Gardening shmardening...

Back in April, I shared with you the story of the garden the kids and I made.

I shared with you then how previous attempts at gardens had resulted in the exact opposite of a garden, as gardens have fruits and vegetables and living things in them.

But this garden was to be different. It would thrive because:

1. We were doing a raised bed, because everyone knows that elevating your soil four inches off the ground makes for scrumptious food.

2. I added garden timbers, because everyone knows surrounding your elevated soil with wood makes food more healthy.

3. I planted a diverse selection - broccoli, watermelon, green beans and cucumbers - because diversity is key to any garden, as any farmer will tell you. If you ask him to tell you that.

Well, here we are, in the heart of the harvest season, while vegetable gardens are churning out baskets full of bounty from the soil. And in my basket you will find...

...wait. Before we get to that, let me remind you that it is has been very hot. And we were gone for a week back in June. And one of the timbers did fall, and was later co-opted to be part of a fort. And elevated soil is incredibly comfortable if you are an excitable Dachshund looking for a nice, shady napping spot. I'm just saying we need to keep these things in mind.

OK, so we got nothing. If we were frontiersmen, we would have had to become the Donner Party to survive. I mean not squat. The only thing that even remotely hinted at growing were the green beans, which popped out as these pathetic looking little weeds, two of which sprouted these embarrassing little green nubs that looked more like Mike and Ike candies than green beans. They withered away after a few days. Even the squirrels and birds didn't bother to poach them. Upside of my garden - think of all the time, money and effort I save on not having to worry about anything stealing my stuff. No sense putting fences or screens up for something that's not there. As a courtesy, I suppose I could direct the critters to my neighbors' successful gardens, which includes anti-critter investments.

The kids were disappointed in the outcome of the garden. My wife told me that the location was the main reason why, as it was in the back corner of the yard and didn't get watered enough. I explained that I did water it some, but any time that I didn't water it was not the fault of location. I can lug a hose the extra 20 feet. The real problem, as I explained to her, was angering the Gardening Gods, who punished us by withholding nourishments for our crops. I can only assume it was past indiscretions against fruit and vegetable seeds.

So the kids are now looking to the fall harvest. I have explained to them that (a) it's not the best time to plant and (b) we're pretty terrible at it. But they are convinced the next time they plant will be the time the harvest springs forth. Bless their little optimistic hearts...

I am hoping I can distract them from their desire to plant another garden. I think the message has been received. Gardening just isn't my thing. And, hey, I'm not alone. Groceries and produce stands have long existed for those of us without the desire or ability to grow our own food. I think I'll just be content getting my food the traditional way. And I certainly know how I'm getting my fall harvest. And it's not gonna be frontier style...

Stinging situation

What did we learn this week?

We learned that my car can go far beyond the empty fuel line, with room to spare.

We learned that a miniature space shuttle, if placed in the appropriate place in the hallway, can bring down a grown man in the middle of the night.

But most importantly, we learned to look inside the waders before you put them on.

I learned the latter lesson on a biology field trip over the weekend. We were going to check some traps in a pond, hoping to find some turtles, fish, etc.

There are some waders by the pond, hanging upside down on some pegs in order to keep critters from crawling inside. This is a good idea. Critters cannot, in fact, climb inside. They can, it turns out, fly inside.

I was the one tasked with putting on the waders. Someone remarked that there could be critters inside the waders. Pshaw, I remarked, as the waders are upside down.

I grabbed the first pair, and realized they were hip waders designed to fit the feet of, by my estimate, a newborn. I tried the second pair of hip waders, and realized these were slightly larger, designed to shod a three-year-old.

I turned to the other waders and found a pair that appeared to be my size. These were thigh waders, with a fancy little strap that would hold them securely to your leg.

I kicked off my tennis shoe and stuck my left leg into the wader, sliding my foot into place. And I then set the world record for fastest time ever to remove a wader when I felt an incredible stinging pain in my calf and the bottom of my foot. As I was jumping around and doing a one-legged hop to a nearby bench, everyone was asking me what was wrong. "ACK!" I believe was the reply.

When I got to the bench, I pulled off my sock. I looked down at my calf and saw a small red welt, and then saw a similar one on my foot. Someone picked up the wader, turned it upside down and began shaking it. Out flew one wasp. And then another. And then another. I did not like those wasps.

After the entire wasp family had exited the wader, we turned it over and looked inside. There, about halfway down in absolutely clear sight, was a wasp's nest about the size of my fist. I feel fairly confident that had I looked, I would have seen the nest. Granted, a wasp might have flown out and stung me in my in the face, so perhaps I was better off.

For the rest of the day, my foot and calf were quite sore. They both developed large red spots around them, but they were really never more than an annoyance. Or, as I told my wife, the worst pain anyone has ever suffered. Ever.

The worse of the two stings was definitely the one on the bottom of my foot. If you have an enemy who is in dire need of physical harm, I highly recommend a wasp sting to the arch of the foot. It will send a message. That message: "I hate you. A lot."

I was able to make it through the rest of the field trip, stopping on occasion to lean up against a tree and quietly groan in agony. But that was mainly when my wife was around, just to remind her how bad the pain was.

When we got home, my wife boldly took on the job of looking at my foot - which had been tromping around the swamp on a hot summer day - and examining it. I have no idea if the wasp that stung me is the kind that leaves its stinger in you, but when she poked around for a few minutes with some tweezers, it did suddenly feel better.

So I did learn a valuable lesson, and I will never again think waders are secure just because ground dwelling critters can't get in them. You can have nasty bugs that want to hurt you. Of course, it could be worse. It could have been a miniature space shuttle.

Terminator Mom

My son learned a valuable lesson this weekend: Don't call your mother's bluff.

This particular bluff: He was acting up in the pool, as his mother sat deckside, fully dressed. "You won't come in the pool," he said. "You've got clothes on."

Wrong call, dude.

The event happened at a recent party we were having. We had some friends and family over, and everyone was having a fine time. Parker was in the pool with some of the other kids as my wife and a friend sat poolside. Parker had a toy that shoots water. Now, we have some standard rules in the pool: No running, no jumping close to the edge, no teaching the cat to swim, etc. Another rule is that you do not splash people who are not in pool attire. This rule grew from my summer ritual of coming home from work and sitting by the pool while the kids swim. It was originally called the "YOU GOT MY CROSSWORD WET!!!" rule, but my wife and I have since expanded it to anyone sitting poolside wearing street clothes.

So Parker thought he would break the rule, and started shooting water at our friend.

"Parker," my wife said, "do not spray her with water."

He got a devilish smile. Water again. "Parker..." The tone was changing.

Splash, again. "Parker, do it again and I will come in there. And you will NOT like it if I come in there."

And then he made the mistake. He called her out. He gave her a "no you won't" line of defiance.

My wife calmly stood up, took her shoes and sunglasses off, and proceeded to the steps of the pool. And down she went. She marched into the pool and went across the shallow end. Parker stood frozen. She approached him, took the water cannon, and proceed to fling it out of the pool. She then marched out of the pool, as Parker began to melt into a combination of fear, sorrow and a smidge of awe. As one partygoer described it: "He was so freaked out that the Terminator Mom wasn't thwarted by the pool as a barrier."

My wife emerged from the pool, dripping wet, casually grabbed a beach towel from the fence, and calmly strolled toward the house. As she walked in, she looked over at me. "Deal with him." And in she went.

I went to the edge of the pool. "Come. Here. Now."

He was there quickly. His lip was quivering, and we was about to start crying. "What is going on?" I asked.

"Am I grounded?"

"What?" I asked.

"Mom said I was grounded. Is it true?"

The look in his eyes told me this - he had no clue what grounded meant. But he was awfully scared of it.

I told him he needed to get out of the pool, go upstairs and apologize to his mother. "I'm not going to get to go swimming again, am I?" he said. Tears were welling up, and he was pretty much painting a scenario that was about 10 times worse than worse case.

