When you share a home with young children, there is really only one room in the house where you can truly find solitude. If you have any imagination at all, I am sure that you already know where that one room is, so there is no need for me to delve into any specific details. One day last week after a particularly hectic day at work, I came home and retreated to my place of solitude for a few minutes before facing the realities of fatherhood that awaited me on the other side of the door. Armed with a new magazine, I entered the room and settled in for a few moments of periodical perusal. As I flipped through several ads trying to find some interesting content, I heard the unmistakable sound of fear projecting from my daughter’s voice.
“Daddy!” she yelled from somewhere just beyond my door. “There’s something ugly on the floor!”
Trying to calm her down without losing my place, I asked, “What is it?” my voice just loud enough to slide along the tile floor and slip out from beneath the door. Hoping she wasn’t about to say anything about her younger sister and a diaper, I anxiously awaited her response.
“I think it’s a spider,” she said in a calmer, but still frightened voice. “Come and get it.” Let me be clear now. My day, up this point, had been filled with one crisis after another and I was the only one who had been able to deal with each of them. The last thing I wanted to do was to leave my place of solitude and my magazine to squish a harmless spider. There had to be some other way to tend to my daughter’s anguish while simultaneously protecting my sanity.
Thinking fast, I replied, “Zach! Go get a tissue and take care of the spider.” Zach is six and hates spiders as much as his sister. What was I thinking? There is no way the little guy was going to smash a spider with a tissue, even if it was Puffs Plus with aloe. He just doesn’t smash spiders. He runs from them and hides until I come and take care of the problem. Did I really think a six-year-old boy with arachnophobia would defend his sister from the villainous spider crawling across the floor?
“There aren’t any tissues left,” he replied. That figures. At least he didn’t freak out and run away. I began to consider my options. Realizing that it was my fatherly duty to attend to my daughter’s needs and confront the issue of the ugly spider head on, I summoned my courage. As I was preparing to return my new unread magazine to the rack, I was interrupted by the sound of cheering.
“What are you doing now?” I hollered back at the closed door.
“Zach got the spider!” she yelled.
“He did what?” I asked.
“Zach got the spider,” she replied.
“How?”
“There were no tissues left, so I got a napkin from the table and smashed it and then I threw it in Cami’s diaper trash can,” he replied, clearly proud of his accomplishment. Well, now I had to emerge from my hideout if only to congratulate my son on becoming a man. Not only had he warded off an intruder, but he had defended his sister with great dignity. A true rite of passage, indeed.
“I’m proud of you, Buddy,” I told him post flush as a chivalrous grin spread across his now manly face. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go shave.”
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Coke Man
Has someone at work ever annoyed you to point that you desperately wanted to get even, but you knew that if you did you would probably get fired? I think that happened at my work a few weeks ago. I say “I think” because the offended party only shows up about once a month, so it’s hard to get to know him. Actually, he is not even an employee. He’s more like a contractor who specializes in employee job satisfaction and when he gets mad, everyone gets mad.
In order to understand this story, I must stop for a moment and give you a brief overview of this contractor’s job description: Fill the Coke machine with drinks. It may seem like a simple task, but it is absolutely crucial to the ongoing work that takes place at a public school. Imagine what a teacher would be like without a shot of caffeine at 7:30 in the morning. Or what about the teacher who needs that Diet Coke in order to make it through the afternoon without a splitting headache? There are a lot of important machines in a school office. We all rely on the copy machine, the laminator, the fax machine, the die cut machine, and, of course, our computers, but none of these machines is nearly as important as the Coke machine. It is the lifeblood of the campus. Without it, innocent and guilty students would be unnecessarily placed in harm’s way.
Now you can see the power that is vested in the position of Coke Man. Coke Man has control over the fate of 800+ kindergarten through fifth grade students. Now you understand why I said that if the Coke Man is mad, everyone is mad. And the other day, it happened.
I am only speculating here, as I have not yet interviewed Coke Man, but I think my suspicions are correct. The day before Coke Man’s last visit, I noticed that there were two post-it notes on the front of the machine. Both notes indicated that the machine had somehow cheated the patrons out of some money. The notes were meant to be an indicator to Coke Man that he needed to submit the requested funds to the school secretary who would then reimburse the victimized parties.
Coke Man must have been at the wrong point of his male cycle that day, because he didn’t find any humor in the notes. “Those greedy, whiney teachers,” he must have mumbled to himself. “I’ll show them.” And he did just that. I am sure that the inside of the machine is very clearly marked so that Coke Man knows exactly which racks hold the Coke and which racks hold the Diet Coke, Dr. Pepper, Cherry Coke, and Water. This was a premeditated act of vandalism, because he knew exactly what he was doing. As he stared at the markings on the racks, a smile must have crept across his face. He then placed one can of Diet Coke in the Coke rack, just to be funny. Ooooh. It felt good, so he did it again, only this time placing a can of Dr. Pepper in the Cherry Coke slot. Like a weak man fighting an addiction, he was sucked into his game of deception and continued filling the machine with random cans until his laughter was bursting forth from his offended soul. “I am victorious!” he must have shouted as he closed and locked the door on the front of the machine. Before anyone had a chance to see what he had done, Coke Man slithered out of the office, returned to the safety of his truck, and sped away.
