Help is a very valuable thing. We can all think of countless times when we have been in trouble and had to ask for assistance. I actually had this down to a science when I was in college. Our dorms came furnished with a two standard-issue metal framed beds, but no one ever used those. Instead we all built our own loft beds out of lumber from Home Depot. The beds usually consisted of four-by-four posts and two-by-six rails, so they were sturdy beasts.
The drawback to these monsters was that they had to be removed each summer. Predictably, disassembling the bed was often too big a job for just one person. Unfortunately, everyone was so preoccupied with moving their own things out that there was little time to help someone else. I quickly learned, that in order to get enough attention to warrant help, one had to create an emergency. So I would begin the process alone by propping my door open so that I could be heard in the hall and then I would take apart the heaviest, most cumbersome pieces first. Inevitably, I would get something heavy stuck over my head while another piece was tumbling down. This would create quite a racket. It was at this point that I would yell for help and wait for the entire floor to come running to my aid.
Other types of help are appreciated as well, but with trepidation. Perhaps the first time you offered to take your dad’s credit card and fill up the gas tank in his car for him, he was thankful, but nervous. Or maybe you were thankfully scared the time a neighbor got your car running for you with a hammer.
Today, I got some help help that caused me to fear. It all started while I was home from work to grab a quick bite to eat during lunch. I have two beautiful daughters and the four-year-old is quite the mother hen when it comes to her little sister. My ham sandwich had been delicious and I was just about to head out the door when the girls walked on by and Maddie announced that she was going to change Cami’s diaper for us.
“What did she say?” my wife asked me.
“I think she is going to change Cami’s diaper,” I replied. We both stared at each other as the same thought flooded both of our heads at the same time: It sounds nice, but is it a good idea? We must have reached the same conclusion because neither of us moved as we waited anxiously for the result. Deep down inside, we both wanted this idea to work. Just think of the possibilities that could follow if this endeavor were to be a success. We could never have to change another diaper again!
I really needed to get back to work, but I wanted to know how this whole episode would turn out. I didn’t have to wait long. Only moments after the announcement, a voice rang out down the hall. “Mommy! Cami’s poop fell out of her diaper and it’s on the floor!”
“Bye, Honey!” I said. “I really should get back to the office.”
“But, I have to hold the baby,” she stammered as she cradled our newborn and gave me an irresistible look that convinced me to stick around a few more minutes.
Carefully watching my step, I made my way down the hall and found the offending pile. “That was a lot grosser than I thought it would be,” Maddie said to me with a twisted face.
“You’ll get used to it with practice,” I said as I ruffled her hair and got out the carpet cleaner. “You’re a good little helper.”
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Decisions, Decisions
Life really is a lot like a cartoon. We have all seen the little red devil squatting on one shoulder while a white angel hovers over the other. It is the classic struggle between good and evil that lives within each of us.
As a child we usually give in to the devil without even glancing at the angel. As we age, more thought goes in to the decsion-making process and we learn new ways of coping with the devil on our shoulder, and given even more time, we learn to actually focus on the angel. Unfortunately, that does not mean the devil doesn’t still try to make an appearance now and then.
For the last several months, my wife and I have been dealing with one stressful situation after another and, as a result, have gotten lazy about cooking. Quite often, the simple solution has been to grab some kind of take-out dinner or to head out to a restaurant. Unfortunately, this type of lifestyle can’t continue indefinitely as the cost tends to add up.
Yesterday had been a busy day of cleaning up the post-Christmas mess that was consuming our house. The tree was taken down and all the pine needles vacuumed up. The lights were removed from the front of the house and all the decoration were returned to their boxes. In addition to all of that, four hungry children was fed. Four dirty children were bathed and the countless messes they all made throughout the day were tidied up. As the last of the boxes was being closed up, the little devil found a perch on my wife’s shoulder and the ugly urge to head out to dinner struck.
“What do you want for dinner?” she asked.
“I don’t really care,” I replied as I continued taking care of the task at hand. Thinking the discussion was over, I assumed she would fix something, but ten minutes later, the question returned.
“You never told me what you wanted,” she said.
“That’s because I don’t really have a preference,” I replied.
“If you were making dinner, what would you make?” she persisted.
“What do we have in the refrigerator?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Why don’t you take a look?”
“It sounds to me like you are trying to get me to take care of dinner. And you know that when daddy cooks we just end up going out,” I told her.
“I know. It’s a bad decision. That’s why I want you to make it,” she replied. And there it was, the little devil hopped right off of her shoulder and onto mine.
“Let me finish putting this stuff away,” I said, “then we will decide.” Now the little devil was on hold, living in limbo. He was still there, but he had no control for the moment. I busied myself taking care of the last of the Christmas decor and pondered the dinner options. I knew my wife was right, going out was a bad idea. I also knew that, as a minor neat freak, the last thing I wanted after a day of cleaning was a messy kitchen. Maybe we could just get something cheap. I could even drink water. After all, it’s the soda where all the profit is anyway.
