Life really is a lot like a cartoon. We have all seen the little red devil squatting on one shoulder while a white angel hovers over the other. It is the classic struggle between good and evil that lives within each of us.
As a child we usually give in to the devil without even glancing at the angel. As we age, more thought goes in to the decsion-making process and we learn new ways of coping with the devil on our shoulder, and given even more time, we learn to actually focus on the angel. Unfortunately, that does not mean the devil doesn’t still try to make an appearance now and then.
For the last several months, my wife and I have been dealing with one stressful situation after another and, as a result, have gotten lazy about cooking. Quite often, the simple solution has been to grab some kind of take-out dinner or to head out to a restaurant. Unfortunately, this type of lifestyle can’t continue indefinitely as the cost tends to add up.
Yesterday had been a busy day of cleaning up the post-Christmas mess that was consuming our house. The tree was taken down and all the pine needles vacuumed up. The lights were removed from the front of the house and all the decoration were returned to their boxes. In addition to all of that, four hungry children was fed. Four dirty children were bathed and the countless messes they all made throughout the day were tidied up. As the last of the boxes was being closed up, the little devil found a perch on my wife’s shoulder and the ugly urge to head out to dinner struck.
“What do you want for dinner?” she asked.
“I don’t really care,” I replied as I continued taking care of the task at hand. Thinking the discussion was over, I assumed she would fix something, but ten minutes later, the question returned.
“You never told me what you wanted,” she said.
“That’s because I don’t really have a preference,” I replied.
“If you were making dinner, what would you make?” she persisted.
“What do we have in the refrigerator?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Why don’t you take a look?”
“It sounds to me like you are trying to get me to take care of dinner. And you know that when daddy cooks we just end up going out,” I told her.
“I know. It’s a bad decision. That’s why I want you to make it,” she replied. And there it was, the little devil hopped right off of her shoulder and onto mine.
“Let me finish putting this stuff away,” I said, “then we will decide.” Now the little devil was on hold, living in limbo. He was still there, but he had no control for the moment. I busied myself taking care of the last of the Christmas decor and pondered the dinner options. I knew my wife was right, going out was a bad idea. I also knew that, as a minor neat freak, the last thing I wanted after a day of cleaning was a messy kitchen. Maybe we could just get something cheap. I could even drink water. After all, it’s the soda where all the profit is anyway.
The debate raged in my head as I packed. A few minutes later, I re-emerged to find my decide-aphobic wife on the phone. “Who is that,” I mouthed to her quietly.
“My mom,” she replied. I quickly realized what she was up to. “Oh, just trying to decide what to do for dinner,” she said to the phone. After a short pause, she again spoke to the phone. “I guess we could do that if you really want us to.”
“You are so conniving,” I whispered to her.
“So we’ll be there in about a half hour,” she said before hanging up.
And thus the devil that had been bouncing from shoulder to shoulder fell off and landed on the floor. I think one of the kids stepped on him as we all marched out to the car to go to grandma’s house for dinner, but I am sure that he will be back someday soon.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
Toys and Tools
Oh, to be young again. Can you recall those carefree days of your youth when a toy was anything you put your hands on? As a child your imagination ran wild. Toilet paper tubes were made into binoculars. As you got older, you graduated to the paper towel tube and made it into a telescope. Later yet, you discovered the wrapping paper tube and sword fights ensued. Blankets and chairs were tents and hideouts, and cardboard boxes were a free-for-all.
As an adult, I occasionally revert back to my childhood, but on a much more mature level. Now anything can be made into a tool. I remember a decade ago when my new bride and I were living in our first apartment. It was a two story affair with the bedrooms upstairs and everything else below. My tool collection was limited to a hammer and a set of socket wrenches.
“Honey,” she said to me with a loving glance. “The light bulb above the stairs is burnt out.” Putting on my hero hat, I rushed to the rescue. From the front door, I could see straight up the stairs and quickly found the offending light fixture.
My face must have revealed my quandary. “You can fix that, can’t you?” my loving wife asked.
“Of course I can,” I replied, not one to disappoint the love of my life. All the machismo in the world couldn’t change the fact that the light was securely fastened to the ceiling about twelve feet above the landing halfway up the stairs. “Let me just get the little step stool out of the closet,” which, incidentally, was the tallest thing we owned at the time. Perching the stool on the landing, I climbed aboard and used all five-feet-eight-inches of me plus my tip toes, plus the length of my arms, and still I came up about three feet short.
It was time for Plan B. And toilet paper tubes weren’t going to help now that I was grown up. But an ironing board, now that might help. Before you panic, understand that I used every precaution I could think of, which was pretty close to none. In order for the plan to work, I also needed a chair. The chair was the point of stability that would hold the plan together. With the chair perched on the landing, the ironing board, with its legs still folded up, could form a bridge from the seat of the chair to one of the steps leading up the stairs. This contraption now formed a bridge upon which I could place the step stool. This might sound unstable to the untrained professional, but to the newly minted husband, it was manly scaffolding.
Within a few minutes, I was balanced on the stool which was balanced on the ironing board which was balanced on the stairs. Fortunately, if I stood on my tip toes, I could now reach the offending light bulb. After carefully taking care of the bulb issue, I returned everything to its rightful place.
This evening I realized that my son was just like his father. The kids were in the family room playing around and having a great time when I saw my six-year-old boy carrying a couple of pillows from the living room into the family room. “Uhh, what are you doing?” I asked with trepidation.
“I ‘m getting my candy cane,” he replied very matter-of-factly. It was then that I began to follow him, knowing that he was up to something. Rounding the corner, I saw exactly what he was up to. There in the middle of the family room was the ottoman from my big, comfy chair. On top of that were two pillows from the couch. On top of that were two more pillows from the living room couch. On top of that was my son on his tip toes with his arms reaching upward. What was he reaching for? Why the candy cane, of course. Just out of his reach the lonely candy cane hung by its hook from the light fixture on the ceiling fan.
Knowing he was his father’s son, I feared what he would come up with to bridge those last few inches. “How ‘bout I help you with that,” I offered reaching up and unhooking the candy cane. “Here you go, Buddy.”
As an adult, I occasionally revert back to my childhood, but on a much more mature level. Now anything can be made into a tool. I remember a decade ago when my new bride and I were living in our first apartment. It was a two story affair with the bedrooms upstairs and everything else below. My tool collection was limited to a hammer and a set of socket wrenches.
“Honey,” she said to me with a loving glance. “The light bulb above the stairs is burnt out.” Putting on my hero hat, I rushed to the rescue. From the front door, I could see straight up the stairs and quickly found the offending light fixture.
My face must have revealed my quandary. “You can fix that, can’t you?” my loving wife asked.
“Of course I can,” I replied, not one to disappoint the love of my life. All the machismo in the world couldn’t change the fact that the light was securely fastened to the ceiling about twelve feet above the landing halfway up the stairs. “Let me just get the little step stool out of the closet,” which, incidentally, was the tallest thing we owned at the time. Perching the stool on the landing, I climbed aboard and used all five-feet-eight-inches of me plus my tip toes, plus the length of my arms, and still I came up about three feet short.
It was time for Plan B. And toilet paper tubes weren’t going to help now that I was grown up. But an ironing board, now that might help. Before you panic, understand that I used every precaution I could think of, which was pretty close to none. In order for the plan to work, I also needed a chair. The chair was the point of stability that would hold the plan together. With the chair perched on the landing, the ironing board, with its legs still folded up, could form a bridge from the seat of the chair to one of the steps leading up the stairs. This contraption now formed a bridge upon which I could place the step stool. This might sound unstable to the untrained professional, but to the newly minted husband, it was manly scaffolding.
Within a few minutes, I was balanced on the stool which was balanced on the ironing board which was balanced on the stairs. Fortunately, if I stood on my tip toes, I could now reach the offending light bulb. After carefully taking care of the bulb issue, I returned everything to its rightful place.
This evening I realized that my son was just like his father. The kids were in the family room playing around and having a great time when I saw my six-year-old boy carrying a couple of pillows from the living room into the family room. “Uhh, what are you doing?” I asked with trepidation.
“I ‘m getting my candy cane,” he replied very matter-of-factly. It was then that I began to follow him, knowing that he was up to something. Rounding the corner, I saw exactly what he was up to. There in the middle of the family room was the ottoman from my big, comfy chair. On top of that were two pillows from the couch. On top of that were two more pillows from the living room couch. On top of that was my son on his tip toes with his arms reaching upward. What was he reaching for? Why the candy cane, of course. Just out of his reach the lonely candy cane hung by its hook from the light fixture on the ceiling fan.
Knowing he was his father’s son, I feared what he would come up with to bridge those last few inches. “How ‘bout I help you with that,” I offered reaching up and unhooking the candy cane. “Here you go, Buddy.”
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Manly Onesies
If you know what a onesie is, odds are you are either a father or a woman. Men who have no kids, don’t know what these contraptions are, primarily because onesies in and of themselves are not particularly manly. For those men out there who still cling to their manhood, let me define the term onesie for you. A onesie is a baby t-shirt that snaps together between the legs to help hold the shirt in place while simultaneously concealing the diaper. Ahhh, now you understand, don’t you? You have most likely seen such a thing, but you just didn’t know that there was such a feminine sounding name for an article of clothing that can be worn by anyone in the male cluster of society. Understand that this term was probably coined by a woman who was enamored with the idea that one thing could do the job of two. (Kinda like she may be enamored with a husband who can both pick up his chonies and close the toilet seat on the same day.)
Needless to say, the onesie is about the most feminine thing a baby boy can wear, but it is still commonly accepted by the great majority of motherhood. This bit of background leads us to a comment my wife made to me yesterday. After returning from a day-long shopping trip with her mom, my wife was showing me some of the purchases she had made for the new baby. The first item to make its way down the home fashion runway was a pair of light blue pajamas with the phrase, “I love my mom” emblazoned on the front. “Look!” my sweet wife exclaimed. “It has a zipper and no buttons.” She had a point there. Have you ever tried to button all 12 buttons on a pair of infant PJs? That alone is the main reason parents are up all night.
Regardless of the zipper, I still wanted something manly for my son. Knowing this, the next item my wife produced was another set of pajamas, only these were pinstriped and resembled a baseball uniform. The team name on the front said “Dad’s Team.”
“Now that’s more like it,” I said. Then I leaned in for a closer look. “What does it say in that little blue circle,” I wondered aloud. With my eyes slightly squinted, I read the little logo and was disappointed to find that right after the words “Dad’s Team” in fine print were the words “Approved by mom.” “What is this world coming too?” I asked. “Even the manly PJs have to be approved by mom? Where are the men?”
“Don’t worry honey,” my wife said trying to reassure me. “My mom got him a onesie, but she made sure it was a manly one.”
“She did what?” I stammered.
“She got him a manly onesie,” she replied. Does such a thing exist, I thought to myself. So I decided to find out.
“Would I look manly if I showed up at a construction site with no pants and my manly flannel shirt pinned together in the crotch? Does any onesie look manly? Did I just say the word onesie out loud?” My mind was swirling trying to absorb the fact that I lived in a society that thought a onesie could be made manly. Why let it stop at babies? Why not have manly toddler onesies and manly third grader onesies?
“That’s it!” I said to myself. “I’ll start a line of clothing for men called “Workplace Onesies.” We can have special onesies for men of all professions. Suits are too expensive anyway and with the price of gas lately, we need to save money. Who wouldn’t appreciate a dentist with no pants and his lab coat fastened safely between his legs? Or maybe a lawyer whose perfectly tanned legs extended out from the Oxford Onesie? What about the orange Home Depot Apron Onesie? The possibilities are endless.
Now that I am looking to start a business, does anyone out there know how to sew?
Needless to say, the onesie is about the most feminine thing a baby boy can wear, but it is still commonly accepted by the great majority of motherhood. This bit of background leads us to a comment my wife made to me yesterday. After returning from a day-long shopping trip with her mom, my wife was showing me some of the purchases she had made for the new baby. The first item to make its way down the home fashion runway was a pair of light blue pajamas with the phrase, “I love my mom” emblazoned on the front. “Look!” my sweet wife exclaimed. “It has a zipper and no buttons.” She had a point there. Have you ever tried to button all 12 buttons on a pair of infant PJs? That alone is the main reason parents are up all night.
Regardless of the zipper, I still wanted something manly for my son. Knowing this, the next item my wife produced was another set of pajamas, only these were pinstriped and resembled a baseball uniform. The team name on the front said “Dad’s Team.”
“Now that’s more like it,” I said. Then I leaned in for a closer look. “What does it say in that little blue circle,” I wondered aloud. With my eyes slightly squinted, I read the little logo and was disappointed to find that right after the words “Dad’s Team” in fine print were the words “Approved by mom.” “What is this world coming too?” I asked. “Even the manly PJs have to be approved by mom? Where are the men?”
“Don’t worry honey,” my wife said trying to reassure me. “My mom got him a onesie, but she made sure it was a manly one.”
“She did what?” I stammered.
“She got him a manly onesie,” she replied. Does such a thing exist, I thought to myself. So I decided to find out.
“Would I look manly if I showed up at a construction site with no pants and my manly flannel shirt pinned together in the crotch? Does any onesie look manly? Did I just say the word onesie out loud?” My mind was swirling trying to absorb the fact that I lived in a society that thought a onesie could be made manly. Why let it stop at babies? Why not have manly toddler onesies and manly third grader onesies?
“That’s it!” I said to myself. “I’ll start a line of clothing for men called “Workplace Onesies.” We can have special onesies for men of all professions. Suits are too expensive anyway and with the price of gas lately, we need to save money. Who wouldn’t appreciate a dentist with no pants and his lab coat fastened safely between his legs? Or maybe a lawyer whose perfectly tanned legs extended out from the Oxford Onesie? What about the orange Home Depot Apron Onesie? The possibilities are endless.
Now that I am looking to start a business, does anyone out there know how to sew?
Monday, September 1, 2008
Nasal Passing
At some point in every parent's parenting career, a curious child comes to the realization that of all the cracks, crevices, and orifices in his body, the one that is in most need of a foreign object is the nose. I recall an incident from my own childhood when my younger brother conducted an experiment involving his nose and a bean. Other parents have similar stories, I'm sure.
This morning the nose incident invaded our family. If you notice the date, it is the first Monday in September, better known as Labor Day. Here is how our holiday began:
As with most mornings, the kids emerged from their rooms right at 6:30. My wife and I were still in bed, drifting in and out of sleep as we listened to them playing peacefully with each other. I thought about getting up, but had no reason to yet, so I continued with my fake sleep for a while longer. Around 6:40, my six-year-old son began sneezing. It was unusual because the sneezes were coming one at a time with about ten seconds between each. This is unusual because Zach's typical sneeze pattern is the double sneeze. (Think Ah-choo, Ah-choo without even the slightest pause in between.) The ten-second pause caught my attention just because it was a variation from the norm. Moments later, I heard another sound: the sound of footsteps approaching our bedroom.
"Uh, mom," the voice began. "Ah-choo!" Sniffle, sniffle. "I put one of those rolled up barrette things in my nose and I can't get it out." Both of us are instantly awake at this announcement, envisioning a barrette jammed into our son's nose, hooks and clips digging into his sensitive nasal passages, blood dripping out.
"You did what?" I asked jumping up and turning on the lights.
"I put a rolled up barrette thing in my nose and I can't breathe," he said very matter-of-factly.
I looked at his nose and didn't see anything except for some very moist drippage forming about a fingernail length up the passage. "Show me what you put in there," I said. Being the obedient kid that he is, he went to bathroom where the girls keep their hair things and came back out with a very small blue rubber band. "That makes more sense," I said slightly relieved as he showed me the offending item. "Let's look again," I continued very calmly on the outside while the inside of me was screaming, "We've got to get that thing out of there! Our ER co-pay is a hundred bucks!"
This time I got a flashlight and illuminated the nasal cavern to try to catch a glimpse of rubber but there was still too much drippage. "Get a tissue and blow hard," I said. He blew for several minutes without much progress, so I sent him over to Mom since she is the one who is really good at saving money. "Try holding the other side closed," I suggested. And the blowing resumed.
"We're getting some movement!" Mom exclaimed.
"Yes!" I shouted. "If that snot comes out, it is worth its weight in gold. Keep blowing."
And the blowing continued. "I see it!" Mom shouted. "Get me some tweezers!"
"Where are they?" I asked.
"I don't know," she replied.
"Breathe through your mouth, Zach. Don't sniff it up," I yelled as I frantically dug through bathroom drawers and cabinets looking for tweezers. "I have needle nose pliers in the garage," I suggested.
"Too big," my wife replied. "He's got a little nose."
"I think I saw some tweezers in the trailer when we were camping last month," I said. "Breathe through your mouth!" I hollered once more as I sprinted out into the yard to retrieve the camping tweezers. Moments later I returned with the tweezers and handed them to my wife.
Zach's eyes instantly doubled in size and panic seized him upon seeing the shiny metallic object. "You can't put those in my nose," he stammered.
"Just hold still. You won't feel a thing," I said. Even so, the panic grew and the noise level increased. "I'll hold him, you dig the rubber band out," I said to my wife. With a very professional headlock and arm hold, poor little Zach was immobilized.
"I got it!" Mom shouted holding up the small blue band still pinched in the tweezers.
I breathed a sigh of relief and looked around the room for my daughter. It only took a moment to find her hiding behind the chair in the corner of the room, hands over her ears, eyes closed, and a very concerned look on her face. I'll bet neither of them will every try that activity again.
This morning the nose incident invaded our family. If you notice the date, it is the first Monday in September, better known as Labor Day. Here is how our holiday began:
As with most mornings, the kids emerged from their rooms right at 6:30. My wife and I were still in bed, drifting in and out of sleep as we listened to them playing peacefully with each other. I thought about getting up, but had no reason to yet, so I continued with my fake sleep for a while longer. Around 6:40, my six-year-old son began sneezing. It was unusual because the sneezes were coming one at a time with about ten seconds between each. This is unusual because Zach's typical sneeze pattern is the double sneeze. (Think Ah-choo, Ah-choo without even the slightest pause in between.) The ten-second pause caught my attention just because it was a variation from the norm. Moments later, I heard another sound: the sound of footsteps approaching our bedroom.
"Uh, mom," the voice began. "Ah-choo!" Sniffle, sniffle. "I put one of those rolled up barrette things in my nose and I can't get it out." Both of us are instantly awake at this announcement, envisioning a barrette jammed into our son's nose, hooks and clips digging into his sensitive nasal passages, blood dripping out.