Oh, the chaos that ensued. Teachers were trading, begging, and bargaining with each other in order to get the drink that they so desperately needed. I knew the problem had to get fixed before someone turned the Coke machine into a slot machine and drained every last drop from it. “Call the Coke Man!” I shouted. “It’s an emergency!” And just like the well-oiled machine that he is, he promptly reported to the campus...at the end of the month to check his machine. Finding it free of notes from greedy, whiney teachers, he then refilled it, carefully placing each drink in the appropriate slot. Each drink, that is, except for maybe one or two.
In order to understand this story, I must stop for a moment and give you a brief overview of this contractor’s job description: Fill the Coke machine with drinks. It may seem like a simple task, but it is absolutely crucial to the ongoing work that takes place at a public school. Imagine what a teacher would be like without a shot of caffeine at 7:30 in the morning. Or what about the teacher who needs that Diet Coke in order to make it through the afternoon without a splitting headache? There are a lot of important machines in a school office. We all rely on the copy machine, the laminator, the fax machine, the die cut machine, and, of course, our computers, but none of these machines is nearly as important as the Coke machine. It is the lifeblood of the campus. Without it, innocent and guilty students would be unnecessarily placed in harm’s way.
Now you can see the power that is vested in the position of Coke Man. Coke Man has control over the fate of 800+ kindergarten through fifth grade students. Now you understand why I said that if the Coke Man is mad, everyone is mad. And the other day, it happened.
I am only speculating here, as I have not yet interviewed Coke Man, but I think my suspicions are correct. The day before Coke Man’s last visit, I noticed that there were two post-it notes on the front of the machine. Both notes indicated that the machine had somehow cheated the patrons out of some money. The notes were meant to be an indicator to Coke Man that he needed to submit the requested funds to the school secretary who would then reimburse the victimized parties.
Coke Man must have been at the wrong point of his male cycle that day, because he didn’t find any humor in the notes. “Those greedy, whiney teachers,” he must have mumbled to himself. “I’ll show them.” And he did just that. I am sure that the inside of the machine is very clearly marked so that Coke Man knows exactly which racks hold the Coke and which racks hold the Diet Coke, Dr. Pepper, Cherry Coke, and Water. This was a premeditated act of vandalism, because he knew exactly what he was doing. As he stared at the markings on the racks, a smile must have crept across his face. He then placed one can of Diet Coke in the Coke rack, just to be funny. Ooooh. It felt good, so he did it again, only this time placing a can of Dr. Pepper in the Cherry Coke slot. Like a weak man fighting an addiction, he was sucked into his game of deception and continued filling the machine with random cans until his laughter was bursting forth from his offended soul. “I am victorious!” he must have shouted as he closed and locked the door on the front of the machine. Before anyone had a chance to see what he had done, Coke Man slithered out of the office, returned to the safety of his truck, and sped away.
Oh, the chaos that ensued. Teachers were trading, begging, and bargaining with each other in order to get the drink that they so desperately needed. I knew the problem had to get fixed before someone turned the Coke machine into a slot machine and drained every last drop from it. “Call the Coke Man!” I shouted. “It’s an emergency!” And just like the well-oiled machine that he is, he promptly reported to the campus...at the end of the month to check his machine. Finding it free of notes from greedy, whiney teachers, he then refilled it, carefully placing each drink in the appropriate slot. Each drink, that is, except for maybe one or two.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Customer Service
This is a story from my archives, but it has not yet made it online. Some of you may have already read it, but, hey, it's good enough to read twice.
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Customer service. Depending on your experiences of the last 24 hours, those two words can bring to mind fond thoughts or irrational impulses. Perhaps you thought of the helpful gal who showed you where to find hemorrhoids ointment at the drug store when you were in dire need, or maybe you were reminded of the tech support provider who answered the phone in India to help you with a problem in America. Perhaps the words “Customer Service” remind you of the brilliant kid at the drive thru who refused to accept a five dollar bill and a quarter when your total came to $4.25 because he couldn’t figure out what your change should be. We all have stories of good customer service and bad customer service.
One day when I was in college and working as a professional gopher at an office building, I was given the job of taking about 25 boxes to the post office to be mailed. They were pre-stamped and just needed to be dropped off. As I pulled into the parking lot, I saw a postal employee walking past. I decided to ask him if there was a place where I could drop off the whole load since the boxes wouldn’t fit inside the convenient blue mailbox where all pre-stamped mail should be put. His response was simple, “Hey, I’m off the clock right now,” and he kept on walking. I later found out that all this guy had to do was point to the loading dock behind him and say, “Put them there.”
Today I had another bad customer service day. I was at a popular office supply store and needed to have some photocopies made. (To be fair, the name of the store had nothing to do with any tools used for attaching two sheets of paper together.) The order wasn’t huge, but it had a few minor complexities. I began explaining it to the clerk who then cut me off mid-sentence to tell me that she couldn’t write down my order right now because it was time for her dinner break. A brief glance around my immediate surroundings revealed that she and I were all alone in the photocopy section. There were no other customers piling up in line behind me and no pre-stamped boxes waiting to be taken to the post office. I guess she was just hungry. I hope she went to the drive thru and encountered a mathematically challenge juvenile who spits on burgers.