The debate raged in my head as I packed. A few minutes later, I re-emerged to find my decide-aphobic wife on the phone. “Who is that,” I mouthed to her quietly.
“My mom,” she replied. I quickly realized what she was up to. “Oh, just trying to decide what to do for dinner,” she said to the phone. After a short pause, she again spoke to the phone. “I guess we could do that if you really want us to.”
“You are so conniving,” I whispered to her.
“So we’ll be there in about a half hour,” she said before hanging up.
And thus the devil that had been bouncing from shoulder to shoulder fell off and landed on the floor. I think one of the kids stepped on him as we all marched out to the car to go to grandma’s house for dinner, but I am sure that he will be back someday soon.
As a child we usually give in to the devil without even glancing at the angel. As we age, more thought goes in to the decsion-making process and we learn new ways of coping with the devil on our shoulder, and given even more time, we learn to actually focus on the angel. Unfortunately, that does not mean the devil doesn’t still try to make an appearance now and then.
For the last several months, my wife and I have been dealing with one stressful situation after another and, as a result, have gotten lazy about cooking. Quite often, the simple solution has been to grab some kind of take-out dinner or to head out to a restaurant. Unfortunately, this type of lifestyle can’t continue indefinitely as the cost tends to add up.
Yesterday had been a busy day of cleaning up the post-Christmas mess that was consuming our house. The tree was taken down and all the pine needles vacuumed up. The lights were removed from the front of the house and all the decoration were returned to their boxes. In addition to all of that, four hungry children was fed. Four dirty children were bathed and the countless messes they all made throughout the day were tidied up. As the last of the boxes was being closed up, the little devil found a perch on my wife’s shoulder and the ugly urge to head out to dinner struck.
“What do you want for dinner?” she asked.
“I don’t really care,” I replied as I continued taking care of the task at hand. Thinking the discussion was over, I assumed she would fix something, but ten minutes later, the question returned.
“You never told me what you wanted,” she said.
“That’s because I don’t really have a preference,” I replied.
“If you were making dinner, what would you make?” she persisted.
“What do we have in the refrigerator?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Why don’t you take a look?”
“It sounds to me like you are trying to get me to take care of dinner. And you know that when daddy cooks we just end up going out,” I told her.
“I know. It’s a bad decision. That’s why I want you to make it,” she replied. And there it was, the little devil hopped right off of her shoulder and onto mine.
“Let me finish putting this stuff away,” I said, “then we will decide.” Now the little devil was on hold, living in limbo. He was still there, but he had no control for the moment. I busied myself taking care of the last of the Christmas decor and pondered the dinner options. I knew my wife was right, going out was a bad idea. I also knew that, as a minor neat freak, the last thing I wanted after a day of cleaning was a messy kitchen. Maybe we could just get something cheap. I could even drink water. After all, it’s the soda where all the profit is anyway.
The debate raged in my head as I packed. A few minutes later, I re-emerged to find my decide-aphobic wife on the phone. “Who is that,” I mouthed to her quietly.
“My mom,” she replied. I quickly realized what she was up to. “Oh, just trying to decide what to do for dinner,” she said to the phone. After a short pause, she again spoke to the phone. “I guess we could do that if you really want us to.”
“You are so conniving,” I whispered to her.
“So we’ll be there in about a half hour,” she said before hanging up.
And thus the devil that had been bouncing from shoulder to shoulder fell off and landed on the floor. I think one of the kids stepped on him as we all marched out to the car to go to grandma’s house for dinner, but I am sure that he will be back someday soon.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Toys and Tools
Oh, to be young again. Can you recall those carefree days of your youth when a toy was anything you put your hands on? As a child your imagination ran wild. Toilet paper tubes were made into binoculars. As you got older, you graduated to the paper towel tube and made it into a telescope. Later yet, you discovered the wrapping paper tube and sword fights ensued. Blankets and chairs were tents and hideouts, and cardboard boxes were a free-for-all.
As an adult, I occasionally revert back to my childhood, but on a much more mature level. Now anything can be made into a tool. I remember a decade ago when my new bride and I were living in our first apartment. It was a two story affair with the bedrooms upstairs and everything else below. My tool collection was limited to a hammer and a set of socket wrenches.
“Honey,” she said to me with a loving glance. “The light bulb above the stairs is burnt out.” Putting on my hero hat, I rushed to the rescue. From the front door, I could see straight up the stairs and quickly found the offending light fixture.
My face must have revealed my quandary. “You can fix that, can’t you?” my loving wife asked.