"Just get out of the pool," I said.

He went and sat in a chair, his towel wrapped around him, his lips quivering, and looking to the ground. "Parker," I said, "you need to go inside and talk to your mother." He looked at me with one of the best looks a child looking to get out of trouble has ever given.

Shortly thereafter, he decided to head inside, and had even decided on his own sentence. When we got upstairs, he gave a tearful apology, and he offered up a self-imposed swimming ban. In his apology, it became clear that the splashing in the pool was meant as a fun little game. And he now realizes that when Mom says "Game over," it's game over.

After his exile was concluded, he was a bit of a momma's boy for the rest of the evening, trying to curry favor with the woman he had wronged. It was no harm in the long run, and he learned the most important lesson of all. Mom can swim. And she'll come after you...

Talk talk talk talk talk talk

So my nephew, Samuel, was in town the other day, and he clearly had a severe case of what specialists call Chatterboxitus.

Chatterboxing is a serious medical condition that afflicts small children and causes them to talk. Constantly. Without stopping for breaths. Its only known cure is leaving the patient with grandparents while the parents go out for dinner. And probably drinks.

And, in the interest of full disclosure, I feel obliged to confess this: Both of my children are recovering chatterboxes.

For those of you not familiar with small children, here is a simple test to determine if a child is chatterboxing: Did he or she wake up around 4 in the morning and talk nonstop for the next 12 hours?

It is quite an amazing stream of consciousness. When we arrived at the house on Saturday morning, I saw Samuel standing in the middle of the den. He was dancing. And singing. And attempting to juggle. And talking to the cat. And having a conversation with the "Astroboy" movie that was on TV.

I looked over at my sister, who sighed. Parents of chatterboxes do that a lot. We sigh. Because we have tried EVERYTHING. And it only leads to more chatterboxing. "Why are you breathing like that? I want to breathe like that. It's kind of like a yawn. I like yawns. But not sleeping. My bed has Batman sheets."

My folks had tried a little diversion earlier in the day. They had taken him for a walk that morning, and he offered this commentary: "Is that a tree? Is it a pineapple tree? We could have pineapples. Are there coconut trees? We could get a coconut. Is that a tree? Look there. Another tree." Repeat this type of conversation for about two blocks.

Now, before you go judging Samuel (or, worse, his wonderful uncle), let me clarify that he was doing what most kids do - getting riled up and excited and having a blast. He's not even 3, and add to that mix going to Grandma and Grandpa's, where there are aunts and uncles and cousins and popsicles - LOTS of popsicles. Pretty easy to get on the riled up side. Trust me, I know. As I said, my kids are recovering chatterboxes.

I remember a time when my daughter was about that age. I asked my wife, "Why won't she stop talking?" This was on the last leg of a trip to Atlanta. My son was diagnosed when a friend of ours took him for the day. She called us during a car ride and asked, "Does he ever stop talking?"

The conversations of chatterboxes are truly amazing. Like Samuel's infatuation with trees, they often focus on the current interest of the child, and then spawn into run-on thoughts. Example:

"Do you like pirates? I like pirates. Do they fight vikings? Who would win between a Viking and pirate? Would the loser go to jail? Would it be Viking jail or pirate jail? And can police officers arrest a Viking? How about a pirate? Police officers have big belts. They keep guns on them. Vikings don't have guns. Do they have belts? If a pirate had a belt, could he have a gun?"

My response was usually something like: "AHHHHHH!!!! STOP STOP STOP STOP!!!!!"

Of course, now that my kids have outgrown the chatterbox stage, I find myself not being as bothered by the bouts. For example, when I first saw my nephew going nuts, was my reaction to call for him to stop? To try and find him an outlet? To seek a distraction? Or, possibly, was is it to encourage my dad to get his iPhone, which has a video camera on it, so that he could film that awesomeness of Samuel doing a cat impersonation?

I'm gonna go with the latter.

Let's be honest - chatterboxing is something some kids do when they need to channel some energy and don't quite know how to do it. They'll learn eventually that there are better ways to harness that energy. Such as finding a coconut tree. And a pineapple tree. With a pirate. And a Viking.

DC comical

So my family and I just spent five days in Washington, D.C. Let's go to the highlight reel:

* I am clueless on what to tip when unless it's a restaurant. When it comes to valet parking (which was required at the hotel we were at), I was glad I listened to my sister's advice: Keep a bunch of $1s and $5s handy. Of course, I showed my true level of unsophistication when, needing a bag out of the van, I told the guy he just needed to show me a way into the garage, not bring the car around.

* If you have ever taken a 7-year-old into an art gallery, you know the most common comment from everyone else in the gallery is, "Why did they bring a 7-year-old into an art gallery?" My wife solved that problem by having our son count the number of animals he found in paintings. Always nice to walk into a quiet room full of masterpieces and hear, "Lion. Peacock. Dog. Dog. Up to 22."

* Speaking of art, my son did offer one piece of art critique. We went into a Mark Rothko exhibit, which featured as series of large black rectangles, on which were painted smaller black rectangles. His comment: "This is considered art?" Now I am sure some of you can give me sheer volumes on why it was, in fact, art. But we didn't stick around to study it. We went on to see dinosaur bones. They were awesome.

* We were amazed by the traffic and pedestrians. Everyone just marched along, waiting for their red/green light or walk/don't walk signal. Clearly, the execution of jaywalkers has sent the desired message.

* At our visit to the National Zoo, we were fortunate to experience not only an octopus feeding, but also a display of the adult female Homo sapiens, and how they can band together against one who has gone against tribe culture. During the set 3 p.m. octopus feeding, a woman with a small child sidled up to the tank and blocked pretty much everyone's view, while holding her child up to the glass. The child alternated between disinterest and sleep. When a woman next to me asked the woman to step back so that others could see, Mrs. Glass Hog responded that she had earned her spot there and would not move. At that point, the females behind her banded together. They began finding as many kids who were blocked out and essentially wedged them in front of her. The woman next to me (no, not my wife) leaned in and whispered something to the woman, and ended with a comment to her about how she was a big baby.

* There are three - THREE - floors to the Air and Space Museum's gift shop. I may actually still be there.

* My wife and I often remark that it does not do much for our appearance of being small town folks when our kids, say, marvel at escalators. They took it a notch higher in D.C. "Daddy, why is that woman in the dress collecting things from the trash can?" Nothing to see here, sweetie. Nothing to see.

* Speaking of being small town folks, my wife is from Atlanta, which is, I am sure you have noticed, NOT a small town. My wife was raised with this mentality of a big city: It is bad and here to kill you. So, when we were heading home one evening and the President's motorcade was leaving a charity event, she was thrilled that we were in, what I believe, was the safest place on the planet. From the guys on the street to the guys on the buildings to the guys in dark SUVs everywhere you looked, we were plenty confident that this big city was under control. We got to see the President's car leave, and, I am fairly certain, saw his silhouette in one of the limos. Of course, he might have also left an hour prior in a 2002 Nissan Maxima that no one paid attention to.

* Lines schmines. We had a White House tour set up for 9 a.m. on Wednesday morning. We arrived about 8:45 a.m., and saw a line that stretched roughly to Baltimore. I approached the guard there, hoping to find out those people were actually in line for a Treasury Department tour or something. "Uh, is this the..." She cut me off. "For the White House tour, yes, sir. Do you have an appointment?" I told her we had a 9 a.m. appointment. "Oh, right here," she said, motioning me to a second line that consisted of a whopping four people. "What is the last line?" I asked. "The 8:30 tour," she said. Note to self: Half-hour tours are for suckers.

* The best meal I ate the whole time: The one the kids were most anticipating: A hot dog on the Mall. Mmm, mmm, patriotism.