Somewhat shocked, I left and went down the street to the other store and explained my situation to a very helpful lady. Even though she was not the one who would actually print my job, (that person was at dinner, no doubt enjoying stellar service from a local establishment) she took copious notes and made sure the instructions were clear.
If you had asked me yesterday which office supply store I liked best, I would have given you an ambivalent, “I don’t know.” If you ask me tomorrow which store I like, I will tell you that I prefer stores with names that rhyme with words like “maples.” (The names in this story have been changed to protect the innocent, but if you think hard, you just might figure it out.)
It’s amazing how one brief encounter with an employee can taint your image of a business just like that. Fortunately we live in a country full of choices. That’s the beauty of a free market system. If I don’t like something I can go somewhere else. Oh, that reminds me, you can go somewhere else too if you don’t like what you read in the online so let me conclude by saying with a genuine smile on my face, “Thank you for reading with us today. Come back again soon!”
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Customer service. Depending on your experiences of the last 24 hours, those two words can bring to mind fond thoughts or irrational impulses. Perhaps you thought of the helpful gal who showed you where to find hemorrhoids ointment at the drug store when you were in dire need, or maybe you were reminded of the tech support provider who answered the phone in India to help you with a problem in America. Perhaps the words “Customer Service” remind you of the brilliant kid at the drive thru who refused to accept a five dollar bill and a quarter when your total came to $4.25 because he couldn’t figure out what your change should be. We all have stories of good customer service and bad customer service.
One day when I was in college and working as a professional gopher at an office building, I was given the job of taking about 25 boxes to the post office to be mailed. They were pre-stamped and just needed to be dropped off. As I pulled into the parking lot, I saw a postal employee walking past. I decided to ask him if there was a place where I could drop off the whole load since the boxes wouldn’t fit inside the convenient blue mailbox where all pre-stamped mail should be put. His response was simple, “Hey, I’m off the clock right now,” and he kept on walking. I later found out that all this guy had to do was point to the loading dock behind him and say, “Put them there.”
Today I had another bad customer service day. I was at a popular office supply store and needed to have some photocopies made. (To be fair, the name of the store had nothing to do with any tools used for attaching two sheets of paper together.) The order wasn’t huge, but it had a few minor complexities. I began explaining it to the clerk who then cut me off mid-sentence to tell me that she couldn’t write down my order right now because it was time for her dinner break. A brief glance around my immediate surroundings revealed that she and I were all alone in the photocopy section. There were no other customers piling up in line behind me and no pre-stamped boxes waiting to be taken to the post office. I guess she was just hungry. I hope she went to the drive thru and encountered a mathematically challenge juvenile who spits on burgers.
Somewhat shocked, I left and went down the street to the other store and explained my situation to a very helpful lady. Even though she was not the one who would actually print my job, (that person was at dinner, no doubt enjoying stellar service from a local establishment) she took copious notes and made sure the instructions were clear.
If you had asked me yesterday which office supply store I liked best, I would have given you an ambivalent, “I don’t know.” If you ask me tomorrow which store I like, I will tell you that I prefer stores with names that rhyme with words like “maples.” (The names in this story have been changed to protect the innocent, but if you think hard, you just might figure it out.)
It’s amazing how one brief encounter with an employee can taint your image of a business just like that. Fortunately we live in a country full of choices. That’s the beauty of a free market system. If I don’t like something I can go somewhere else. Oh, that reminds me, you can go somewhere else too if you don’t like what you read in the online so let me conclude by saying with a genuine smile on my face, “Thank you for reading with us today. Come back again soon!”
Sidewalk Chalk
There are some things in life that are fun, but messy. Take homemade chocolate chip cookies, for example. The reward is worth the mess, especially if they are eaten while they are still warm and have ice cream on top. Or what about camping? I have yet to meet anyone who can actually live in a tent for a week without getting dirty. Oh, wait. Yes I have, but my sister in her white camping dresses is more of an exception than the rule. Then there’s childbirth. The messy part is universally agreed upon, but the fun part may be debated between the sexes. Either way, the result is always worth it.
Now let’s move into the world of a toddler. When a child lives in the sub three-year-old realm, the level of fun is exponentially increased as the level of mess rises. Think finger paints. Or Play Dough. Or, my favorite, sidewalk chalk. There is a reason it is called sidewalk chalk. That reason is quite simple: it was designed for use on sidewalks. The dictionary defines a sidewalk as a paved path for pedestrians at the side of the road. Where in that definition does it suggest that sidewalk chalk should be used anywhere near a back patio? There’s no road in my backyard, so I can’t figure out how the sidewalk chalk keeps ending up there.
Then, one day, I found the answer to my perplexing dilemma. Without warning, I came home from work early and found my two beautiful little daughters meandering about the patio with their sidewalk chalk. The task which they had created for themselves on this bright spring day was to change the color of the bricks that bordered the patio from a natural rusty hue to the brightest shade of hot pink that Crayola has yet to manufacture.
“We made the bricks pink, Daddy!” my four-year-old daughter, Maddie, announced as she saw me peering at them through the window.
“Thank you,” was about all I could muster while trying to maintain a fatherly enthusiasm that wouldn’t quash their creative spirit. My nineteen-month-old daughter was just as guilty with a stick of fuschia in her right hand and a hot pink grin plastered across her face. I turned my head from the horrific scene, unable to take it in any longer.
