby’s is a fine place for chicken fingers, my children are in awe of the stories of the former occupant, the greatest pizza establishment ever, Mr. Gatti’s. I have no idea how good the pizza actually was. I just know that it was buffet style and had unlimited soft drinks and video game machines. Combine that with being located across the street from the soccer field, and it was the place to go after a game. For what it’s worth, across the street from Mr. Gatti’s, in what is now Hardee’s, was a Burger King. In high school, my friend Chris and I would go there and both load up – he would get two Whoppers and I would eat two chicken sandwiches. The thought of eating two chicken sandwiches – in particular as a between-meal snack – makes my stomach hurt.
4. Moe’s — From Krystal to Gary’s Hamburgers to Kentucky Fried Chicken, that corner has seen a lot of action. (I am thinking a Dairy Queen was there for a while, too.) The main thing I remember – it used to take roughly nine hours to get a bucket of chicken. I guess they had not fully bought into the fast-food model back then.
5. Heritage Square — What many people call the Home Depot shopping center was home to a Food Lion, which was actually a Food Town first. I remember the TV commercials when they changed the name, with a cartoon lion singing “It’s not Food Town, it’s Food Lion!!!” Guess who hated that jingle? My sisters. And wanna guess who sang it constantly? The shopping center was also home to Wal-Mart, and beside it was a Revco drug store, which was my personal favorite place to get baseball cards, with the obvious exception of ...
6. The building next to Porky Bradberry’s Jewelry — That was home to Donnie’s, a baseball card store. Donnie “hired” me when I was 13, but because you couldn’t technically work when you were that age, he let me hang out in his store and organize cards and such. He paid me each week with store credit. It was the greatest job a kid could ever have. Sometimes, I would spend my credit on a single card, while other times I would go buy a whole box of cards, some of which I still have, unopened. I am guessing 25-year-old gum is delicious.
There are plenty of other places that have changed, some of which I may touch on in a future column. And I am sure my memory could be slightly off on some of these, as many of these recollections were formed on the back of my bike in the 1970s and 1980s. It is fun to stroll your hometown, though, and share your childhood memories as your kids form their own. Maybe some of their memories will be similar to mine. Maybe one day their aunts can teach them how to fly.

Wheeling it

It was a disaster of epic proportions. I heard my wife call over to me from across the street. I turned and saw my son face down in the grass. His bike was overturned. He was less than happy.
Now, you may think I am setting the stage from some brutal bike crash, but I assure you that is not the case.
My son is the master of the slow fall, where the bike starts to lean and he just gradually walks it over on its side. So I was not quite sure why he was lying down. And pounding the grass.
Hmm, I thought. And continued playing basketball.
“MICHAEL!” said my wife, speaking in all caps to show how important my attention to the matter was. I stopped in the middle of an incredibly important game of horse, one in which I had already dispatched two neighbors and was working on a third. “I’m kinda busy here ...” I said, letting her know just how exasperated I was to be interrupted when I had someone at h-o-r-s.
“His bike is broken,” my wife said, somehow thinking I was suddenly a bicycle repairman.
“Horse,” I said, pointing at the basketball goal. She said nothing. And that spoke volumes that I best high tail it over to the broken bike.
When I got there, I saw that the training wheel on the right side had snapped off, splitting the plastic. I looked at it, and said, “Yeah, it’s broken.” I figured I could get back to playing horse.
My wife asked what I was going to do. I told her that I could not fix it, and we would simply have to buy a replacement. Parker found this answer unsatisfactory.
“But you can fix it, Daddy!”
It is really nice to know that my son still believes I can fix anything. Even shattered plastic.
So we walked the bike back to the driveway. I thought about the various ways I could try and reattach the wheel – nails, duct tape, super glue, chewing gum ... Hmmm. No viable options. I told Parker we might have to go to the store to get a new wheel. “But I want to ride now!”
“Well,” I told him, “then you’ll have to ride on two wheels.” Call that bluff, tough guy.
“OK. Take off the training wheels.”
Gulp.
So in short time I had the training wheels off. I told him we would try to go a short distance in the yard, so that when he fell it wouldn’t hurt. I put him on the bike and steadied him. We started moving slowly, and I told him he needed to keep steady, to keep the pedals moving, to look forward.
Apparently he didn’t want to hear anymore direction because he simply pedaled away from me.
Of course, I ran behind him, waiting for him to fall. And I ran. And I ran. And I ran. And he kept going.
He rode over toward a crowd of neighbors nearby. They all braced to catch him.
He veered toward a yard, slammed on the brakes and dismounted.
“There,” I said. “I fixed the training wheel problem.” Remember the scene in “American Beauty” when Lester Burnham gets his Firebird? And he shoots the fist up and says, “I rule!”? Yeah, that was me.
I turned to walk off when a neighbor said, “Uh, you can’t just give him one push and call it done!”
Oh, yeah? I set him on the bike again. And off he went. “Oh, apparently I can.” Fist.
So he is now up and running on two wheels, and I have to say it was the easiest transition in the history of mankind. It would not have been that easy had he suddenly sprouted wheels. Glad it was that easy. And glad he still thinks I can fix ANYTHING.