"You did what?" I asked jumping up and turning on the lights.
"I put a rolled up barrette thing in my nose and I can't breathe," he said very matter-of-factly.
I looked at his nose and didn't see anything except for some very moist drippage forming about a fingernail length up the passage. "Show me what you put in there," I said. Being the obedient kid that he is, he went to bathroom where the girls keep their hair things and came back out with a very small blue rubber band. "That makes more sense," I said slightly relieved as he showed me the offending item. "Let's look again," I continued very calmly on the outside while the inside of me was screaming, "We've got to get that thing out of there! Our ER co-pay is a hundred bucks!"
This time I got a flashlight and illuminated the nasal cavern to try to catch a glimpse of rubber but there was still too much drippage. "Get a tissue and blow hard," I said. He blew for several minutes without much progress, so I sent him over to Mom since she is the one who is really good at saving money. "Try holding the other side closed," I suggested. And the blowing resumed.
"We're getting some movement!" Mom exclaimed.
"Yes!" I shouted. "If that snot comes out, it is worth its weight in gold. Keep blowing."
And the blowing continued. "I see it!" Mom shouted. "Get me some tweezers!"
"Where are they?" I asked.
"I don't know," she replied.
"Breathe through your mouth, Zach. Don't sniff it up," I yelled as I frantically dug through bathroom drawers and cabinets looking for tweezers. "I have needle nose pliers in the garage," I suggested.
"Too big," my wife replied. "He's got a little nose."
"I think I saw some tweezers in the trailer when we were camping last month," I said. "Breathe through your mouth!" I hollered once more as I sprinted out into the yard to retrieve the camping tweezers. Moments later I returned with the tweezers and handed them to my wife.
Zach's eyes instantly doubled in size and panic seized him upon seeing the shiny metallic object. "You can't put those in my nose," he stammered.
"Just hold still. You won't feel a thing," I said. Even so, the panic grew and the noise level increased. "I'll hold him, you dig the rubber band out," I said to my wife. With a very professional headlock and arm hold, poor little Zach was immobilized.
"I got it!" Mom shouted holding up the small blue band still pinched in the tweezers.
I breathed a sigh of relief and looked around the room for my daughter. It only took a moment to find her hiding behind the chair in the corner of the room, hands over her ears, eyes closed, and a very concerned look on her face. I'll bet neither of them will every try that activity again.
Corn on the Cob
Do you remember when you were a child and the very act of eating was fun? It had nothing to do with the particular food that was being consumed, but rather it had everything to do with the manner in which it was eaten. This must be a learned behavior that we teach our children from the time they first learn to chew. You've seen it with babies before. They refuse and refuse to open wide until the food suddenly travels to their mouths via a spoon that has magically morphed into an airplane that is ready to park in hangar. (As if a one-year-old even knows what a hangar is.) Once the food can fly, the child is ready to try anything.
As the child grows and learns to feed himself, he may try playing the same mental games with himself. My two daughters are clearly in this stage. I'm not sure how they got caught up in the corn on the cob fetish, but they did. They must have taken such a strong liking to the yellow veggie when they were young that they can now attack any food item from a corn perspective and enjoy it thoroughly.
I first noticed this the other day when we were out on a Daddy/Daughter day. Mommy was in need of some time without the girls and, since I happened to be the only other adult in the house at the time, I took the hint and offered to take them on a brief outing. After spending several minutes visiting our local herd of sheep and goats, we headed to the donut shop. It was there that the whole corn on the cob theory formulated in my mind. Maddie, the older of the two girls, was staring at the colorful donuts behind the glass. In my mind, I was willing her to choose the unglazed round donut. You know the one that I am talking about. It’s the one donut in the whole shop that has the lowest probability of making a mess all over a child's clothes. The absence of frosting, sprinkles, or sugar ensures that the only clean up necessary will be a quick brushing off of a few crumbs.
"Look at that pretty round one," I suggested. "It looks like a silly bald man." No response as she continued to peruse the rack.
Then her eyes lit up as she exclaimed, "Oooh! Look at that sugary one!"
"You mean the twisted one with all that messy sugar covering it?"
"Yeah. I like sugar," she replied with an unbeatable smile and a twinkle in her four-year-old eyes. How could I resist? So I placed an order for her sugary twisted mess and a plain, round donut for myself. As I took her donut out of the bag, I gave her several napkins to catch the sugar. This is where the corn theory comes in. With one hand on each end of the sugar twist, Maddie proceeded to nibble into the middle of the donut as if it were corn. She then twisted the donut slowly as she worked her way around, eating the top layer of the donut and leaving the "cob" behind.
"Maddie?" I asked. "What are you doing?"
"I'm eating all the sugar. Yummmmmm!" she said. And that was mostly true because she was indeed trying to eat all the sugar, but an equal amount had spread all over her face and clothes, just as I had expected. After observing her attack the donut like corn that day, I began to notice that this was not a one-time event. Nor was it limited to this particular daughter.
What else can be eaten like corn? I'll give you a quick list of some of the things I have seen my girls eat in this way. Use your imagination as you envision a young child attack these items as if they too had grown on a cob. If any of these things make you think of a mess, you must be a parent.
Tacos: First bite on the bottom, dead center.
Popsicle: Hold sideways and start in the middle
Tortillas: Roll it up, start in the middle. Unroll and peek through the hole.
Hamburger/Sandwich: Choose your point of entry and stick with it. Never eat anything to the left or right of that point of entry.
Ice Cream Cone: Turn sideways, skip the ice cream, and start with the flavorless, air-filled cone.
What else have you seen cobbified?
As the child grows and learns to feed himself, he may try playing the same mental games with himself. My two daughters are clearly in this stage. I'm not sure how they got caught up in the corn on the cob fetish, but they did. They must have taken such a strong liking to the yellow veggie when they were young that they can now attack any food item from a corn perspective and enjoy it thoroughly.
I first noticed this the other day when we were out on a Daddy/Daughter day. Mommy was in need of some time without the girls and, since I happened to be the only other adult in the house at the time, I took the hint and offered to take them on a brief outing. After spending several minutes visiting our local herd of sheep and goats, we headed to the donut shop. It was there that the whole corn on the cob theory formulated in my mind. Maddie, the older of the two girls, was staring at the colorful donuts behind the glass. In my mind, I was willing her to choose the unglazed round donut. You know the one that I am talking about. It’s the one donut in the whole shop that has the lowest probability of making a mess all over a child's clothes. The absence of frosting, sprinkles, or sugar ensures that the only clean up necessary will be a quick brushing off of a few crumbs.
"Look at that pretty round one," I suggested. "It looks like a silly bald man." No response as she continued to peruse the rack.
Then her eyes lit up as she exclaimed, "Oooh! Look at that sugary one!"
"You mean the twisted one with all that messy sugar covering it?"
"Yeah. I like sugar," she replied with an unbeatable smile and a twinkle in her four-year-old eyes. How could I resist? So I placed an order for her sugary twisted mess and a plain, round donut for myself. As I took her donut out of the bag, I gave her several napkins to catch the sugar. This is where the corn theory comes in. With one hand on each end of the sugar twist, Maddie proceeded to nibble into the middle of the donut as if it were corn. She then twisted the donut slowly as she worked her way around, eating the top layer of the donut and leaving the "cob" behind.
"Maddie?" I asked. "What are you doing?"
"I'm eating all the sugar. Yummmmmm!" she said. And that was mostly true because she was indeed trying to eat all the sugar, but an equal amount had spread all over her face and clothes, just as I had expected. After observing her attack the donut like corn that day, I began to notice that this was not a one-time event. Nor was it limited to this particular daughter.
What else can be eaten like corn? I'll give you a quick list of some of the things I have seen my girls eat in this way. Use your imagination as you envision a young child attack these items as if they too had grown on a cob. If any of these things make you think of a mess, you must be a parent.
Tacos: First bite on the bottom, dead center.
Popsicle: Hold sideways and start in the middle
Tortillas: Roll it up, start in the middle. Unroll and peek through the hole.
Hamburger/Sandwich: Choose your point of entry and stick with it. Never eat anything to the left or right of that point of entry.
Ice Cream Cone: Turn sideways, skip the ice cream, and start with the flavorless, air-filled cone.
What else have you seen cobbified?
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Play-Dough Injury
Most of the activities in which my young children participate are fairly innocent and don’t involve much risk of decapitation or other life-threatening injuries. Most of their activities do, however, involve some sort of mess. And it is those messes that bring a sense of danger into our otherwise safe home.
Of all the regularly occurring messes, the one I deal with the best is the Play-Dough mess. This mess is easy on me simply because we have banned it from inside the house and have set up a Play-Dough mess station in the backyard. My youngest daughter, who is almost two, is a certified Play-Dough fanatic. The other day she went outside to the Play-Dough mess station only to discover that she had left her stash uncovered the night before and it was all dried out. Without a moment’s hesitation, she toddled back into the house and tugged on mom’s pant leg before announcing, “Mommy! I need Pay-Dough.” Who could resist that? Moments later, mom was raiding the reserve Play-Dough stash and forking over a brand new doughy mess to our sweet little girl.
Play-Dough seems like an innocent enough activity to the casual observer, but don’t ever let the TSA find out that you have a pile of hot pink dough in your pocket. I learned this week that, given the right amount of sunlight, water, and grimy child hands, Play-Dough can indeed be used as a weapon.
How did I learn this, you ask? Well it all started just before dinner when I took my bare feet out in the yard to light the barbecue. As I stepped out on to the patio, I very astutely noticed that a sharp pain shot up my left leg when I applied my foot to the concrete. Quickly deducing that the pain was originating from the bottom of my foot, I eagerly lifted the offending foot from the ground only to discover a blue and pink swirled rock with a sharp, jagged point protruding from one side laying obnoxiously on the ground. “Rocks aren’t blue and pink,” I keenly said to myself. “This couldn’t possibly be a naturally occurring phenomenon.” Then I leaned in for a closer examination. “Ah-ha!” I announced to no one in particular. “That’s not a rock, that’s a dried clump of Play-Dough!” Fortunately, my reflexes had been quick enough to avoid any serious damage to my foot, but a sharp pain lingered for several minutes before subsiding.
During those moments of lingering pain, I decided to see what the treatment might be for a Play-Dough injury. Using my best sleuthing skills, I flipped open my trusty laptop and typed the words “Play-Dough Injury” into my Google search engine. Expecting to receive feedback from several trustworthy medical sites, I was surprised when the only hits I got were for making edible Play-Dough and tips for removing Play-Dough from a cloth chair. Since my foot was neither edible nor cloth, I decided to accept the pain and wait it out.
As the pain worked its way out of my system, I couldn’t help but smile, for a realization had just hit me. Moments before, I had used the world-wide resources of the Internet (powered by Google) to research the topic of Play-Dough injuries. Not one report of any such injury could be found. I was the first. I alone am the only person to report a real life Play-Dough injury on the Internet. Even as I type this, I can’t wait to post it and see if Google can find my report. Perhaps my experience will help someone else who has dealt with such an injury. Who knows where this could lead. Support groups? Seminars? Book deals? The options are endless. So, if you have a Play-Dough injury story that you would like to share, (or if you are a Hollywood agent) let’s chat.
Of all the regularly occurring messes, the one I deal with the best is the Play-Dough mess. This mess is easy on me simply because we have banned it from inside the house and have set up a Play-Dough mess station in the backyard. My youngest daughter, who is almost two, is a certified Play-Dough fanatic. The other day she went outside to the Play-Dough mess station only to discover that she had left her stash uncovered the night before and it was all dried out. Without a moment’s hesitation, she toddled back into the house and tugged on mom’s pant leg before announcing, “Mommy! I need Pay-Dough.” Who could resist that? Moments later, mom was raiding the reserve Play-Dough stash and forking over a brand new doughy mess to our sweet little girl.
Play-Dough seems like an innocent enough activity to the casual observer, but don’t ever let the TSA find out that you have a pile of hot pink dough in your pocket. I learned this week that, given the right amount of sunlight, water, and grimy child hands, Play-Dough can indeed be used as a weapon.
How did I learn this, you ask? Well it all started just before dinner when I took my bare feet out in the yard to light the barbecue. As I stepped out on to the patio, I very astutely noticed that a sharp pain shot up my left leg when I applied my foot to the concrete. Quickly deducing that the pain was originating from the bottom of my foot, I eagerly lifted the offending foot from the ground only to discover a blue and pink swirled rock with a sharp, jagged point protruding from one side laying obnoxiously on the ground. “Rocks aren’t blue and pink,” I keenly said to myself. “This couldn’t possibly be a naturally occurring phenomenon.” Then I leaned in for a closer examination. “Ah-ha!” I announced to no one in particular. “That’s not a rock, that’s a dried clump of Play-Dough!” Fortunately, my reflexes had been quick enough to avoid any serious damage to my foot, but a sharp pain lingered for several minutes before subsiding.
During those moments of lingering pain, I decided to see what the treatment might be for a Play-Dough injury. Using my best sleuthing skills, I flipped open my trusty laptop and typed the words “Play-Dough Injury” into my Google search engine. Expecting to receive feedback from several trustworthy medical sites, I was surprised when the only hits I got were for making edible Play-Dough and tips for removing Play-Dough from a cloth chair. Since my foot was neither edible nor cloth, I decided to accept the pain and wait it out.
As the pain worked its way out of my system, I couldn’t help but smile, for a realization had just hit me. Moments before, I had used the world-wide resources of the Internet (powered by Google) to research the topic of Play-Dough injuries. Not one report of any such injury could be found. I was the first. I alone am the only person to report a real life Play-Dough injury on the Internet. Even as I type this, I can’t wait to post it and see if Google can find my report. Perhaps my experience will help someone else who has dealt with such an injury. Who knows where this could lead. Support groups? Seminars? Book deals? The options are endless. So, if you have a Play-Dough injury story that you would like to share, (or if you are a Hollywood agent) let’s chat.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Mad as a Hornet
Have you ever thought your spouse was madder than a hornet? This type of anger is typically defined as red in the face with steam blowing out ones ears as choice words are spewed upon the recipient of this venom. When one is mad as a hornet, stinging verbal blows are administered repeatedly until the anger is exhausted. Apparently this phrase derives from a characteristic of actual hornets which have the ability, unlike common honey bees, to sting repeatedly without losing their stinger. By now I am sure you are wondering how I know this. Well, since you asked, let me tell you.
It had been a pleasant week of camping in the mountains of Northern California. There was plenty of sun and little to do except relax. Since I had time on my hands, I offered to accompany my fourteen year old cousin on a motorcycle ride through the mountainous logging roads. We rode to the top of the highest peak to overlook the lake and forest far below then traveled to an old abandoned mine to seek our fortune. After coming up empty, we headed home. The road home is simple to navigate, when there is a turn, take the road leading down. I knew this, but I was unsure if my cousin was aware of this simple navigational aide, so I made sure he was always clearly visible through the dust in my mirror. At the time I didn’t realize just how noble it was of me to lead the way, for lurking ahead was an unknown enemy and I would be the first to meet him.
As I entered the territory of this hornet, his anger turned to seething rage and he silently vowed to defend his land from the motorized monsters coming his way. Without warning, I crossed the invisible line marking his land and he attacked. His first attempt was aimed at my face so I ducked and dodged and brushed him away. Not one to give up easily, the hornet returned again only this time he had a better plan. The gap in my shirt right at the neck was my point of vulnerability. In one swift motion he found the hole and darted inside. Dust spewed across the road as I slammed on the breaks and tried to bring the bike to a stop fast enough to remove my helmet and pull my shirt off, but it was too late. His anger was in full force and he let me have it. Pain seared through my chest as he struck over and over relentlessly piercing my flesh with his pin-like tail. Pain like I had never before experienced consumed me. Fighting off the panic, I turned to my cousin as he emerged from the dust cloud and told him what had just happened. Then, recalling stories of trapped hikers and explorers who had overcome adversity to find safety, I knew I had to get back to camp as soon as possible.
Once again straddling the bike, I kicked it’s engine to life and took off down the dirt road. Did Austin know the way home? I couldn’t remember. A conversation with him flashed through my mind. Did I really tell him where to turn or did I only imagine it? The pain was intense, but I knew I had to show him the way home. My bike was faster than his and I could be home in minutes, but I had to wait, just to be sure. Glancing in my mirror, I could barely make out the headlight of the smaller bike through the dust. As long as there was dust, he would know where to go. Minutes later, with one hand clutching my burning chest, I made the final turn toward camp. Once we were safely on the last stretch of road, I gunned it, gripping my chest even tighter to try to ease the pain.
Like a good mom, mine knew instantly something was wrong. I pulled the bike into the camp, unintentionally popped the clutch, and stalled it as I climbed off as quickly as I could. “Are you okay?” she asked as I stumbled toward my parent’s motor home.
“No,” I replied stumbling onto the small sofa. And then, finally able to relax, I stopped fighting the pain and it consumed me. More intense than anything I ever experienced, I was sure my chest was a swollen mound of puffy red tissue. Tears were beginning to stream down my face and I felt as if I would pass out. My balance was gone and could do nothing but lie down and pray that the pain would stop.
Within minutes the spectacle had begun and word spread that Aaron was dying. Every campground doctor, nurse, and mom were putting their heads together to figure out what to do. I must have mumbled something about a bee sting, because my mom immediately slathered my chest with some kind of mushy white baking soda mixture. “Where does it hurt?” she asked.
“On the sting!” I shouted back.
“Where is the sting? Can you point to it?” she continued.
“Can’t you see it?” I replied through clenched teeth.
“Maybe if you pointed out where the pain was, it would be easier,” she said.
“Wait, I think I see it,” my dad said. “Yup, that’s it.”
“Where?” asked mom.
“That little red line,” dad said pointing to a quarter inch scratch dead center. “Does this hurt?” he asked pressing on my gaping wound.
“Ahhhhhhhh!” I replied. Just about then, my uncle returned with a bottle of bee sting medicine. It was a green substance that is poured directly onto the sting. In a matter of seconds, my chest had a white background with a colorful green foreground tethered between mats of hair. Modern art at it’s finest existed upon my chest, but the pain was more intense than ever.
The decision to take me to the emergency room was quickly made. As I was stumbling toward the car, Mom handed me an ice pack. Ahh, relief. As we made our way to the small rural hospital seventeen miles down the road, the ice numbed my skin and the pain subsided. With my wife behind the wheel and Mom in the back seat, we pulled into the parking lot. “It feels a lot better,” I said. “Maybe we should just get some dinner and head back to camp.”
