Last week we got a babysitter and my wife and I went to a little get together at another couple’s home with a bunch of friends. So everyone there was married and almost all of them had kids.
How we all got out of our houses without those kids is a small miracle. We probably had half the babysitters in town tied up that night. We played a few party games and ate several different kinds of spinach dip. Apparently spinach dip in a bowl made of bread is the new thing to bring to parties.
After the games were over and everyone was full of bread and spinach dip the host mentioned that he had a Ping-Pong table in the garage. This announcement of course was met with the idea of actually playing some Ping-Pong in the garage. So before you could say “Lame game” all us guys were in the garage around the Ping-Pong table.
I hate Ping-Pong. Ping-Pong to me ranks below foosball, which I will actually play once in a while. And I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I am terrible at it. My hand-eye coordination is a joke.
If you want a good table game then give me air hockey any day. Of course, my favorite table game in the whole wide world is pool. Trying to play a tennis game that was built for Barbie does not even compare to the ultimate greatness of shooting those solids and stripes across that felt covered slate.
I can’t even play pool well. In fact I am a terrible pool player. But I love it so much that I hope to one day own a Ping-Pong table so my kids will play on it while I play pool in another room.
I guess Ping-Pong is a good family game while pool lends itself to seedy joints that you don’t want to see your kids in. You never hear of a motorcycle gang fight in a Ping-Pong hall. And while it might give you a good spank, nobody really considers a Ping-Pong paddle a potential weapon.
So I stood around in the garage for a few minutes while the other men sorted out the game. Just as the nauseating sound of the little white ball started filling the room I dodged back into the house to escape the torture. When I made it to the front room full of talking women I realized that I had not escaped after all.
This is where that whole “Out of the frying pan, into the fire” thing comes in. I had forgotten about The Story. I have been married for sixteen years now and learned about The Story early on in the adventure. I don’t know how I forgot about The Story, I was probably distracted from all that Ping-Pong, but as soon as I walked into the room full of women it all came flooding back to me.
All you women out there and you men who are married to women know what I’m talking about here. The thing you must remember when a bunch of people get together who happen to be women, is the sharing of the child birth experience, The Story. I don’t care if you’re at a church potluck, a board room meeting, a back yard barbecue, or a baby shower. If those women get off by themselves for just five minutes they will be telling their child birth stories and the stories of their women friends who aren’t there to represent themselves.
You better be prepared for bone chilling tales of six weeks of labor only to give birth to a 50 pound baby with a head the size of the moon. If you’re lucky there won’t be any hand gestures or re-enactments.
Then all the stats; size, weight, hair/no hair, if hair, straight or curly and what color, eye color, skin color, foreign language skills, musical ability and so on and so on. It’s getting so sophisticated now that I hear APGAR scores like an SAT for newborns. “Our oldest got a 9 but little Sean only scored a 7 at first. He’s worked hard to bring it up since then. His father said he’s not driving until he gets his act together.”
As soon as I had walked into the room I began hearing things about breaking water, amniotic fluid, and stitches. Nothing is ever off limits when it comes to women and The Story. I guess I can understand this because it has got to be one of the most painful, hardest, most painful, happiest, and most painful events in a woman’s life. What experience in a man’s life even compares? I can’t think of anything, except maybe Ping Pong.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Twins
When my wife and I were younger, and with only one baby girl, I did a very stupid thing. I said something like, “We should have twins. That would be so cool.”
I am a little bit superstitious. I believe in black superstition. It’s like black magic, it’s bad. With black superstition you get all the bad luck you curse yourself with even when it might sound good when you wish for it.
Say you wish you had a million dollars. One day you’re walking down the street humming your favorite show tune and you get run over by an armored car carrying a million dollars in quarters. That’s black superstition. That’s what I believe in.
So when I cursed myself with twins I should have seen the darkness coming.
You think with twins it’s two for the price of one. But in the delivery room there are three times more doctors, nurses, machines, diesel engine mechanics, and various assistants.
Of course, with your second baby you think you’re all set with one crib, one highchair, one swing, one bouncy seat, and all the other new baby stuff you think you will never have to buy again. But when your wife roles snake eyes you get to double down on all that baby crap.
And then there’s the stroller. Now you need a new stroller that holds two little financial sink holes. Do you get a side-by-side stroller that’s so wide you can’t go down any isles in a store without knocking junk off the shelves? Or do you get an inline stroller that’s longer than a VW Jetta and corners like a garbage truck? Folding those things up is no fun either. We almost left a clunky stroller at Disneyland once because we couldn’t Rubik’s Cube it down to a manageable size.
My wife and I will both testify under oath that we cannot remember the first six months of the twins’ lives. I was working and going to school full time and my better half was managing the apartments we lived in, being a mother to our red headed two year old, and trying to stay awake long enough to take care of the twins.
They never ate at the same time, slept at the same time, or needed a new diaper at the same time. It was a total blur.
A family was in the news constantly back then for having septuplets. Yea, seven babies at once. Her husband must have said something like, “I hope we can have all our kids quickly so we can still be young when they’re all out of the house and we retire.” Talk about black superstition.
Strangers would often comment to us, “Aren’t you glad you didn’t have seven?” Of course, they got free diapers, a van, a house, two sets of laundry machines, volunteer helpers, and envelopes full of money in the mail every day. But I’m not bitter.
Our twins look the same. They are probably identical but an expensive DNA test just hasn’t been necessary yet. They look so similar that I would often mix them up when they where little. My wife could always tell them apart but I had trouble all the time. I still have trouble if they style their hair the same. When they were younger we got their ears pierced and used different color earrings. I wanted to get them each a different tattoo but someone around here is a total kill joy.