Intruder alert!

I was heading into the garage, as I am sure you often do, to get some sour cream.
To that you are no doubt saying, “The garage? For sour cream? Well, that makes perfect sense.” And then you vow never to eat chip dip at my house.
Actually, I was getting sour cream out from my garage refrigerator, which is needed to house the overflow food that does not fit in my main refrigerator, whose sole job is to house 500 to 600 pounds of leftovers at a time, which cannot be moved until it is time to throw them out, only to remark to my wife, “Look at how much we throw out!?!?! This is nuts!!!” At that point, she reminds me that my contribution to leftover consumption was zero, and the kids roll their eyes and leave the room, lest the conversation degrade into one about how it’s not that hard to change a toilet paper roll. You know – the kind of things married couples argue about when they have run out of real things to argue about.
So anyway, I was in the garage when I heard my wife call my name. And she did not sound happy. In fact, she sounded terrified, as if a giant squid was reaching through the upstairs window and attacking her. (I have no experience with squid attacks, but I feel certain that should one attack my wife, she might sound that kind of panicky.)
I bolted upstairs and found my wife standing in the playroom, her hands pressing against a closet door. “IT’S TRYING TO GET OUT!!!” she said as I bounded in the room.
“The squid?” I asked.
She looked at me funny.
“What is trying to get out?”
“I don’t know. I was sitting at the computer, I heard the door open, and it banged at the door and tried to get out. It’s a squirrel. Or a mouse. Or a possum. I don’t know. It’s something coming at the door.”
Immediately, I sprung into supreme protector mode. I put my hand on the door. “Dinner is on the stove,” I said. “Go take care of that. I’ll take it from here.” I looked around for something heavy, knowing that the squirrel/possum/squid might be quite powerful.
Once the door was secure, I went into the garage and grabbed a pair of heavy work gloves and a flashlight. My plan was simple: I would swing the door open, shine the light inside the closet, stunning whatever was there. I would then grab it with my gloves and let it go back in the woods/sea.
When I got upstairs, I donned my gloves. I readied the flashlight. I cued up the Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction” in my head to make me feel like an action hero.
One.
Two.
Three.
And with a deep breath, I flung the door open, crouched down with the flashlight and scanned for my nemesis. And I scanned. And I scanned. And I scanned. And I kicked a box to make it show itself. And I scanned. And I pushed another box. And I caught a suitcase that almost fell on me.
For a good minute I probed the closet, trying to find the offending creature. No sounds. No signs of life. Nothing.
I called down to my wife. “Are you sure you heard something?”
She was very sure. She stood at the bottom of the stairs assuring me how sure she was. While at the stairs, she noticed that I had left the door to the garage open. She was also sure that I could close a door. She gave the door a swift shove.
At that point, the closet door that was I standing next to also slammed shut. A metal container hanging on the doorknob rattled on the handle. In fact, it rattled in a way quite similar to, say, a possum scratching the door.
I came downstairs to test my theory. I began opening and closing the door quickly. Each time, I could hear the upstairs closet door open and close, the metal thingie rattling all the way. This told me one of two things: The possum/squid was an excellent choreographer, or the opening and closing was creating some kind of air current that was making it appear that something was trying to bust its way out of the closet.
When I explained my theory to my wife, she seemed a little embarrassed, even if not totally sold on my theory. I told her that it did, indeed, sound like something was trying to get out of the room, and that we at least had good experience, having done a dry run. At the very least, we are prepared. Bring on the squid.