“Of course I can,” I replied, not one to disappoint the love of my life. All the machismo in the world couldn’t change the fact that the light was securely fastened to the ceiling about twelve feet above the landing halfway up the stairs. “Let me just get the little step stool out of the closet,” which, incidentally, was the tallest thing we owned at the time. Perching the stool on the landing, I climbed aboard and used all five-feet-eight-inches of me plus my tip toes, plus the length of my arms, and still I came up about three feet short.
It was time for Plan B. And toilet paper tubes weren’t going to help now that I was grown up. But an ironing board, now that might help. Before you panic, understand that I used every precaution I could think of, which was pretty close to none. In order for the plan to work, I also needed a chair. The chair was the point of stability that would hold the plan together. With the chair perched on the landing, the ironing board, with its legs still folded up, could form a bridge from the seat of the chair to one of the steps leading up the stairs. This contraption now formed a bridge upon which I could place the step stool. This might sound unstable to the untrained professional, but to the newly minted husband, it was manly scaffolding.
Within a few minutes, I was balanced on the stool which was balanced on the ironing board which was balanced on the stairs. Fortunately, if I stood on my tip toes, I could now reach the offending light bulb. After carefully taking care of the bulb issue, I returned everything to its rightful place.
This evening I realized that my son was just like his father. The kids were in the family room playing around and having a great time when I saw my six-year-old boy carrying a couple of pillows from the living room into the family room. “Uhh, what are you doing?” I asked with trepidation.
“I ‘m getting my candy cane,” he replied very matter-of-factly. It was then that I began to follow him, knowing that he was up to something. Rounding the corner, I saw exactly what he was up to. There in the middle of the family room was the ottoman from my big, comfy chair. On top of that were two pillows from the couch. On top of that were two more pillows from the living room couch. On top of that was my son on his tip toes with his arms reaching upward. What was he reaching for? Why the candy cane, of course. Just out of his reach the lonely candy cane hung by its hook from the light fixture on the ceiling fan.
Knowing he was his father’s son, I feared what he would come up with to bridge those last few inches. “How ‘bout I help you with that,” I offered reaching up and unhooking the candy cane. “Here you go, Buddy.”
As an adult, I occasionally revert back to my childhood, but on a much more mature level. Now anything can be made into a tool. I remember a decade ago when my new bride and I were living in our first apartment. It was a two story affair with the bedrooms upstairs and everything else below. My tool collection was limited to a hammer and a set of socket wrenches.
“Honey,” she said to me with a loving glance. “The light bulb above the stairs is burnt out.” Putting on my hero hat, I rushed to the rescue. From the front door, I could see straight up the stairs and quickly found the offending light fixture.
My face must have revealed my quandary. “You can fix that, can’t you?” my loving wife asked.
“Of course I can,” I replied, not one to disappoint the love of my life. All the machismo in the world couldn’t change the fact that the light was securely fastened to the ceiling about twelve feet above the landing halfway up the stairs. “Let me just get the little step stool out of the closet,” which, incidentally, was the tallest thing we owned at the time. Perching the stool on the landing, I climbed aboard and used all five-feet-eight-inches of me plus my tip toes, plus the length of my arms, and still I came up about three feet short.
It was time for Plan B. And toilet paper tubes weren’t going to help now that I was grown up. But an ironing board, now that might help. Before you panic, understand that I used every precaution I could think of, which was pretty close to none. In order for the plan to work, I also needed a chair. The chair was the point of stability that would hold the plan together. With the chair perched on the landing, the ironing board, with its legs still folded up, could form a bridge from the seat of the chair to one of the steps leading up the stairs. This contraption now formed a bridge upon which I could place the step stool. This might sound unstable to the untrained professional, but to the newly minted husband, it was manly scaffolding.
Within a few minutes, I was balanced on the stool which was balanced on the ironing board which was balanced on the stairs. Fortunately, if I stood on my tip toes, I could now reach the offending light bulb. After carefully taking care of the bulb issue, I returned everything to its rightful place.
This evening I realized that my son was just like his father. The kids were in the family room playing around and having a great time when I saw my six-year-old boy carrying a couple of pillows from the living room into the family room. “Uhh, what are you doing?” I asked with trepidation.
“I ‘m getting my candy cane,” he replied very matter-of-factly. It was then that I began to follow him, knowing that he was up to something. Rounding the corner, I saw exactly what he was up to. There in the middle of the family room was the ottoman from my big, comfy chair. On top of that were two pillows from the couch. On top of that were two more pillows from the living room couch. On top of that was my son on his tip toes with his arms reaching upward. What was he reaching for? Why the candy cane, of course. Just out of his reach the lonely candy cane hung by its hook from the light fixture on the ceiling fan.
Knowing he was his father’s son, I feared what he would come up with to bridge those last few inches. “How ‘bout I help you with that,” I offered reaching up and unhooking the candy cane. “Here you go, Buddy.”