Twins come with a new math. One child equals enough trouble for two parents. Twins equals enough trouble for six parents. I remember one in a high chair throwing food off her tray to her sister on the floor below. I remember one standing on the other so they could grab something interesting that was supposed to be just out of their reach. Smart little devils.
When they were just toddlers I came home from work one morning around 8 am to see my wife stomping through our apartment complex in a bathrobe with bare feet and dripping wet hair. She had a night gowned twin in each hand reading them the riot act while herding them back to the apartment. It was a cold morning and steam was literally rising off her head.
Apparently she had stepped out of a two minute shower to find the front door wide open and the oldest sister, then three and a half, peering out the door toward the direction the two domestic terrorists had fled in. I could tell by the look on my wife’s face that she was ready to snap. Yea, I just kept on driving right back out the parking lot. I could eat breakfast later.
Now the girls are 13, both of them. They are a true joy and the best of friends. Together, with their oldest sister, they are getting very good at making chocolate chip-oatmeal-peanut butter cookies for their Dad. They are so going in the will. The twins and their big sister team up with their Mom to outnumber us boys 4 to 3. It’s not really fair, but they are all so darn cute we just put up with it.
You know, if I had a twin I’d get into a lot more trouble than my twins do. I would trade places with him at school, play tricks on friends, and rob banks with his name on my shirt. I wish I had a twin. Bring it on Black superstition!
I am a little bit superstitious. I believe in black superstition. It’s like black magic, it’s bad. With black superstition you get all the bad luck you curse yourself with even when it might sound good when you wish for it.
Say you wish you had a million dollars. One day you’re walking down the street humming your favorite show tune and you get run over by an armored car carrying a million dollars in quarters. That’s black superstition. That’s what I believe in.
So when I cursed myself with twins I should have seen the darkness coming.
You think with twins it’s two for the price of one. But in the delivery room there are three times more doctors, nurses, machines, diesel engine mechanics, and various assistants.
Of course, with your second baby you think you’re all set with one crib, one highchair, one swing, one bouncy seat, and all the other new baby stuff you think you will never have to buy again. But when your wife roles snake eyes you get to double down on all that baby crap.
And then there’s the stroller. Now you need a new stroller that holds two little financial sink holes. Do you get a side-by-side stroller that’s so wide you can’t go down any isles in a store without knocking junk off the shelves? Or do you get an inline stroller that’s longer than a VW Jetta and corners like a garbage truck? Folding those things up is no fun either. We almost left a clunky stroller at Disneyland once because we couldn’t Rubik’s Cube it down to a manageable size.
My wife and I will both testify under oath that we cannot remember the first six months of the twins’ lives. I was working and going to school full time and my better half was managing the apartments we lived in, being a mother to our red headed two year old, and trying to stay awake long enough to take care of the twins.
They never ate at the same time, slept at the same time, or needed a new diaper at the same time. It was a total blur.
A family was in the news constantly back then for having septuplets. Yea, seven babies at once. Her husband must have said something like, “I hope we can have all our kids quickly so we can still be young when they’re all out of the house and we retire.” Talk about black superstition.
Strangers would often comment to us, “Aren’t you glad you didn’t have seven?” Of course, they got free diapers, a van, a house, two sets of laundry machines, volunteer helpers, and envelopes full of money in the mail every day. But I’m not bitter.
Our twins look the same. They are probably identical but an expensive DNA test just hasn’t been necessary yet. They look so similar that I would often mix them up when they where little. My wife could always tell them apart but I had trouble all the time. I still have trouble if they style their hair the same. When they were younger we got their ears pierced and used different color earrings. I wanted to get them each a different tattoo but someone around here is a total kill joy.
Twins come with a new math. One child equals enough trouble for two parents. Twins equals enough trouble for six parents. I remember one in a high chair throwing food off her tray to her sister on the floor below. I remember one standing on the other so they could grab something interesting that was supposed to be just out of their reach. Smart little devils.
When they were just toddlers I came home from work one morning around 8 am to see my wife stomping through our apartment complex in a bathrobe with bare feet and dripping wet hair. She had a night gowned twin in each hand reading them the riot act while herding them back to the apartment. It was a cold morning and steam was literally rising off her head.
Apparently she had stepped out of a two minute shower to find the front door wide open and the oldest sister, then three and a half, peering out the door toward the direction the two domestic terrorists had fled in. I could tell by the look on my wife’s face that she was ready to snap. Yea, I just kept on driving right back out the parking lot. I could eat breakfast later.
Now the girls are 13, both of them. They are a true joy and the best of friends. Together, with their oldest sister, they are getting very good at making chocolate chip-oatmeal-peanut butter cookies for their Dad. They are so going in the will. The twins and their big sister team up with their Mom to outnumber us boys 4 to 3. It’s not really fair, but they are all so darn cute we just put up with it.
You know, if I had a twin I’d get into a lot more trouble than my twins do. I would trade places with him at school, play tricks on friends, and rob banks with his name on my shirt. I wish I had a twin. Bring it on Black superstition!
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Going Fake
The day after Thanksgiving is kind of a big deal in our house. Yes, my wife drags me out of bed to enjoy black Friday shopping with everyone else in town and all the neighboring towns and burbs. Black Friday has got to be the highest population day for us. The streets are full, the stores are full, the parking lots are full, and all the shopping carts are used up. We need to put up road blocks and charge admission one day a year. No more taxes for us!