* Two of the biggest WOW! moments came at the American History Museum. The look on Parker's face when he saw C-3PO, and the look on Allie's face when she saw Dorothy's ruby slippers. My wife had her WOW! moment seeing Julia Child's kitchen. Did I mention we saw C-3PO? WOW!

It was a great trip, and I know I have only scratched the surface of adventure. It is definitely a town we could visit over and over. I just need to find out where the Presidential motorcade will be so we can be safe.

Ax man

Is there a more useful tool than an ax?

Answer: No.

A few months ago, I shared with you my tale of deconstructing my children's play fort. Several frustrating minutes into trying to take it down peacefully with a screwdriver, I resorted to the far more satisfying mode of beating it to death with an ax. Thirty minutes, tops. Play fort leveled, any pent-up frustration, anger, etc. - gone.

So fast forward to the other day when my brother-in-law and I were moving a couch out of my house. We are in the midst of a great furniture swap, which means we currently have about twice the amount of furniture we need. I suggested we move out all of the old furniture first. My wife suggested I not suggest.

So what has resulted is several rooms and our garage turning into what look like storage sheds. Furniture is stacked on top of furniture, and on top of that is, say, a bin of winter clothes that will go into storage once the closet is no longer blocked by two mattresses that, I am told, are going somewhere. Some time.

Anywho, one of the biggest pieces we needed to get rid of was a sleeper sofa. I have vague recollections of moving this sofa up into our playroom. It involved me, a neighbor, several words not appropriate for a family newspaper and the repeated line of, "I'M NOT TRYING TO SCRATCH THE WALL!!! BUT WE CAN PAINT IT ... AHHHH ... MY HAND!!!"

So, needless to say, I never was in great love with this couch. Add to the fact that the sleeper part of it was crooked, so if you did make it out into a bed, your feet would be about a foot lower than your head. You always felt like you were just about to start sliding downhill.

FAST FACT 1: Did you know you can store roughly the entire contents of a Toys "R" Us in the compartment up under a sleeper bed?

FAST FACT 2: Did you know sleeper sofas weigh slightly more than most concrete mixing trucks?

My brother-in-law was helping with the moving. He and I are the most effective, efficient moving team ever assembled. We have been involved in several moves, and we have learned a few important things:

1. When you ask us to help you move, please know that "move" and "pack" are two different things.

2. If you are constantly saying, "Sorry ...," you are probably in the way. Please go sit by the truck.

3. Play-by-play and commentary? Yeah, we're good, thanks.

So Keith and I settled in by the couch and began to move it toward the door. It was obvious it was going to be a tight squeeze, so we took the door off the hinges and cleared the best path possible. As we turned and wiggled and twisted and rocked the couch, we got it almost all the way through the door. One arm was still catching, and it was going to take some serious craftiness to work it out.

"Or we could take an ax to it," I said. Keith jokingly said that was probably a good choice.

"Go ahead," I heard my wife say. "I hate that couch." Now THAT'S input I can get behind.

In no time, I was standing in my playroom, taking an ax to the couch. I am fairly certain that is the first and only time I will ever swing an ax at a couch in my house. And it was delightful.

Once I took the side of the couch off, it was amazing how easy it was to get the remains of the couch outside. It was also amazing how stress-free I felt.

That was by far the most difficult part of the furniture swap. We've got most of the furniture at least close to where it will eventually live. Should be just a matter of a few tweaks here and there. I'll keep my ax handy just in case.

Playing possum

It's just your routine Saturday night: A water line breaks, you can't figure out how to shut the water off and your dog corners a possum.

It all started when I made the mistake of trying to diagnose a home improvement problem using the Internet.

For months, water had been pooling up in the bottom of my refrigerator. I solved this problem by, every few days, lugging in a Shop-Vac and getting all of the water out. I am not sure why, but I decided I would take a few laps on the Google track and see what I could find out about water pooling up in a fridge.

It turns out you can find a lot. There were gobs of home improvement sites with different diagnoses of what was wrong. Time to do some exploratory surgery.

Step one: Move fridge.

Step two: Scream, "JENN!!! THE WATER LINE BROKE!!! HELP!!!"

So the exploration took a side track. The copper pipe coming from the floor and heading into the back of the fridge had broken, and water was spraying straight up, flooding our kitchen and dining room.

My wife made it downstairs in a flash, towels in hand. She asked me if I planned on shutting off the water or just waiting until it all ran out.

I figured there was a shutoff for that particular line but had no clue where. So, I did the sensible thing and ran outside and shut all the water off to the house. I came back inside, pleased as punch at my quick thinking.

"It's still leaking," my wife said. I am still not sure how that is possible.

After about an hour of searching (including a delightful crawl underneath my house), I found the shutoff for this particular line, which was cleverly tucked back behind the garbage disposal so that it was only easy to find and shut off it you had (a) X-ray vision and (b) exceptionally tiny hands.

We were now in full-on cleanup mode.

And then we heard Murphy the Excitable Dachshund going nuts in the backyard. And this was a special kind of nuts, the kind that makes Maggie the Attack Basset slightly lift her head to see what the commotion is about.

I grabbed a flashlight and headed outside. Murphy was in the shed and was going after something like crazy.

I flashed the light and saw the most terrified looking possum trying its level best to, well, not be eaten. I pulled Murphy back and scooped up the possum. I went inside and showed my wife.

"LOOK!" I said with child-like enthusiasm as I held the possum out.

My wife, who was sitting in an inch of water and spreading out towels everywhere, simply said, "Seriously?"

We kept the possum overnight because I knew the kids would want to see it. They were very excited to see the little critter they quickly dubbed Dandelion.

Parker especially became very attached to Dandelion. And my wife finally realized where her life had ended up when she had this conversation:

PARKER: Mom, can I do my homework on the trampoline?

HER: You can't do homework while on a trampoline.

PARKER: I want to sit out there so the possum can do homework with me. And since it's enclosed she can't get out. I promise I won't jump, just sit.

HER: OK, as long as you get your homework done.

Ah, the fairy tale ending she no doubt dreamed of as a young girl...

Alas, I have told the kids that Dandelion will not be able to live with us. I think our collection of two dogs, a cat, two snakes, a tortoise, a fish and two frogs is quite sufficient.

Dandelion is going to be part of an environmental outreach program, where she will hopefully be able to meet lots of kids and maybe even do homework with them.

As for the broken pipe, I did the sensible thing and called someone to fix it. And next time a home improvement project comes up, I need to remember that path.

I should stick to what I'm good at it. Which is apparently finding wildlife at exactly the wrong time.

A message 2 U, txter

It's not often I yell at my fellow motorists. I don't do this because my wife is from Atlanta, and she has convinced me that every other motorist is armed and has a short fuse and an itchy trigger finger.

I normally take a different approach when someone upsets me while driving. I squeeze the steering wheel as tight as I can and check the rearview mirror to see if my kids are in the backseat, at which point I then select my words for my commentary that makes me feel better but that stays in the car with me.

But not the other day. I had to. I couldn't take it. I rolled down my window and shouted, loudly, "Quit texting. You have a kid in your car!!!"

As I see too often, someone was cruising down the road, two hands happily typing away a message, one no doubt layered in misspellings, typos or idiotic abbreviations about a topic that is one of the most time sensitive and globally important of all time ("Goin 2Nite? Me 2. LOL!!!")

But this woman upped the ante by having a small child strapped in a car seat in the backseat. And it made me mad. So I yelled. And she sped up. I figured she just didn't hear me, so I pulled up and again told her to quit texting. She gave me a look that implied her next text would be about me and what she thought of me.

So, dear ma'am, I say to you this: I don't know you. I don't know if that was your kid or your nephew or what. But I do know that you had one single goal when you were operating that vehicle, and it was not to send some message via cell phone. It was to drive safely. And I am willing to bet you my house that were you not texting someone directions on the next step of a life-saving surgery. And if you were, pull over.