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Manly Onesies
If you know what a onesie is, odds are you are either a father or a woman. Men who have no kids, don’t know what these contraptions are, primarily because onesies in and of themselves are not particularly manly. For those men out there who still cling to their manhood, let me define the term onesie for you. A onesie is a baby t-shirt that snaps together between the legs to help hold the shirt in place while simultaneously concealing the diaper. Ahhh, now you understand, don’t you? You have most likely seen such a thing, but you just didn’t know that there was such a feminine sounding name for an article of clothing that can be worn by anyone in the male cluster of society. Understand that this term was probably coined by a woman who was enamored with the idea that one thing could do the job of two. (Kinda like she may be enamored with a husband who can both pick up his chonies and close the toilet seat on the same day.)
Needless to say, the onesie is about the most feminine thing a baby boy can wear, but it is still commonly accepted by the great majority of motherhood. This bit of background leads us to a comment my wife made to me yesterday. After returning from a day-long shopping trip with her mom, my wife was showing me some of the purchases she had made for the new baby. The first item to make its way down the home fashion runway was a pair of light blue pajamas with the phrase, “I love my mom” emblazoned on the front. “Look!” my sweet wife exclaimed. “It has a zipper and no buttons.” She had a point there. Have you ever tried to button all 12 buttons on a pair of infant PJs? That alone is the main reason parents are up all night.
Regardless of the zipper, I still wanted something manly for my son. Knowing this, the next item my wife produced was another set of pajamas, only these were pinstriped and resembled a baseball uniform. The team name on the front said “Dad’s Team.”
“Now that’s more like it,” I said. Then I leaned in for a closer look. “What does it say in that little blue circle,” I wondered aloud. With my eyes slightly squinted, I read the little logo and was disappointed to find that right after the words “Dad’s Team” in fine print were the words “Approved by mom.” “What is this world coming too?” I asked. “Even the manly PJs have to be approved by mom? Where are the men?”
“Don’t worry honey,” my wife said trying to reassure me. “My mom got him a onesie, but she made sure it was a manly one.”
“She did what?” I stammered.
“She got him a manly onesie,” she replied. Does such a thing exist, I thought to myself. So I decided to find out.
“Would I look manly if I showed up at a construction site with no pants and my manly flannel shirt pinned together in the crotch? Does any onesie look manly? Did I just say the word onesie out loud?” My mind was swirling trying to absorb the fact that I lived in a society that thought a onesie could be made manly. Why let it stop at babies? Why not have manly toddler onesies and manly third grader onesies?
“That’s it!” I said to myself. “I’ll start a line of clothing for men called “Workplace Onesies.” We can have special onesies for men of all professions. Suits are too expensive anyway and with the price of gas lately, we need to save money. Who wouldn’t appreciate a dentist with no pants and his lab coat fastened safely between his legs? Or maybe a lawyer whose perfectly tanned legs extended out from the Oxford Onesie? What about the orange Home Depot Apron Onesie? The possibilities are endless.
Now that I am looking to start a business, does anyone out there know how to sew?
Needless to say, the onesie is about the most feminine thing a baby boy can wear, but it is still commonly accepted by the great majority of motherhood. This bit of background leads us to a comment my wife made to me yesterday. After returning from a day-long shopping trip with her mom, my wife was showing me some of the purchases she had made for the new baby. The first item to make its way down the home fashion runway was a pair of light blue pajamas with the phrase, “I love my mom” emblazoned on the front. “Look!” my sweet wife exclaimed. “It has a zipper and no buttons.” She had a point there. Have you ever tried to button all 12 buttons on a pair of infant PJs? That alone is the main reason parents are up all night.
Regardless of the zipper, I still wanted something manly for my son. Knowing this, the next item my wife produced was another set of pajamas, only these were pinstriped and resembled a baseball uniform. The team name on the front said “Dad’s Team.”
“Now that’s more like it,” I said. Then I leaned in for a closer look. “What does it say in that little blue circle,” I wondered aloud. With my eyes slightly squinted, I read the little logo and was disappointed to find that right after the words “Dad’s Team” in fine print were the words “Approved by mom.” “What is this world coming too?” I asked. “Even the manly PJs have to be approved by mom? Where are the men?”
“Don’t worry honey,” my wife said trying to reassure me. “My mom got him a onesie, but she made sure it was a manly one.”
“She did what?” I stammered.
“She got him a manly onesie,” she replied. Does such a thing exist, I thought to myself. So I decided to find out.
“Would I look manly if I showed up at a construction site with no pants and my manly flannel shirt pinned together in the crotch? Does any onesie look manly? Did I just say the word onesie out loud?” My mind was swirling trying to absorb the fact that I lived in a society that thought a onesie could be made manly. Why let it stop at babies? Why not have manly toddler onesies and manly third grader onesies?