Christmas time

Wow, just about a week left. No time like the present (Ha! Get it? Present!) for some random Christmas thoughts:
• Familiar with the Elf on a Shelf? Concept seems pretty neat to me: It’s a small elf that Santa sits down to keep an eye on everyone in the house. Each night, he flies back to the North Pole to report on everyone’s behavior and then flies back to a different spot, which the kids then search for each morning. I asked the kids if they wanted an Elf on a Shelf. Parker said yes. Allie said, “Uh, I don’t think we need that.” This is the child who, one night before Easter, asked us if the Easter Bunny could leave her basket on the porch, as she really did not want a giant bunny coming in her room. I think I need to stop reading her Stephen King bedtime stories.
• All of the lights are up, and I have sworn off adding any more. My neighborhood gets pretty well decorated, and my cul-de-sac is especially festively bright. How bright, you ask? I replaced my outdoor flood lights the other night when I thought they had both burned out. Turns out, the Christmas lights were bright enough to fool the sensor. Awesome.
• We continued our tradition of getting a real tree this year. By my count, we are one of 11 families in the country that still gets a real tree, which makes it all the more curious as to why it took us four stops to find the right one. I always want to go for the real one because I absolutely love the smell and the feel of a real one. Plus, the chance for a repeat of the cat versus Christmas tree battle from several years ago is worth it.
• You know what I love most about Christmas shopping? The fact that several years ago, my wife told me that a standing birthday present for me would be to have the Christmas shopping done before Thanksgiving. That, my friends, is the gift that never stops giving.
• Do you know what happens when you step on a plastic Smurfette on your way to the bathroom at 4 in the morning? You say things that will get you on the naughty list. And apparently, that crime is worse than the crime of leaving said Smurfette on the floor. At the very least, the Elf could have helped her up before he went to the North Pole.
• I heard on the radio an environmentally friendly way to wrap presents, and that is not to wrap them at all. Instead, the person said, hide the presents all around the house and have kids go find them. While that may be well and good, this brings the distinct possibility of uncovering a Transformer stashed under an end table about 11 years later. Additionally, without wrapping paper, I would not be able to periodically shout, “NO WRAPPING PAPER IN THE FIRE!!!” a time-honored tradition handed down from my father. I cannot wait until Parker can yell it at his own house.
• Now is the time of year when people start asking me what I am getting my wife. I think I am just going to start coming up with insanely off-the-wall things so that people will leave me alone. In the past, I have responded, “Well, we usually give each other a few small items, and some years go in on something for ourselves, such as a TV or a trip or something.” To that, people often respond, “Oh, she SAYS that she doesn’t want a big gift, but she REALLY wants a diamond/gold bracelet/date with Brad Pitt.” And like birthdays and anniversaries and all other gift-giving holidays, I have to say, “No, I know my wife well, and we have our gifting system rather defined and blah blah blah.” So, to avoid that, let’s go ahead and get it out there: This year, for Christmas, I am getting my wife a gold and diamond encrusted date with Brad Pitt.
• That is all for now. (Guess I will ... wait for it ... wrap it up! Ha! OK, I’ll stop.) Hope your final week of Christmas preparation is merry and fun. And never forget what this season is all about – keeping wrapping paper out of the fire.