I'm not trying to sound like some old fuddy duddy. I have an iPhone, and it's the single greatest invention I have ever owned (and I own a Chill Wizard, which can make a warm beer ice cold in under a minute - it's THAT awesome).

And my iPhone is a great companion on the road. I actually find myself rooting for red lights, as it gives me a chance to do very important things such as getting on Facebook to see what "Sex and the City" character someone most resembles. And I am plenty versed in texting. And I also know how to drive. And the two can exist separately, and the world continues to exist. Amazing.

The argument is often made that it's distracted driving in general that is a problem, not just texting. But texting is in a unique category. If you're say, eating a hamburger, you're physically occupied. But you can still have your eyes on the road.

If you're texting, your eyes are off the road, your brain is off the road and your hands are off the steering wheel. You are asking to plow into the back of someone or over someone.

I am sure plenty of you out there are going to tell me that you are the exception. You're special. You can text no problem. And to that I say, you're not special, you're not the exception, because unless you have a second set of arms and eyes, when you are texting, you are not even on the map of safe driving.

I remember one time when I saw someone reading a book when he was driving. Pretty much everyone except for that person said, "Wow, bad idea, dude." Yet texting seems to be this driving pastime that's just accepted by some folks. Well, quit accepting it.

I know folks get grumbly when you talk about adding new laws on top of things. But I personally would love to see a texting-while-driving law. And it would read: "If you text and drive, you never get to use your phone or car again. Ever. And if there is a child in the car, it's ever times four."

Seriously, folks - there are enough stop lights in the world to send your inane little comments about pointless things when you're standing still. Text away until your thumbs are falling off. Just do it when you're not rolling down the street. Trust me, your friend can wait a few minutes to find out where you are Goin 2Nite.

The Smartest

I am sure you never doubted this, but I am the smartest person on the planet. Clearly, no one can be smarter than me, as I know - EVERYTHING.

How do I know this? (I mean other than because I know everything.) Because a 3-year-old said I did.

My sister called me the other day to tell me that my nephew had a question that she could not answer. He said to call me. "Mike knows everything," Nicholas said.

So wise, the children.

His question was regarding Robin of Batman fame. Nicholas wanted to know where he came from. My sister called me not so much to ask the question but, as she said, to give me a little ego boost. But I was not going to leave it as an ego boost. "He was a child acrobat," I said.

My sister laughed and said that I was just making stuff up so that I could keep my title of World's Smartest Human as Decided By Someone Who Wears Spider-Man Shoes. "No, seriously. He was an acrobat."

There was a silence on the other end of the line. My sister then commented that it appeared I did, in fact, know everything, or at least everything important to a 3-year-old.

I became the Sage One several weeks ago when Nicholas asked me this question: "Why did Darth Vader become bad?"

I looked at my sister and brother-in-law, who both shrugged. "We told him to ask you," my sister said.

At that point, I took Nicholas upon my knee and told him a story about bad influences and peer pressure and doing things that are not right but ultimately meaning you cross paths with Boba Fett. Seemed to suffice, and he anointed me as brilliant.

I guess it's just that I am full up on information that's important to kids. Among some of the amazing facts that I keep handy that thus make me an Einstein to the under 4-foot crowd:

* I know the best technique for the most effective double bounce on a trampoline.

* I can submerge something under water and manage to keep it dry using nothing but an ordinary household bucket.

* I know why Transformers are here.

* I can juggle (requires more brains than you think).

* I can spin a basketball on my finger (much like juggling, more of a thinking-man's game than you realize).

* I can quickly and correctly identify Smurfs, droids, Fraggles and most any animal.

* I rule at Wii.

Sadly, though, the ability to detect my brilliance does seem to diminish with age. For example, my daughter, who is 9, now routinely questions things that I say, which as you well know implies that somehow I might not be correct, which, as Nicholas will tell you, is not even in the realm of possibility.

One way I can certainly illustrate that for you: Onion cutting.

You see, my daughter likes to help me cook, and I certainly enjoy putting her through the rigors of the Mike Gibbons Cooking School (Motto: "Please do not cook Mike Gibbons"). One of her favorite things to do is help me chop the vegetables. Being the responsible dad I am, I plug in the electric carving knife and say, "Ten dollars says you can't cut the tomato in five seconds!!!"

Ha, I kid! Because that's what the unsettlingly brilliant do. (For what it's worth, one of the big parts of my cooking school is knife safety: How to properly slice without cutting yourself, how to make sure you hit the spinning wheel, but not the lady attached to said wheel. That kind of thing.)

So I have a very distinct way of slicing an onion. It involves removing the skin, slicing in half, turning it over, slicing into sections and then dicing it. My daughter had the audacity to slice it a different way. I told her that's not how you slice an onion. Her response, "But it ended up the way you wanted it, right?"

THAT'S NOT THE POINT!

So who knows. Maybe in a few years, Nicholas will begin to question some of my brilliance. But I'll know, deep in my heart, that I still know everything. And I can juggle.

All growing well

So once again this year, the kids told me they wanted to do a garden.

They've wanted to do gardens before, and we've had mixed results. And by mixed I mean bad. The last one was an ill-fated herb garden attempt.

The only remnants we have of that are an out-of-control rosemary bush, which is apparently just shy of kudzu in its spreading ability.

But this year I vowed it would different. First off, we were planting fruits and vegetables. We will harvest our crops and live off the land. Granted, I know that unless we harvest chicken nuggets, I will not supply the bulk of my kids' diets. But this is a start, nonetheless.

We decided to do a raised bed this time, mainly because the soil at my house is a combination of rocks, clay and titanium, I think, based on the few times I have tried to dig in it.

I bought a few garden timbers (two I had to cut in half, which means I had to use a power saw. Fingers? Still 10, baby!) and a bunch of soil. The last thing to get was the seeds for our crops.

I took the kids to the seed section and told them they could each pick out one.

Parker told me he wanted to grow cherries. I told him we'd have to get a tree. "So let's get tree seeds," he said.

I explained to him that it would take a while for a tree to grow. "OK, oranges." Back to the cherry tale. "Fine," he said. "Broccoli."

"Broccoli?" I asked. What kid asks to grow broccoli? Mine, I guess.

Next up was my daughter's turn. She thought for a moment. "Dad, what are you going to pick?"

I was pretty sure I knew where this was going. Children are pretty simple when it comes down to picking between two choices.

The main goal: Figure out how to get both. "Hmmm. Well, I guess I was going back and forth between watermelons and cucumbers," I said, making a pretty safe bet that I had her choices covered.

"Fine. You take watermelon. I'll take cucumbers. And I'm pretty sure Mom wants green beans." Triple score. Well played, Allie. Well played.

We got home and it was time to roll up our sleeves and do the hard work. Sweat equity, I told them. They stared at me.

We hauled all of the stuff to the backyard and set the lumber out. We then hauled all of the soil to the backyard. (Oh as for the hauling: little red wagon, is there anything you CAN'T do? I mean, besides be successfully or legally towed behind a car.)

At that point, I could see the kids were working up a sweat and getting into the project.

After helping with the first couple of bags of soil, they both retreated inside. Probably going for a nice tall glass of refreshing water, I thought. Probably bringing one for the foreman. Those kids...

And the next thing out of my mouth was, "Why are you wearing bathing suits?"

"Can we go swimming now?"

"I thought we were going to do the garden!?!?!?"

They stared at me. "Can we go swimming now?" Always a good ploy: Just pretend I didn't say anything and I will just assume I went into a time vortex.

I was about to put my foot down. Time to earn your keep. Get to tilling. They asked, "Can we go swimming now?"

Truth of the matter, it's an 8-foot by 4-foot garden. I think I can swing it from here. "Hop in."