“That’s it!” I said to myself. “I’ll start a line of clothing for men called “Workplace Onesies.” We can have special onesies for men of all professions. Suits are too expensive anyway and with the price of gas lately, we need to save money. Who wouldn’t appreciate a dentist with no pants and his lab coat fastened safely between his legs? Or maybe a lawyer whose perfectly tanned legs extended out from the Oxford Onesie? What about the orange Home Depot Apron Onesie? The possibilities are endless.
Now that I am looking to start a business, does anyone out there know how to sew?
Monday, September 1, 2008
Nasal Passing
At some point in every parent's parenting career, a curious child comes to the realization that of all the cracks, crevices, and orifices in his body, the one that is in most need of a foreign object is the nose. I recall an incident from my own childhood when my younger brother conducted an experiment involving his nose and a bean. Other parents have similar stories, I'm sure.
This morning the nose incident invaded our family. If you notice the date, it is the first Monday in September, better known as Labor Day. Here is how our holiday began:
As with most mornings, the kids emerged from their rooms right at 6:30. My wife and I were still in bed, drifting in and out of sleep as we listened to them playing peacefully with each other. I thought about getting up, but had no reason to yet, so I continued with my fake sleep for a while longer. Around 6:40, my six-year-old son began sneezing. It was unusual because the sneezes were coming one at a time with about ten seconds between each. This is unusual because Zach's typical sneeze pattern is the double sneeze. (Think Ah-choo, Ah-choo without even the slightest pause in between.) The ten-second pause caught my attention just because it was a variation from the norm. Moments later, I heard another sound: the sound of footsteps approaching our bedroom.
"Uh, mom," the voice began. "Ah-choo!" Sniffle, sniffle. "I put one of those rolled up barrette things in my nose and I can't get it out." Both of us are instantly awake at this announcement, envisioning a barrette jammed into our son's nose, hooks and clips digging into his sensitive nasal passages, blood dripping out.
"You did what?" I asked jumping up and turning on the lights.
"I put a rolled up barrette thing in my nose and I can't breathe," he said very matter-of-factly.
I looked at his nose and didn't see anything except for some very moist drippage forming about a fingernail length up the passage. "Show me what you put in there," I said. Being the obedient kid that he is, he went to bathroom where the girls keep their hair things and came back out with a very small blue rubber band. "That makes more sense," I said slightly relieved as he showed me the offending item. "Let's look again," I continued very calmly on the outside while the inside of me was screaming, "We've got to get that thing out of there! Our ER co-pay is a hundred bucks!"
This time I got a flashlight and illuminated the nasal cavern to try to catch a glimpse of rubber but there was still too much drippage. "Get a tissue and blow hard," I said. He blew for several minutes without much progress, so I sent him over to Mom since she is the one who is really good at saving money. "Try holding the other side closed," I suggested. And the blowing resumed.
"We're getting some movement!" Mom exclaimed.
"Yes!" I shouted. "If that snot comes out, it is worth its weight in gold. Keep blowing."
And the blowing continued. "I see it!" Mom shouted. "Get me some tweezers!"
"Where are they?" I asked.
"I don't know," she replied.
"Breathe through your mouth, Zach. Don't sniff it up," I yelled as I frantically dug through bathroom drawers and cabinets looking for tweezers. "I have needle nose pliers in the garage," I suggested.
"Too big," my wife replied. "He's got a little nose."
"I think I saw some tweezers in the trailer when we were camping last month," I said. "Breathe through your mouth!" I hollered once more as I sprinted out into the yard to retrieve the camping tweezers. Moments later I returned with the tweezers and handed them to my wife.
Zach's eyes instantly doubled in size and panic seized him upon seeing the shiny metallic object. "You can't put those in my nose," he stammered.
"Just hold still. You won't feel a thing," I said. Even so, the panic grew and the noise level increased. "I'll hold him, you dig the rubber band out," I said to my wife. With a very professional headlock and arm hold, poor little Zach was immobilized.
"I got it!" Mom shouted holding up the small blue band still pinched in the tweezers.
I breathed a sigh of relief and looked around the room for my daughter. It only took a moment to find her hiding behind the chair in the corner of the room, hands over her ears, eyes closed, and a very concerned look on her face. I'll bet neither of them will every try that activity again.
This morning the nose incident invaded our family. If you notice the date, it is the first Monday in September, better known as Labor Day. Here is how our holiday began:
As with most mornings, the kids emerged from their rooms right at 6:30. My wife and I were still in bed, drifting in and out of sleep as we listened to them playing peacefully with each other. I thought about getting up, but had no reason to yet, so I continued with my fake sleep for a while longer. Around 6:40, my six-year-old son began sneezing. It was unusual because the sneezes were coming one at a time with about ten seconds between each. This is unusual because Zach's typical sneeze pattern is the double sneeze. (Think Ah-choo, Ah-choo without even the slightest pause in between.) The ten-second pause caught my attention just because it was a variation from the norm. Moments later, I heard another sound: the sound of footsteps approaching our bedroom.