Free ride

I don’t know much about cars. But I know that when my car can be heard from 11 blocks away, it might be time to get it looked at.
I learned this lesson in college. I had the most sporting 1984 Toyota Corolla that you could imagine. It was my grandmother’s car before my possession, so you know it was practically a muscle car. Toward the end of its noble life, the Corolla could limp to a whopping top speed of about 35 mph. Also, the driver’s side window was permanently stuck halfway down (or halfway up, if you’re an optimist). But the most delightful part of my four-wheeled stud machine was the loud grinding sound that came from the engine. To give you an idea of how loud it was, my wife and I were dating at the time, and if I was going to pick her up at her apartment, she could simply keep a window open. When she heard my car coming, she would start getting ready. By the time I arrived, she had already snuck out of her apartment and headed out with her car, so that no one would pair her with my awful contraption.
I definitively knew something was wrong with my Corolla many moons ago. And for the several months I drove it like that, I confirmed to most people that, yes, I did realize it sounded like an incredibly loud blender was under my hood. When I finally had someone check out my car, I was informed that I had a cracked mount. When I was told this, I said, “Hmmmm. A mount, huh? And it’s cracked, you say?” I still have no idea what that means, but I have decided it is bad.
So using the knowledge I gained in college, I had a fairly good inkling that something might be wrong when my current car started sounding like a very loud creaking box spring. I have several friends who know more about cars than I do (for example, they know what spark plugs do). I asked them what they thought was wrong. Someone suggested it was the bushings. “Hmmmm,” I said. “The bushings, huh? Do you think they’re cracked?”
Eventually, I took my car in for repairs. The bushings were somehow involved, but the needed work included replacing arms. I assume my car has these.
The repairs, unfortunately, were not free that day, so I opted to park the Creakymobile in the driveway and borrow my mother-in-law’s car. The car is a fine car, a large luxury sedan. And, apparently, I don’t belong in a large, luxury sedan. Every time I step out of her car, I get strange looks from people, as though I have an older person bound and gagged in the backseat.
People I know have even remarked things such as, “What’s with the car?” and “Did you get a new car?” and “Do you have an older person bound and gagged in the backseat?” (My responses: Loaner; No; You saw nothing.)
Driving the great big boat of a car reminds me of when I got my driver’s license when I was 15, which is the single worst law ever put into effect anywhere. I base this on the scientific study of having been a 15-year-old. It would have been safer for me to unicycle over a Grand Canyon tight rope. For me personally, I had several things going against me:
1. I was not even 5 feet tall.
2. I looked like I was 8 years old, causing other drivers to be distracted as to why a third-grader was cruising around town.
3. My mother’s car was a Mercury Grand Marquis, which was about the size of a Taco Bell.
I guess I shouldn’t complain too much about my current ride. I mean, at least I have a car to get me from point A to point B. And, as soon as I get my car fixed, I will be able to park the Grand Marquis, V 2.0. Besides, I don’t want to drive it too much. Something might crack.