When they were done swimming, they planted the four rows of produce, and we dutifully watered our new garden.

The kids have been checking most every day, and I am pleased to report that each of the rows has shown some sprouts of green.

We'll be filling our table with our own food in no time. Well, that and some chicken nuggets.

Dry, Dry, my darling

I killed my dryer.

I didn't mean to. I thought I was helping it out. I thought I was easing the burden on the old gal, who had logged nearly 15 years of service. Apparently, though, my actions drove her off the deep end.

For years, I've wanted a clothes line. Mainly, I wanted one for sheets. I love the smell of sheets fresh off a clothes line, and there is also the added chance that, as your sheets are flowing in the wind, a company shooting laundry commercials might happen by and ask to use your clothes line.

I finally got around to getting one, a retractable thingee that stretches out about 20 feet when in use, but does not serve as a hazard to oblivious sprinting children in the backyard when not in use. After I put my first set of sheets on the line, I came upstairs to where my wife and the dryer were. "I got the clothes line set up!"

"YOU WHAT?" screamed the dryer and jumped out the window. Either that or it just stopped heating the next time I fired it up. But I think we all know it felt cheated on.

I went online and starting doing some research on repairing dryers. I then said, "Oh, who am I kidding?" and told my wife we needed to go get a new dryer.

This had the potential of a conflict, as my wife and I have slightly different shopping styles. Her style involves research and price shopping and comparisons and speaking to people. Mine involves entering the store, picking out something in less time it takes to put on socks and hoping that, when they deliver it, the item (a) fits (b) works and (c) is a dryer and not, say, a table saw.

So needless to say, we did research, price shopped, talked to people. The first thing we found in the research is that you can spend a whole heaping helping of money on a dryer, and it can have some super-fancy things on it, including 56 - 56!!! - cycles, menu options in three languages and "theater lighting," whatever that is.

OK, here's my criteria for a dryer:

1. White

2. Kinda cube shaped.

3. Dries clothes

That's about as complicated as I wanted that stage of my laundry to get. I don't even need one language. I've pretty much mastered the two basic knobs that get it cranked up.

The one area we had to discuss somewhat was the size. Our old dryer was 5.8 cubic feet, which meant absolutely nothing to me until I saw a little conversion chart at the store that showed a 5.8 cubic foot dryer could dry four towels at a time, which explains why 10-12 towels often took several cycles to dry. Turns out, we needed to upgrade to the 7.0 cubic foot, which the chart said can dry 12 towels at a time, which means I can now try to dry 36 towels at once.

So we now have the new dryer installed and working like a champ. I have joined the refrain of others who have upgraded from an old dryer, having realized what an actual, effective dryer is like. One cycle? Really? That's all it takes? I had no idea how small and ineffective our old dryer was until now. The new one - so roomy. So warm. So ... effective. Hopefully, we'll get a good 15 years from this one as well. Just don't tell it I have a clothes line.

Dead bat fun

You know what summed up my Saturday? "Hey, Dad - dead bat."

Now most people would say, "Yeah, I'm gonna chalk up any day that includes the phrase 'dead bat' as a bad one." But not me. No, sir. My reaction was, "Awesome! And we almost all walked past it!"

You see, my kids and I went out with my dad to some land he has, and we put the icing on the cake with finding a dead bat at the end of the trip. Score!

I know what you're saying, "Uh, a dead bat made your day?" To which I say, "Yes, good sir, yes it did!!!"

We headed out in the woods the way most folks do - with a pink fishing rod, a magnifying glass and a machete. My daughter had the fishing rod, which we quickly realized would be rather ineffective with a broken bobber, so we stashed it. The magnifying glass was brought so that we could lose it later. The machete was on hand because, well, it's awesome to use a machete.

While most people like walking the woods on a nice, orderly path, I find that the woods are far more exciting off the path. And under a log. And occasionally ankle deep in mud.

Our first stop was up on a ridge where some beavers had been doing a little tree trimming. It was up on the ridge when my daughter made the first squeal of pain of the day. We turned around (machete ready, just in case). A branch had caught her shirt. "And how are we going to know if you are actually hurt?" my dad asked. She thought for a moment. Apparently this kind of sunk in because when she got whacked in the face with a branch a while later, she let out a tiny muffled groan but kept on trekking.

Part of our process was to find where the property line is so, as we were hiking over hill and over dale, we were constantly on the lookout for bright yellow flagging. I am sure it is how Lewis and Clark did it. The kids were troopers. And I was able to keep them motivated by my brilliant decision to wear shorts.

You see, we were tromping through plenty of briar-laden woods; a short while into it, my legs looked as though someone had taken a Weed Whacker to them. So when a little whining started up, I could simply say, "Look at my legs! Do you see me whining?" I'm sure they appreciated that.

By the time we reached the end of the property, the kids estimated that they had walked 113 miles over approximately 42 days.

As we made our way back to our starting point, my son did start to lag a little. And by "lag a little" I mean sit down and say he was going to take a nap. Or we could carry him. My dad and I had a good laugh over that one. I asked my son whether complaining was going to help him walk faster. He did not find that amusing.

We eventually got him motivated by finding a few boards to turn over, even catching a couple of salamanders under one. Before they knew it, we were back to the road where the car was, ready to make our woods exit.

We had parked right by a bridge, and as we were crossing the bridge, that's when my son saw the bat. And as good stewards of nature, we told my son he must become one with the bat and eat it.

Ha! Little rabies humor there. We used this as an opportunity to explain to the kids about rabies and tell them that, if they were good, we'd show them the heartwarming tale of "Old Yeller."

In all, it was a great woods walk, and I was impressed how the kids were gamers with only a hint of whining or complaining. I'm looking forward to the next time. When I'll be wearing jeans.

All grown up

So we were on our way to dinner when my daughter chimed in from the back seat.

"I want an adult menu," she said.

I went into my usual spiel, which was that the items on kids' menu were cheaper than those from the adults', and that she was probably going to order chicken nuggets anyway, which don't exist on most adult menus. She would have none of this. I was being patently unfair, and she was incredibly close to becoming the epicenter of schoolyard ridicule, as she is the last fourth grader on the planet to have to suffer the indignity of ordering from a kids' menu.

She made her final statement on the issue: "It's time you started treating me like an adult. I'm NINE-AND-A-HALF YEARS OLD!"

It was a good thing my wife was driving, as she has way more composure than I do. I immediately went hunched over laughing. (I was quickly informed from the back seat that this was not, in fact, funny, but very serious.)

So there we are. Nine. And a half. And an adult. I tried to offer her the full option of being an adult: A job, a mortgage, having to pretend you don't want to go down the slide at the park. (That's not just me, right?)

She told me that was not the point. I asked her what the point was. She told me the point was an adult menu. I again countered that she was going to just get chicken nuggets, which live solely on the kids' menu at the restaurant we were going to. She made this frustrated little grunt of exasperation that I am sure, to her, say, "That foolish man just did not get the perfectly sensible and logical nature of my request."

My daughter is a lot like her mother. My father-in-law has affirmed this to me. If there is a finite amount of sighs in a human body, I am guessing my father-in-law used them up between my wife's ninth and 21st birthdays. Which leads me to believe that my stubborn child will one day emerge to be ... a stubborn adult.

I understand that this is part of the process children go through. I am sure somewhere out there is the world's most compliant and reasonable child who breezes through the teen years with nothing but clear thinking and parental respect. I hope that child is in a museum some day. Let's be honest - most children that age can, within a 10-second span, go from being the most wonderful, kind, loving creatures to something quite possibly possessed by demonic spirits and/or aliens.

They also can be an All-A honor roll student one second, to the next second being asked, "Why would you put the cushions on the couch on TOP of the mail?" I actually asked that question recently, and was answered with, "Oh, I thought it was old mail." You know, like the old mail you periodically shove under the couch cushion.