But better than shopping, it’s really a big deal for the kids. It’s the day we put up the tree and start listening to Christmas music.
I love Christmas music, around Christmas time, not before. When the stores start playing it early I just get sick of it by the time the holiday rolls around. So in our cars and in our home its bah-humbug on the festive tunes until after Thanksgiving. Even when the six year old boy starts singing Jingle Bells in July, (hey, it happens more than you would think) the older kids pipe in with the rule and our Christmas season is musically preserved.
As for the tree? A month before Thanksgiving the younger ones are already asking if we can put up the tree. And when I say asking I mean every five minutes. They ask and I repeat the plan: after Thanksgiving. But that’s not the end of it. They ask where it’s going to go, if it’s in the garage, if I’m going to dip it in chocolate and hang it upside down this year, and on and on and on. Together they’re like little project managers working their way down a list to make sure everything is in order and on schedule. I wonder who they get that from, (role eyes toward wife here) Yea, I wonder…
We have a fake tree so it’s not like it’s a hard thing to do. I know, fake trees are an abomination. No pine smell, no big family outing to find the perfect tree, no pictures of rosy cheeked kids in the snow. I’ve learned my lesson on that idea, over and over again.
The first clue was fifteen years ago right after Thanksgiving. My wife, Tracy, and I were going up to get our first Christmas tree together long before we had kids. Back when we still had hopes and dreams.
I had a 1964 Ford truck that didn’t have a working heater, defroster, or windshield wipers. It was raining that day as we headed out of the valley and up the mountain to cut down a tree from the forest with our $10.00 permit.
We each had a shop rag and we would constantly wipe down the windshield on the inside so we could see. This was fine until we got up high enough for the rain to turn to snow. Then I had to stop and wipe the snow off the outside of the windshield every five minutes. Eventually I was driving with my head out the window like a dog with my tongue flapping in the breeze.
Did I mention I had on a thin sweat shirt and jeans and she was freezing in her leggings, no socks, slip on shoes and no jacket? We drove up until the road ended and found other tree hunters enjoying the snow in full winter ski gear drinking hot cocoa and riding quad runners and snow mobiles. Envy much?
Our permit said we had to go 100 yards or 100 feet or 100 miles from the highway to cut our tree. 100 something, I can’t remember. This was fine anyway because all the other Christmas trees close to the road had already been cut. We were just too late to break the law. Story of my life.
We started our hike into the winter wonderland with snow up to our unprepared knees. Ten yards in we were up to our necks. Tracy got her foot stuck on some stick underground, thought she might lose her shoe, and actually said, “Just leave me here.”
At that point I wasn’t really sure if she meant for me to just go get a tree without her and meet her back at the truck, or just leave her there to freeze to death and go on with my life. I’m still not sure to this day and I don’t know if she knows either.
Another year, another truck. She asked, “Should we get gas before we leave town?” and I said, like an idiot, “Oh noooo, we’re fine, plenty of gas.” Thirty minutes later we were walking to Placerville in the cold.
We called it quits on the forest one year and went to a small cut-your-own Christmas tree farm. It was tons of fun. The kids got to see Santa, we overpaid for delicious hot chocolate, and found a great tree.
At the end of the season it was time to take the tree down and clean up Christmas. I grabbed the trunk and my hand was instantly covered with tiny black beetles. Some type of bug had hatched in the warmth of our home. The poor little critters probably thought it was spring. I had the heebie-jeebies till Easter.
I romanticize everything. I think the kids are going to have a blast on these fun family outings. But they just aren’t too wild about driving for an hour to the woods, tromping around looking for a tree, going potty in the wild, and freezing their cheeks off (both sets). I’m slowly learning how to control my problem. I’m in a program and the kids are helping, boy are they helping.
One year after another failed forest trip we decided to go fake. Too many disasters with old trucks, crying kids, and tons of gas money. It was time for a new tradition. We bought a beautiful eight foot pre-lit tree at Costco.
I would guess that about 90% of our Christmas décor gets unpacked every year from boxes with Costco’s Kirkland brand on the side. Our Christmas tree, nativity set, Whimsical Santa, Whimsical Reindeer, and Whimsical Tree (notice a theme here?), and even the ornaments come in Kirkland labeled boxes. Our whimsical kids are growing up thinking that Kirkland means Christmas. Yesterday the boys were actually singing, “We Wish You a Merry Kirkland.”
I do miss that pine tree smell that fills the whole house with Christmas memories. But now, instead of borrowing an old pickup and leaving a warm home to head up to the mountains and brave the elements on an all day trek, I just pull out the biggest box in the garage, open it, assemble four pieces, stick it in the corner, right side up, chocolate free, and ta-da! Instant Christmas. I love tradition.
But better than shopping, it’s really a big deal for the kids. It’s the day we put up the tree and start listening to Christmas music.
I love Christmas music, around Christmas time, not before. When the stores start playing it early I just get sick of it by the time the holiday rolls around. So in our cars and in our home its bah-humbug on the festive tunes until after Thanksgiving. Even when the six year old boy starts singing Jingle Bells in July, (hey, it happens more than you would think) the older kids pipe in with the rule and our Christmas season is musically preserved.
As for the tree? A month before Thanksgiving the younger ones are already asking if we can put up the tree. And when I say asking I mean every five minutes. They ask and I repeat the plan: after Thanksgiving. But that’s not the end of it. They ask where it’s going to go, if it’s in the garage, if I’m going to dip it in chocolate and hang it upside down this year, and on and on and on. Together they’re like little project managers working their way down a list to make sure everything is in order and on schedule. I wonder who they get that from, (role eyes toward wife here) Yea, I wonder…
We have a fake tree so it’s not like it’s a hard thing to do. I know, fake trees are an abomination. No pine smell, no big family outing to find the perfect tree, no pictures of rosy cheeked kids in the snow. I’ve learned my lesson on that idea, over and over again.