“Why don’t we wait here for a minute and see if it stays better,” my wife suggested? I removed the ice pack and walked around the uncrowded parking lot. Less than a minute into the trial period, the pain was back. “Is it worth a $100 co-pay?” my wife asked.
“Yes!” I said struggling to breathe. And in we went. Moments later I was sitting in a triage office lifting up my shirt for the nurse. I removed the ice pack and revealed the modern art plastered across my chest.
“What is that?” she asked. I did my best to explain the process that was involved in creating the masterpiece, but words failed me. “We are going to have to clean it,” she said.
Words came quickly this time. “If you clean that, I will probably hurt you,” I said.
“That’s okay,” she replied. “I’ve dealt with bigger guys than you before. Now tell me what it feels like.”
I thought for a minute and said, “It feels like intense heartburn, only not in my heart.”
“Heartburn’s not in your heart either. It’s in your esophagus,” she replied.
Great, and all this time I thought it was in my heart. “Spare me the anatomy lesson and make it stop!” I wanted to yell, but my energy for yelling was gone.
My next stop was an actual bed in the ER. Step one was a quick examination by a middle aged balding doctor who also struggled to find my gaping wound. “It feels like I am being stabbed with an ice pick!” I tried to explain to him. “Can’t you see it?” No reaction. The next step was a shot of morphine. “I need ice!” I said.
“The morphine will take care of the pain, honey,” the nurse said, “but I’ll get you some ice in a minute.” By now, my original ice pack was long gone and the pain was intensifying. After what seemed like hours, the nurse returned with a bag of ice.
“This ice is hot,” I said. “I need the cold kind.”
“It’s right out of the ice machine,” she said, “besides the morphine will help.”
The morphine was not helping. Only ice made any difference. “Can you please get me some real ice?” I asked again. “The morphine isn’t helping.” This concept seemed so foreign to the medical staff. “Morphine not working?” their faces seemed to say. “But we are a small hospital, morphine is all we know.”
Next came the phlebotomist. Another hole in my arm for blood tests. Fortunately, by now the real ice had arrived and the pain was subsiding. Minutes later, an EKG machine was wheeled into the room. “As long as you are not going to poke another hole in me, I guess you are okay,” I said to the kind-looking lady.
“This won’t hurt a bit,” she said as she began connecting electrodes all over my body. “Just a couple of more and then we can begin the test,” she added just before she placed the final electrode directly on top of my flaming wound.
“Ahhhhh!” I screamed as my horizontal body jumped vertically, almost reaching the florescent lights on the ceiling.
“You have to relax!” she ordered. “I can’t do the test if you don’t relax!” Once again fighting both tears and the urge to decapitate this heartless woman who had once looked so nice, I took a deep breath and tried to focus beyond the pain. “Relax,” she again ordered.
Dirty words and unkind thoughts flooded my mind as I struggled between unleashing them upon this woman and trying to actually relax so the test can conclude. Somehow I managed to keep my mouth shut and she finally got the information she needed. She quickly wound up her cords and began removing the electrodes from my body obviously anxious to leave this uncooperative patient behind. “I’ll just leave that one,” she said pointing to the offending element still planted on my wound. “You can take it off later.”
That was her first good idea of the night.
About and hour later, Doctor Baldy returned with the diagnosis. “So, what is it?” I asked.
“You got stung,” he said bluntly as he began filling out my discharge papers. “The morphine didn’t work so I can give you some pain pills, but my guess is that it will gradually go away.”
I took the bottle of pills and shook my head wondering what he actually did in med school. With a bag of ice (which was my idea in the first place) pressed firmly to my chest, I exited the hospital on a quest for my much delayed dinner. “Don’t keep that ice on there too long,” the nurse called out. “Or we may have to cut your frozen skin off.”
“Will that hurt?” I asked.
It had been a pleasant week of camping in the mountains of Northern California. There was plenty of sun and little to do except relax. Since I had time on my hands, I offered to accompany my fourteen year old cousin on a motorcycle ride through the mountainous logging roads. We rode to the top of the highest peak to overlook the lake and forest far below then traveled to an old abandoned mine to seek our fortune. After coming up empty, we headed home. The road home is simple to navigate, when there is a turn, take the road leading down. I knew this, but I was unsure if my cousin was aware of this simple navigational aide, so I made sure he was always clearly visible through the dust in my mirror. At the time I didn’t realize just how noble it was of me to lead the way, for lurking ahead was an unknown enemy and I would be the first to meet him.
As I entered the territory of this hornet, his anger turned to seething rage and he silently vowed to defend his land from the motorized monsters coming his way. Without warning, I crossed the invisible line marking his land and he attacked. His first attempt was aimed at my face so I ducked and dodged and brushed him away. Not one to give up easily, the hornet returned again only this time he had a better plan. The gap in my shirt right at the neck was my point of vulnerability. In one swift motion he found the hole and darted inside. Dust spewed across the road as I slammed on the breaks and tried to bring the bike to a stop fast enough to remove my helmet and pull my shirt off, but it was too late. His anger was in full force and he let me have it. Pain seared through my chest as he struck over and over relentlessly piercing my flesh with his pin-like tail. Pain like I had never before experienced consumed me. Fighting off the panic, I turned to my cousin as he emerged from the dust cloud and told him what had just happened. Then, recalling stories of trapped hikers and explorers who had overcome adversity to find safety, I knew I had to get back to camp as soon as possible.
Once again straddling the bike, I kicked it’s engine to life and took off down the dirt road. Did Austin know the way home? I couldn’t remember. A conversation with him flashed through my mind. Did I really tell him where to turn or did I only imagine it? The pain was intense, but I knew I had to show him the way home. My bike was faster than his and I could be home in minutes, but I had to wait, just to be sure. Glancing in my mirror, I could barely make out the headlight of the smaller bike through the dust. As long as there was dust, he would know where to go. Minutes later, with one hand clutching my burning chest, I made the final turn toward camp. Once we were safely on the last stretch of road, I gunned it, gripping my chest even tighter to try to ease the pain.
Like a good mom, mine knew instantly something was wrong. I pulled the bike into the camp, unintentionally popped the clutch, and stalled it as I climbed off as quickly as I could. “Are you okay?” she asked as I stumbled toward my parent’s motor home.
“No,” I replied stumbling onto the small sofa. And then, finally able to relax, I stopped fighting the pain and it consumed me. More intense than anything I ever experienced, I was sure my chest was a swollen mound of puffy red tissue. Tears were beginning to stream down my face and I felt as if I would pass out. My balance was gone and could do nothing but lie down and pray that the pain would stop.
Within minutes the spectacle had begun and word spread that Aaron was dying. Every campground doctor, nurse, and mom were putting their heads together to figure out what to do. I must have mumbled something about a bee sting, because my mom immediately slathered my chest with some kind of mushy white baking soda mixture. “Where does it hurt?” she asked.
“On the sting!” I shouted back.
“Where is the sting? Can you point to it?” she continued.
“Can’t you see it?” I replied through clenched teeth.
“Maybe if you pointed out where the pain was, it would be easier,” she said.
“Wait, I think I see it,” my dad said. “Yup, that’s it.”
“Where?” asked mom.
“That little red line,” dad said pointing to a quarter inch scratch dead center. “Does this hurt?” he asked pressing on my gaping wound.
“Ahhhhhhhh!” I replied. Just about then, my uncle returned with a bottle of bee sting medicine. It was a green substance that is poured directly onto the sting. In a matter of seconds, my chest had a white background with a colorful green foreground tethered between mats of hair. Modern art at it’s finest existed upon my chest, but the pain was more intense than ever.
The decision to take me to the emergency room was quickly made. As I was stumbling toward the car, Mom handed me an ice pack. Ahh, relief. As we made our way to the small rural hospital seventeen miles down the road, the ice numbed my skin and the pain subsided. With my wife behind the wheel and Mom in the back seat, we pulled into the parking lot. “It feels a lot better,” I said. “Maybe we should just get some dinner and head back to camp.”
“Why don’t we wait here for a minute and see if it stays better,” my wife suggested? I removed the ice pack and walked around the uncrowded parking lot. Less than a minute into the trial period, the pain was back. “Is it worth a $100 co-pay?” my wife asked.
“Yes!” I said struggling to breathe. And in we went. Moments later I was sitting in a triage office lifting up my shirt for the nurse. I removed the ice pack and revealed the modern art plastered across my chest.
“What is that?” she asked. I did my best to explain the process that was involved in creating the masterpiece, but words failed me. “We are going to have to clean it,” she said.
Words came quickly this time. “If you clean that, I will probably hurt you,” I said.
“That’s okay,” she replied. “I’ve dealt with bigger guys than you before. Now tell me what it feels like.”
I thought for a minute and said, “It feels like intense heartburn, only not in my heart.”
“Heartburn’s not in your heart either. It’s in your esophagus,” she replied.
Great, and all this time I thought it was in my heart. “Spare me the anatomy lesson and make it stop!” I wanted to yell, but my energy for yelling was gone.
My next stop was an actual bed in the ER. Step one was a quick examination by a middle aged balding doctor who also struggled to find my gaping wound. “It feels like I am being stabbed with an ice pick!” I tried to explain to him. “Can’t you see it?” No reaction. The next step was a shot of morphine. “I need ice!” I said.
“The morphine will take care of the pain, honey,” the nurse said, “but I’ll get you some ice in a minute.” By now, my original ice pack was long gone and the pain was intensifying. After what seemed like hours, the nurse returned with a bag of ice.
“This ice is hot,” I said. “I need the cold kind.”
“It’s right out of the ice machine,” she said, “besides the morphine will help.”
The morphine was not helping. Only ice made any difference. “Can you please get me some real ice?” I asked again. “The morphine isn’t helping.” This concept seemed so foreign to the medical staff. “Morphine not working?” their faces seemed to say. “But we are a small hospital, morphine is all we know.”
Next came the phlebotomist. Another hole in my arm for blood tests. Fortunately, by now the real ice had arrived and the pain was subsiding. Minutes later, an EKG machine was wheeled into the room. “As long as you are not going to poke another hole in me, I guess you are okay,” I said to the kind-looking lady.
“This won’t hurt a bit,” she said as she began connecting electrodes all over my body. “Just a couple of more and then we can begin the test,” she added just before she placed the final electrode directly on top of my flaming wound.
“Ahhhhh!” I screamed as my horizontal body jumped vertically, almost reaching the florescent lights on the ceiling.
“You have to relax!” she ordered. “I can’t do the test if you don’t relax!” Once again fighting both tears and the urge to decapitate this heartless woman who had once looked so nice, I took a deep breath and tried to focus beyond the pain. “Relax,” she again ordered.
Dirty words and unkind thoughts flooded my mind as I struggled between unleashing them upon this woman and trying to actually relax so the test can conclude. Somehow I managed to keep my mouth shut and she finally got the information she needed. She quickly wound up her cords and began removing the electrodes from my body obviously anxious to leave this uncooperative patient behind. “I’ll just leave that one,” she said pointing to the offending element still planted on my wound. “You can take it off later.”
That was her first good idea of the night.
About and hour later, Doctor Baldy returned with the diagnosis. “So, what is it?” I asked.
“You got stung,” he said bluntly as he began filling out my discharge papers. “The morphine didn’t work so I can give you some pain pills, but my guess is that it will gradually go away.”
I took the bottle of pills and shook my head wondering what he actually did in med school. With a bag of ice (which was my idea in the first place) pressed firmly to my chest, I exited the hospital on a quest for my much delayed dinner. “Don’t keep that ice on there too long,” the nurse called out. “Or we may have to cut your frozen skin off.”
“Will that hurt?” I asked.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Confirmation
It’s not often that teachers get to reconnect with former students, but when we do, emotions can range from trepidation and fear over what a student has become to just plain relief that the kid is still alive. Somewhere between fear and relief is the satisfaction that comes with confirmation. The kind of confirmation to which I refer is not the confirmation that sweet little Jimmy is now a convicted felon, but rather, the confirmation I am talking about is the confirmation that proves a kid is still firmly planted along the path upon which I had sent him.
I got to experience that kind of confirmation today. A former student was passing through town on his way from his current home in Texas to visit family in San Diego. The timing worked out perfectly to rendezvous with him for lunch.
Despite what your third grade teacher may have told you, teachers do have favorites. Favorites don’t necessarily conform to a mold. They come in all shapes and sizes and from a variety of backgrounds. A frequent common denominator, however, is that the the kid’s parents are actively involved in his or her education. Justin’s family is that type of family. Perhaps that is why the kid is such a joy to be around. Now I am sure that his mother would disagree with the idea that he is always a joy, but you get the point.
For some reason, Justin and I clicked the year he was in my fourth grade class. Yes, his mom had a lot to do with it, but so did the fact that he “got” me and I “got” him. We were on the same wave length. I have never been accused of being overly serious or philosophical, and neither has Justin. Humor and good-natured sarcasm were the hallmark of our year. Unfortunately, I only got to teach Justin for one year. At the close of that school year I moved up to fifth grade and took many of my fourth grade students with me. Justin’s family, however, had other plans and Texas was calling.
Now, three years later, through the wonders of the internet and a few visits back to Southern California, I have kept in touch with Justin and his family. Maintaining a relationship with a former student doesn’t really make me a great teacher. What it does do, however, is keep me in line for a payoff in the future. You see, Justin is going to be an NFL quarterback someday, and I need to make sure he knows where to find me in case I need help funding my retirement. And the fact that he has an incredibly cute younger sister that is my son’s age doesn’t hurt either.
I got to experience that kind of confirmation today. A former student was passing through town on his way from his current home in Texas to visit family in San Diego. The timing worked out perfectly to rendezvous with him for lunch.
Despite what your third grade teacher may have told you, teachers do have favorites. Favorites don’t necessarily conform to a mold. They come in all shapes and sizes and from a variety of backgrounds. A frequent common denominator, however, is that the the kid’s parents are actively involved in his or her education. Justin’s family is that type of family. Perhaps that is why the kid is such a joy to be around. Now I am sure that his mother would disagree with the idea that he is always a joy, but you get the point.
For some reason, Justin and I clicked the year he was in my fourth grade class. Yes, his mom had a lot to do with it, but so did the fact that he “got” me and I “got” him. We were on the same wave length. I have never been accused of being overly serious or philosophical, and neither has Justin. Humor and good-natured sarcasm were the hallmark of our year. Unfortunately, I only got to teach Justin for one year. At the close of that school year I moved up to fifth grade and took many of my fourth grade students with me. Justin’s family, however, had other plans and Texas was calling.
Now, three years later, through the wonders of the internet and a few visits back to Southern California, I have kept in touch with Justin and his family. Maintaining a relationship with a former student doesn’t really make me a great teacher. What it does do, however, is keep me in line for a payoff in the future. You see, Justin is going to be an NFL quarterback someday, and I need to make sure he knows where to find me in case I need help funding my retirement. And the fact that he has an incredibly cute younger sister that is my son’s age doesn’t hurt either.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Discovery
My youngest daughter was born with an identity crisis. When she first arrived, we proudly bestowed upon her the name Camryn Michelle. From that, countless other names have been derived. Cami, Cami Shell, Camster the Hamster, just plain old Hamster, and Cam to name a few. At first we had some concerns that she may become confused as to which name was indeed hers, but she put that crisis to rest well before her second birthday.
Our concerns, however, did have some merit. As she passed her first birthday and began experimenting with sounds we began teaching her to recognize her own name. It was at this point that we realized we had a problem. It quickly became apparent that she wanted to be her older sister, Maddie, instead of Cami. We developed a routine that went something like this:
Dad: Say Cami.
Cami: Maddie.
Dad: No, say Caaami.
Cami: Maaaddie.
Dad: That’s not quite right. Say Ca-mi.
Cami: Mad-die.
Dad: Ok, let’s try something else. Say Camryn.
Cami: Maddie
Dad: Say Daddy.
Cami: Daddy.
Dad: Say Mommy.
Cami: Mommy.
Dad: Say Doggie.
Cami: Doggie.
Dad: Say Cami.
Cami: Maddie.
Dad: Say Camryn.
Cami: Maddie.
Dad: Hamster?
Cami: Maddie.
Dad: I give up!
Needless to say, this is a comical, yet frustrating experience. Arriving at her name was quite an ordeal for me and my wife. In the months prior to her birth, we pondered hundreds of names before finally agreeing that our daughter was going to be Camryn. Now she shrugged off the name and took a new one without ever consulting us or seeking our opinions on the matter. Everyone knows that girls are the most expensive gender and now in addition to college and a wedding, I was going to have to fork over legal fees for a name change! “We’ve got to stop this nonsense,” I said to my wife one day. “I’m going to teach that girl her name if it’s the last thing I do!”
And so, I set out to teach Camryn her name. In the interest of saving space, I’ll not repeat the above conversation. I’ll simply ask you to review my last attempt at this and tell you that round two had similar results. As did round three and round four. By now, she was a side show that we used to entertain our friends. “Hey watch this,” I would tell anyone who came near us. “I bet your kid can’t do this.” Then I would wow them with my daughter’s ability to say Maddie every time I said Camryn, Cami, Cam, or Hamster.
Last week all my hard work finally paid off. When we first got our big white SUV with oversized chrome wheels, some might have thought that it was a little excessive, but I am here to tell you that big chrome rims have a very distinct educational use. I had sent the kids out to the garage to get in the car when I noticed that Cami had stopped short of her door. When I found her, she was looking into the right front wheel, admiring her reflection in the shiny chrome. “Ahhh,” she was saying. And then it happened. Her little finger pointed to the center of the rim and said what I had been longing to hear, “Cami.”
“Who is that?” I asked seizing the moment to hear it again, my finger pointing to the rim.
“Cami,” she replied.
“You’re cured!” I exclaimed as I picked her up and squeezed her tightly. I then put her back down on the floor where she immediately returned to the wheel and pointed at herself repeating her name, “Cami, Cami, Cami.”
I looked at my daughter and pride filled my heart. Then relief flooded my soul as I gently patted my wallet, comforted by the fact that I would not be paying for a legal name change any time soon.
Our concerns, however, did have some merit. As she passed her first birthday and began experimenting with sounds we began teaching her to recognize her own name. It was at this point that we realized we had a problem. It quickly became apparent that she wanted to be her older sister, Maddie, instead of Cami. We developed a routine that went something like this:
Dad: Say Cami.
Cami: Maddie.