Cinderella meets her match

We walked out of the tent and into the cold winter air. My 5-year-old son did not even notice the chill. He grabbed my coat sleeve and tugged. I looked down and saw the grin was still on his face. “Daddy,” he said, “she’s beautiful.”
And so began my son’s fascination with the Stone Mountain Snow Angel, a lovely young woman with whom children can have their picture taken. In fact, he was so fond of the Snow Angel that she has dethroned Cinderella as his No. 1 crush, a spot she held for two years. (Cinderella ascended to the top spot at Disney two years ago when, during a photo op, Parker and his perma-grin decided he would be quite content staying there hugging the princess.
We went to Stone Mountain for Thanksgiving to visit my inlaws. On the Wednesday before, we decided to head to the big ol’ hunk of granite to take in its Christmas display, which includes roughly 48 trillion lights and gobs of Christmas-related entertainment. Some would argue that the Wednesday before Thanksgiving is not, in fact, Christmas season, and would then go on to make the never-before made point that “Christmas season just keeps starting earlier and earlier each year,” and then spin the memories back to a simpler time – a time when Christmas apparently began around 4 p.m. on Christmas Eve.
For me, Christmas can be year-round. I’m a big Christmas nerd, and can’t wait for the season to start each year. Even when stuff starts going up in the stores around October, I find it not a reason to harumph the early start, but rather to chastise the other holidays for not being nearly interesting enough to hold their own month. And you call yourself a holiday, Halloween!?!?!? (Yes, I know that I wrote a while back that Christmas music cannot be sung until after Thanksgiving. That still holds true, but the decorations can stay up all the time. Hypocrite? Yes. Yes, I am.)
When we arrived at the park, it was clear they had the place dressed to the nines with lights. It was like a little winter Vegas. Lights. Everywhere. To show you what a Christmas nerd I am, as I stood in front of the illuminated entrance, I realized that I had pretty much left my entire family several rows back in the parking lot. Hey, Christmas might start without me.
Eventually, I took a deep breath and vowed not to abandon my family any more. Inside the park are restaurants and shops, and the pathways were all light-lined. We strolled a little ways in, trying to figure out which of the myriad of activities to take on first. And when you’re in a decision making pinch, there is one tried and true solution: Ask Mrs. Claus.
As we stood there looking at a map and generally appearing lost, Mrs. Claus just happened to be strolling by. The kids stared at her and back at us. Mrs. Claus greeted the kids and paused for a quick picture. She then said, “You probably want to head that way,” pointing to a side path, “and see Santa and the Snow Angel.” She leaned into my wife and whispered where the best spot to watch the fireworks was. Insider trading from Mrs. Claus. Nice.
Indeed, Mrs. Claus had guided us wisely, as we were in no time visiting with the Snow Angel, and then with the big man himself. When my daughter informed him that she would like the whole family to get a Nintendo Wii, Santa said that he had received that request quite a bit, and that his elves were having to put in a lot of time in the electronics workshop to fill all of those requests.
Toward the end of our visit, we prepared for the fireworks show, staking out a spot just where Mrs. Claus had directed us. The Snow Angel was going to make another appearance, we were told, which made the fact that Parker was two hours past his bedtime irrelevant, as there would be no fussing as long as the Snow Angel was coming back out.
Parker was perched on my shoulders when a bright light appeared above one of the buildings. And there she came. Flying. Yes, the Snow Angel can fly. Or, as Parker said, “And she can fly!?!?!?!” Not only did she fly, but she made it snow, too. Snow Angel – she’s practically a superhero?
As the Snow Angel wrapped up her snow-producing flight, the fireworks show began. Everyone turned their eyes to the mountain and the huge bursts of color. Well, everyone but Parker. His eyes were on the Snow Angel. He saw her zip to the other end of the park, and then descend down behind a fence, I guess heading off to her snow castle. Cinderella, you might want to start flying lessons.