"Uh, mom," the voice began. "Ah-choo!" Sniffle, sniffle. "I put one of those rolled up barrette things in my nose and I can't get it out." Both of us are instantly awake at this announcement, envisioning a barrette jammed into our son's nose, hooks and clips digging into his sensitive nasal passages, blood dripping out.
"You did what?" I asked jumping up and turning on the lights.
"I put a rolled up barrette thing in my nose and I can't breathe," he said very matter-of-factly.
I looked at his nose and didn't see anything except for some very moist drippage forming about a fingernail length up the passage. "Show me what you put in there," I said. Being the obedient kid that he is, he went to bathroom where the girls keep their hair things and came back out with a very small blue rubber band. "That makes more sense," I said slightly relieved as he showed me the offending item. "Let's look again," I continued very calmly on the outside while the inside of me was screaming, "We've got to get that thing out of there! Our ER co-pay is a hundred bucks!"
This time I got a flashlight and illuminated the nasal cavern to try to catch a glimpse of rubber but there was still too much drippage. "Get a tissue and blow hard," I said. He blew for several minutes without much progress, so I sent him over to Mom since she is the one who is really good at saving money. "Try holding the other side closed," I suggested. And the blowing resumed.
"We're getting some movement!" Mom exclaimed.
"Yes!" I shouted. "If that snot comes out, it is worth its weight in gold. Keep blowing."
And the blowing continued. "I see it!" Mom shouted. "Get me some tweezers!"
"Where are they?" I asked.
"I don't know," she replied.
"Breathe through your mouth, Zach. Don't sniff it up," I yelled as I frantically dug through bathroom drawers and cabinets looking for tweezers. "I have needle nose pliers in the garage," I suggested.
"Too big," my wife replied. "He's got a little nose."
"I think I saw some tweezers in the trailer when we were camping last month," I said. "Breathe through your mouth!" I hollered once more as I sprinted out into the yard to retrieve the camping tweezers. Moments later I returned with the tweezers and handed them to my wife.
Zach's eyes instantly doubled in size and panic seized him upon seeing the shiny metallic object. "You can't put those in my nose," he stammered.
"Just hold still. You won't feel a thing," I said. Even so, the panic grew and the noise level increased. "I'll hold him, you dig the rubber band out," I said to my wife. With a very professional headlock and arm hold, poor little Zach was immobilized.
"I got it!" Mom shouted holding up the small blue band still pinched in the tweezers.
I breathed a sigh of relief and looked around the room for my daughter. It only took a moment to find her hiding behind the chair in the corner of the room, hands over her ears, eyes closed, and a very concerned look on her face. I'll bet neither of them will every try that activity again.
Corn on the Cob
Do you remember when you were a child and the very act of eating was fun? It had nothing to do with the particular food that was being consumed, but rather it had everything to do with the manner in which it was eaten. This must be a learned behavior that we teach our children from the time they first learn to chew. You've seen it with babies before. They refuse and refuse to open wide until the food suddenly travels to their mouths via a spoon that has magically morphed into an airplane that is ready to park in hangar. (As if a one-year-old even knows what a hangar is.) Once the food can fly, the child is ready to try anything.
As the child grows and learns to feed himself, he may try playing the same mental games with himself. My two daughters are clearly in this stage. I'm not sure how they got caught up in the corn on the cob fetish, but they did. They must have taken such a strong liking to the yellow veggie when they were young that they can now attack any food item from a corn perspective and enjoy it thoroughly.
I first noticed this the other day when we were out on a Daddy/Daughter day. Mommy was in need of some time without the girls and, since I happened to be the only other adult in the house at the time, I took the hint and offered to take them on a brief outing. After spending several minutes visiting our local herd of sheep and goats, we headed to the donut shop. It was there that the whole corn on the cob theory formulated in my mind. Maddie, the older of the two girls, was staring at the colorful donuts behind the glass. In my mind, I was willing her to choose the unglazed round donut. You know the one that I am talking about. It’s the one donut in the whole shop that has the lowest probability of making a mess all over a child's clothes. The absence of frosting, sprinkles, or sugar ensures that the only clean up necessary will be a quick brushing off of a few crumbs.
"Look at that pretty round one," I suggested. "It looks like a silly bald man." No response as she continued to peruse the rack.
Then her eyes lit up as she exclaimed, "Oooh! Look at that sugary one!"
"You mean the twisted one with all that messy sugar covering it?"
"Yeah. I like sugar," she replied with an unbeatable smile and a twinkle in her four-year-old eyes. How could I resist? So I placed an order for her sugary twisted mess and a plain, round donut for myself. As I took her donut out of the bag, I gave her several napkins to catch the sugar. This is where the corn theory comes in. With one hand on each end of the sugar twist, Maddie proceeded to nibble into the middle of the donut as if it were corn. She then twisted the donut slowly as she worked her way around, eating the top layer of the donut and leaving the "cob" behind.