Oh, and back to the kids' menu for a minute - when we got to the restaurant and she did get a kids' menu, you know what her big issue was? Parker got more Crayons with his. Because way at the top of the list of adult concerns - far higher than an IRS audit or a colonoscopy - is Crayon equity.

My wife keeps preaching patience to me. Kids being kids, she says. I tell her I want results, and I want them now. I remind her that I, too, was once a kid, and while paying attention, sitting still and not talking were not exactly my strong suits, I assure her that I was very good at one thing: I was bribeable. My Matchbox collection was built predominately on fulfillment of good behavior in church. But my daughter collects American Girl dolls, and it's too pricey to bribe her with those every day. Hmmm ...

So I guess I will have to think of another option. I know that the examples my wife and I set will go a long way to teaching them how to act as adults. And I know that there will be some times in life where we just ignore behavior that we would never find ourselves exhibiting. It's all part of the process of growing up. Granted, we could avoid some of the headache if they'd just add chicken nuggets to the adult menu.

Totally totaled

It happened in a flash. I was on my way to meet my wife for lunch. I approached an intersection, with my light green. As I entered, I saw it out of the corner of my eye. A flash of red. And it was heading my way. Fast.

"Hey," I thought, "that car sure is going fa..." BOOM!

The collision was loud. And jarring. My air bags went off, and my car was spun around 180 degrees. When it stopped, I sat there, in a haze of airbag dust, trying to figure out what happened.

I opened my car door and stepped into the middle of the road. Our news director, Tim O'Briant, was in the car behind me and saw the whole thing happen. He pulled his vehicle into the intersection to block off the traffic, which was probably a good idea since I was walking around with jelly legs, doing the requisite stagger and stare at my car, saying, "Wha---what happened?"

I went over to the sidewalk and pulled my phone from my pocket and called my wife. I then looked at my hands and saw they were shaking like I had just ingested 68 espressos. I handed the phone to Tim, and said, "Here. Tell Jenn." In retrospect, I was kinda putting him on the spot.

The paramedics came over to check me and the other driver out. Miraculously, neither of us was seriously hurt. I was wobbly and still hacking up airbag dust but actually didn't feel any extreme pain. Amazingly, I wasn't even sore. I kept anticipating the pain, which fortunately never came, leaving me no choice but to every few hours remind my wife, "You know, I was in a wreck." She said I can do that for one week.

My car was totaled. Even I could have diagnosed that. (Clue 1: When the front of the car no longer exists, and the engine no longer appears to be connected to the vehicle, you are heading toward Totaled Town.) So, now, I begin the process of looking for a new car.

I keep cars for a long time (this one we had for 10 years; my previous car I drove for 12). With my daughter being 9, I am most likely buying her first car, which is possibly the most frightening thought I have had since it occurred to me that she will, at some point, date.

As I stood in the paint and body shop, retrieving the items from my vehicle, I was kinda surprised to find myself feeling a little, well, sad. My wife and I got this car before our daughter was born. We traded in her Mustang for the family cruiser. This was our "grown-up" car. (Ironically, the car that hit me was a Mustang. I guess it has exacted its revenge at last.) This was the car that we brought both of our children home in. This is the car I learned to sing "Chick-chicka-boom-boom" in. This is the car I drove from Florida to South Carolina with a 6-month-old screaming the entire way. (Didn't even take a breath.) This is the car in which I changed a diaper in a grocery store parking lot during a thunderstorm. This is the car where I first said the words, "STOP EATING THE SEAT BELT!"

So we are beginning the quest for a replacement. Fortunately, I have the advantage of expert opinions of most everyone I come in contact with, which includes "definitely buy a new car," "definitely buy a used car," "definitely lease," "definitely don't lease," "definitely get a truck," "definitely don't get a truck," "definitely get a horse and buggy," etc.

Truthfully, I don't know what I am going to do. The settlement is for what it would take to replace my 2000 Ford Explorer that had more than 100,000 miles on it with ... a 2000 Ford Explorer with more than 100,000 miles on it. Of all of the expert opinions, the one that has not been served up is to buy a 2000 Ford Explorer with more than 100,000 miles on it.

I am trying to look on the positives of this whole thing. For example, the potential of a new car led me to clean out the other half of the garage, where I can hopefully put a car, rather than what was a collection of basketballs, bicycles, bags of clothes to be donated and, for some reason, a box of plastic cowboy hats.

So here's hoping my next car, whatever it is, will be the foundation for a new series of memories. Wow, to think this could be the car my daughter takes on her first date. I'll remember it well. Because I'll be in the car, too.

Snow yeah!

It. Will. Not. Snow.

That is what I definitively told my wife last week, as she combed through a half a dozen weather forecasts, trying to figure out which one would give us the best chance for a snowball fight.

She asked me why I would say that. After all, she pointed out, I am a big fan of winter weather. I am almost as bad as the kids when it comes to anticipating the white stuff. The answer was simple: I was sick and tired of being disappointed. For probably six years, whenever it looked as if it might snow or ice, I got on the bandwagon - stockpile the pantry, get out the winter accessories, gas up the snowmobile. OK, we don't have a snowmobile. But if we did, rest assured it would be gassed up.

And each time we awoke with blue skies and temperatures in the mid 70s. It didn't matter what the forecast the day before was. There would be no snow, no ice, no nothing, save for me disappointed and having to explain to the kids that sleeping with their pajamas inside out didn't work because, well, they didn't want it enough.

So this time, when it became painfully clear that we were going to get some snow, I took the hard line stance. (I even had the headline ready should the snow not have happened: "Oh, snow, you didn't."

And I am fairly certain my contrarian position is what made it snow. So you're welcome.

To that point, some highlights of my snow day:

* Gravity can doom a snowman. By the time I got home, the kids had begun several snowmen in the backyard. My neighbor had crafted one that eventually stood around seven feet tall. It took three of us to get the midsection up. After about an hour, another neighbor and I noticed the snowman was leaning slightly. "How long do you give it?" he asked. "Thirty minutes?" I said. "Boom," said the snowman as it fell to the ground. "Guess not," my neighbor said.

* Some kids learn quicker than others. My neighborhood was crawling with adolescents looking for new and exciting ways to annihilate others with snow. I felt it necessary to refine their trades, teaching them the art of the lob-one-pelt-a-second-snowball tactic, as well as the shake-the-snowy-tree-branch. I was pleased to see one of the young students later bait a child under a tree and then send a large snowball into the branches above, raining a mini-avalanche down on him.

* Ice is good for a surgically repaired knee. At least this is what I told the two critics who said it was a bad idea to get on my knees and put Parker on my shoulders for a chicken snow fight against his buddy Haze. The initial ruling on the field was that Parker and I lost, but that decision is being appealed to the International Snow Chicken Congress.

* Don't go take a hot bath. I did not make this mistake this time, because I still vividly remember some time around 1980 when we got snow. I played outside in it for hours, and then, in an effort to warm up, ran inside, cranked up a hot bath, and jumped in. And immediately jumped out. Screaming. "Kids," I told them, "never risk a bath." "Kids," their mother told them, "never listen to your father. Warm up. And then get a bath. You're filthy."

* My neighbor learned this lesson: If you want to be hit with a snowball, step out of your car with four 12-year-old boys standing around and say, "DO NOT HIT ME WITH SNOWBALLS!" (OK, four 12-year-old boys and a 37-year-old neighbor. As I told my wife, "What? She can't ground me.")

The kids were a little bummed that the snow was gone by Sunday, but as I told them, it's more fun to have the snow come in quickly, enjoy a day of it and then move on rather than be chocked down for weeks on end with snow. I told them that once a year was a good frequency of wintry weather. So let's look forward to next year, when I guarantee - It. Will. Not. Snow.