“Da-da.” The innocent call came from the other side of the screen door. I turned to see Little Miss Fuschia Hands, calling my name. My eyes met her just in time to see the chalk making its way across the screen.
“Great. Now I have a pink patio and a pink screen door,” I thought to myself. “Cami, no coloring on the screen,” I said with the fakest sweetness and sincerity that I could muster. Under most circumstances I would have been thrilled that she actually obeyed me, but this day was different. Moments later I heard a sound that was unmistakable. It was a grinding sound; kind of like when you take a piece of sidewalk chalk and color on the side of a stucco house. A quick peek outside confirmed my suspicions. The house was now well on its way to becoming pinkified. Oh well. At least it’s washable.
Fortunately for me, the sun did eventually set and the pinkification of the house and yard came to an end - temporarily. The following Sunday my sister came over for a visit. When Aunt Bekah comes over, it is a big deal because she lives on the Carribean island of Hispaniola in the country of the Domincan Republic. She’s there for a couple of years and we are taking care of her furry, but lovable sheltie, Halo, until she comes back. Moments before she was to arrive, I turned to my older daughter and said, “Why don’t you go brush Halo so that she looks pretty when Aunt Bekah gets here?” Eager to please, Maddie rushed to the garage, got the dog brush, and started brushing away. Eager to please, little sister Cami also grabbed the first thing she saw and started helping. “Why, oh, why did they not put the sidewalk chalk away the other night when they came inside?” I moaned to myself. By the time I intervened, the damage was done. Where the white stripe across the top of Halo’s head and down her back had once been, a hot pink blend of chalk and fur now remained. Then the doorbell rang.
“Might as well let her see the reality in which her dog lives,” I said to myself as I made my way to the door.
Now let’s move into the world of a toddler. When a child lives in the sub three-year-old realm, the level of fun is exponentially increased as the level of mess rises. Think finger paints. Or Play Dough. Or, my favorite, sidewalk chalk. There is a reason it is called sidewalk chalk. That reason is quite simple: it was designed for use on sidewalks. The dictionary defines a sidewalk as a paved path for pedestrians at the side of the road. Where in that definition does it suggest that sidewalk chalk should be used anywhere near a back patio? There’s no road in my backyard, so I can’t figure out how the sidewalk chalk keeps ending up there.
Then, one day, I found the answer to my perplexing dilemma. Without warning, I came home from work early and found my two beautiful little daughters meandering about the patio with their sidewalk chalk. The task which they had created for themselves on this bright spring day was to change the color of the bricks that bordered the patio from a natural rusty hue to the brightest shade of hot pink that Crayola has yet to manufacture.
“We made the bricks pink, Daddy!” my four-year-old daughter, Maddie, announced as she saw me peering at them through the window.
“Thank you,” was about all I could muster while trying to maintain a fatherly enthusiasm that wouldn’t quash their creative spirit. My nineteen-month-old daughter was just as guilty with a stick of fuschia in her right hand and a hot pink grin plastered across her face. I turned my head from the horrific scene, unable to take it in any longer.
“Da-da.” The innocent call came from the other side of the screen door. I turned to see Little Miss Fuschia Hands, calling my name. My eyes met her just in time to see the chalk making its way across the screen.
“Great. Now I have a pink patio and a pink screen door,” I thought to myself. “Cami, no coloring on the screen,” I said with the fakest sweetness and sincerity that I could muster. Under most circumstances I would have been thrilled that she actually obeyed me, but this day was different. Moments later I heard a sound that was unmistakable. It was a grinding sound; kind of like when you take a piece of sidewalk chalk and color on the side of a stucco house. A quick peek outside confirmed my suspicions. The house was now well on its way to becoming pinkified. Oh well. At least it’s washable.
Fortunately for me, the sun did eventually set and the pinkification of the house and yard came to an end - temporarily. The following Sunday my sister came over for a visit. When Aunt Bekah comes over, it is a big deal because she lives on the Carribean island of Hispaniola in the country of the Domincan Republic. She’s there for a couple of years and we are taking care of her furry, but lovable sheltie, Halo, until she comes back. Moments before she was to arrive, I turned to my older daughter and said, “Why don’t you go brush Halo so that she looks pretty when Aunt Bekah gets here?” Eager to please, Maddie rushed to the garage, got the dog brush, and started brushing away. Eager to please, little sister Cami also grabbed the first thing she saw and started helping. “Why, oh, why did they not put the sidewalk chalk away the other night when they came inside?” I moaned to myself. By the time I intervened, the damage was done. Where the white stripe across the top of Halo’s head and down her back had once been, a hot pink blend of chalk and fur now remained. Then the doorbell rang.
“Might as well let her see the reality in which her dog lives,” I said to myself as I made my way to the door.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Cheap Toys
My son turned six last week. The fact that this event occurred with my sanity still in check is quite an accomplishment for me as a parent, but it's not really worth writing about in and of itself. In order for an event like a sixth birthday to become newsworthy, someone has to do something stupid, silly, strange, or brilliant. Last week, I think I witnessed one event that fits into all four of those categories. (And as I was watching it, I promised to write about it, so here's to keeping my word!)