The first clue was fifteen years ago right after Thanksgiving. My wife, Tracy, and I were going up to get our first Christmas tree together long before we had kids. Back when we still had hopes and dreams.
I had a 1964 Ford truck that didn’t have a working heater, defroster, or windshield wipers. It was raining that day as we headed out of the valley and up the mountain to cut down a tree from the forest with our $10.00 permit.
We each had a shop rag and we would constantly wipe down the windshield on the inside so we could see. This was fine until we got up high enough for the rain to turn to snow. Then I had to stop and wipe the snow off the outside of the windshield every five minutes. Eventually I was driving with my head out the window like a dog with my tongue flapping in the breeze.
Did I mention I had on a thin sweat shirt and jeans and she was freezing in her leggings, no socks, slip on shoes and no jacket? We drove up until the road ended and found other tree hunters enjoying the snow in full winter ski gear drinking hot cocoa and riding quad runners and snow mobiles. Envy much?
Our permit said we had to go 100 yards or 100 feet or 100 miles from the highway to cut our tree. 100 something, I can’t remember. This was fine anyway because all the other Christmas trees close to the road had already been cut. We were just too late to break the law. Story of my life.
We started our hike into the winter wonderland with snow up to our unprepared knees. Ten yards in we were up to our necks. Tracy got her foot stuck on some stick underground, thought she might lose her shoe, and actually said, “Just leave me here.”
At that point I wasn’t really sure if she meant for me to just go get a tree without her and meet her back at the truck, or just leave her there to freeze to death and go on with my life. I’m still not sure to this day and I don’t know if she knows either.
Another year, another truck. She asked, “Should we get gas before we leave town?” and I said, like an idiot, “Oh noooo, we’re fine, plenty of gas.” Thirty minutes later we were walking to Placerville in the cold.
We called it quits on the forest one year and went to a small cut-your-own Christmas tree farm. It was tons of fun. The kids got to see Santa, we overpaid for delicious hot chocolate, and found a great tree.
At the end of the season it was time to take the tree down and clean up Christmas. I grabbed the trunk and my hand was instantly covered with tiny black beetles. Some type of bug had hatched in the warmth of our home. The poor little critters probably thought it was spring. I had the heebie-jeebies till Easter.
I romanticize everything. I think the kids are going to have a blast on these fun family outings. But they just aren’t too wild about driving for an hour to the woods, tromping around looking for a tree, going potty in the wild, and freezing their cheeks off (both sets). I’m slowly learning how to control my problem. I’m in a program and the kids are helping, boy are they helping.
One year after another failed forest trip we decided to go fake. Too many disasters with old trucks, crying kids, and tons of gas money. It was time for a new tradition. We bought a beautiful eight foot pre-lit tree at Costco.
I would guess that about 90% of our Christmas décor gets unpacked every year from boxes with Costco’s Kirkland brand on the side. Our Christmas tree, nativity set, Whimsical Santa, Whimsical Reindeer, and Whimsical Tree (notice a theme here?), and even the ornaments come in Kirkland labeled boxes. Our whimsical kids are growing up thinking that Kirkland means Christmas. Yesterday the boys were actually singing, “We Wish You a Merry Kirkland.”
I do miss that pine tree smell that fills the whole house with Christmas memories. But now, instead of borrowing an old pickup and leaving a warm home to head up to the mountains and brave the elements on an all day trek, I just pull out the biggest box in the garage, open it, assemble four pieces, stick it in the corner, right side up, chocolate free, and ta-da! Instant Christmas. I love tradition.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Minivan Dad
I wrote this a few years ago, before we bought the big SUV. I miss that minivan!
I’m starting to realize that I am no longer cool. I used to have a vague sense of coolness. I was kind of cool most of the time and once in a while I was really super cool. Now, I’m beginning to think that not only am I not cool now, I haven’t been cool for a very long time.
It began as a vague kind of spidy-sense. I felt the winds of change, I just didn’t realize what it was until a few days ago. A friend of mine just bought herself a new beamer. (Yes I have friends in that crowd, thank you very much.) She joked about a relative who suggested a sporty minivan and then said something in a lilting laugh that included the phrase “Brain damaged moron.”
I was suddenly struck with the idea that the minivan today has the same stigma as the station wagon did when I was growing up. I confirmed this with a few other sources (the next two nearest people) and was astounded to find this to be the case. The minivan is no longer cool. I was blown away. Upon expressing my surprise I was greeted with “When was the minivan cool?” (He’s off my Christmas card list by the way.)
I remember when my Dad had a four wheel drive station wagon and he thought that was the best thing ever. We just sat still in the fold down seats and hoped he never had the desire to test its all-terrain capabilities.
My buddy’s dad used to brag on their family wagon “This is the heaviest production car ever made. We’ve put so many miles on it, we could have driven around the world seven times. This car has the same engine that they used on Apollo 13.” And then our eyes would involuntarily roll from one side of our head to the other and a sigh would force its way out of our vocal cords only to fog up the untinted windows. I seem to remember Convoy was always playing on the 8-track too.
So when the mini-van came on the scene I was enthralled. You could leave the station wagon world behind and ride in total family car coolness. As a teenager I had this grand dream (some might call it an ungrounded illusion, whatever) of a sporty minivan pulling a trailer holding a pair of jet skis, all custom painted to match. I had never even been on jet skis before but when you’re dreaming you might as well go for jet skis, I always say.
