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?
Sunday, September 14, 2008
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.
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