It all started a few days after my son's birthday. My sister had gotten him a set of little plastic helicopters that fly into the air when a string is pulled on the launching pad. We had just finished dinner when we heard Zach come around the corner with his new toy in hand and say, "Grandpa, watch this!" He then gave the string a quick tug and the helicopter zipped up into the air. "Now you try it," he suggested.
So Grandpa took hold of the toy and gave the string a tug. You might think because I used the word "Grandpa" to describe my wife's father that I am trying to indicate that he is old and frail. Although he is recently retired and has to watch his weight for the first time in his life, he must still have some pep in the old arms because that poor string didn't stand a chance against his mighty tug. As he pulled, the helicopter took to the air and the busted string zipped back inside the safety of the launchpad and out of sight. Not to worry. Grandpa quickly offered to take the toy home and return it to its former glory.
That was part one of the story. Fast forward with me a couple more days. It is now my nephew's birthday party. Jack eagerly opened his presents and was thrilled to find a little plastic helicopter set with a launching pad. As Grandpa looked it over, I could tell he was reminiscing about the inner workings of the toy and trying to recall all of the tricks he had applied during the first repair. Then I noticed something that no one else caught. While all eyes were on the flying helicopter, he glanced down at his right arm and smiled as he tightened his fist and flexed his grandfatherly muscles. "Yeah, I still have it," he must have been muttering to himself.
Just as the folks in China had planned, the newest helicopter toy was broken within an hour. At this point, Grandpa Muscles had yet to reveal to Jack or anyone else that, because of his past experience, he was actually a certified plastic helicopter repair engineer. Since Jack's other grandpa was also at the party, Grandpa Muscles decided, that in the spirit of fairness, he would let the other old guy have a go at it first. Other Grandpa gave the toy a good look for a few minutes before deciding that he was going to have to open it up. While he was waiting for some tools to arrive, Grandpa Muscles started imparting his knowledge to Other Grandpa. Soon Jack's dad returned with a set of small screwdrivers. Within just a few minutes, all three men were peering over the open carcass of the dead toy.
"I think it needs a farkenwalter on the spindlebob," Other Grandpa said.
"That might work, but did you consider winding the toodlehop first?" Jack's dad suggested.
"I've done this before," Grandpa Muscles announced. "Can't you tell that the hooptiwhatzit is disconnected from the drooner?"
"Ahhh, you have a point there," the other certified plastic helicopter repair engineer trainees replied in unison. Together the three men twisted, turned and pried the various plastic components into a plethora of arrangements. After a few minutes one of them pulled the string and everything was suddenly back to normal working condition.
"What did you do?" Grandpa Muscles asked.
"I didn't do anything to that part," Other Grandpa replied.
"Neither did I," Jack's dad said. "It must have fixed itself."
As I sat in the living room silently observing the process, I thought to myself, there has to be a joke about this; something like, "How many old dudes does it take to fix a little dude's toy?"
Apparently the answer is three, but it's not a joke.
It all started a few days after my son's birthday. My sister had gotten him a set of little plastic helicopters that fly into the air when a string is pulled on the launching pad. We had just finished dinner when we heard Zach come around the corner with his new toy in hand and say, "Grandpa, watch this!" He then gave the string a quick tug and the helicopter zipped up into the air. "Now you try it," he suggested.
So Grandpa took hold of the toy and gave the string a tug. You might think because I used the word "Grandpa" to describe my wife's father that I am trying to indicate that he is old and frail. Although he is recently retired and has to watch his weight for the first time in his life, he must still have some pep in the old arms because that poor string didn't stand a chance against his mighty tug. As he pulled, the helicopter took to the air and the busted string zipped back inside the safety of the launchpad and out of sight. Not to worry. Grandpa quickly offered to take the toy home and return it to its former glory.
That was part one of the story. Fast forward with me a couple more days. It is now my nephew's birthday party. Jack eagerly opened his presents and was thrilled to find a little plastic helicopter set with a launching pad. As Grandpa looked it over, I could tell he was reminiscing about the inner workings of the toy and trying to recall all of the tricks he had applied during the first repair. Then I noticed something that no one else caught. While all eyes were on the flying helicopter, he glanced down at his right arm and smiled as he tightened his fist and flexed his grandfatherly muscles. "Yeah, I still have it," he must have been muttering to himself.
Just as the folks in China had planned, the newest helicopter toy was broken within an hour. At this point, Grandpa Muscles had yet to reveal to Jack or anyone else that, because of his past experience, he was actually a certified plastic helicopter repair engineer. Since Jack's other grandpa was also at the party, Grandpa Muscles decided, that in the spirit of fairness, he would let the other old guy have a go at it first. Other Grandpa gave the toy a good look for a few minutes before deciding that he was going to have to open it up. While he was waiting for some tools to arrive, Grandpa Muscles started imparting his knowledge to Other Grandpa. Soon Jack's dad returned with a set of small screwdrivers. Within just a few minutes, all three men were peering over the open carcass of the dead toy.
"I think it needs a farkenwalter on the spindlebob," Other Grandpa said.
"That might work, but did you consider winding the toodlehop first?" Jack's dad suggested.
"I've done this before," Grandpa Muscles announced. "Can't you tell that the hooptiwhatzit is disconnected from the drooner?"