As I grew up I never lost interest in the desire to own my piece of family car heaven. When our clan finally reached minivan proportions--three girls with one boy on the way--we bought the American dream with one sliding door and a rear lift hatch.
How can you go wrong with a V6 roof racked forest green window tinted beauty? This thing had cup holders for every seat! Cup holders man. How cool is that? Did your old bubble window station wagon have cup holders? Ours didn’t. Tinted windows? What’s that? Our mini machine even has a tow package. I can tow stuff. I want to see you throw a trailer behind your beamer sedan. Yeah, that’s what I thought.
Nowadays these new mini-treasures are coming out with the fold down seats that give you over 351,770 different interior configurations, including the Las Vegas Lounge and Military Bunker styles. And double sliding doors are almost standard now. Could it be any cooler? Apparently the general consensus is, “Yes, is can be cooler.” Heresy, I say, Hair-Us-E.
I’ll tell you why the MV and I are loosing our cool. Guys with more money buying those huge SUVs made by Freightliner, Mack, and Peterbilt. Sure, more room, more power, and more other stuff. But cooler and sexier than a minivan? P’Shaw! I say you can’t simply buy coolness with more money on the sticker price and more cash down the gas tank.
Just the other day my sweet princess suggested that we might look at one of these SUVs when its time for us to buy again. Betrayed by my own love, the agony. This isn’t the first time she’s gone against my grain either. Just last year it was she who “suggested” I lose the parachute pants look. Like her painted nails and capris make her the cool police. Oh well, maybe I’ll be cool again if I just do what everyone else is doing. Hey, do you need two gas cards for an SUV or do you just get a second mortgage?
I’m starting to realize that I am no longer cool. I used to have a vague sense of coolness. I was kind of cool most of the time and once in a while I was really super cool. Now, I’m beginning to think that not only am I not cool now, I haven’t been cool for a very long time.
It began as a vague kind of spidy-sense. I felt the winds of change, I just didn’t realize what it was until a few days ago. A friend of mine just bought herself a new beamer. (Yes I have friends in that crowd, thank you very much.) She joked about a relative who suggested a sporty minivan and then said something in a lilting laugh that included the phrase “Brain damaged moron.”
I was suddenly struck with the idea that the minivan today has the same stigma as the station wagon did when I was growing up. I confirmed this with a few other sources (the next two nearest people) and was astounded to find this to be the case. The minivan is no longer cool. I was blown away. Upon expressing my surprise I was greeted with “When was the minivan cool?” (He’s off my Christmas card list by the way.)
I remember when my Dad had a four wheel drive station wagon and he thought that was the best thing ever. We just sat still in the fold down seats and hoped he never had the desire to test its all-terrain capabilities.
My buddy’s dad used to brag on their family wagon “This is the heaviest production car ever made. We’ve put so many miles on it, we could have driven around the world seven times. This car has the same engine that they used on Apollo 13.” And then our eyes would involuntarily roll from one side of our head to the other and a sigh would force its way out of our vocal cords only to fog up the untinted windows. I seem to remember Convoy was always playing on the 8-track too.
So when the mini-van came on the scene I was enthralled. You could leave the station wagon world behind and ride in total family car coolness. As a teenager I had this grand dream (some might call it an ungrounded illusion, whatever) of a sporty minivan pulling a trailer holding a pair of jet skis, all custom painted to match. I had never even been on jet skis before but when you’re dreaming you might as well go for jet skis, I always say.
As I grew up I never lost interest in the desire to own my piece of family car heaven. When our clan finally reached minivan proportions--three girls with one boy on the way--we bought the American dream with one sliding door and a rear lift hatch.
How can you go wrong with a V6 roof racked forest green window tinted beauty? This thing had cup holders for every seat! Cup holders man. How cool is that? Did your old bubble window station wagon have cup holders? Ours didn’t. Tinted windows? What’s that? Our mini machine even has a tow package. I can tow stuff. I want to see you throw a trailer behind your beamer sedan. Yeah, that’s what I thought.
Nowadays these new mini-treasures are coming out with the fold down seats that give you over 351,770 different interior configurations, including the Las Vegas Lounge and Military Bunker styles. And double sliding doors are almost standard now. Could it be any cooler? Apparently the general consensus is, “Yes, is can be cooler.” Heresy, I say, Hair-Us-E.
I’ll tell you why the MV and I are loosing our cool. Guys with more money buying those huge SUVs made by Freightliner, Mack, and Peterbilt. Sure, more room, more power, and more other stuff. But cooler and sexier than a minivan? P’Shaw! I say you can’t simply buy coolness with more money on the sticker price and more cash down the gas tank.
Just the other day my sweet princess suggested that we might look at one of these SUVs when its time for us to buy again. Betrayed by my own love, the agony. This isn’t the first time she’s gone against my grain either. Just last year it was she who “suggested” I lose the parachute pants look. Like her painted nails and capris make her the cool police. Oh well, maybe I’ll be cool again if I just do what everyone else is doing. Hey, do you need two gas cards for an SUV or do you just get a second mortgage?
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Four Letter Word
It was a relatively quiet day in my household with the TV on and piano practice quietly making a racket in the after school hours. One of the girls was at the table doing her homework and vigorously scratching her head. With her pencil down and two hands running through her hair she turned to my wife to complain about all the itching. In only a few short seconds my wife was uttering the four letter word all parents dread: Lice.