Dad: No, say Caaami.
Cami: Maaaddie.
Dad: That’s not quite right. Say Ca-mi.
Cami: Mad-die.
Dad: Ok, let’s try something else. Say Camryn.
Cami: Maddie
Dad: Say Daddy.
Cami: Daddy.
Dad: Say Mommy.
Cami: Mommy.
Dad: Say Doggie.
Cami: Doggie.
Dad: Say Cami.
Cami: Maddie.
Dad: Say Camryn.
Cami: Maddie.
Dad: Hamster?
Cami: Maddie.
Dad: I give up!
Needless to say, this is a comical, yet frustrating experience. Arriving at her name was quite an ordeal for me and my wife. In the months prior to her birth, we pondered hundreds of names before finally agreeing that our daughter was going to be Camryn. Now she shrugged off the name and took a new one without ever consulting us or seeking our opinions on the matter. Everyone knows that girls are the most expensive gender and now in addition to college and a wedding, I was going to have to fork over legal fees for a name change! “We’ve got to stop this nonsense,” I said to my wife one day. “I’m going to teach that girl her name if it’s the last thing I do!”
And so, I set out to teach Camryn her name. In the interest of saving space, I’ll not repeat the above conversation. I’ll simply ask you to review my last attempt at this and tell you that round two had similar results. As did round three and round four. By now, she was a side show that we used to entertain our friends. “Hey watch this,” I would tell anyone who came near us. “I bet your kid can’t do this.” Then I would wow them with my daughter’s ability to say Maddie every time I said Camryn, Cami, Cam, or Hamster.
Last week all my hard work finally paid off. When we first got our big white SUV with oversized chrome wheels, some might have thought that it was a little excessive, but I am here to tell you that big chrome rims have a very distinct educational use. I had sent the kids out to the garage to get in the car when I noticed that Cami had stopped short of her door. When I found her, she was looking into the right front wheel, admiring her reflection in the shiny chrome. “Ahhh,” she was saying. And then it happened. Her little finger pointed to the center of the rim and said what I had been longing to hear, “Cami.”
“Who is that?” I asked seizing the moment to hear it again, my finger pointing to the rim.
“Cami,” she replied.
“You’re cured!” I exclaimed as I picked her up and squeezed her tightly. I then put her back down on the floor where she immediately returned to the wheel and pointed at herself repeating her name, “Cami, Cami, Cami.”
I looked at my daughter and pride filled my heart. Then relief flooded my soul as I gently patted my wallet, comforted by the fact that I would not be paying for a legal name change any time soon.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Names
My wife has this thing about communication. For me, communication can be in the form of grunts, nods, or other gestures. For her, it has to be verbal. And I don’t just mean a sentence or two. It has to be a countless repetition of long strings of coherent words put together to form meaningful thoughts. I understand that she is asking a lot from me, but I try my best to comply with her needs at least once or twice a week. Well, last night was one of those times and the topic of conversation quickly turned toward baby names.
With the arrival of our next child now only 20 weeks away, we are starting to feel the need to pinpoint a name. Since we still don’t know the gender, we brainstormed both girl and boy names. “How about Ulysses?” I said to get things rolling.
“Be serious,” she replied.
“My back itches,” I said. “Maybe if you scratch it, I will think better.”
“Maybe if you think better, I’ll scratch it,” she replied.
“OK, what about Jefferson?” I said. No scratch so I tried again. “Jeremiah?” Ahh, one finger right in that hard to reach spot in the middle. That was nice, but which finger was it?
“What about family names?” she asked.
“We could name him after your one of your Grandpas,” I suggested.
“Which one, Marvin or Ralph?” Boy does my back itch now. “Let me help,” she suggested as she pulled the name book off the shelf. “I’ll read you a list of names and you say yes or no.” She turned to the page entitled “Boy Names That Give You a Leg Up in Life” and began to read. “Barrett?”
“No.”
“Blake?”
“No.”
“David?”
“Maybe.”
“Gus?”
“No.”
“Kyle?”
“No.”
“Max?”
I paused to consider. It’s got a nice ring to it. “You said family names earlier, right? Well what about family initials?” My wife looked semi-intrigued so I continued. “My dad and brother are both MGH, so we could continue that trend,” I suggested before thinking for a minute. “I’ve got it!” I finally shouted. “Maximillian Gus!”
It started as a chuckle, but quickly turned into one of those I’m-too-tired-for-your-silliness giggles. For some reason this name really struck a funny bone in my wife, because she kept giggling and giggling. I’m still not quite sure what she thinks of the name. She just laughs every time I say it. Help me out here, guys. Does that mean she likes it or not?
On to girl names. We quickly ruled out nearly every name on the “Old Fashioned Names that Are Cute Again” list. For some reason Buella and Mabel just didn’t strike our fancy. “What about ‘Girly-Girl Names?'” my wife asked as she thumbed through the book.
“What’s on there?” I asked.
“Bubbles?”
“No.”
“Cinnamon?”
“No.”
“Fluffy?”
“Nope.” Now she owes me a back scratch for every name on her list.
“What about Princess?”
“Oh, that would be perfect,” I replied. “How does Princess Love sound?” This time I wouldn’t call it giggles. This time it was hysterical laughter. “That settles it then,” I said. “If it’s a boy, we’ll call him Maximillian Gus and if it’s a girl she’ll be Princess Love.”
Just promise me one thing. If you are going to be having a baby before November, don’t go stealing our names.
With the arrival of our next child now only 20 weeks away, we are starting to feel the need to pinpoint a name. Since we still don’t know the gender, we brainstormed both girl and boy names. “How about Ulysses?” I said to get things rolling.
“Be serious,” she replied.
“My back itches,” I said. “Maybe if you scratch it, I will think better.”
“Maybe if you think better, I’ll scratch it,” she replied.
“OK, what about Jefferson?” I said. No scratch so I tried again. “Jeremiah?” Ahh, one finger right in that hard to reach spot in the middle. That was nice, but which finger was it?
“What about family names?” she asked.
“We could name him after your one of your Grandpas,” I suggested.
“Which one, Marvin or Ralph?” Boy does my back itch now. “Let me help,” she suggested as she pulled the name book off the shelf. “I’ll read you a list of names and you say yes or no.” She turned to the page entitled “Boy Names That Give You a Leg Up in Life” and began to read. “Barrett?”
“No.”
“Blake?”
“No.”
“David?”
“Maybe.”
“Gus?”
“No.”
“Kyle?”
“No.”
“Max?”
I paused to consider. It’s got a nice ring to it. “You said family names earlier, right? Well what about family initials?” My wife looked semi-intrigued so I continued. “My dad and brother are both MGH, so we could continue that trend,” I suggested before thinking for a minute. “I’ve got it!” I finally shouted. “Maximillian Gus!”
It started as a chuckle, but quickly turned into one of those I’m-too-tired-for-your-silliness giggles. For some reason this name really struck a funny bone in my wife, because she kept giggling and giggling. I’m still not quite sure what she thinks of the name. She just laughs every time I say it. Help me out here, guys. Does that mean she likes it or not?
On to girl names. We quickly ruled out nearly every name on the “Old Fashioned Names that Are Cute Again” list. For some reason Buella and Mabel just didn’t strike our fancy. “What about ‘Girly-Girl Names?'” my wife asked as she thumbed through the book.
“What’s on there?” I asked.
“Bubbles?”
“No.”
“Cinnamon?”
“No.”
“Fluffy?”
“Nope.” Now she owes me a back scratch for every name on her list.
“What about Princess?”
“Oh, that would be perfect,” I replied. “How does Princess Love sound?” This time I wouldn’t call it giggles. This time it was hysterical laughter. “That settles it then,” I said. “If it’s a boy, we’ll call him Maximillian Gus and if it’s a girl she’ll be Princess Love.”
Just promise me one thing. If you are going to be having a baby before November, don’t go stealing our names.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Anticipation
Have you ever noticed that the picture of the burger in the ad is always perfect? The lettuce is green, the meat juicy and perfectly formed. The cheese seems to glisten from some unseen light. Why do the advertisers go to such lengths to make sure the picture is perfect? The answer is simple: anticipation. They want you to anticipate the pure pleasure you will experience when you bite into that delicious-looking burger. Half the fun of the meal becomes the anticipation factor.
Anticipation is such an important part of my family that it begins each year around Christmastime. It starts with a question posed from one adult sibling to another. “Are you going to make it to Almanor this summer?” The answer is an inevitable, “Yes.” And the anticipation begins.
In my family Lake Almanor is not a spot on the map tucked into the mountains of Northern California, it is an event that is anticipated for months prior to its launch. It is a unit of time that measures the end of one year and the beginning of the next. Almanor is not a place, it is a memory of the past and an anticipation of the future. Most importantly, it has been a summer tradition for the last 25 years. Although our activities around the lake have evolved as a new generation has taken over, the months of planning and preparation still exist.
As a father on my own branch of the family tree, I now see it as my responsibility to pass the anticipation factor on to my own children. Since the trip up north usually takes us two full days on the road, we are all dying for the outdoors when we get there. We have really worked to create a love of the outdoors in the hearts of our children, so when I asked my four-year-old daughter what she liked best about the trip, her answer was simple, “I like sleeping in the trailer because it have-is none sheets for my bed.”
For my son, swimming in the lake has always been one of his highlights, but this year, he has something new on his mind. This year, he is finished with kindergarten and he can’t wait to get to the lake so that he can sit in the trailer and read a book. In an attempt to get him to see beyond the pages of a book, I asked him what is the most important thing to pack for the trip? I should have guessed his answer. “Lots of books!” So much for the great outdoors.
My youngest daughter will turn two right after we return from Almanor. She really doesn’t know what to expect, so maybe I still have a shot at convincing her that the fresh mountain air, tall trees, and sunshine make the long trip worth the effort, but I have a feeling that once she tries a milkshake from Pine Shack Frosty, she’ll be hooked.
Maybe next year when gas hits ten bucks a gallon we will just march out to the backyard and spread out the sleeping bags in the trailer while we sip on milkshakes and read about other families who like to camp.
Anticipation is such an important part of my family that it begins each year around Christmastime. It starts with a question posed from one adult sibling to another. “Are you going to make it to Almanor this summer?” The answer is an inevitable, “Yes.” And the anticipation begins.
In my family Lake Almanor is not a spot on the map tucked into the mountains of Northern California, it is an event that is anticipated for months prior to its launch. It is a unit of time that measures the end of one year and the beginning of the next. Almanor is not a place, it is a memory of the past and an anticipation of the future. Most importantly, it has been a summer tradition for the last 25 years. Although our activities around the lake have evolved as a new generation has taken over, the months of planning and preparation still exist.
As a father on my own branch of the family tree, I now see it as my responsibility to pass the anticipation factor on to my own children. Since the trip up north usually takes us two full days on the road, we are all dying for the outdoors when we get there. We have really worked to create a love of the outdoors in the hearts of our children, so when I asked my four-year-old daughter what she liked best about the trip, her answer was simple, “I like sleeping in the trailer because it have-is none sheets for my bed.”
For my son, swimming in the lake has always been one of his highlights, but this year, he has something new on his mind. This year, he is finished with kindergarten and he can’t wait to get to the lake so that he can sit in the trailer and read a book. In an attempt to get him to see beyond the pages of a book, I asked him what is the most important thing to pack for the trip? I should have guessed his answer. “Lots of books!” So much for the great outdoors.
My youngest daughter will turn two right after we return from Almanor. She really doesn’t know what to expect, so maybe I still have a shot at convincing her that the fresh mountain air, tall trees, and sunshine make the long trip worth the effort, but I have a feeling that once she tries a milkshake from Pine Shack Frosty, she’ll be hooked.
Maybe next year when gas hits ten bucks a gallon we will just march out to the backyard and spread out the sleeping bags in the trailer while we sip on milkshakes and read about other families who like to camp.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Brownie Points
You’d think that by the time the fourth pregnancy rolled around, I would know what to expect from my wife for the next nine months. You’d think I would know exactly how to respond to all her pregnancy related idiosyncrasies. You’d think, but you would be wrong, because the truth is that there is no way to accurately predict what a pregnant woman needs.
This is especially true when the ill effects of pregnancy manifest themselves in the form of nausea, fatigue, and other illnesses. In the case of my wife, for example, these symptoms have been present for the last 14 of her 18 weeks of gestation. The complexities that stem from the hormones of a pregnant woman do not, however, prevent an observant husband from recognizing his wife’s true needs and desires from time to time. It is during those rare moments of clarity that a husband must be most astute. I had one of those moments last week and, fortunately, interpreted the desires of my wife with a high degree of accuracy.
It all started on Sunday afternoon. Actually, it all started around four months ago when she got pregnant and started feeling sick on a daily basis, but it was last Sunday that I scored in the latest round of the quest for brownie points.
I found my wife that afternoon, as I often do, in front of the computer researching her latest pregnancy related ailment. As I approached, she appeared depressed. “What’s wrong?” I asked, thinking that she would interpret such a question as true interest in her condition.
“You don’t even care that I’m miserable,” she began. As I tried to reassure her that I do indeed care about her pain, she employed a classic trick of the female gender. She cried. And I fell for it. What kind of a man wants to be around a crying woman? There’s just something awkward about that.
When a woman cries, a man will do anything in his power to make her stop, so I said the first thing that came to my mind, “Do you want me to take the day off of work tomorrow to take you to the doctor?” Red lights flashed in my mind as the words tumbled out of my fully engaged mouth. Tomorrow was a busy day. I couldn’t possibly rearrange everything that need to be rearranged in order to take my tearful wife to the doctor, could I? As the words spewed forth I was secretly hoping she would reply by telling me that it really wasn’t that bad and that she would be alright.
Of course, my mental scenario wasn’t the same one that played through her mind. “Yeah,” she replied with big puppy dog eyes as she wrapped her arms around me. And with that single word, I was committed.
As I reflected upon my ordeal, I was struck with the realization that although I felt somewhat stuck in a predicament, the choice really wasn’t that hard to make. My wife needed to know I cared about her, and this commitment was nothing more than an extension of the commitment I made to her 10 years ago: “Annette, I pledge my life to you. I promise to love and support you, to be faithful, committing myself to you only...I promise to always remember that you are a gift to me. I give you all that I am and all that I will be forever.”
And with that, the whole family piled into the car the next morning to to show mom that we loved her.
This is especially true when the ill effects of pregnancy manifest themselves in the form of nausea, fatigue, and other illnesses. In the case of my wife, for example, these symptoms have been present for the last 14 of her 18 weeks of gestation. The complexities that stem from the hormones of a pregnant woman do not, however, prevent an observant husband from recognizing his wife’s true needs and desires from time to time. It is during those rare moments of clarity that a husband must be most astute. I had one of those moments last week and, fortunately, interpreted the desires of my wife with a high degree of accuracy.
It all started on Sunday afternoon. Actually, it all started around four months ago when she got pregnant and started feeling sick on a daily basis, but it was last Sunday that I scored in the latest round of the quest for brownie points.
I found my wife that afternoon, as I often do, in front of the computer researching her latest pregnancy related ailment. As I approached, she appeared depressed. “What’s wrong?” I asked, thinking that she would interpret such a question as true interest in her condition.
“You don’t even care that I’m miserable,” she began. As I tried to reassure her that I do indeed care about her pain, she employed a classic trick of the female gender. She cried. And I fell for it. What kind of a man wants to be around a crying woman? There’s just something awkward about that.
When a woman cries, a man will do anything in his power to make her stop, so I said the first thing that came to my mind, “Do you want me to take the day off of work tomorrow to take you to the doctor?” Red lights flashed in my mind as the words tumbled out of my fully engaged mouth. Tomorrow was a busy day. I couldn’t possibly rearrange everything that need to be rearranged in order to take my tearful wife to the doctor, could I? As the words spewed forth I was secretly hoping she would reply by telling me that it really wasn’t that bad and that she would be alright.
Of course, my mental scenario wasn’t the same one that played through her mind. “Yeah,” she replied with big puppy dog eyes as she wrapped her arms around me. And with that single word, I was committed.
As I reflected upon my ordeal, I was struck with the realization that although I felt somewhat stuck in a predicament, the choice really wasn’t that hard to make. My wife needed to know I cared about her, and this commitment was nothing more than an extension of the commitment I made to her 10 years ago: “Annette, I pledge my life to you. I promise to love and support you, to be faithful, committing myself to you only...I promise to always remember that you are a gift to me. I give you all that I am and all that I will be forever.”
And with that, the whole family piled into the car the next morning to to show mom that we loved her.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Becoming a Man
When you share a home with young children, there is really only one room in the house where you can truly find solitude. If you have any imagination at all, I am sure that you already know where that one room is, so there is no need for me to delve into any specific details. One day last week after a particularly hectic day at work, I came home and retreated to my place of solitude for a few minutes before facing the realities of fatherhood that awaited me on the other side of the door. Armed with a new magazine, I entered the room and settled in for a few moments of periodical perusal. As I flipped through several ads trying to find some interesting content, I heard the unmistakable sound of fear projecting from my daughter’s voice.
“Daddy!” she yelled from somewhere just beyond my door. “There’s something ugly on the floor!”
Trying to calm her down without losing my place, I asked, “What is it?” my voice just loud enough to slide along the tile floor and slip out from beneath the door. Hoping she wasn’t about to say anything about her younger sister and a diaper, I anxiously awaited her response.
“I think it’s a spider,” she said in a calmer, but still frightened voice. “Come and get it.” Let me be clear now. My day, up this point, had been filled with one crisis after another and I was the only one who had been able to deal with each of them. The last thing I wanted to do was to leave my place of solitude and my magazine to squish a harmless spider. There had to be some other way to tend to my daughter’s anguish while simultaneously protecting my sanity.
Thinking fast, I replied, “Zach! Go get a tissue and take care of the spider.” Zach is six and hates spiders as much as his sister. What was I thinking? There is no way the little guy was going to smash a spider with a tissue, even if it was Puffs Plus with aloe. He just doesn’t smash spiders. He runs from them and hides until I come and take care of the problem. Did I really think a six-year-old boy with arachnophobia would defend his sister from the villainous spider crawling across the floor?
“There aren’t any tissues left,” he replied. That figures. At least he didn’t freak out and run away. I began to consider my options. Realizing that it was my fatherly duty to attend to my daughter’s needs and confront the issue of the ugly spider head on, I summoned my courage. As I was preparing to return my new unread magazine to the rack, I was interrupted by the sound of cheering.