Label up

Labels: They’re the answer to our problems.
My wife and I have embarked on a decluttering/organization mission, and my wife has decided that labels will solve the problems. This is how the conversation went:
ME: So a lack of labels is why things get shoved in a drawer or left on the floor?
HER: Yes.
ME: Will we label the hamper “Dirty clothes” so they won’t be left on the floor?
HER: Yes.
ME: And that will work?
HER: Hey, I know what I could put on a label for you ...
ME: The children can hear you.
So we have begun pulling everything from every nook, cranny, closet, drawer and shelf. My wife is normally a very laid back, go-with-the-flow person, and a little disorder doesn’t affect her. It affects me to the point where I will walk around and make loud, rambling commentary which, based on a recent poll, is considered annoying by 75 percent of those in my household. But she decided we needed to take on the old “A place for everything and everything in its place” approach.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like we live in a house you’d see on “Hoarders.” Our house is a home. We live in it. And by “live in it” I mean there is the occasional dish on a coffee table or toy tied to the ceiling fan or shoe in a plant.
But then the label idea came around. She knew I was skeptical. But she told me to have faith. And by “have faith” I mean “zip it.”
She started in the bathroom, cleaning out a closet. This closet is home to medicine, cosmetics, towels, cleaning supplies, etc. First step? Everything came out. Everything. I did the sensible thing, which was to go to a different room. It was clear my wife was in a zone, and if I tried to help, I might find myself in the Big Black Trash Bag of Doom.
When I returned a while later (several days, I think), I was amazed at what I saw. If there was a magazine called “Insanely Organized Closets,” this could have been the cover shot. Everything was neat and orderly. And everything had a label on its shelf. Towels? Label. Cold medicine? Label and handy bin. Lotions? Labeled and arranged by height. For what it’s worth, I am amazed at how much lotion we own. If the entire populace of Toledo, Ohio, shows up with dry skin, I can help them out. (Side note: My label that read “Anal retentive closet” was rejected by the label commission.)
Next up was our bedroom. I was excited about this part because it gave me the chance to loudly proclaim, “If it is yours and in my room, get it out now, or I throw it out.” When the kids came in and saw the look on their mother’s face, Big Black Trash Bag of Doom in hand, toys got moving to their rooms. In fairness to the kids, I can’t really think of any time when they play in our room, so I am fairly certain the toys are coming in on their own.
After our room came the kids’ rooms, where we learned the valuable lesson: Don’t let the kids help. To them, nothing should be thrown out. Ever. A wheelless motorcycle? STILL PLAYING WITH THAT!!! Headless Incredibles toy from a fast-food restaurant? STILL PLAYING WITH THAT!!!! Piece of cardboard smeared with ... something? STILL PLAYING WITH THAT!!!
Oh, and the Big Black Trash Bag of Doom? “No, no, no, this is a DIFFERENT trash bag. We’re just holding things in there for the time being. That’s the Big Black Bag of Reconsideration and Toy Healing. So stop taking things out of it.”
As we continue to go through the house, I am amazed at how much stuff we have been able to get rid of and how much better the world is, in fact, with labels. A place for everything, and everything in its place. I guess she was right. Labels make the world a better place. Bring on Toledo.

It's electric(ity)

My love affair with electricity died about 12 years ago.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m a big fan of what it can do, in particular when it comes to popcorn poppers and the Wii. But I just don’t care to be up close and personal with it.
It happened when I went to change a light fixture more than a decade ago. I did all the right things – I turned off the breaker, I stood on top of the washing machine, I kicked one leg against a well to balance myself. You know, just like OSHA wants you to do.
And then I went to remove the light fixture, at which point I quickly found out that the breaker I had turned off had absolutely nothing to do with that light fixture.
From that point on, I pretty much vowed that if it was electric, it was either going to have to fix itself or stay broken. I was in no mood to get shocked again, and, more than likely, my neighbors were not interested in hearing my post-shock commentary again.
But, alas, all good things must come to an end, and it was clear that my good run of not being able to be shocked was about to be over when an electrical issue presented itself. And two things were very clear: (1) It was not going to fix itself and (2) with a little encouragement, a chimp could fix the problem, seeing as how it was simply fixing a broken light switch.
The light switch became inoperable when it came in contact with a 6-year-old. I am not sure exactly what happened, but I am finding that things that come in contact with 6-year-olds often end up in the broken category, yet without an explanation. If you pulled the switch out and wiggled it, you could get the light to come on. However, in order to get it to stay on, you would have to wedge something back behind the switch to keep the light on. I have operated a light switch or two. Pretty confident in my assessment of broken.
So I went to the home improvement store and went to the light switch aisle. There were two employees standing there. “I need a plain old light switch for a hall light.” They pointed to a box of plain old light switches. Easy as that.
I got home and decided to tackle the project. I wedged the broken switch on so that I could tell when the breaker was tripped. Using my cell phone, I called the house phone. I handed the phone to my daughter and told her to tell me when the light went off. After flipping several breakers, I was told the light was off. Upon entering the house, it became clear I should have pointed out a specific light.
Once that problem was solved, I went to work with my trusty screwdriver. In no time, I had the wall plate off and the light switch free. I had my son touch the wire to make sure the power was off.
Ha! Kidding. Once I got the switch out of the wall, I unscrewed the four wires. This was gonna be a snap. I pulled the new light switch out and noticed three screws. I had this conversation with myself:
ME: I guess I just wire two of the wires to one screw.
MY BRAIN: Seriously? You’re seriously thinking of that?
ME: Ye ... No.
I stared at the switch and then back at the wall a few times. Nothing changed.
So I headed back to the store. When I walked in, I explained to the employee my four wire/three screw dilemma. “Is it a three-way switch?” she asked.
“No,” I responded confidently. I then asked, “Wait, what do you mean?”
She asked me if more than one light switch controlled this light. I told her that, in fact, three switches controlled it. She looked at me with equal parts pity and disgust.
In no time, she had a three-way switch (which I think should be renamed four-screw switch, as that seems far more literal). When I got home, I wired it up in no time and before I knew it – voila – working light switch again.
I know it may not seem like that big of a deal, but trust me – when you loathe home improvement projects as much as I do, it’s a major accomplishment to begin a project, much less finish one, all without electrocuting myself. Now, time to tell my 6-year-old to stay away from anything electrical until he turns 7.

A year of learning

This year I learned a lot of things. I learned:
• That the grocery cart battle is not a futile one. Together, we can put up carts and shame others into it. And I learned how to keep my children from telling adults to put their carts up. Quickly.
• That adulthood begins at 9. That is the only explanation I can find for, “Dad, I’m not gonna order off the kids’ menu. I’m not a kid anymore.”
• That a major, overlooked milestone in a child’s life is the “OK, I’ll try it and see if I like it.”
• That no matter how much you yell at fleas, they do not go away. You have to unleash chemical warfare on them, combined WITH the yelling.
• That Snuba – the hybrid of scuba and snorkeling – is the way to go check out reefs 30 feet below the surface.
• That if you are a week out of knee surgery, and Santa delivers a trampoline to your backyard, move away for a month. It’s for your own good.
• That the coolest three words a 9-year-old girl can hear as someone shakes her hand are, “Hi, I’m Miley.”
• That there are still decent people out there. A few days before Christmas – and a few days after my knee surgery – I was hobbling out to my car, pushing my wife’s bike/Christmas present to the car. My son, bless his heart, was helping as he could. When I got to the car, a man walking by said, “Lemme help you” and helped me load the bike into the car.
• That those types of things don’t happen enough. I was at the grocery the other day and saw a woman straining to reach a bag of cat food on the top shelf. When I handed it to her, she said, “Oh, I thought you were going for the same thing.” I responded, “No, just taller than you and grabbing it for you.” Her response: “Wow, that doesn’t happen often.” That should happen more often.
• That an alligator’s tail can loosen a child’s tooth.
• That family time is not reserved for holidays. During an evening in September, my family was trying to work out details of Thanksgiving and Christmas. I’m 37 and the youngest of four kids, and we were all sitting there with my folks, my wife, my in-laws, my kids and my nephews. We were all trying to formalize plans to all get together. When we were all together. On a random Tuesday. And that is awesome.
• That life is better when Alabama football is ... well, Alabama football. At least, it is for me.
• That the Discovery Channel’s “Boom De Ya Da” commercial is audio hypnosis for small children.
• That loop roller coasters were put on this planet to remind you that man’s greatest achievements continue to be in the Field of Awesome Things.
• That pulling off the side of the road of a busy Florida highway so your kids can see a roadkill python is looked at strangely by other motorists.
• That the iPhone will be one of those change-the-world signature devices. I should have invented it.
• That Anne Frank died of typhus. I am not quite sure how that came up in conversation.
• That the best way to fix a burger is topped with a fried egg.
• That utility companies can go where they want, when they want and cut down your fence if it’s in the way.
• That my childhood can make some blockbuster movies. “Snorks: The Movie” cannot be far behind.
• That you can feel sorry for yourself if your last six weeks include a hospitalization, a family helping of swine flu, a broken HVAC unit and knee surgery. And then you can look around and realize there are plenty of people who would gladly trade for my troubles. As I often tell my kids, “You’re right. It’s not fair. And you don’t want the world to be fair, because it’s not fair in your favor.”
Happy 2010, everybody.