"Maddie?" I asked. "What are you doing?"
"I'm eating all the sugar. Yummmmmm!" she said. And that was mostly true because she was indeed trying to eat all the sugar, but an equal amount had spread all over her face and clothes, just as I had expected. After observing her attack the donut like corn that day, I began to notice that this was not a one-time event. Nor was it limited to this particular daughter.
What else can be eaten like corn? I'll give you a quick list of some of the things I have seen my girls eat in this way. Use your imagination as you envision a young child attack these items as if they too had grown on a cob. If any of these things make you think of a mess, you must be a parent.
Tacos: First bite on the bottom, dead center.
Popsicle: Hold sideways and start in the middle
Tortillas: Roll it up, start in the middle. Unroll and peek through the hole.
Hamburger/Sandwich: Choose your point of entry and stick with it. Never eat anything to the left or right of that point of entry.
Ice Cream Cone: Turn sideways, skip the ice cream, and start with the flavorless, air-filled cone.
What else have you seen cobbified?
As the child grows and learns to feed himself, he may try playing the same mental games with himself. My two daughters are clearly in this stage. I'm not sure how they got caught up in the corn on the cob fetish, but they did. They must have taken such a strong liking to the yellow veggie when they were young that they can now attack any food item from a corn perspective and enjoy it thoroughly.
I first noticed this the other day when we were out on a Daddy/Daughter day. Mommy was in need of some time without the girls and, since I happened to be the only other adult in the house at the time, I took the hint and offered to take them on a brief outing. After spending several minutes visiting our local herd of sheep and goats, we headed to the donut shop. It was there that the whole corn on the cob theory formulated in my mind. Maddie, the older of the two girls, was staring at the colorful donuts behind the glass. In my mind, I was willing her to choose the unglazed round donut. You know the one that I am talking about. It’s the one donut in the whole shop that has the lowest probability of making a mess all over a child's clothes. The absence of frosting, sprinkles, or sugar ensures that the only clean up necessary will be a quick brushing off of a few crumbs.
"Look at that pretty round one," I suggested. "It looks like a silly bald man." No response as she continued to peruse the rack.
Then her eyes lit up as she exclaimed, "Oooh! Look at that sugary one!"
"You mean the twisted one with all that messy sugar covering it?"
"Yeah. I like sugar," she replied with an unbeatable smile and a twinkle in her four-year-old eyes. How could I resist? So I placed an order for her sugary twisted mess and a plain, round donut for myself. As I took her donut out of the bag, I gave her several napkins to catch the sugar. This is where the corn theory comes in. With one hand on each end of the sugar twist, Maddie proceeded to nibble into the middle of the donut as if it were corn. She then twisted the donut slowly as she worked her way around, eating the top layer of the donut and leaving the "cob" behind.
"Maddie?" I asked. "What are you doing?"
"I'm eating all the sugar. Yummmmmm!" she said. And that was mostly true because she was indeed trying to eat all the sugar, but an equal amount had spread all over her face and clothes, just as I had expected. After observing her attack the donut like corn that day, I began to notice that this was not a one-time event. Nor was it limited to this particular daughter.
What else can be eaten like corn? I'll give you a quick list of some of the things I have seen my girls eat in this way. Use your imagination as you envision a young child attack these items as if they too had grown on a cob. If any of these things make you think of a mess, you must be a parent.
Tacos: First bite on the bottom, dead center.
Popsicle: Hold sideways and start in the middle
Tortillas: Roll it up, start in the middle. Unroll and peek through the hole.
Hamburger/Sandwich: Choose your point of entry and stick with it. Never eat anything to the left or right of that point of entry.
Ice Cream Cone: Turn sideways, skip the ice cream, and start with the flavorless, air-filled cone.
What else have you seen cobbified?
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Play-Dough Injury
Most of the activities in which my young children participate are fairly innocent and don’t involve much risk of decapitation or other life-threatening injuries. Most of their activities do, however, involve some sort of mess. And it is those messes that bring a sense of danger into our otherwise safe home.
Of all the regularly occurring messes, the one I deal with the best is the Play-Dough mess. This mess is easy on me simply because we have banned it from inside the house and have set up a Play-Dough mess station in the backyard. My youngest daughter, who is almost two, is a certified Play-Dough fanatic. The other day she went outside to the Play-Dough mess station only to discover that she had left her stash uncovered the night before and it was all dried out. Without a moment’s hesitation, she toddled back into the house and tugged on mom’s pant leg before announcing, “Mommy! I need Pay-Dough.” Who could resist that? Moments later, mom was raiding the reserve Play-Dough stash and forking over a brand new doughy mess to our sweet little girl.
Play-Dough seems like an innocent enough activity to the casual observer, but don’t ever let the TSA find out that you have a pile of hot pink dough in your pocket. I learned this week that, given the right amount of sunlight, water, and grimy child hands, Play-Dough can indeed be used as a weapon.