We are not talking about a few pioneers here either. These little empire builders were so plentiful they had cities and suburbs, apartments and urban sprawl. We can’t be certain but we think we may have interrupted them during the primaries for the lice elections. They were well established and thriving.
I share this with you reluctantly. Nobody wants to admit that they have lice in their home right? I mean, we’re clean people. We take showers once a week. Well, we at least play in the sprinklers outside once in a while and the kids do get all soapy when they wash my car. How could we get lice? How could this great misfortune fall upon the head of one of our household? Oh the horror.
And guess what? Our family had just spent the weekend at my brother’s house. No, she didn’t get it there; the bug city was too far established to only be a few days old. We were forced to call their house to let them know we may have infested them with the terrible biohazard. That’s a fun call to make.
So first you the buy the little comb and the napalm for hair. You wash the heck out of that little kid’s hair until you decide it just may be easier to shave it all off and start over. Hey, it may grow back in a whole new color. Unfortunately the little one is not ready to go for the Mr. Clean look and she vetoes that plan.
Of course, the bottle says that you can’t re-apply this radioactive biohazard to the little licetopia for at least another week. So you start looking for back woods herbal remedies that promise to not give your child the ability to glow in the dark and read minds.
Friends and relatives share their lice fixes. From tomato juice to tea tree oil you try them all. At least the little buggers might drown in all this stuff. Soon your child’s head smells like a freshly tossed green salad and you are seeing fewer and fewer lice in your four-times-a-day inspections.
While hers are treatable, the rest of the family has another problem. As soon as you see bug number one you develop a deadly case of the heebie-jeebies. Don’t give me that look, you know exactly what I’m talking about. If you see a spider on your friend’s shoulder you instantly start to feel like there is a spider on you too.
Only, it’s worse with lice. When you see a small industrial complex of tiny bugs building condos in your child’s hair the schizophrenia starts to set in. Your head starts to itch and you imagine a superhighway of little lice commuters traipsing along your cranium on their way home from a long hard day of chewing through your skull to your brain.
Everybody in our house caught this imaginary infestation. Of course, my glass-is-half-empty wife had it the worst. Every day for two weeks I would come home from work and be forced to inspect her hair for those tricky little critters. I felt like I was living the nature channel. Just like the monkeys, I was looking for bugs on my mate. Sexy. And when I couldn’t find lice in her hair she actually seemed disappointed.
Her disappointment was baffling until I realized her dilemma. Every time I didn’t find anything it just reinforced what I have been saying for over fifteen years now; she’s crazy. So, if I was able to find bugs in her hair, yeah she’d have lice, but at least she wouldn’t be crazy. You can treat lice quickly. Crazy is a lot harder to fix.
She never did get those lice and I am now glad to announce that our home is once again lice free. Heads only itch when we don’t know the answer to something or we get syrup in our hair. Just like normal. My wife is back to her self again; beautiful, wise, lice free, and still crazy. Just like normal.
We are not talking about a few pioneers here either. These little empire builders were so plentiful they had cities and suburbs, apartments and urban sprawl. We can’t be certain but we think we may have interrupted them during the primaries for the lice elections. They were well established and thriving.
I share this with you reluctantly. Nobody wants to admit that they have lice in their home right? I mean, we’re clean people. We take showers once a week. Well, we at least play in the sprinklers outside once in a while and the kids do get all soapy when they wash my car. How could we get lice? How could this great misfortune fall upon the head of one of our household? Oh the horror.
And guess what? Our family had just spent the weekend at my brother’s house. No, she didn’t get it there; the bug city was too far established to only be a few days old. We were forced to call their house to let them know we may have infested them with the terrible biohazard. That’s a fun call to make.
So first you the buy the little comb and the napalm for hair. You wash the heck out of that little kid’s hair until you decide it just may be easier to shave it all off and start over. Hey, it may grow back in a whole new color. Unfortunately the little one is not ready to go for the Mr. Clean look and she vetoes that plan.
Of course, the bottle says that you can’t re-apply this radioactive biohazard to the little licetopia for at least another week. So you start looking for back woods herbal remedies that promise to not give your child the ability to glow in the dark and read minds.
Friends and relatives share their lice fixes. From tomato juice to tea tree oil you try them all. At least the little buggers might drown in all this stuff. Soon your child’s head smells like a freshly tossed green salad and you are seeing fewer and fewer lice in your four-times-a-day inspections.
While hers are treatable, the rest of the family has another problem. As soon as you see bug number one you develop a deadly case of the heebie-jeebies. Don’t give me that look, you know exactly what I’m talking about. If you see a spider on your friend’s shoulder you instantly start to feel like there is a spider on you too.
Only, it’s worse with lice. When you see a small industrial complex of tiny bugs building condos in your child’s hair the schizophrenia starts to set in. Your head starts to itch and you imagine a superhighway of little lice commuters traipsing along your cranium on their way home from a long hard day of chewing through your skull to your brain.
Everybody in our house caught this imaginary infestation. Of course, my glass-is-half-empty wife had it the worst. Every day for two weeks I would come home from work and be forced to inspect her hair for those tricky little critters. I felt like I was living the nature channel. Just like the monkeys, I was looking for bugs on my mate. Sexy. And when I couldn’t find lice in her hair she actually seemed disappointed.
Her disappointment was baffling until I realized her dilemma. Every time I didn’t find anything it just reinforced what I have been saying for over fifteen years now; she’s crazy. So, if I was able to find bugs in her hair, yeah she’d have lice, but at least she wouldn’t be crazy. You can treat lice quickly. Crazy is a lot harder to fix.