"Ahhh, you have a point there," the other certified plastic helicopter repair engineer trainees replied in unison. Together the three men twisted, turned and pried the various plastic components into a plethora of arrangements. After a few minutes one of them pulled the string and everything was suddenly back to normal working condition.
"What did you do?" Grandpa Muscles asked.
"I didn't do anything to that part," Other Grandpa replied.
"Neither did I," Jack's dad said. "It must have fixed itself."
As I sat in the living room silently observing the process, I thought to myself, there has to be a joke about this; something like, "How many old dudes does it take to fix a little dude's toy?"
Apparently the answer is three, but it's not a joke.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Annual Tradition
For the better part of the last decade we have had an annual tradition in our house. I can’t say it’s an event that I look forward to with great anticipation, although it does have a remarkable payoff. My trepidation is mostly because our annual tradition consists of a project that gets more and more difficult to complete each time.
What is this project and why does it get harder each year? Let me give you some hints. Those of you with only one child will think you understand. After reading about my tradition, those of you with two kids will mumble something along the lines of, “I feel your pain.” Those of you with three or more kids will shout, “Amen! Preach it, brother!” To which I will reply, “Did someone say something about another brother?”
Those of you in tune with your parental instincts have quickly deduced that this is more of a sippy cup story than a steak story. If you are among this crowd, I commend you for your valuable intuition pertaining to the obvious, for the tradition of which I speak is that of the annual wardrobe swap. It all started very gradually about seven years ago when my wife was pregnant with our first child. Since she had never yet experienced the joys of the maternity fashion ensemble, her wardrobe gradually changed over from the size zero shirts and pants that she once wore to the longer shirts and more spacious pants with the soft belly pocket. By the end of that pregnancy, in addition to a healthy baby boy, she also had quite a collection of maternity wear.
A month or so after our son was born, the tradition reversed. It was now time to put all the maternity clothes into a box and stash them away in the attic and return the size zero clothes to their rightful place in the closet. Oh, wait. I forgot. Nobody is ever a size zero again after giving birth to a child. No big deal. We’ll just go shopping first and get some clothes that fit, then restock the closet. And good thing we did because with her new wardrobe, she looked better than ever, even if she was now a size two.
By the time the second pregnancy came around a year or so later, the drill was established. Dad climbs up in the attic and retrieves a single box of maternity clothes while Mom pilfers a few extras shirts and pants from friends who have since had their first child. Even though Mom is a bit tired from the pregnancy, she manages to complete the wardrobe swap while dad watches the kid and keeps him out of her neatly arranged box. Simple enough. Hence my earlier comment about parents with only one child.
Nine months later, baby number two is born. Six weeks after that we do the swap once more. Mom packs up two boxes of maternity clothes, Dad stores them in the attic while mom restocks her closet with the size two wardrobe (and maybe a couple of size fours, just in case). Then along comes baby number three, only this time when Dad puts the maternity clothes away, there are thee big plastic tubs, two cardboard boxes and a partridge in a pear tree.
And that, my friends, brings us to today and baby number four. This morning I woke up to find another plastic tub of maternity clothes in our bedroom courtesy of my equally fertile sister. I looked at the tub and knew that we would have one goal for the day: complete the swap and put all the regular clothes up in the attic while making sure that the other three kids were well cared for, fed, and rested when necessary.
The day began with my wife making a quick trip to Wal-Mart to buy some new plastic tubs in which to store her slimmer fitting clothes. Thinking I could share some bonding time with my son, I called out to him. “Hey, Buddy! Do you want to go up in the attic with me?” Of course he thought that was a great idea, so I continued. “Go get your shoes on.”
“Dad, I can’t put my shoes on with my pajamas,” he replied.
No big deal, I thought. “Okay, then go get dressed, then put your shoes on,” I suggested.
“Dad, I can’t get dressed until I take a shower.”
Oh, yeah. A shower. Don’t want to forget that. So off he goes to the shower. Might as well bathe the girls too while Mom is at Wal-Mart. A half hour later, Mom was home and all three kids were clean, although their stages of dress ranged from naked to complete, with one somewhere in the middle.
After a quick repair to the light and a short lesson on electricity, Zach and I climbed up to the attic. As I stood on the ladder, my son ran around locating every box with the word “Maternity” written on the side. He handed me the boxes, tubs, moving vans, and everything else that contained pregnancy garb. Once they were all located, I started carrying them down. After dropping a box off on the ground, I again climbed the ladder only to be met by a six year old jumping into my arms as soon as my head poked up into his view. “I have to go pee!” he shouted as I caught him mid-air. After a short lecture on the dangers of BASE jumping from the attic, I lowered him to the floor and finished the job alone.
Let’s fast forward to 8:00 that same night so as not to bore you with the mundane details of trying to accomplish a single task in one day with three young children and a pregnant wife in the house. The slimmer line of clothes is now packed away in the new tubs, the closet is bare, and the bedroom is covered with various piles of maternity ensembles that need to be put away. Upon seeing this, my wife and I work like mad to get everything folded or hung and the room clean enough to sleep in. To a neat freak like myself, clean enough to sleep in means perfect. Once the room met my standard of cleanliness I carried all the boxes to the garage so I could return them to the attic in the morning. As I was coming back into the house, one small box caught my eye. “Honey, did you see this box?” I asked.