A warm gift

Call me a hopeless romantic. Try as I wanted, there was no way I was going to be able to hold off giving my wife her Christmas present early.

And she felt the same way. Our gifts simply could not wait until Dec. 25.

Plus, the downstairs was freezing, and we needed the heater working again.

Yes, my wife and I have given the mutual gift of a downstairs heating unit. It's "The Gift of the Magi" for boring married people.

We discovered it was broken back in October when a cool spell hit, and I went to turn on the downstairs unit.

We have mainly hardwood floors downstairs, and here's a little know trait of hardwoods - when temperatures dip below 75, hardwood turns to ice. It can be a springlike 72 outside, and my den is suitable to hang meat.

When I turned on the unit, it did nothing. But that was not unusual, as it would often take anywhere from 10 seconds to an hour to cut on. Several people told me that was not normal. I told them that if I can ignore it, so can they.

But this time there would be no cutting on. The closest it came was a clicking at the thermostat.

I called the heating repair folks, and they came out for what I hoped would be our usual drill. (That's where they come and look at the machine, tell me that I have to turn it to "heat" and then charge me a $60 dummy tax.)

Not this time. I was informed I had a cracked heat exchanger, which, in addition to making my unit inoperable, can apparently also pump scads of carbon monoxide into my home.

Wow, it's cold inside AND it's as if an idling Ford Pinto is parked in my den - double win!

I asked him how much it would be to fix the heater. He looked at me with one those, "Oh, you poor thing" looks.

I knew it was not good.

Granted, I was not surprised that the unit was going to have to be replaced. Best I can tell, the unit was actually constructed in the 1930s, and our house was built around it some 50 years later.

Trying to find a bright side, I noted that it was right around the time of my wife's birthday, so I could get her that for a present. Not so fast. My wife decided she had other plans for her birthday, namely getting sick and having to go into the hospital for a three-day stay. Nothing but high-ticket items for my gal.

So the heater went to the back burner (ha!). I used a couple of space heaters to keep the kitchen warm, and generally avoided the rest of the house. When the kids would complain that the den was cold, I would tell them that they are just like the pioneers, braving a sub-70 den to watch Tivo'd SpongeBob. It's that kind of fortitude that built this country. After about six weeks of not having a heater, I had experienced all of the fortitude I cared to. The heating folks came out with a new unit.

It's a Carrier, so named, I believe, because it is the size of an aircraft carrier. They also installed a fancy new digital thermostat that, I am fairly certain, was used as a prop on the latest "Star Trek" movie.

They showed my wife how to use it, and she showed me. We had this conversation:

HER: You can even set it for both heat and cool to come on.

ME: Why would you do that?

HER: In case the temperature fluctuates.

ME: Do you really think that's going to be a problem?

Fortunately, it also has a manual mode, in which I can push one of four delightful options: heat, cool, an up arrow and a down arrow.

Yes, I know I can set it to come on automatically and do all kinds of fancy tricks. I can also get up in the morning and cut it on. I feel confident it will heat up in short order. I'm not trying to warm up the Biltmore House.

So now that my wife and I have settled in with our cozy warm downstairs Christmas gift, we can enjoy the holidays in comfort. And then I will look forward to Valentine's Day. I'm thinking of getting her the matching upstairs unit.

The Mayor

Just call me Mayor. That's right. Mayor. Of Bedford Falls. Yes, that Bedford Falls. You see, I've been in the Aiken Community Playhouse performance of "It's a Wonderful Life: The Musical," for which we started rehearsing, by my recollection, some time around 1982.

The Mayor role is a small part, which is fine, since this is a musical, and those with big parts in musicals should be able to, oh, I don't know, maybe sing? My only singing role ever was in my senior class play, in which I was cast in the role of a camp counselor who could not sing on key. I apparently nailed the audition. There is also dancing in this play. Several years ago, my wife banned me from trying to do the electric slide at weddings. That's right - I cannot do a dance that the 90-year-old great-grandmother of the bride can do. I think we can go ahead and sit out the dance scenes, too.

As we head into our final week of performances, I thought I would share a few things I have discovered during the show's run:

* It's really cool to be in a play with both of your kids. You know why? Because they play two of the Bailey kids, so, as I tell them when we walk in the door, "Hey, don't come to me with your problems. Go find George Bailey. He's your dad now."

* Intermission. It's called intermission. People tend to look at you funny when you refer to the show's halftime. On a similar note - dressing room, not locker room.

* Some people think it takes courage to get on stage. You know what takes courage - to be one of the three or four folks - including my wife - in charge of wranglin' a children's cast of about 30 kids, sometimes until 11 at night. Medieval knights didn't have to exhibit that kind of bravery.

* It snows in this play. Every night. Now, if we can make it snow inside of a building, can it be that hard to make it snow every Christmas, at least in my yard?

* This play has done what I thought was the impossible: It has finally pushed several of the songs from "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" from my head. Oh, wait. Shouldn't have done that. They're back. Dangit.

* It's nice that, when someone asks, I can tell them I have been doing this since the 1980s. So what if I fail to mention that little 20-year gap when I didn't get on stage. Our little secret.

* The Mayor of a New York town in the 1940s did not wear New Balance hiking boots. Fortunately, my wife was able to get home and get my other shoes before the curtain opening on that night.

* If an actor goes on stage with a cell phone in his pocket, and it goes off midscene and the ring tone is a chicken clucking, then know this: The time that ceases to be a source of jokes and ribbing is just after the Earth crashes into the sun.

* One of the best things about being in a play: Food. There is always food. Add bunches of kids and the Bag of Snacky Goodness, and lawdy it's good-eating time. Fast fact: The longest a pizza has survived a set-build: 11 seconds.

* Speaking of set-build, you will be pleased to know that, despite using several power tools over the course of the set construction, I still have 10 - count 'em , 10 - fingers. I would guess I have used up my power tool karma, and will now not pick up another one again until some time around 2018.

* The message of the show, I was gently reminded, is NOT: "If you have a forgetful relative, end it all."

* With a cast and crew of around 60 people, you never really know what you're getting into. While I wasn't expecting folks to split into rival gangs or anything, you never know the dynamics that will form when you get that many people together. The great part - it's a fantastic group of talented people who have fun, enjoy each others' company, pick each other up when they need it and are just a generally nice collection of folks.

I'm lucky to have spent this time with them. I just hope they re-elect me.