She never did get those lice and I am now glad to announce that our home is once again lice free. Heads only itch when we don’t know the answer to something or we get syrup in our hair. Just like normal. My wife is back to her self again; beautiful, wise, lice free, and still crazy. Just like normal.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Family Fun at the Beach
We used to live about 3 hours from the ocean. We loved the ocean. It was a magical place to visit with endless vistas and the power of the sea on constant display. The enormity of it all reminding you of your humanity and the greatness of the universe. Then we moved to the beach and all that changed.
When you visit the beach you take the time to enjoy the natural beauty of it all. You go to the beach prepared to get down with nature, get a little wet, a little sandy, and really enjoy yourself. You get to spend time and slow things down a little. Walking the beach makes you want to live there. You envy those lucky shell hounds that get to spend time on it every day.
This was our perception when an opportunity came up for us to move to the coast we had visited for so long. Obviously we would take advantage of the ocean and go for walks in the surf every day collecting shells and pretty rocks. Our family would grow closer and our lives would be perfect because we would live by the beach. To quote my daughters: “Whatever.”
When you live near something cool it just becomes something you live by. You still have to go to work every day and you still have to mow the lawn and clean the house and blah blah blah. You finally decide to take advantage of the beach that’s practically in your back yard so you pack up all the kids and go. You know…just for a walk.
Nobody is wearing a swimsuit or anything. We’re just going for a walk right? So you and the kids are walking on the beach on a cool and blustery day. Walking in the soft sand watching the beautiful waves roll in.
Then, after about five seconds everyone realizes that the soft sand is really hard to walk in. It’s like walking through molasses, with swim fins on. So you move up to the packed wet sand next to the beautiful crashing waves and the walking and perfect family time continues.
Then, after another blissful five seconds a good sized wave sneaks up on you and everyone has to run away to avoid getting their shoes wet. “Wow, that was fun.” Everyone thinks. “That beautiful slightly large wave tried to get our shoes wet. But we beat it to dry ground. Aren’t we clever?” And eventually you or a child person voices or does what everyone else is thinking, “Let's do it again.” And in the next few minutes the shoes are off and the pant cuffs are rolled up and the happy, playful children are joyously running and dancing in the beautiful waves while mom and dad hold hands and watch one of those rare moments when the children are playing together without drawing blood.
In a peaceful moment when all the children are standing in only three inches of surf and playing so well together, a beautiful monster of a wave secretly forms off shore. Dad, happy but vigilant, watches the wave form and a growing suspicion calmly voices itself. “RUN, RUN, RUN.” Dad calmly screams like a girl while running toward the kids.
As the giant beautiful wave rolls towards the perfect happy beach family, the oldest and the youngest run for dry ground like the dickens. What’s the dickens? I don’t know, but they’re fast.
So now Dad is running toward the giant wave and the six year old twin girls that are looking at him like he’s a moron. By the time the beautiful wave engulfs the girls it’s only three feet high. The problem is, so are they. And they are not surfers.
They look like cabbage patch kids in a washing machine. Arms and legs are spread eagle trying to find the bottom of the beach as they are being swept inland toward Dad at about three hundred miles an hour.
Only a second later the water has mellowed to two feet deep but the twins are still being pushed and rolled and tumbled in toward dry land. They are down the beach from Dad now and he is running after them. Himself wading through the wet two feet of beautiful wave, lifting his legs as high as his head so he can clear the water and reach his girls. (It looks nothing like a sexy lifeguard show.)
He is only four feet away from the closest one now. He can see the look of horror in her face under the water as her wide eyes try to make sense of the tumbling world of wetness and sand. A half second later Dad has reached her and thrusts his arm into the beautiful wave to grab her.
No time for jubilation, they’re twins, two for the price of one. Dad tucks her forty pound frame under one arm like he’s carrying a football, a fully clothed, soaking wet, crying football.
High stepping toward twin number two with water splashing everywhere, the barefoot dad can almost see the ponies in her hair when a lucky tumble throws a foot up and out of the water only a few inches in front of him. He snakes a hand out to grab the girl as the beautiful wave tries to bury her in foamy water again.
His hand closes around an ankle and he pulls straight up into the sky. She breaks free of the water, sputtering and gasping for air, and grabs her dad around the waist. She is cold, wet, and upside down, but she is out of the water.
Dad wades out of the beautiful wave and into the dry sand with one girl under his arm and another hanging upside down from his other arm pointed straight to the sky. It’s almost a decent statue of liberty imitation. “Give me your soaked, your sandy, your tumbled twins yearning to be dry.”
Many days later the last few grains of sand are washed out of the twins’ hair, clothes and bodies are finally warm and dry and we resigned ourselves to watching the beautiful waves from the car. No, we don’t live near the beach anymore.
When you visit the beach you take the time to enjoy the natural beauty of it all. You go to the beach prepared to get down with nature, get a little wet, a little sandy, and really enjoy yourself. You get to spend time and slow things down a little. Walking the beach makes you want to live there. You envy those lucky shell hounds that get to spend time on it every day.
This was our perception when an opportunity came up for us to move to the coast we had visited for so long. Obviously we would take advantage of the ocean and go for walks in the surf every day collecting shells and pretty rocks. Our family would grow closer and our lives would be perfect because we would live by the beach. To quote my daughters: “Whatever.”
When you live near something cool it just becomes something you live by. You still have to go to work every day and you still have to mow the lawn and clean the house and blah blah blah. You finally decide to take advantage of the beach that’s practically in your back yard so you pack up all the kids and go. You know…just for a walk.