“What are you doing now?” I hollered back at the closed door.
“Zach got the spider!” she yelled.
“He did what?” I asked.
“Zach got the spider,” she replied.
“How?”
“There were no tissues left, so I got a napkin from the table and smashed it and then I threw it in Cami’s diaper trash can,” he replied, clearly proud of his accomplishment. Well, now I had to emerge from my hideout if only to congratulate my son on becoming a man. Not only had he warded off an intruder, but he had defended his sister with great dignity. A true rite of passage, indeed.
“I’m proud of you, Buddy,” I told him post flush as a chivalrous grin spread across his now manly face. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go shave.”
“Daddy!” she yelled from somewhere just beyond my door. “There’s something ugly on the floor!”
Trying to calm her down without losing my place, I asked, “What is it?” my voice just loud enough to slide along the tile floor and slip out from beneath the door. Hoping she wasn’t about to say anything about her younger sister and a diaper, I anxiously awaited her response.
“I think it’s a spider,” she said in a calmer, but still frightened voice. “Come and get it.” Let me be clear now. My day, up this point, had been filled with one crisis after another and I was the only one who had been able to deal with each of them. The last thing I wanted to do was to leave my place of solitude and my magazine to squish a harmless spider. There had to be some other way to tend to my daughter’s anguish while simultaneously protecting my sanity.
Thinking fast, I replied, “Zach! Go get a tissue and take care of the spider.” Zach is six and hates spiders as much as his sister. What was I thinking? There is no way the little guy was going to smash a spider with a tissue, even if it was Puffs Plus with aloe. He just doesn’t smash spiders. He runs from them and hides until I come and take care of the problem. Did I really think a six-year-old boy with arachnophobia would defend his sister from the villainous spider crawling across the floor?
“There aren’t any tissues left,” he replied. That figures. At least he didn’t freak out and run away. I began to consider my options. Realizing that it was my fatherly duty to attend to my daughter’s needs and confront the issue of the ugly spider head on, I summoned my courage. As I was preparing to return my new unread magazine to the rack, I was interrupted by the sound of cheering.
“What are you doing now?” I hollered back at the closed door.
“Zach got the spider!” she yelled.
“He did what?” I asked.
“Zach got the spider,” she replied.
“How?”
“There were no tissues left, so I got a napkin from the table and smashed it and then I threw it in Cami’s diaper trash can,” he replied, clearly proud of his accomplishment. Well, now I had to emerge from my hideout if only to congratulate my son on becoming a man. Not only had he warded off an intruder, but he had defended his sister with great dignity. A true rite of passage, indeed.
“I’m proud of you, Buddy,” I told him post flush as a chivalrous grin spread across his now manly face. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go shave.”
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Coke Man
Has someone at work ever annoyed you to point that you desperately wanted to get even, but you knew that if you did you would probably get fired? I think that happened at my work a few weeks ago. I say “I think” because the offended party only shows up about once a month, so it’s hard to get to know him. Actually, he is not even an employee. He’s more like a contractor who specializes in employee job satisfaction and when he gets mad, everyone gets mad.
In order to understand this story, I must stop for a moment and give you a brief overview of this contractor’s job description: Fill the Coke machine with drinks. It may seem like a simple task, but it is absolutely crucial to the ongoing work that takes place at a public school. Imagine what a teacher would be like without a shot of caffeine at 7:30 in the morning. Or what about the teacher who needs that Diet Coke in order to make it through the afternoon without a splitting headache? There are a lot of important machines in a school office. We all rely on the copy machine, the laminator, the fax machine, the die cut machine, and, of course, our computers, but none of these machines is nearly as important as the Coke machine. It is the lifeblood of the campus. Without it, innocent and guilty students would be unnecessarily placed in harm’s way.
Now you can see the power that is vested in the position of Coke Man. Coke Man has control over the fate of 800+ kindergarten through fifth grade students. Now you understand why I said that if the Coke Man is mad, everyone is mad. And the other day, it happened.
I am only speculating here, as I have not yet interviewed Coke Man, but I think my suspicions are correct. The day before Coke Man’s last visit, I noticed that there were two post-it notes on the front of the machine. Both notes indicated that the machine had somehow cheated the patrons out of some money. The notes were meant to be an indicator to Coke Man that he needed to submit the requested funds to the school secretary who would then reimburse the victimized parties.
Coke Man must have been at the wrong point of his male cycle that day, because he didn’t find any humor in the notes. “Those greedy, whiney teachers,” he must have mumbled to himself. “I’ll show them.” And he did just that. I am sure that the inside of the machine is very clearly marked so that Coke Man knows exactly which racks hold the Coke and which racks hold the Diet Coke, Dr. Pepper, Cherry Coke, and Water. This was a premeditated act of vandalism, because he knew exactly what he was doing. As he stared at the markings on the racks, a smile must have crept across his face. He then placed one can of Diet Coke in the Coke rack, just to be funny. Ooooh. It felt good, so he did it again, only this time placing a can of Dr. Pepper in the Cherry Coke slot. Like a weak man fighting an addiction, he was sucked into his game of deception and continued filling the machine with random cans until his laughter was bursting forth from his offended soul. “I am victorious!” he must have shouted as he closed and locked the door on the front of the machine. Before anyone had a chance to see what he had done, Coke Man slithered out of the office, returned to the safety of his truck, and sped away.
Oh, the chaos that ensued. Teachers were trading, begging, and bargaining with each other in order to get the drink that they so desperately needed. I knew the problem had to get fixed before someone turned the Coke machine into a slot machine and drained every last drop from it. “Call the Coke Man!” I shouted. “It’s an emergency!” And just like the well-oiled machine that he is, he promptly reported to the campus...at the end of the month to check his machine. Finding it free of notes from greedy, whiney teachers, he then refilled it, carefully placing each drink in the appropriate slot. Each drink, that is, except for maybe one or two.
In order to understand this story, I must stop for a moment and give you a brief overview of this contractor’s job description: Fill the Coke machine with drinks. It may seem like a simple task, but it is absolutely crucial to the ongoing work that takes place at a public school. Imagine what a teacher would be like without a shot of caffeine at 7:30 in the morning. Or what about the teacher who needs that Diet Coke in order to make it through the afternoon without a splitting headache? There are a lot of important machines in a school office. We all rely on the copy machine, the laminator, the fax machine, the die cut machine, and, of course, our computers, but none of these machines is nearly as important as the Coke machine. It is the lifeblood of the campus. Without it, innocent and guilty students would be unnecessarily placed in harm’s way.
Now you can see the power that is vested in the position of Coke Man. Coke Man has control over the fate of 800+ kindergarten through fifth grade students. Now you understand why I said that if the Coke Man is mad, everyone is mad. And the other day, it happened.
I am only speculating here, as I have not yet interviewed Coke Man, but I think my suspicions are correct. The day before Coke Man’s last visit, I noticed that there were two post-it notes on the front of the machine. Both notes indicated that the machine had somehow cheated the patrons out of some money. The notes were meant to be an indicator to Coke Man that he needed to submit the requested funds to the school secretary who would then reimburse the victimized parties.
Coke Man must have been at the wrong point of his male cycle that day, because he didn’t find any humor in the notes. “Those greedy, whiney teachers,” he must have mumbled to himself. “I’ll show them.” And he did just that. I am sure that the inside of the machine is very clearly marked so that Coke Man knows exactly which racks hold the Coke and which racks hold the Diet Coke, Dr. Pepper, Cherry Coke, and Water. This was a premeditated act of vandalism, because he knew exactly what he was doing. As he stared at the markings on the racks, a smile must have crept across his face. He then placed one can of Diet Coke in the Coke rack, just to be funny. Ooooh. It felt good, so he did it again, only this time placing a can of Dr. Pepper in the Cherry Coke slot. Like a weak man fighting an addiction, he was sucked into his game of deception and continued filling the machine with random cans until his laughter was bursting forth from his offended soul. “I am victorious!” he must have shouted as he closed and locked the door on the front of the machine. Before anyone had a chance to see what he had done, Coke Man slithered out of the office, returned to the safety of his truck, and sped away.
Oh, the chaos that ensued. Teachers were trading, begging, and bargaining with each other in order to get the drink that they so desperately needed. I knew the problem had to get fixed before someone turned the Coke machine into a slot machine and drained every last drop from it. “Call the Coke Man!” I shouted. “It’s an emergency!” And just like the well-oiled machine that he is, he promptly reported to the campus...at the end of the month to check his machine. Finding it free of notes from greedy, whiney teachers, he then refilled it, carefully placing each drink in the appropriate slot. Each drink, that is, except for maybe one or two.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Customer Service
This is a story from my archives, but it has not yet made it online. Some of you may have already read it, but, hey, it's good enough to read twice.
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Customer service. Depending on your experiences of the last 24 hours, those two words can bring to mind fond thoughts or irrational impulses. Perhaps you thought of the helpful gal who showed you where to find hemorrhoids ointment at the drug store when you were in dire need, or maybe you were reminded of the tech support provider who answered the phone in India to help you with a problem in America. Perhaps the words “Customer Service” remind you of the brilliant kid at the drive thru who refused to accept a five dollar bill and a quarter when your total came to $4.25 because he couldn’t figure out what your change should be. We all have stories of good customer service and bad customer service.
One day when I was in college and working as a professional gopher at an office building, I was given the job of taking about 25 boxes to the post office to be mailed. They were pre-stamped and just needed to be dropped off. As I pulled into the parking lot, I saw a postal employee walking past. I decided to ask him if there was a place where I could drop off the whole load since the boxes wouldn’t fit inside the convenient blue mailbox where all pre-stamped mail should be put. His response was simple, “Hey, I’m off the clock right now,” and he kept on walking. I later found out that all this guy had to do was point to the loading dock behind him and say, “Put them there.”
Today I had another bad customer service day. I was at a popular office supply store and needed to have some photocopies made. (To be fair, the name of the store had nothing to do with any tools used for attaching two sheets of paper together.) The order wasn’t huge, but it had a few minor complexities. I began explaining it to the clerk who then cut me off mid-sentence to tell me that she couldn’t write down my order right now because it was time for her dinner break. A brief glance around my immediate surroundings revealed that she and I were all alone in the photocopy section. There were no other customers piling up in line behind me and no pre-stamped boxes waiting to be taken to the post office. I guess she was just hungry. I hope she went to the drive thru and encountered a mathematically challenge juvenile who spits on burgers.
Somewhat shocked, I left and went down the street to the other store and explained my situation to a very helpful lady. Even though she was not the one who would actually print my job, (that person was at dinner, no doubt enjoying stellar service from a local establishment) she took copious notes and made sure the instructions were clear.
If you had asked me yesterday which office supply store I liked best, I would have given you an ambivalent, “I don’t know.” If you ask me tomorrow which store I like, I will tell you that I prefer stores with names that rhyme with words like “maples.” (The names in this story have been changed to protect the innocent, but if you think hard, you just might figure it out.)
It’s amazing how one brief encounter with an employee can taint your image of a business just like that. Fortunately we live in a country full of choices. That’s the beauty of a free market system. If I don’t like something I can go somewhere else. Oh, that reminds me, you can go somewhere else too if you don’t like what you read in the online so let me conclude by saying with a genuine smile on my face, “Thank you for reading with us today. Come back again soon!”
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Customer service. Depending on your experiences of the last 24 hours, those two words can bring to mind fond thoughts or irrational impulses. Perhaps you thought of the helpful gal who showed you where to find hemorrhoids ointment at the drug store when you were in dire need, or maybe you were reminded of the tech support provider who answered the phone in India to help you with a problem in America. Perhaps the words “Customer Service” remind you of the brilliant kid at the drive thru who refused to accept a five dollar bill and a quarter when your total came to $4.25 because he couldn’t figure out what your change should be. We all have stories of good customer service and bad customer service.
One day when I was in college and working as a professional gopher at an office building, I was given the job of taking about 25 boxes to the post office to be mailed. They were pre-stamped and just needed to be dropped off. As I pulled into the parking lot, I saw a postal employee walking past. I decided to ask him if there was a place where I could drop off the whole load since the boxes wouldn’t fit inside the convenient blue mailbox where all pre-stamped mail should be put. His response was simple, “Hey, I’m off the clock right now,” and he kept on walking. I later found out that all this guy had to do was point to the loading dock behind him and say, “Put them there.”
Today I had another bad customer service day. I was at a popular office supply store and needed to have some photocopies made. (To be fair, the name of the store had nothing to do with any tools used for attaching two sheets of paper together.) The order wasn’t huge, but it had a few minor complexities. I began explaining it to the clerk who then cut me off mid-sentence to tell me that she couldn’t write down my order right now because it was time for her dinner break. A brief glance around my immediate surroundings revealed that she and I were all alone in the photocopy section. There were no other customers piling up in line behind me and no pre-stamped boxes waiting to be taken to the post office. I guess she was just hungry. I hope she went to the drive thru and encountered a mathematically challenge juvenile who spits on burgers.
Somewhat shocked, I left and went down the street to the other store and explained my situation to a very helpful lady. Even though she was not the one who would actually print my job, (that person was at dinner, no doubt enjoying stellar service from a local establishment) she took copious notes and made sure the instructions were clear.
If you had asked me yesterday which office supply store I liked best, I would have given you an ambivalent, “I don’t know.” If you ask me tomorrow which store I like, I will tell you that I prefer stores with names that rhyme with words like “maples.” (The names in this story have been changed to protect the innocent, but if you think hard, you just might figure it out.)
It’s amazing how one brief encounter with an employee can taint your image of a business just like that. Fortunately we live in a country full of choices. That’s the beauty of a free market system. If I don’t like something I can go somewhere else. Oh, that reminds me, you can go somewhere else too if you don’t like what you read in the online so let me conclude by saying with a genuine smile on my face, “Thank you for reading with us today. Come back again soon!”
Sidewalk Chalk
There are some things in life that are fun, but messy. Take homemade chocolate chip cookies, for example. The reward is worth the mess, especially if they are eaten while they are still warm and have ice cream on top. Or what about camping? I have yet to meet anyone who can actually live in a tent for a week without getting dirty. Oh, wait. Yes I have, but my sister in her white camping dresses is more of an exception than the rule. Then there’s childbirth. The messy part is universally agreed upon, but the fun part may be debated between the sexes. Either way, the result is always worth it.
Now let’s move into the world of a toddler. When a child lives in the sub three-year-old realm, the level of fun is exponentially increased as the level of mess rises. Think finger paints. Or Play Dough. Or, my favorite, sidewalk chalk. There is a reason it is called sidewalk chalk. That reason is quite simple: it was designed for use on sidewalks. The dictionary defines a sidewalk as a paved path for pedestrians at the side of the road. Where in that definition does it suggest that sidewalk chalk should be used anywhere near a back patio? There’s no road in my backyard, so I can’t figure out how the sidewalk chalk keeps ending up there.
Then, one day, I found the answer to my perplexing dilemma. Without warning, I came home from work early and found my two beautiful little daughters meandering about the patio with their sidewalk chalk. The task which they had created for themselves on this bright spring day was to change the color of the bricks that bordered the patio from a natural rusty hue to the brightest shade of hot pink that Crayola has yet to manufacture.
“We made the bricks pink, Daddy!” my four-year-old daughter, Maddie, announced as she saw me peering at them through the window.
“Thank you,” was about all I could muster while trying to maintain a fatherly enthusiasm that wouldn’t quash their creative spirit. My nineteen-month-old daughter was just as guilty with a stick of fuschia in her right hand and a hot pink grin plastered across her face. I turned my head from the horrific scene, unable to take it in any longer.
“Da-da.” The innocent call came from the other side of the screen door. I turned to see Little Miss Fuschia Hands, calling my name. My eyes met her just in time to see the chalk making its way across the screen.
“Great. Now I have a pink patio and a pink screen door,” I thought to myself. “Cami, no coloring on the screen,” I said with the fakest sweetness and sincerity that I could muster. Under most circumstances I would have been thrilled that she actually obeyed me, but this day was different. Moments later I heard a sound that was unmistakable. It was a grinding sound; kind of like when you take a piece of sidewalk chalk and color on the side of a stucco house. A quick peek outside confirmed my suspicions. The house was now well on its way to becoming pinkified. Oh well. At least it’s washable.
Fortunately for me, the sun did eventually set and the pinkification of the house and yard came to an end - temporarily. The following Sunday my sister came over for a visit. When Aunt Bekah comes over, it is a big deal because she lives on the Carribean island of Hispaniola in the country of the Domincan Republic. She’s there for a couple of years and we are taking care of her furry, but lovable sheltie, Halo, until she comes back. Moments before she was to arrive, I turned to my older daughter and said, “Why don’t you go brush Halo so that she looks pretty when Aunt Bekah gets here?” Eager to please, Maddie rushed to the garage, got the dog brush, and started brushing away. Eager to please, little sister Cami also grabbed the first thing she saw and started helping. “Why, oh, why did they not put the sidewalk chalk away the other night when they came inside?” I moaned to myself. By the time I intervened, the damage was done. Where the white stripe across the top of Halo’s head and down her back had once been, a hot pink blend of chalk and fur now remained. Then the doorbell rang.
“Might as well let her see the reality in which her dog lives,” I said to myself as I made my way to the door.
Now let’s move into the world of a toddler. When a child lives in the sub three-year-old realm, the level of fun is exponentially increased as the level of mess rises. Think finger paints. Or Play Dough. Or, my favorite, sidewalk chalk. There is a reason it is called sidewalk chalk. That reason is quite simple: it was designed for use on sidewalks. The dictionary defines a sidewalk as a paved path for pedestrians at the side of the road. Where in that definition does it suggest that sidewalk chalk should be used anywhere near a back patio? There’s no road in my backyard, so I can’t figure out how the sidewalk chalk keeps ending up there.
Then, one day, I found the answer to my perplexing dilemma. Without warning, I came home from work early and found my two beautiful little daughters meandering about the patio with their sidewalk chalk. The task which they had created for themselves on this bright spring day was to change the color of the bricks that bordered the patio from a natural rusty hue to the brightest shade of hot pink that Crayola has yet to manufacture.
“We made the bricks pink, Daddy!” my four-year-old daughter, Maddie, announced as she saw me peering at them through the window.
“Thank you,” was about all I could muster while trying to maintain a fatherly enthusiasm that wouldn’t quash their creative spirit. My nineteen-month-old daughter was just as guilty with a stick of fuschia in her right hand and a hot pink grin plastered across her face. I turned my head from the horrific scene, unable to take it in any longer.