As luck would have it, she hadn’t noticed the little box so I opened it and found another wardrobe contained within its four walls. I laid the clothes on the bed and went to brush my teeth while my wife began to put them away. With fresh breath and sparkly teeth, I returned to the bedroom expecting to see the perfection which I had previously attained, only to find my lovely wife tucked into bed and a pile of clothes spread out on the chest at the end of the bed. “Weren’t you going to put these away?” I asked.
“I’ll get them tomorrow. I’m too tired,” she replied.
“That’s okay, I’ll take care of them,” I offered.
“No just leave them and turn off the light. I’m tired,” she said again.
I looked at the pile of clothes, kissed my wife, and turned off the light. Then I looked again. I could still see them, even in the dark. I can’t sleep like this. Might as well get up and write about it, I thought to myself. So I did.
Those of you in tune with your parental instincts have quickly deduced that this is more of a sippy cup story than a steak story. If you are among this crowd, I commend you for your valuable intuition pertaining to the obvious, for the tradition of which I speak is that of the annual wardrobe swap. It all started very gradually about seven years ago when my wife was pregnant with our first child. Since she had never yet experienced the joys of the maternity fashion ensemble, her wardrobe gradually changed over from the size zero shirts and pants that she once wore to the longer shirts and more spacious pants with the soft belly pocket. By the end of that pregnancy, in addition to a healthy baby boy, she also had quite a collection of maternity wear.
A month or so after our son was born, the tradition reversed. It was now time to put all the maternity clothes into a box and stash them away in the attic and return the size zero clothes to their rightful place in the closet. Oh, wait. I forgot. Nobody is ever a size zero again after giving birth to a child. No big deal. We’ll just go shopping first and get some clothes that fit, then restock the closet. And good thing we did because with her new wardrobe, she looked better than ever, even if she was now a size two.
By the time the second pregnancy came around a year or so later, the drill was established. Dad climbs up in the attic and retrieves a single box of maternity clothes while Mom pilfers a few extras shirts and pants from friends who have since had their first child. Even though Mom is a bit tired from the pregnancy, she manages to complete the wardrobe swap while dad watches the kid and keeps him out of her neatly arranged box. Simple enough. Hence my earlier comment about parents with only one child.
Nine months later, baby number two is born. Six weeks after that we do the swap once more. Mom packs up two boxes of maternity clothes, Dad stores them in the attic while mom restocks her closet with the size two wardrobe (and maybe a couple of size fours, just in case). Then along comes baby number three, only this time when Dad puts the maternity clothes away, there are thee big plastic tubs, two cardboard boxes and a partridge in a pear tree.
And that, my friends, brings us to today and baby number four. This morning I woke up to find another plastic tub of maternity clothes in our bedroom courtesy of my equally fertile sister. I looked at the tub and knew that we would have one goal for the day: complete the swap and put all the regular clothes up in the attic while making sure that the other three kids were well cared for, fed, and rested when necessary.
The day began with my wife making a quick trip to Wal-Mart to buy some new plastic tubs in which to store her slimmer fitting clothes. Thinking I could share some bonding time with my son, I called out to him. “Hey, Buddy! Do you want to go up in the attic with me?” Of course he thought that was a great idea, so I continued. “Go get your shoes on.”
“Dad, I can’t put my shoes on with my pajamas,” he replied.
No big deal, I thought. “Okay, then go get dressed, then put your shoes on,” I suggested.
“Dad, I can’t get dressed until I take a shower.”
Oh, yeah. A shower. Don’t want to forget that. So off he goes to the shower. Might as well bathe the girls too while Mom is at Wal-Mart. A half hour later, Mom was home and all three kids were clean, although their stages of dress ranged from naked to complete, with one somewhere in the middle.
After a quick repair to the light and a short lesson on electricity, Zach and I climbed up to the attic. As I stood on the ladder, my son ran around locating every box with the word “Maternity” written on the side. He handed me the boxes, tubs, moving vans, and everything else that contained pregnancy garb. Once they were all located, I started carrying them down. After dropping a box off on the ground, I again climbed the ladder only to be met by a six year old jumping into my arms as soon as my head poked up into his view. “I have to go pee!” he shouted as I caught him mid-air. After a short lecture on the dangers of BASE jumping from the attic, I lowered him to the floor and finished the job alone.
Let’s fast forward to 8:00 that same night so as not to bore you with the mundane details of trying to accomplish a single task in one day with three young children and a pregnant wife in the house. The slimmer line of clothes is now packed away in the new tubs, the closet is bare, and the bedroom is covered with various piles of maternity ensembles that need to be put away. Upon seeing this, my wife and I work like mad to get everything folded or hung and the room clean enough to sleep in. To a neat freak like myself, clean enough to sleep in means perfect. Once the room met my standard of cleanliness I carried all the boxes to the garage so I could return them to the attic in the morning. As I was coming back into the house, one small box caught my eye. “Honey, did you see this box?” I asked.