Idontwanna hear Iwanna

I have banned the “Iwannas.”
No, not the want-ad magazines. You are free to shop for a used car. But you are not allowed to tell me over and over and over how much you want an Iwanna, which would amount to saying “Iwanna Iwanna” over and over. Follow me? No?
The problem has arisen because my children have taken to adding “Iwanna” as major parts of their vocabulary.
Case study No. 1: The Zaxby’s incident. We were heading home the other day, and I asked the kids what they wanted for lunch. Allie said, “Iwanna go to Zaxby’s.” I told her that we were going to eat at home, as our last 423 meals had been at Chick-fil-A and Zaxby’s, and I was fairly certain we were about to turn into chickens. For the duration of the car ride home, I was informed that a Zaxby’s destination was desired. Again. And again. And again.
At this point, there are a couple of options:
1. Announce that not only are we not going to Zaxby’s, we are never going to Zaxby’s again, and in fact, we are not even allowed to have Z words in the house anymore, so your brother has to get rid of his plastic zebras.
2. Clench the steering wheel tightly, lean forward, staring intently at the road, until you pull in the garage, get out of the van, walk inside, find your wife and say, “Yours.”
I opted for No. 2, which I am sure made her consider packing up the kids and going to Zaxby’s, just for chuckles.
Later that day, when the dust settled, I sat down with my children and informed them that the Iwannas were going to have to go. I then had them watch “Apocalypse Now” for perspective on how good their lives really are.
Ha! Little war movie humor. I would never have them watch that. It was “Full Metal Jacket.”
Just as bad, of course, are the “Idontwannas.”
Case study No. 2: I was getting ready to take Parker to school the other day. I told him to get his lunch box out of the fridge. He slumped his head, groaned and said, “Ohhh ... Idontwanna ...”
Now, keep in mind the laborious efforts that go into getting a lunch:
1. Opening the fridge
2. Grabbing a Transformers lunch box
3. Closing the fridge
And that effort gives you lunch, with a Fruit Roll-Up, thank you very much. Seems a small amount of effort for lunch. But the instinctive “Idontwanna” kicks in, and he doesn’t even stop to think, “Wow, I am spending more energy with this little display than I would actually getting my lunch.”
Don’t get me wrong. My kids are good kids, and they are, fortunately, not chronic whiners. Sure, they have their moments, but my wife says that I do, too, which I think is completely untrue, but I allow her to say it because it makes her feel better. I have never, ever shown a bad mood or whiny nature, and if I did, could it possibly, just possibly, be because I was tired? Or hungry? Or just generally fussy? Can’t a guy have a bad day!?!?!
Oh, wait, got sidetracked.
So we are going to work on the Iwannas and Idontwannas, especially as we head into the holiday season. It is very important for my children to grow up appreciative of what they have. It’s not that we live like kings, but I do want my children to be thankful for what they have and understand that you won’t get everything you want in life, and that’s not only OK, but pretty much a law of nature. I think each day, I need to remind them how important it is that they value things. I think I will follow them around saying “Idontwanna hear any more Iwannas.”
Michael Gibbons is the managing editor of the Aiken Standard.

Sell sell sell!

Admit it. You’ve been there.
You look out your window see a neighbor walking with child in tow.
The child is carrying a sheet of paper as they head to a house a few doors down.
Returning a borrowed magazine, perhaps? Maybe dropping off a few pages of a recently penned manifesto?
The door opens, and the little hand raises up the sheet of paper and a pen. Uh-oh. It’s fund-raising season.
FAST FACT: One provision of the No Child Left Behind Act is that every American child must participate in at least 11 fund-raisers each week.
Back to our story. You now have only a moment to decide your course of action. No one NEEDS wrapping paper, a pizza kit, cookie dough, etc.
You think about making an emergency grocery store run. You consider the “No speaka the English” routine that you tried on the telemarketer.
You even think about saying, “Sorry, Timmy. Burglars stole all of my money.”
And then you turn and see your kids. Immediately flashing before you is the memory of all the times you stood at a neighbors door, hawking wares.
And you remember how your neighbors never once told you they didn’t speaka the English, but instead dutifully bought a make-your-own pretzel kit that, no doubt, still sits in their freezer.
FAST FACT: No American has every actually eaten an entire box of oranges – and lived to tell about it.
The latest sales pitch that came around was a 2-year-old from across the street. (His mom even turned his ball cap around backwards to make it extra hard to resist. Well played, Mom. Well played.)
Seeing that helped me remember the first time we had to make the rounds with our kids to shake down the neighbors.
I don’t even recall what we were selling, but I took an almost embarrassed and sheepish approach as I went to each house.
Of course, neighbors with older kids understand you are simply going through your initiation.
FAST FACT: Of the cookie dough we bought, I will eat roughly 2/3 of it raw, only stopping because I am caught in mid-act, scooping it out with my hand.
At least the stuff that they sell these days is getting better.
I remember when I was a kid playing T-ball, and we had our door-to-door fund-raiser.
And what is the best thing to have little boys go around selling? Why shampoo, of course.
My parents ended up buying this industrial sized keg of strawberry shampoo that lasted for about 11 years.
Throughout my childhood, the only thing I remember using that shampoo for was to wash the dog, because what German Shepherd DOESN’T want to smell like strawberries?
FAST FACT: It is estimated that 90 percent of a child’s exercise comes from walking house to house selling things for fund-raisers.
But, so it goes when you have kids or when you live in a neighborhood with them. It’s just part of the rent.
If it makes you feel better, use this simple formula: Add up the number of children within a two-block radius. Multiply that by 12. Set that dollar amount aside at the beginning of each year, and your wrapping paper, cookie dough and pizza kit funds will be covered.
FAST FACT: $12 is a magical number required on all school fund-raisers.
So, the next time the doorbell rings, and you see neighborhood kid with paper in hand, don’t plot your exit strategy and grab the checkbook.
Just do your duty.
And you’ll know if it’s my kids selling stuff. They’ll be the ones with their hats turned backward.