“Da-da.” The innocent call came from the other side of the screen door. I turned to see Little Miss Fuschia Hands, calling my name. My eyes met her just in time to see the chalk making its way across the screen.
“Great. Now I have a pink patio and a pink screen door,” I thought to myself. “Cami, no coloring on the screen,” I said with the fakest sweetness and sincerity that I could muster. Under most circumstances I would have been thrilled that she actually obeyed me, but this day was different. Moments later I heard a sound that was unmistakable. It was a grinding sound; kind of like when you take a piece of sidewalk chalk and color on the side of a stucco house. A quick peek outside confirmed my suspicions. The house was now well on its way to becoming pinkified. Oh well. At least it’s washable.
Fortunately for me, the sun did eventually set and the pinkification of the house and yard came to an end - temporarily. The following Sunday my sister came over for a visit. When Aunt Bekah comes over, it is a big deal because she lives on the Carribean island of Hispaniola in the country of the Domincan Republic. She’s there for a couple of years and we are taking care of her furry, but lovable sheltie, Halo, until she comes back. Moments before she was to arrive, I turned to my older daughter and said, “Why don’t you go brush Halo so that she looks pretty when Aunt Bekah gets here?” Eager to please, Maddie rushed to the garage, got the dog brush, and started brushing away. Eager to please, little sister Cami also grabbed the first thing she saw and started helping. “Why, oh, why did they not put the sidewalk chalk away the other night when they came inside?” I moaned to myself. By the time I intervened, the damage was done. Where the white stripe across the top of Halo’s head and down her back had once been, a hot pink blend of chalk and fur now remained. Then the doorbell rang.
“Might as well let her see the reality in which her dog lives,” I said to myself as I made my way to the door.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Cheap Toys
My son turned six last week. The fact that this event occurred with my sanity still in check is quite an accomplishment for me as a parent, but it's not really worth writing about in and of itself. In order for an event like a sixth birthday to become newsworthy, someone has to do something stupid, silly, strange, or brilliant. Last week, I think I witnessed one event that fits into all four of those categories. (And as I was watching it, I promised to write about it, so here's to keeping my word!)
It all started a few days after my son's birthday. My sister had gotten him a set of little plastic helicopters that fly into the air when a string is pulled on the launching pad. We had just finished dinner when we heard Zach come around the corner with his new toy in hand and say, "Grandpa, watch this!" He then gave the string a quick tug and the helicopter zipped up into the air. "Now you try it," he suggested.
So Grandpa took hold of the toy and gave the string a tug. You might think because I used the word "Grandpa" to describe my wife's father that I am trying to indicate that he is old and frail. Although he is recently retired and has to watch his weight for the first time in his life, he must still have some pep in the old arms because that poor string didn't stand a chance against his mighty tug. As he pulled, the helicopter took to the air and the busted string zipped back inside the safety of the launchpad and out of sight. Not to worry. Grandpa quickly offered to take the toy home and return it to its former glory.
That was part one of the story. Fast forward with me a couple more days. It is now my nephew's birthday party. Jack eagerly opened his presents and was thrilled to find a little plastic helicopter set with a launching pad. As Grandpa looked it over, I could tell he was reminiscing about the inner workings of the toy and trying to recall all of the tricks he had applied during the first repair. Then I noticed something that no one else caught. While all eyes were on the flying helicopter, he glanced down at his right arm and smiled as he tightened his fist and flexed his grandfatherly muscles. "Yeah, I still have it," he must have been muttering to himself.
Just as the folks in China had planned, the newest helicopter toy was broken within an hour. At this point, Grandpa Muscles had yet to reveal to Jack or anyone else that, because of his past experience, he was actually a certified plastic helicopter repair engineer. Since Jack's other grandpa was also at the party, Grandpa Muscles decided, that in the spirit of fairness, he would let the other old guy have a go at it first. Other Grandpa gave the toy a good look for a few minutes before deciding that he was going to have to open it up. While he was waiting for some tools to arrive, Grandpa Muscles started imparting his knowledge to Other Grandpa. Soon Jack's dad returned with a set of small screwdrivers. Within just a few minutes, all three men were peering over the open carcass of the dead toy.
"I think it needs a farkenwalter on the spindlebob," Other Grandpa said.
"That might work, but did you consider winding the toodlehop first?" Jack's dad suggested.
"I've done this before," Grandpa Muscles announced. "Can't you tell that the hooptiwhatzit is disconnected from the drooner?"
"Ahhh, you have a point there," the other certified plastic helicopter repair engineer trainees replied in unison. Together the three men twisted, turned and pried the various plastic components into a plethora of arrangements. After a few minutes one of them pulled the string and everything was suddenly back to normal working condition.
"What did you do?" Grandpa Muscles asked.
"I didn't do anything to that part," Other Grandpa replied.
"Neither did I," Jack's dad said. "It must have fixed itself."
As I sat in the living room silently observing the process, I thought to myself, there has to be a joke about this; something like, "How many old dudes does it take to fix a little dude's toy?"
Apparently the answer is three, but it's not a joke.
It all started a few days after my son's birthday. My sister had gotten him a set of little plastic helicopters that fly into the air when a string is pulled on the launching pad. We had just finished dinner when we heard Zach come around the corner with his new toy in hand and say, "Grandpa, watch this!" He then gave the string a quick tug and the helicopter zipped up into the air. "Now you try it," he suggested.
So Grandpa took hold of the toy and gave the string a tug. You might think because I used the word "Grandpa" to describe my wife's father that I am trying to indicate that he is old and frail. Although he is recently retired and has to watch his weight for the first time in his life, he must still have some pep in the old arms because that poor string didn't stand a chance against his mighty tug. As he pulled, the helicopter took to the air and the busted string zipped back inside the safety of the launchpad and out of sight. Not to worry. Grandpa quickly offered to take the toy home and return it to its former glory.
That was part one of the story. Fast forward with me a couple more days. It is now my nephew's birthday party. Jack eagerly opened his presents and was thrilled to find a little plastic helicopter set with a launching pad. As Grandpa looked it over, I could tell he was reminiscing about the inner workings of the toy and trying to recall all of the tricks he had applied during the first repair. Then I noticed something that no one else caught. While all eyes were on the flying helicopter, he glanced down at his right arm and smiled as he tightened his fist and flexed his grandfatherly muscles. "Yeah, I still have it," he must have been muttering to himself.
Just as the folks in China had planned, the newest helicopter toy was broken within an hour. At this point, Grandpa Muscles had yet to reveal to Jack or anyone else that, because of his past experience, he was actually a certified plastic helicopter repair engineer. Since Jack's other grandpa was also at the party, Grandpa Muscles decided, that in the spirit of fairness, he would let the other old guy have a go at it first. Other Grandpa gave the toy a good look for a few minutes before deciding that he was going to have to open it up. While he was waiting for some tools to arrive, Grandpa Muscles started imparting his knowledge to Other Grandpa. Soon Jack's dad returned with a set of small screwdrivers. Within just a few minutes, all three men were peering over the open carcass of the dead toy.
"I think it needs a farkenwalter on the spindlebob," Other Grandpa said.
"That might work, but did you consider winding the toodlehop first?" Jack's dad suggested.
"I've done this before," Grandpa Muscles announced. "Can't you tell that the hooptiwhatzit is disconnected from the drooner?"
"Ahhh, you have a point there," the other certified plastic helicopter repair engineer trainees replied in unison. Together the three men twisted, turned and pried the various plastic components into a plethora of arrangements. After a few minutes one of them pulled the string and everything was suddenly back to normal working condition.
"What did you do?" Grandpa Muscles asked.
"I didn't do anything to that part," Other Grandpa replied.
"Neither did I," Jack's dad said. "It must have fixed itself."
As I sat in the living room silently observing the process, I thought to myself, there has to be a joke about this; something like, "How many old dudes does it take to fix a little dude's toy?"
Apparently the answer is three, but it's not a joke.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Annual Tradition
For the better part of the last decade we have had an annual tradition in our house. I can’t say it’s an event that I look forward to with great anticipation, although it does have a remarkable payoff. My trepidation is mostly because our annual tradition consists of a project that gets more and more difficult to complete each time.
What is this project and why does it get harder each year? Let me give you some hints. Those of you with only one child will think you understand. After reading about my tradition, those of you with two kids will mumble something along the lines of, “I feel your pain.” Those of you with three or more kids will shout, “Amen! Preach it, brother!” To which I will reply, “Did someone say something about another brother?”
Those of you in tune with your parental instincts have quickly deduced that this is more of a sippy cup story than a steak story. If you are among this crowd, I commend you for your valuable intuition pertaining to the obvious, for the tradition of which I speak is that of the annual wardrobe swap. It all started very gradually about seven years ago when my wife was pregnant with our first child. Since she had never yet experienced the joys of the maternity fashion ensemble, her wardrobe gradually changed over from the size zero shirts and pants that she once wore to the longer shirts and more spacious pants with the soft belly pocket. By the end of that pregnancy, in addition to a healthy baby boy, she also had quite a collection of maternity wear.
A month or so after our son was born, the tradition reversed. It was now time to put all the maternity clothes into a box and stash them away in the attic and return the size zero clothes to their rightful place in the closet. Oh, wait. I forgot. Nobody is ever a size zero again after giving birth to a child. No big deal. We’ll just go shopping first and get some clothes that fit, then restock the closet. And good thing we did because with her new wardrobe, she looked better than ever, even if she was now a size two.
By the time the second pregnancy came around a year or so later, the drill was established. Dad climbs up in the attic and retrieves a single box of maternity clothes while Mom pilfers a few extras shirts and pants from friends who have since had their first child. Even though Mom is a bit tired from the pregnancy, she manages to complete the wardrobe swap while dad watches the kid and keeps him out of her neatly arranged box. Simple enough. Hence my earlier comment about parents with only one child.
Nine months later, baby number two is born. Six weeks after that we do the swap once more. Mom packs up two boxes of maternity clothes, Dad stores them in the attic while mom restocks her closet with the size two wardrobe (and maybe a couple of size fours, just in case). Then along comes baby number three, only this time when Dad puts the maternity clothes away, there are thee big plastic tubs, two cardboard boxes and a partridge in a pear tree.
And that, my friends, brings us to today and baby number four. This morning I woke up to find another plastic tub of maternity clothes in our bedroom courtesy of my equally fertile sister. I looked at the tub and knew that we would have one goal for the day: complete the swap and put all the regular clothes up in the attic while making sure that the other three kids were well cared for, fed, and rested when necessary.
The day began with my wife making a quick trip to Wal-Mart to buy some new plastic tubs in which to store her slimmer fitting clothes. Thinking I could share some bonding time with my son, I called out to him. “Hey, Buddy! Do you want to go up in the attic with me?” Of course he thought that was a great idea, so I continued. “Go get your shoes on.”
“Dad, I can’t put my shoes on with my pajamas,” he replied.
No big deal, I thought. “Okay, then go get dressed, then put your shoes on,” I suggested.
“Dad, I can’t get dressed until I take a shower.”
Oh, yeah. A shower. Don’t want to forget that. So off he goes to the shower. Might as well bathe the girls too while Mom is at Wal-Mart. A half hour later, Mom was home and all three kids were clean, although their stages of dress ranged from naked to complete, with one somewhere in the middle.
After a quick repair to the light and a short lesson on electricity, Zach and I climbed up to the attic. As I stood on the ladder, my son ran around locating every box with the word “Maternity” written on the side. He handed me the boxes, tubs, moving vans, and everything else that contained pregnancy garb. Once they were all located, I started carrying them down. After dropping a box off on the ground, I again climbed the ladder only to be met by a six year old jumping into my arms as soon as my head poked up into his view. “I have to go pee!” he shouted as I caught him mid-air. After a short lecture on the dangers of BASE jumping from the attic, I lowered him to the floor and finished the job alone.
Let’s fast forward to 8:00 that same night so as not to bore you with the mundane details of trying to accomplish a single task in one day with three young children and a pregnant wife in the house. The slimmer line of clothes is now packed away in the new tubs, the closet is bare, and the bedroom is covered with various piles of maternity ensembles that need to be put away. Upon seeing this, my wife and I work like mad to get everything folded or hung and the room clean enough to sleep in. To a neat freak like myself, clean enough to sleep in means perfect. Once the room met my standard of cleanliness I carried all the boxes to the garage so I could return them to the attic in the morning. As I was coming back into the house, one small box caught my eye. “Honey, did you see this box?” I asked.
As luck would have it, she hadn’t noticed the little box so I opened it and found another wardrobe contained within its four walls. I laid the clothes on the bed and went to brush my teeth while my wife began to put them away. With fresh breath and sparkly teeth, I returned to the bedroom expecting to see the perfection which I had previously attained, only to find my lovely wife tucked into bed and a pile of clothes spread out on the chest at the end of the bed. “Weren’t you going to put these away?” I asked.
“I’ll get them tomorrow. I’m too tired,” she replied.
“That’s okay, I’ll take care of them,” I offered.
“No just leave them and turn off the light. I’m tired,” she said again.
I looked at the pile of clothes, kissed my wife, and turned off the light. Then I looked again. I could still see them, even in the dark. I can’t sleep like this. Might as well get up and write about it, I thought to myself. So I did.
Those of you in tune with your parental instincts have quickly deduced that this is more of a sippy cup story than a steak story. If you are among this crowd, I commend you for your valuable intuition pertaining to the obvious, for the tradition of which I speak is that of the annual wardrobe swap. It all started very gradually about seven years ago when my wife was pregnant with our first child. Since she had never yet experienced the joys of the maternity fashion ensemble, her wardrobe gradually changed over from the size zero shirts and pants that she once wore to the longer shirts and more spacious pants with the soft belly pocket. By the end of that pregnancy, in addition to a healthy baby boy, she also had quite a collection of maternity wear.
A month or so after our son was born, the tradition reversed. It was now time to put all the maternity clothes into a box and stash them away in the attic and return the size zero clothes to their rightful place in the closet. Oh, wait. I forgot. Nobody is ever a size zero again after giving birth to a child. No big deal. We’ll just go shopping first and get some clothes that fit, then restock the closet. And good thing we did because with her new wardrobe, she looked better than ever, even if she was now a size two.
By the time the second pregnancy came around a year or so later, the drill was established. Dad climbs up in the attic and retrieves a single box of maternity clothes while Mom pilfers a few extras shirts and pants from friends who have since had their first child. Even though Mom is a bit tired from the pregnancy, she manages to complete the wardrobe swap while dad watches the kid and keeps him out of her neatly arranged box. Simple enough. Hence my earlier comment about parents with only one child.
Nine months later, baby number two is born. Six weeks after that we do the swap once more. Mom packs up two boxes of maternity clothes, Dad stores them in the attic while mom restocks her closet with the size two wardrobe (and maybe a couple of size fours, just in case). Then along comes baby number three, only this time when Dad puts the maternity clothes away, there are thee big plastic tubs, two cardboard boxes and a partridge in a pear tree.
And that, my friends, brings us to today and baby number four. This morning I woke up to find another plastic tub of maternity clothes in our bedroom courtesy of my equally fertile sister. I looked at the tub and knew that we would have one goal for the day: complete the swap and put all the regular clothes up in the attic while making sure that the other three kids were well cared for, fed, and rested when necessary.
The day began with my wife making a quick trip to Wal-Mart to buy some new plastic tubs in which to store her slimmer fitting clothes. Thinking I could share some bonding time with my son, I called out to him. “Hey, Buddy! Do you want to go up in the attic with me?” Of course he thought that was a great idea, so I continued. “Go get your shoes on.”
“Dad, I can’t put my shoes on with my pajamas,” he replied.
No big deal, I thought. “Okay, then go get dressed, then put your shoes on,” I suggested.
“Dad, I can’t get dressed until I take a shower.”
Oh, yeah. A shower. Don’t want to forget that. So off he goes to the shower. Might as well bathe the girls too while Mom is at Wal-Mart. A half hour later, Mom was home and all three kids were clean, although their stages of dress ranged from naked to complete, with one somewhere in the middle.
After a quick repair to the light and a short lesson on electricity, Zach and I climbed up to the attic. As I stood on the ladder, my son ran around locating every box with the word “Maternity” written on the side. He handed me the boxes, tubs, moving vans, and everything else that contained pregnancy garb. Once they were all located, I started carrying them down. After dropping a box off on the ground, I again climbed the ladder only to be met by a six year old jumping into my arms as soon as my head poked up into his view. “I have to go pee!” he shouted as I caught him mid-air. After a short lecture on the dangers of BASE jumping from the attic, I lowered him to the floor and finished the job alone.
Let’s fast forward to 8:00 that same night so as not to bore you with the mundane details of trying to accomplish a single task in one day with three young children and a pregnant wife in the house. The slimmer line of clothes is now packed away in the new tubs, the closet is bare, and the bedroom is covered with various piles of maternity ensembles that need to be put away. Upon seeing this, my wife and I work like mad to get everything folded or hung and the room clean enough to sleep in. To a neat freak like myself, clean enough to sleep in means perfect. Once the room met my standard of cleanliness I carried all the boxes to the garage so I could return them to the attic in the morning. As I was coming back into the house, one small box caught my eye. “Honey, did you see this box?” I asked.
As luck would have it, she hadn’t noticed the little box so I opened it and found another wardrobe contained within its four walls. I laid the clothes on the bed and went to brush my teeth while my wife began to put them away. With fresh breath and sparkly teeth, I returned to the bedroom expecting to see the perfection which I had previously attained, only to find my lovely wife tucked into bed and a pile of clothes spread out on the chest at the end of the bed. “Weren’t you going to put these away?” I asked.
“I’ll get them tomorrow. I’m too tired,” she replied.
“That’s okay, I’ll take care of them,” I offered.
“No just leave them and turn off the light. I’m tired,” she said again.
I looked at the pile of clothes, kissed my wife, and turned off the light. Then I looked again. I could still see them, even in the dark. I can’t sleep like this. Might as well get up and write about it, I thought to myself. So I did.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Four!
According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the average American couple has 1.9 children. Whenever a first-time mom announces the news of her pending arrival to her family and friends, she gets overwhelmed with words of encouragement and advice. Once the baby is born, she and dad are again overwhelmed, only this time it is not by words, but by work. The amount of work involved in caring for a new addition to the family is almost more than they can bear. After a year or two, the young couple starts to realize that they can indeed handle the job of parenthood, so they decide to move a tenth of a child past the national average. With baby number two tucked neatly in the back seat of the new mini van, the family is close enough to average to feel complete.