How did I learn this, you ask? Well it all started just before dinner when I took my bare feet out in the yard to light the barbecue. As I stepped out on to the patio, I very astutely noticed that a sharp pain shot up my left leg when I applied my foot to the concrete. Quickly deducing that the pain was originating from the bottom of my foot, I eagerly lifted the offending foot from the ground only to discover a blue and pink swirled rock with a sharp, jagged point protruding from one side laying obnoxiously on the ground. “Rocks aren’t blue and pink,” I keenly said to myself. “This couldn’t possibly be a naturally occurring phenomenon.” Then I leaned in for a closer examination. “Ah-ha!” I announced to no one in particular. “That’s not a rock, that’s a dried clump of Play-Dough!” Fortunately, my reflexes had been quick enough to avoid any serious damage to my foot, but a sharp pain lingered for several minutes before subsiding.
During those moments of lingering pain, I decided to see what the treatment might be for a Play-Dough injury. Using my best sleuthing skills, I flipped open my trusty laptop and typed the words “Play-Dough Injury” into my Google search engine. Expecting to receive feedback from several trustworthy medical sites, I was surprised when the only hits I got were for making edible Play-Dough and tips for removing Play-Dough from a cloth chair. Since my foot was neither edible nor cloth, I decided to accept the pain and wait it out.
As the pain worked its way out of my system, I couldn’t help but smile, for a realization had just hit me. Moments before, I had used the world-wide resources of the Internet (powered by Google) to research the topic of Play-Dough injuries. Not one report of any such injury could be found. I was the first. I alone am the only person to report a real life Play-Dough injury on the Internet. Even as I type this, I can’t wait to post it and see if Google can find my report. Perhaps my experience will help someone else who has dealt with such an injury. Who knows where this could lead. Support groups? Seminars? Book deals? The options are endless. So, if you have a Play-Dough injury story that you would like to share, (or if you are a Hollywood agent) let’s chat.
Of all the regularly occurring messes, the one I deal with the best is the Play-Dough mess. This mess is easy on me simply because we have banned it from inside the house and have set up a Play-Dough mess station in the backyard. My youngest daughter, who is almost two, is a certified Play-Dough fanatic. The other day she went outside to the Play-Dough mess station only to discover that she had left her stash uncovered the night before and it was all dried out. Without a moment’s hesitation, she toddled back into the house and tugged on mom’s pant leg before announcing, “Mommy! I need Pay-Dough.” Who could resist that? Moments later, mom was raiding the reserve Play-Dough stash and forking over a brand new doughy mess to our sweet little girl.
Play-Dough seems like an innocent enough activity to the casual observer, but don’t ever let the TSA find out that you have a pile of hot pink dough in your pocket. I learned this week that, given the right amount of sunlight, water, and grimy child hands, Play-Dough can indeed be used as a weapon.
How did I learn this, you ask? Well it all started just before dinner when I took my bare feet out in the yard to light the barbecue. As I stepped out on to the patio, I very astutely noticed that a sharp pain shot up my left leg when I applied my foot to the concrete. Quickly deducing that the pain was originating from the bottom of my foot, I eagerly lifted the offending foot from the ground only to discover a blue and pink swirled rock with a sharp, jagged point protruding from one side laying obnoxiously on the ground. “Rocks aren’t blue and pink,” I keenly said to myself. “This couldn’t possibly be a naturally occurring phenomenon.” Then I leaned in for a closer examination. “Ah-ha!” I announced to no one in particular. “That’s not a rock, that’s a dried clump of Play-Dough!” Fortunately, my reflexes had been quick enough to avoid any serious damage to my foot, but a sharp pain lingered for several minutes before subsiding.
During those moments of lingering pain, I decided to see what the treatment might be for a Play-Dough injury. Using my best sleuthing skills, I flipped open my trusty laptop and typed the words “Play-Dough Injury” into my Google search engine. Expecting to receive feedback from several trustworthy medical sites, I was surprised when the only hits I got were for making edible Play-Dough and tips for removing Play-Dough from a cloth chair. Since my foot was neither edible nor cloth, I decided to accept the pain and wait it out.
As the pain worked its way out of my system, I couldn’t help but smile, for a realization had just hit me. Moments before, I had used the world-wide resources of the Internet (powered by Google) to research the topic of Play-Dough injuries. Not one report of any such injury could be found. I was the first. I alone am the only person to report a real life Play-Dough injury on the Internet. Even as I type this, I can’t wait to post it and see if Google can find my report. Perhaps my experience will help someone else who has dealt with such an injury. Who knows where this could lead. Support groups? Seminars? Book deals? The options are endless. So, if you have a Play-Dough injury story that you would like to share, (or if you are a Hollywood agent) let’s chat.
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