As luck would have it, she hadn’t noticed the little box so I opened it and found another wardrobe contained within its four walls. I laid the clothes on the bed and went to brush my teeth while my wife began to put them away. With fresh breath and sparkly teeth, I returned to the bedroom expecting to see the perfection which I had previously attained, only to find my lovely wife tucked into bed and a pile of clothes spread out on the chest at the end of the bed. “Weren’t you going to put these away?” I asked.
“I’ll get them tomorrow. I’m too tired,” she replied.
“That’s okay, I’ll take care of them,” I offered.
“No just leave them and turn off the light. I’m tired,” she said again.
I looked at the pile of clothes, kissed my wife, and turned off the light. Then I looked again. I could still see them, even in the dark. I can’t sleep like this. Might as well get up and write about it, I thought to myself. So I did.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Four!
According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the average American couple has 1.9 children. Whenever a first-time mom announces the news of her pending arrival to her family and friends, she gets overwhelmed with words of encouragement and advice. Once the baby is born, she and dad are again overwhelmed, only this time it is not by words, but by work. The amount of work involved in caring for a new addition to the family is almost more than they can bear. After a year or two, the young couple starts to realize that they can indeed handle the job of parenthood, so they decide to move a tenth of a child past the national average. With baby number two tucked neatly in the back seat of the new mini van, the family is close enough to average to feel complete.
Some parents, such as my wife and me, are especially fortunate in the eyes of the average American because our firstborn is boy and our second is a girl. “Now you have a boy and a girl. What a perfect family!” I must have heard this a thousand times in the weeks following the birth of my daughter. When I wasn’t laughing at words like ‘miconium’ and ‘areola’ during childbirth class, I was paying attention to the rules of the game. Is there some unwritten rule that I missed? Are we in China? Who says we have to stop just because we have one of each? “We’ll show them,” I said to my wife.
A year and a half later we announced that number three was on its way. By now the advice and encouragement was gone. Instead we heard things like, “Now you’re outnumbered!” Thanks for the input. If only we had learned to count to three before we conceived, we might have thought twice (because, apparently, twice is as high as our friends thought we could count). Occasionally we would run across a family with more than three kids and hear words like, “Number three is always the hardest,” or “If you can handle three, you can handle ten!” No, you can handle ten.
Now here we are a year and a half later and baby number four is on its way. Most people we talk to now have no idea what to say because they are still trying to decide what to do with baby number 1.9. Since my wife is still early in the pregnancy, and is hardly showing, most people assume we are done. They may see us out in public and say something like, “Wow, you really have your hands full.” I love to add to their awe and amazement by saying, “Yeah, and number four is in there,” as I point to my wife’s belly. The inevitable response is never far behind the look of severe perplexity that crosses their faces, “On purpose?”
Sarcasm again bursts forth. “Nope, I accidentally…” then I catch myself and decide to keep the conversation appropriate. “What’s wrong with four kids?” I ask. The response varies at this point as most people try to recover from the sheer shock of someone conceiving a fourth child on purpose. Most commonly, though, someone eventually asks if we came from large families ourselves. In their minds,I suppose, large families are a genetic defect that is passed on from generation to generation. “Yes, it runs in my family on the X-chromosome,” I reply. “She’s just a carrier,” I add glancing at my wife.
The truth behind the sarcasm, however, is this: Each and every kid we have brings a new kind of joy into our lives. Why wouldn’t we want one more?
Some parents, such as my wife and me, are especially fortunate in the eyes of the average American because our firstborn is boy and our second is a girl. “Now you have a boy and a girl. What a perfect family!” I must have heard this a thousand times in the weeks following the birth of my daughter. When I wasn’t laughing at words like ‘miconium’ and ‘areola’ during childbirth class, I was paying attention to the rules of the game. Is there some unwritten rule that I missed? Are we in China? Who says we have to stop just because we have one of each? “We’ll show them,” I said to my wife.
A year and a half later we announced that number three was on its way. By now the advice and encouragement was gone. Instead we heard things like, “Now you’re outnumbered!” Thanks for the input. If only we had learned to count to three before we conceived, we might have thought twice (because, apparently, twice is as high as our friends thought we could count). Occasionally we would run across a family with more than three kids and hear words like, “Number three is always the hardest,” or “If you can handle three, you can handle ten!” No, you can handle ten.
Now here we are a year and a half later and baby number four is on its way. Most people we talk to now have no idea what to say because they are still trying to decide what to do with baby number 1.9. Since my wife is still early in the pregnancy, and is hardly showing, most people assume we are done. They may see us out in public and say something like, “Wow, you really have your hands full.” I love to add to their awe and amazement by saying, “Yeah, and number four is in there,” as I point to my wife’s belly. The inevitable response is never far behind the look of severe perplexity that crosses their faces, “On purpose?”
Sarcasm again bursts forth. “Nope, I accidentally…” then I catch myself and decide to keep the conversation appropriate. “What’s wrong with four kids?” I ask. The response varies at this point as most people try to recover from the sheer shock of someone conceiving a fourth child on purpose. Most commonly, though, someone eventually asks if we came from large families ourselves. In their minds,I suppose, large families are a genetic defect that is passed on from generation to generation. “Yes, it runs in my family on the X-chromosome,” I reply. “She’s just a carrier,” I add glancing at my wife.
The truth behind the sarcasm, however, is this: Each and every kid we have brings a new kind of joy into our lives. Why wouldn’t we want one more?
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