Some parents, such as my wife and me, are especially fortunate in the eyes of the average American because our firstborn is boy and our second is a girl. “Now you have a boy and a girl. What a perfect family!” I must have heard this a thousand times in the weeks following the birth of my daughter. When I wasn’t laughing at words like ‘miconium’ and ‘areola’ during childbirth class, I was paying attention to the rules of the game. Is there some unwritten rule that I missed? Are we in China? Who says we have to stop just because we have one of each? “We’ll show them,” I said to my wife.
A year and a half later we announced that number three was on its way. By now the advice and encouragement was gone. Instead we heard things like, “Now you’re outnumbered!” Thanks for the input. If only we had learned to count to three before we conceived, we might have thought twice (because, apparently, twice is as high as our friends thought we could count). Occasionally we would run across a family with more than three kids and hear words like, “Number three is always the hardest,” or “If you can handle three, you can handle ten!” No, you can handle ten.
Now here we are a year and a half later and baby number four is on its way. Most people we talk to now have no idea what to say because they are still trying to decide what to do with baby number 1.9. Since my wife is still early in the pregnancy, and is hardly showing, most people assume we are done. They may see us out in public and say something like, “Wow, you really have your hands full.” I love to add to their awe and amazement by saying, “Yeah, and number four is in there,” as I point to my wife’s belly. The inevitable response is never far behind the look of severe perplexity that crosses their faces, “On purpose?”
Sarcasm again bursts forth. “Nope, I accidentally…” then I catch myself and decide to keep the conversation appropriate. “What’s wrong with four kids?” I ask. The response varies at this point as most people try to recover from the sheer shock of someone conceiving a fourth child on purpose. Most commonly, though, someone eventually asks if we came from large families ourselves. In their minds,I suppose, large families are a genetic defect that is passed on from generation to generation. “Yes, it runs in my family on the X-chromosome,” I reply. “She’s just a carrier,” I add glancing at my wife.
The truth behind the sarcasm, however, is this: Each and every kid we have brings a new kind of joy into our lives. Why wouldn’t we want one more?
Some parents, such as my wife and me, are especially fortunate in the eyes of the average American because our firstborn is boy and our second is a girl. “Now you have a boy and a girl. What a perfect family!” I must have heard this a thousand times in the weeks following the birth of my daughter. When I wasn’t laughing at words like ‘miconium’ and ‘areola’ during childbirth class, I was paying attention to the rules of the game. Is there some unwritten rule that I missed? Are we in China? Who says we have to stop just because we have one of each? “We’ll show them,” I said to my wife.
A year and a half later we announced that number three was on its way. By now the advice and encouragement was gone. Instead we heard things like, “Now you’re outnumbered!” Thanks for the input. If only we had learned to count to three before we conceived, we might have thought twice (because, apparently, twice is as high as our friends thought we could count). Occasionally we would run across a family with more than three kids and hear words like, “Number three is always the hardest,” or “If you can handle three, you can handle ten!” No, you can handle ten.
Now here we are a year and a half later and baby number four is on its way. Most people we talk to now have no idea what to say because they are still trying to decide what to do with baby number 1.9. Since my wife is still early in the pregnancy, and is hardly showing, most people assume we are done. They may see us out in public and say something like, “Wow, you really have your hands full.” I love to add to their awe and amazement by saying, “Yeah, and number four is in there,” as I point to my wife’s belly. The inevitable response is never far behind the look of severe perplexity that crosses their faces, “On purpose?”
Sarcasm again bursts forth. “Nope, I accidentally…” then I catch myself and decide to keep the conversation appropriate. “What’s wrong with four kids?” I ask. The response varies at this point as most people try to recover from the sheer shock of someone conceiving a fourth child on purpose. Most commonly, though, someone eventually asks if we came from large families ourselves. In their minds,I suppose, large families are a genetic defect that is passed on from generation to generation. “Yes, it runs in my family on the X-chromosome,” I reply. “She’s just a carrier,” I add glancing at my wife.
The truth behind the sarcasm, however, is this: Each and every kid we have brings a new kind of joy into our lives. Why wouldn’t we want one more?
Monday, April 7, 2008
The Classic Playground
Do you ever miss the classic things in life? Like cars that can be repaired without an advanced degree in computer technology or moms that raise their own kids and have dinner on the table when dad gets home? Or maybe you miss things like playground equipment that incites joy, danger, and terror all at once. Think of the classics that are gone: the teeter totter, the merry-go-round, tall swings, and metal slides. Cities and schools have to pass bond measures just to afford all the ultra-safe gadgetry that the litigators now require.
Fortunately, all is not a loss. Several years back I acquired one of these playground classics. Made of steel tubing and sheet metal, our backyard slide is seven feet tall and capable of generating autobahn speeds. As I look at our slide, I often find myself caught in a quandary between protecting my children and allowing them to have some innocent child-like fun. One day it hit me, perhaps by removing the brick and lava rock that surround the bottom of the slide, I could provide a safer place for my kids to play while also allowing them to experience the thrill of sliding toward the ground like a bobsled in winter.
Last weekend, I started the process. The first step toward making our playground safer was to remove the bricks that separate the lava rock from the Palm Springs Gold gravel (another classic combination). The brick removal was actually quite simple since they were not mortared into place, but it was a tedious job. While I picked up bricks, my five-year-old son, Zach, quietly played in the rocks.
“Hey buddy,” I called out to him. “You wanna help?”
“Not really,” he replied.
Thinking fast, I added, “I’ll pay you a penny for every brick you pick up.”
“So if I pick up a hundred bricks, you’ll give me a dollar?” he asked.
“Yup,” I replied. Dropping his rocks he got to work carefully placing his bricks in a separate pile than mine. He started with the bricks that were closest to the fence and counted aloud as he stacked them, “One cent, two cents, three cents…” After a few minutes, the walk from the row of bricks to the pile by the fence started getting longer, so I offered a solution. “I’ll just toss them to you and you stack them,” I suggested. He liked this idea and kept on eagerly working.
“Eighteen cents, 19 cents, 20 cents…” he continued as I tossed brick after brick. I must have gotten carried away with my tossing at some point because the counting was replaced by a loud howl. Being the naturally curious father that I am, I glanced his way as the howls grew louder.
“What’s up, bud?” I asked, knowing exactly what the answer was as I looked at his finger caught between two bricks. So much for making the playground safer.
“You threw that brick at me and it smashed my finger!” he informed me in the least rational voice he could muster.
“Let me teach you about a thing called worker’s compensation,” I said. “You see, when you get hurt at work, your boss pays you extra money. So I’m going to give you a five cent bonus if you can stop crying right now and get back to work.”
“You mean I only have to pick up 95 bricks to get a dollar?”
“Yup, only 95 bricks,” I answered.
“What number was I at?”
“Thirty-one,” I replied.
“Thirty-two cents, 33 cents, 34 cents...” Crisis averted. We were back in business. By the time we had to stop for the night, he was up to 46 bricks and 51 cents (due to the worker’s comp bonus).
“Dad, can I come back out and work some more in the morning before school?”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “My bookworm, academic, brainiac son wants to do manual labor before going to school?”
“Yeah,” he chuckled. And that’s exactly what he did. By the time he left for school this morning, he was up to 85 cents.
What have I created? I can see it now. Once the brick and gravel are gone and the teeter-totter and slide are safely resting on cushiony rubber chips, Zach is going to ask, “Dad, can I have a penny every time I go up and down on the teeter-totter with Maddie?”
“Sure, Buddy, but no more worker’s comp claims, okay?”
Fortunately, all is not a loss. Several years back I acquired one of these playground classics. Made of steel tubing and sheet metal, our backyard slide is seven feet tall and capable of generating autobahn speeds. As I look at our slide, I often find myself caught in a quandary between protecting my children and allowing them to have some innocent child-like fun. One day it hit me, perhaps by removing the brick and lava rock that surround the bottom of the slide, I could provide a safer place for my kids to play while also allowing them to experience the thrill of sliding toward the ground like a bobsled in winter.
Last weekend, I started the process. The first step toward making our playground safer was to remove the bricks that separate the lava rock from the Palm Springs Gold gravel (another classic combination). The brick removal was actually quite simple since they were not mortared into place, but it was a tedious job. While I picked up bricks, my five-year-old son, Zach, quietly played in the rocks.
“Hey buddy,” I called out to him. “You wanna help?”
“Not really,” he replied.
Thinking fast, I added, “I’ll pay you a penny for every brick you pick up.”
“So if I pick up a hundred bricks, you’ll give me a dollar?” he asked.
“Yup,” I replied. Dropping his rocks he got to work carefully placing his bricks in a separate pile than mine. He started with the bricks that were closest to the fence and counted aloud as he stacked them, “One cent, two cents, three cents…” After a few minutes, the walk from the row of bricks to the pile by the fence started getting longer, so I offered a solution. “I’ll just toss them to you and you stack them,” I suggested. He liked this idea and kept on eagerly working.
“Eighteen cents, 19 cents, 20 cents…” he continued as I tossed brick after brick. I must have gotten carried away with my tossing at some point because the counting was replaced by a loud howl. Being the naturally curious father that I am, I glanced his way as the howls grew louder.
“What’s up, bud?” I asked, knowing exactly what the answer was as I looked at his finger caught between two bricks. So much for making the playground safer.
“You threw that brick at me and it smashed my finger!” he informed me in the least rational voice he could muster.
“Let me teach you about a thing called worker’s compensation,” I said. “You see, when you get hurt at work, your boss pays you extra money. So I’m going to give you a five cent bonus if you can stop crying right now and get back to work.”
“You mean I only have to pick up 95 bricks to get a dollar?”
“Yup, only 95 bricks,” I answered.
“What number was I at?”
“Thirty-one,” I replied.
“Thirty-two cents, 33 cents, 34 cents...” Crisis averted. We were back in business. By the time we had to stop for the night, he was up to 46 bricks and 51 cents (due to the worker’s comp bonus).
“Dad, can I come back out and work some more in the morning before school?”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “My bookworm, academic, brainiac son wants to do manual labor before going to school?”
“Yeah,” he chuckled. And that’s exactly what he did. By the time he left for school this morning, he was up to 85 cents.
What have I created? I can see it now. Once the brick and gravel are gone and the teeter-totter and slide are safely resting on cushiony rubber chips, Zach is going to ask, “Dad, can I have a penny every time I go up and down on the teeter-totter with Maddie?”
“Sure, Buddy, but no more worker’s comp claims, okay?”
Friday, April 4, 2008
Hole in Three!
During the winter it’s too cold. During the summer it’s too hot. You know what I’m talking about. Every house has one: that one room that just can’t seem to get the temperature right. Maybe it’s upstairs or in the back corner of the house. Whatever the reason, it is just always uncomfortable. In my house, it’s my daughters’ room.
With summer fast approaching, I thought I would take the matter into my own hands and install a ceiling fan so the girls can sleep beneath a cool breeze as the mercury stretches vertically.
It sounded like an easy step-by-step project. Sometimes, however, the steps on paper don’t always line up with the steps of reality. Here’s how it happened.
Step 1: Climb up in the attic and cut a small hole in the ceiling. Sounds easy enough, right? I began the project by fetching the ladder from the garage and setting it up in hallway where the attic access panel is located. Stepping onto the ladder, I ascended as gracefully as a saint being called to heaven. Once in the attic, I shined my light toward the destination at the opposite end of the house and began traversing the beams and trusses, alternating between a belly crawl and a monkey climb. About halfway along on my journey, I started to get nervous, for it appeared that a wall was looming in the distance - a wall that shouldn’t have been there. “Wait a minute,” I said to myself. So I did just that. I sat for one minute and then proceeded closer to the wall. I touched it. Sure enough. It was a wall. How could I access the attic above the bedroom if there was a wall in the way? I began to wonder. Then I recalled the neighbor who had the same issue a few years back. He had to cut a new hole in the ceiling on the other end of the house in order to get above the bedrooms. So I slithered, crawled, and swung myself back to the the ladder and dropped back to ground level.
Step 1A: Cut an even bigger hole in the ceiling so you can climb up in the attic and cut a small hole in the ceiling as per Step 1. Easy enough. With the ladder repositioned in the hall at the other end of the house, I stared upwards. “How big should I make the hole?” I asked myself. A moment later, the answer came to me very clearly: No bigger than what you can patch with the only scrap of drywall you have in the garage. Back out to the garage to measure the drywall. Once that was done, I managed to draw a very nice rectangular box on the ceiling. Moments later, with my power saw inverted on my head, I commenced a cutting maneuver that was probably ill-advised. Nevertheless, I managed to keep my head intact and remove the drywall. Unfortunately, there was a rafter right in the middle of my access hole. It would have to go. Given the tight quarters, the power saw was out. This one would have to be done the old fashioned way: by hand. Given the tight quarters, there was no way to do it with my right hand, only a lefty could get the best angle on the saw. Twenty minutes later, the last chip of the two-by-four finally gave way to my unrelenting hand-saw. “Ahh, access,” I said rubbing my numb left arm.
Back to Step 1: Climb up in the attic and cut a small hole in the ceiling. To begin this step, I poked my head up into the attic like Punxsutawney Phil on Groundhog Day. This time I could actually see my destination which meant summer was coming. (OK, so I left out one small detail. Earlier I had poked a wire coat hanger up through the ceiling so I would know where to go once I got into the attic.) With my compact rotary tool in hand, I successfully put a small three inch square hole where none had ever existed before. Step 1 was done!
Step 1B: Climb out of the attic, look up at the large hole in the ceiling and find a way to cover it up so that it can be reused for future attic access, while protecting the look and comfort of your home. Sounds easy enough. Drive down to The Home Depot and buy some wooden molding to frame the hole, then drop the drywall cover into place. A quick measurement of the hole told me that ten feet of molding would do the trick. An hour later, I was back on the job and the wood was ready to cut. My dad always told me to measure twice and cut once. He never said anything about which direction to hold the asymmetrical molding when cutting a 45 degree angle so that it would make a perfect 90 degree corner. Now that you know that he never told me that, you might understand why I should have gotten 11 feet instead of ten. My trim work actually turned out quite nice, and unless you look really close, you’d never even notice that I was a foot short on one side. Now all I had left to do was to drop the piece of drywall into the mostly-finished frame and move on to Step 2. Unfortunately, Step 2 would have to wait. You see, when I returned to the garage to fetch my only piece of remaining drywall, I neglected to realize that I had leaned it up against a cupboard door. Ironically, this was the same cupboard door that I was about to open. Too late. Seconds later, my drywall was laying on the floor, snapped in two.
Step 1C: Repair the broken drywall. I refused to make another trip to The Depot. An hour later the drywall was reinforced and good as new.
Step 2 (Finally!): Climb back in the attic and run some wire to the small hole that was created back in Step 1. (Not to be confused with the large hole that was created in Step 1A.)
Step 3: Find a wire that hurts when you lick it. Chances are that’s a hot one. Attach the hot wire to the wire leading down to the hole that was created in Step 1.
Step 4: Remain in attic and install ceiling fan bracket.
Step 4B: Spend up to thirty minutes trying to remove a nut from a stripped out bolt on the bracket so that you can replace the bolt and tighten it up again so that the ceiling fan won’t wobble once it is suspended from the bracket. (Step 4B Option: Avoiding stripping out bolts and skip to Step 5)
Step 5: Install the ceiling fan.
Step 5A: Go back to Home Depot for a third time and pick out the fan you want, make the purchase, return home and continue with Step 5.
With summer fast approaching, I thought I would take the matter into my own hands and install a ceiling fan so the girls can sleep beneath a cool breeze as the mercury stretches vertically.
It sounded like an easy step-by-step project. Sometimes, however, the steps on paper don’t always line up with the steps of reality. Here’s how it happened.
Step 1: Climb up in the attic and cut a small hole in the ceiling. Sounds easy enough, right? I began the project by fetching the ladder from the garage and setting it up in hallway where the attic access panel is located. Stepping onto the ladder, I ascended as gracefully as a saint being called to heaven. Once in the attic, I shined my light toward the destination at the opposite end of the house and began traversing the beams and trusses, alternating between a belly crawl and a monkey climb. About halfway along on my journey, I started to get nervous, for it appeared that a wall was looming in the distance - a wall that shouldn’t have been there. “Wait a minute,” I said to myself. So I did just that. I sat for one minute and then proceeded closer to the wall. I touched it. Sure enough. It was a wall. How could I access the attic above the bedroom if there was a wall in the way? I began to wonder. Then I recalled the neighbor who had the same issue a few years back. He had to cut a new hole in the ceiling on the other end of the house in order to get above the bedrooms. So I slithered, crawled, and swung myself back to the the ladder and dropped back to ground level.
Step 1A: Cut an even bigger hole in the ceiling so you can climb up in the attic and cut a small hole in the ceiling as per Step 1. Easy enough. With the ladder repositioned in the hall at the other end of the house, I stared upwards. “How big should I make the hole?” I asked myself. A moment later, the answer came to me very clearly: No bigger than what you can patch with the only scrap of drywall you have in the garage. Back out to the garage to measure the drywall. Once that was done, I managed to draw a very nice rectangular box on the ceiling. Moments later, with my power saw inverted on my head, I commenced a cutting maneuver that was probably ill-advised. Nevertheless, I managed to keep my head intact and remove the drywall. Unfortunately, there was a rafter right in the middle of my access hole. It would have to go. Given the tight quarters, the power saw was out. This one would have to be done the old fashioned way: by hand. Given the tight quarters, there was no way to do it with my right hand, only a lefty could get the best angle on the saw. Twenty minutes later, the last chip of the two-by-four finally gave way to my unrelenting hand-saw. “Ahh, access,” I said rubbing my numb left arm.
Back to Step 1: Climb up in the attic and cut a small hole in the ceiling. To begin this step, I poked my head up into the attic like Punxsutawney Phil on Groundhog Day. This time I could actually see my destination which meant summer was coming. (OK, so I left out one small detail. Earlier I had poked a wire coat hanger up through the ceiling so I would know where to go once I got into the attic.) With my compact rotary tool in hand, I successfully put a small three inch square hole where none had ever existed before. Step 1 was done!