Carpet country

It’s carpet season, and we are on the hunt for the finest carpet in the land.
Our current carpet was originally installed when we first moved in, when our daughter was a baby. She’s 8 now, and she has a 5-year-old brother. Combine three dogs and one cat (7 years, 8 years, 3 years and 8 years, respectively, in the house), and that adds up to 39 years of carpet nastiness.
Now, don’t get me wrong. We have tried to keep our carpet clean. We vacuum it. We have had it professionally cleaned. We even encouraged the kids NOT to grind Pop-Tarts into it.
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that the first rule should be NO FOOD UPSTAIRS! And I agree. Because that rule is there. Food is not allowed upstairs. Or in the van.
Slight problem: You have to actually enforce the rules. And the kids don’t even have to try to weasel around the rules. It goes like this:
MONDAY: The week always starts off easy. Lunches were made the night before, and school clothes were set out. The kids ask to have some Corn Pops upstairs. “Oh, kids, you know there’s no food upstairs!” And the whole family chuckles together. I am pretty sure this scene is shot in black and white.
TUESDAY: The wheels have come off. While trying to find a matching hair band and the other shoe as well as figure out how someone could lose a bright yellow Transformers lunch box – IT’S BRIGHT YELLOW! – you and your spouse are busy running laps past each other saying things like, “Well, you drove the car home, so the keys HAVE to be here somewhere” and “I thought YOU were taking her to the orthodontist.” At that point, one of the kids asks if they can have Corn Pops upstairs. They could have asked if they could use the power drill on the computer, as the answer would have still been, “Whatever, where are the keys/hair band/lunch box?”
And so the food rule is broken. Same thing happens in the van. You are on your way to school – awesomely on time for a change – when you put your child in the car and hear, “Daddy, I’m hungry.” Then it occurs to you that, as a parent, breakfast would be a nice addition for your child. So you convince yourself that Pop-Tarts are practically fruit salad, whip one in the back seat, and pick out the crunchy remnants a week later.
So over time, carpets can get nasty. Ours has reached that point. My wife decided that she would embark on the carpet quest alone, as she knew I would be zero help.
HER: Do you like this style?
ME: Sure.
HER: How about this one?
ME: Sure.
HER: This one?
ME: Sure.
HER: I just showed you a baloney sandwich.
ME: Sure.
Fortunately, she knows that, when I tell her I really don’t care, I do mean I really will be OK with whatever her pick is. I also am worthless with colors. It’s not that I’m colorblind. But I am definitely color indifferent. Case in point: I am still pretty sure our first house was gray. My wife has shown me pictures in which it is very clearly tan. Yet I still remember it as gray. So when she brought home a selection of different color samples, you can guess how helpful I was. It was especially confusing since they all appeared tan to me, meaning I had to wonder if my wife was getting gray carpet, since they are apparently interchangeable.
As we move forward with the carpet process, we are in the one phase that is actually a part I am liking: The purging. This is where you go through every room, and put every thing in it in a big black trash bag to throw out. Then, you wait until your wife comes in and says, “Uh, we are not starting from scratch, and also I am pretty sure that one bag has the cat in it.”
But we are going room to room and seeing what things can be relocated to a different home (namely a landfill home). We are also finding some things that we have not seen in ages. I am not sure why one of my favorite T-shirts was wedged behind a Harry Potter book in the playroom, but it’s great to have Ol’ Blue back in play.
So in a few weeks, the process will be complete. It will be nice to have clean, crisp new flooring, and I am sure we will work hard to keep the food downstairs. After all, we want to preserve its original color of tan. Or gray.