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.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
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.
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