Step 1B: Climb out of the attic, look up at the large hole in the ceiling and find a way to cover it up so that it can be reused for future attic access, while protecting the look and comfort of your home. Sounds easy enough. Drive down to The Home Depot and buy some wooden molding to frame the hole, then drop the drywall cover into place. A quick measurement of the hole told me that ten feet of molding would do the trick. An hour later, I was back on the job and the wood was ready to cut. My dad always told me to measure twice and cut once. He never said anything about which direction to hold the asymmetrical molding when cutting a 45 degree angle so that it would make a perfect 90 degree corner. Now that you know that he never told me that, you might understand why I should have gotten 11 feet instead of ten. My trim work actually turned out quite nice, and unless you look really close, you’d never even notice that I was a foot short on one side. Now all I had left to do was to drop the piece of drywall into the mostly-finished frame and move on to Step 2. Unfortunately, Step 2 would have to wait. You see, when I returned to the garage to fetch my only piece of remaining drywall, I neglected to realize that I had leaned it up against a cupboard door. Ironically, this was the same cupboard door that I was about to open. Too late. Seconds later, my drywall was laying on the floor, snapped in two.
Step 1C: Repair the broken drywall. I refused to make another trip to The Depot. An hour later the drywall was reinforced and good as new.
Step 2 (Finally!): Climb back in the attic and run some wire to the small hole that was created back in Step 1. (Not to be confused with the large hole that was created in Step 1A.)
Step 3: Find a wire that hurts when you lick it. Chances are that’s a hot one. Attach the hot wire to the wire leading down to the hole that was created in Step 1.
Step 4: Remain in attic and install ceiling fan bracket.
Step 4B: Spend up to thirty minutes trying to remove a nut from a stripped out bolt on the bracket so that you can replace the bolt and tighten it up again so that the ceiling fan won’t wobble once it is suspended from the bracket. (Step 4B Option: Avoiding stripping out bolts and skip to Step 5)
Step 5: Install the ceiling fan.
Step 5A: Go back to Home Depot for a third time and pick out the fan you want, make the purchase, return home and continue with Step 5.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
My Divot
I love my bed. I love the fact that I have room to spread out. I love the pillow-top mattress and the little divot that has formed around my favorite sleeping spot. And the pillows? What can I say? They’re perfect, exactly the way I like them - not too old and not too new; not too flat, not too fluffy. Every morning I wake up feeling refreshed and rested and ready to face a new day. Every morning, that is, until today.
Today my back hurts, my neck is stiff, and I’m tired. How could this happen after spending the night in a place of perfect comfort? It all goes back to the divot. Mine is really more of a cradle. Inside my divot is a place of absolute sleeping perfection. As long as I am in my divot each night, life is good. So what happened to the divot last night? I remember it well. I started out in the divot. I know I did. It was just after 10:00 when I put my book down, reached up, and turned off the light. I rolled into place and settled into my favorite sleeping position, my divot holding me firmly, bringing comfort to my tired soul. And there I remained for the next few hours.
I didn’t even realize that my divot had been compromised until well after midnight. I knew something was wrong as I tossed and turned, but in my hazy, sleepy condition I was unable to identify the source of my discomfort. It took a crying baby to shake me out of my state of semi-consciousness. Only after the short fuss down the hall did I realize that I was sharing my divot. As I peeked one eye open to help me pinpoint the source of the disruption, I was enlightened by the fact that, snuggled into my divot, was my five-year-old son. He had somehow managed to evict me from my own divot mid-slumber.
Now that he had successfully moved in, I was left on the hill on the pillow-top mattress. (AKA: The Pill Hill) Of course, I wasn’t lucky enough to get the center Pill Hill. No, I had been banished to the side Pill Hill, the sliver of a hill that is nestled between my divot and the edge of the bed. It’s the hill that causes one to sleep in awkward positions to avoid rolling on top of a five-year-old while always remembering that tumbling out of bed and onto the floor is only one roll away.
By two a.m. I was missing my divot terribly. That was it, the game was over. I carefully placed my hands and feet on Zach’s back and legs and gently shoved him out of my divot and up onto the center Pill Hill. With my divot finally vacated, I rolled in and settled in for a well-deserved rest. Seconds later, what should come crashing down the center Pill Hill but my son! He had no regard for boundaries or personal space. I now had a choice: sleep with a child on my head, or resort to Sliver Mountain. I chose neither. This is my divot! I thought to myself and, doggone it, I’m going to sleep in it. So I once again began eviction proceedings. With my hands and feet in place, I carefully pushed until the little guy was once again on the center Pill Hill. Ahh...success!
Wait, no, correct that. Momentary success. No, not even that. I think it was actually less than a moment. With one quick roll, my divot was once again compromised. Wishing I was asleep and refusing to get out of bed in the middle of the night, I resigned myself to defeat. Beaten and dejected, I climbed back up Sliver Mountain and there I remained, unable to move for the next three hours.
We had a talk today, me and Zach. Now he knows that if he needs Mommy or Daddy in the middle of the night, he is more than welcome to come into our room…and sleep under the bed.
Today my back hurts, my neck is stiff, and I’m tired. How could this happen after spending the night in a place of perfect comfort? It all goes back to the divot. Mine is really more of a cradle. Inside my divot is a place of absolute sleeping perfection. As long as I am in my divot each night, life is good. So what happened to the divot last night? I remember it well. I started out in the divot. I know I did. It was just after 10:00 when I put my book down, reached up, and turned off the light. I rolled into place and settled into my favorite sleeping position, my divot holding me firmly, bringing comfort to my tired soul. And there I remained for the next few hours.
I didn’t even realize that my divot had been compromised until well after midnight. I knew something was wrong as I tossed and turned, but in my hazy, sleepy condition I was unable to identify the source of my discomfort. It took a crying baby to shake me out of my state of semi-consciousness. Only after the short fuss down the hall did I realize that I was sharing my divot. As I peeked one eye open to help me pinpoint the source of the disruption, I was enlightened by the fact that, snuggled into my divot, was my five-year-old son. He had somehow managed to evict me from my own divot mid-slumber.
Now that he had successfully moved in, I was left on the hill on the pillow-top mattress. (AKA: The Pill Hill) Of course, I wasn’t lucky enough to get the center Pill Hill. No, I had been banished to the side Pill Hill, the sliver of a hill that is nestled between my divot and the edge of the bed. It’s the hill that causes one to sleep in awkward positions to avoid rolling on top of a five-year-old while always remembering that tumbling out of bed and onto the floor is only one roll away.
By two a.m. I was missing my divot terribly. That was it, the game was over. I carefully placed my hands and feet on Zach’s back and legs and gently shoved him out of my divot and up onto the center Pill Hill. With my divot finally vacated, I rolled in and settled in for a well-deserved rest. Seconds later, what should come crashing down the center Pill Hill but my son! He had no regard for boundaries or personal space. I now had a choice: sleep with a child on my head, or resort to Sliver Mountain. I chose neither. This is my divot! I thought to myself and, doggone it, I’m going to sleep in it. So I once again began eviction proceedings. With my hands and feet in place, I carefully pushed until the little guy was once again on the center Pill Hill. Ahh...success!
Wait, no, correct that. Momentary success. No, not even that. I think it was actually less than a moment. With one quick roll, my divot was once again compromised. Wishing I was asleep and refusing to get out of bed in the middle of the night, I resigned myself to defeat. Beaten and dejected, I climbed back up Sliver Mountain and there I remained, unable to move for the next three hours.
We had a talk today, me and Zach. Now he knows that if he needs Mommy or Daddy in the middle of the night, he is more than welcome to come into our room…and sleep under the bed.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Legacy
And with your final heartbeat
Kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory's side, and
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus and live!
My grandparents made that final flight to Jesus this week. Grandma went last Sunday morning and Grandpa joined her seven days later. As I sat through two memorial services I was reminded of what is really important in life. My grandparents had worldly possessions, but those don’t matter. The most important thing that they left behind for their family is a legacy that lives on in each of their children and grandchildren.
As I was driving home tonight from Grandpa’s service, I thought about how to best describe the legacy that they have left for us. Two words came to mind: selfless generosity. Their legacy, while manifest in human terms, really began in heavenly terms. For without the love of Jesus Christ in their lives, their generosity was pointless, because it was for His glory that they gave of their time and resources.
The theme was repeated over and over as the patriarch and matriarch of the family were eulogized. Grandma sacrificed much to raise seven children, all the while maintaining an open door policy for anyone who came knocking. Grandpa embraced the Biblical concept that states, “To whom much is given, much is required.” He knew that God had blessed him so that he could bless others. The most notable thing about a legacy, however, is that it is lost if it is not embraced by posterity.
I have long since known that my own father is a recipient of this legacy, but only in recent years have I come to realize that he alone is not the sole beneficiary. As Grandma and Grandpa entered the sunset of their lives, I saw the torch of generosity being handed down from own generation to the next. Even as the sun settled deeper and deeper into the night, the light of this torch burned brighter and brighter, all the time illuminating the origin of the legacy. Grandma and Grandpa’s six remaining children were drawn close together, united by their common cause: to honor their parents. Now that they are gone, none would call it a sacrifice, for it was an honor for my dad and his siblings to usher their parents into Heaven, all the time making sure that they were never left alone.
The beauty of the legacy that was begun so many years ago is that it transcends economic barriers. You see, over the course of his lifetime, Grandpa made more money than most will ever see, yet also experienced poverty that few of us know. Even as eternity lingered on the horizon, his money spent and nothing more than the remnants of a lifetime remaining, Grandpa would worry about the small things that he could do for his family. Always the optimist, always the strong one, he refused to let his legacy die.
That legacy now rests firmly upon my own shoulders. I know that it is a part of who I am and the family into which God has so graciously placed me. It is my duty to model this tradition of generosity so that my own children can pass the torch to their children. For what good is a legacy if it is not embraced by posterity?
Kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory's side, and
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus and live!
My grandparents made that final flight to Jesus this week. Grandma went last Sunday morning and Grandpa joined her seven days later. As I sat through two memorial services I was reminded of what is really important in life. My grandparents had worldly possessions, but those don’t matter. The most important thing that they left behind for their family is a legacy that lives on in each of their children and grandchildren.
As I was driving home tonight from Grandpa’s service, I thought about how to best describe the legacy that they have left for us. Two words came to mind: selfless generosity. Their legacy, while manifest in human terms, really began in heavenly terms. For without the love of Jesus Christ in their lives, their generosity was pointless, because it was for His glory that they gave of their time and resources.
The theme was repeated over and over as the patriarch and matriarch of the family were eulogized. Grandma sacrificed much to raise seven children, all the while maintaining an open door policy for anyone who came knocking. Grandpa embraced the Biblical concept that states, “To whom much is given, much is required.” He knew that God had blessed him so that he could bless others. The most notable thing about a legacy, however, is that it is lost if it is not embraced by posterity.
I have long since known that my own father is a recipient of this legacy, but only in recent years have I come to realize that he alone is not the sole beneficiary. As Grandma and Grandpa entered the sunset of their lives, I saw the torch of generosity being handed down from own generation to the next. Even as the sun settled deeper and deeper into the night, the light of this torch burned brighter and brighter, all the time illuminating the origin of the legacy. Grandma and Grandpa’s six remaining children were drawn close together, united by their common cause: to honor their parents. Now that they are gone, none would call it a sacrifice, for it was an honor for my dad and his siblings to usher their parents into Heaven, all the time making sure that they were never left alone.
The beauty of the legacy that was begun so many years ago is that it transcends economic barriers. You see, over the course of his lifetime, Grandpa made more money than most will ever see, yet also experienced poverty that few of us know. Even as eternity lingered on the horizon, his money spent and nothing more than the remnants of a lifetime remaining, Grandpa would worry about the small things that he could do for his family. Always the optimist, always the strong one, he refused to let his legacy die.
That legacy now rests firmly upon my own shoulders. I know that it is a part of who I am and the family into which God has so graciously placed me. It is my duty to model this tradition of generosity so that my own children can pass the torch to their children. For what good is a legacy if it is not embraced by posterity?
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Shallow Bowls
There are two kinds of cereal bowls in this world: narrow deep bowls and broad shallow bowls. They both serve a purpose and can be a great addition to any household kitchen line up. To the true connoisseur of fine cereal, however, only one can provide the dining experience that is necessary when feasting on the most exquisite of flakes.
Let’s start by investigating the anatomy of a shallow bowl. Shallow bowls are by their very nature, shallow. Aside from yourself, think of a shallow person that you know. Is he fun to be with? Is she caring and giving? Can you rely on him? If you apply these questions to the shallow bowl, the answer is a resounding, no. Shallow bowls are not fun to be with. Have you ever tried plunging your spoon into a shallow bowl anticipating a milky scoop of flakey delight only to have your utensil strike the bottom of the bowl with nothing more than a useless drop of milk resting in its cradle? That is not fun, it’s shallow. Let’s look at the next question. Is a shallow bowl caring and giving? Again, the answer can only be, no. Shallow bowls are stingy. They try to look generous by spreading your cereal over a wide area, but they lack depth. Given their shallow nature, these bowls make cereal extrication quite difficult. They do all that they can to retain your Cocoa Puffs for their own benefit. And when the milk does finally turn into a perfect consistency of chocolate soup, the bowl is too shallow for the average cereal consumer to fill the spoon because the spoon is actually deeper than the bowl.
Pretend with me for a minute that you were actually successful in getting every puff out of the bowl. By this point you are exhausted and, no doubt, thirsty. The milky concoction at the bottom of the bowl is calling your name. You know that your spoon will never succeed in removing all of it; the bowl is just too shallow. The only way to quench your thirst is to raise the wide brimmed bowl to your lips ad drink. As you begin to pour the milk into your parched throat, the bowl taunts you by sending milk all the way around the bottom portion of the oversized brim. It is so wide it begins to drip down the corners of your mouth and onto your shirt. The wise shallow bowl affectionado (yes, there are a few out there) will always eat breakfast before showering. That way the milky mess can be rinsed off quite easily.
As for the question about reliability, shallow bowls actually rate quite high. A shallow bowl will always come through for you if you are wishing to play a practical joke on your friend. “Here, drink this delicious milk,” you might say as you sit back and watch it dribble down his clean shirt. Or perhaps you want to annoy an ex-friend. Offer him a shallow bowl of cereal and watch him struggle to get a milky scoop. It works every time.
I think my opinion on shallow bowls is clear. Let’s turn our attention toward the cereal bowl of Mr. Kellogg’s own choosing: the deep bowl. Deep bowls are fun to be with. They can provide hours of entertainment ranging from a haircutting guide for young children to a tool for forming sand castles. I even use an old one to clean the ashes out of my barbecue. These bowls are the most generous of cereal bowls. Their deep interior allows your spoon to plunge beneath the surface of the milk and flakes and, as you raise it to your lips, drops of milk splash back into the bowl, its generosity overflowing. Each bite is a perfect mixture of milkiness and flakiness, just the way Mr. Kellogg envisioned when he invented cereal back in the late 1800s. And reliability? Deep bowls are the most reliable of all cereal bowls. Their narrow brim allows the milk to pour neatly into your mouth without spreading out to the far corners and dribbling onto your favorite shirt. We deep bowl fans proudly shower before eating our cereal, for we have nothing to fear.
Our country was founded on the principles of democracy and as such, every bowl has rights. As long as there are people in this world who still cling to the shallow bowl, shallow bowls will persevere. It is up to us, the deep bowl lovers of the world, to spread our message and do all we can to influence others that there is a better way. Because together we can change the world.
Let’s start by investigating the anatomy of a shallow bowl. Shallow bowls are by their very nature, shallow. Aside from yourself, think of a shallow person that you know. Is he fun to be with? Is she caring and giving? Can you rely on him? If you apply these questions to the shallow bowl, the answer is a resounding, no. Shallow bowls are not fun to be with. Have you ever tried plunging your spoon into a shallow bowl anticipating a milky scoop of flakey delight only to have your utensil strike the bottom of the bowl with nothing more than a useless drop of milk resting in its cradle? That is not fun, it’s shallow. Let’s look at the next question. Is a shallow bowl caring and giving? Again, the answer can only be, no. Shallow bowls are stingy. They try to look generous by spreading your cereal over a wide area, but they lack depth. Given their shallow nature, these bowls make cereal extrication quite difficult. They do all that they can to retain your Cocoa Puffs for their own benefit. And when the milk does finally turn into a perfect consistency of chocolate soup, the bowl is too shallow for the average cereal consumer to fill the spoon because the spoon is actually deeper than the bowl.
Pretend with me for a minute that you were actually successful in getting every puff out of the bowl. By this point you are exhausted and, no doubt, thirsty. The milky concoction at the bottom of the bowl is calling your name. You know that your spoon will never succeed in removing all of it; the bowl is just too shallow. The only way to quench your thirst is to raise the wide brimmed bowl to your lips ad drink. As you begin to pour the milk into your parched throat, the bowl taunts you by sending milk all the way around the bottom portion of the oversized brim. It is so wide it begins to drip down the corners of your mouth and onto your shirt. The wise shallow bowl affectionado (yes, there are a few out there) will always eat breakfast before showering. That way the milky mess can be rinsed off quite easily.
As for the question about reliability, shallow bowls actually rate quite high. A shallow bowl will always come through for you if you are wishing to play a practical joke on your friend. “Here, drink this delicious milk,” you might say as you sit back and watch it dribble down his clean shirt. Or perhaps you want to annoy an ex-friend. Offer him a shallow bowl of cereal and watch him struggle to get a milky scoop. It works every time.
I think my opinion on shallow bowls is clear. Let’s turn our attention toward the cereal bowl of Mr. Kellogg’s own choosing: the deep bowl. Deep bowls are fun to be with. They can provide hours of entertainment ranging from a haircutting guide for young children to a tool for forming sand castles. I even use an old one to clean the ashes out of my barbecue. These bowls are the most generous of cereal bowls. Their deep interior allows your spoon to plunge beneath the surface of the milk and flakes and, as you raise it to your lips, drops of milk splash back into the bowl, its generosity overflowing. Each bite is a perfect mixture of milkiness and flakiness, just the way Mr. Kellogg envisioned when he invented cereal back in the late 1800s. And reliability? Deep bowls are the most reliable of all cereal bowls. Their narrow brim allows the milk to pour neatly into your mouth without spreading out to the far corners and dribbling onto your favorite shirt. We deep bowl fans proudly shower before eating our cereal, for we have nothing to fear.
Our country was founded on the principles of democracy and as such, every bowl has rights. As long as there are people in this world who still cling to the shallow bowl, shallow bowls will persevere. It is up to us, the deep bowl lovers of the world, to spread our message and do all we can to influence others that there is a better way. Because together we can change the world.
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