Nobody is wearing a swimsuit or anything. We’re just going for a walk right? So you and the kids are walking on the beach on a cool and blustery day. Walking in the soft sand watching the beautiful waves roll in.
Then, after about five seconds everyone realizes that the soft sand is really hard to walk in. It’s like walking through molasses, with swim fins on. So you move up to the packed wet sand next to the beautiful crashing waves and the walking and perfect family time continues.
Then, after another blissful five seconds a good sized wave sneaks up on you and everyone has to run away to avoid getting their shoes wet. “Wow, that was fun.” Everyone thinks. “That beautiful slightly large wave tried to get our shoes wet. But we beat it to dry ground. Aren’t we clever?” And eventually you or a child person voices or does what everyone else is thinking, “Let's do it again.” And in the next few minutes the shoes are off and the pant cuffs are rolled up and the happy, playful children are joyously running and dancing in the beautiful waves while mom and dad hold hands and watch one of those rare moments when the children are playing together without drawing blood.
In a peaceful moment when all the children are standing in only three inches of surf and playing so well together, a beautiful monster of a wave secretly forms off shore. Dad, happy but vigilant, watches the wave form and a growing suspicion calmly voices itself. “RUN, RUN, RUN.” Dad calmly screams like a girl while running toward the kids.
As the giant beautiful wave rolls towards the perfect happy beach family, the oldest and the youngest run for dry ground like the dickens. What’s the dickens? I don’t know, but they’re fast.
So now Dad is running toward the giant wave and the six year old twin girls that are looking at him like he’s a moron. By the time the beautiful wave engulfs the girls it’s only three feet high. The problem is, so are they. And they are not surfers.
They look like cabbage patch kids in a washing machine. Arms and legs are spread eagle trying to find the bottom of the beach as they are being swept inland toward Dad at about three hundred miles an hour.
Only a second later the water has mellowed to two feet deep but the twins are still being pushed and rolled and tumbled in toward dry land. They are down the beach from Dad now and he is running after them. Himself wading through the wet two feet of beautiful wave, lifting his legs as high as his head so he can clear the water and reach his girls. (It looks nothing like a sexy lifeguard show.)
He is only four feet away from the closest one now. He can see the look of horror in her face under the water as her wide eyes try to make sense of the tumbling world of wetness and sand. A half second later Dad has reached her and thrusts his arm into the beautiful wave to grab her.
No time for jubilation, they’re twins, two for the price of one. Dad tucks her forty pound frame under one arm like he’s carrying a football, a fully clothed, soaking wet, crying football.
High stepping toward twin number two with water splashing everywhere, the barefoot dad can almost see the ponies in her hair when a lucky tumble throws a foot up and out of the water only a few inches in front of him. He snakes a hand out to grab the girl as the beautiful wave tries to bury her in foamy water again.
His hand closes around an ankle and he pulls straight up into the sky. She breaks free of the water, sputtering and gasping for air, and grabs her dad around the waist. She is cold, wet, and upside down, but she is out of the water.
Dad wades out of the beautiful wave and into the dry sand with one girl under his arm and another hanging upside down from his other arm pointed straight to the sky. It’s almost a decent statue of liberty imitation. “Give me your soaked, your sandy, your tumbled twins yearning to be dry.”
Many days later the last few grains of sand are washed out of the twins’ hair, clothes and bodies are finally warm and dry and we resigned ourselves to watching the beautiful waves from the car. No, we don’t live near the beach anymore.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Naming the Boy
(I wrote this over six years ago, This is the first time its even been published. I hope you enjoy it.)
So my wife and I are expecting our fifth (and final) child. We already have three beautiful daughters and one incredibly handsome son. That’s right, he looks just like me. Through the miracle of squishy gel and sound waves we just found out that we are pregnant with a second boy (and when I say we I mean she).
Oh what joy fills my bosom at this wondrous discovery. Of course now we are faced with the daunting task of finding a name for the new air breather. Ah, to name a child, your own flesh and blood. To find that right combination of letters and syllables that will be the first and foremost reason that your offspring utters the words “My parents are idiots”.
My wife Tracy and I have never had a hard time finding the perfect names for our children, until now. Oh we would throw names out there and suggest ideas to each other, but the right moniker always seemed to rise to the surface early on in our search. In fact, I believe we had the name of our oldest picked just a few weeks after the stick turned pink. But this last baby has been eluding a label now for 30 weeks and with the deadline of birth in site we are feeling the pressure to find this boy a name.
It may be because he is the last and this is our final chance to get it right. Or it may be the fact that he is a he and all the good names that come to mind are for girls, but this name thing is harder the fifth time than it was the first four.
As good responsible parents we (again, here I mean she) want to find something that embodies strength, tenderness, intelligence and leadership. To be honest I just want a name that means something cool like ‘warrior’, or ‘killer’, or ‘warrior killer’.
About two years ago I learned about a name in our past from a family member that is into genealogy. We have some ancestors whose last name was Sheriff. What a cool name. I could have a son named Sheriff Martin right out of the gate. No waiting for him to grow up, develop a career in law enforcement, and become an elected official.
And whenever someone looked at me funny and asked me how we came up with the name I could stick up my nose and simply say “It’s an old family name”. However, as you can imagine, a more ‘sensible’ head prevailed and vetoed me while laughing her sensible little head off. So now I’m just trying to find this boy a cool name that won’t help him bring extra black-eyes home from school.
I remember my school days as a young one plagued by my name and cursing my parents for it. Nowadays Ben is probably not such a bad deal, but in the late 70’s and early 80’s my grade school virtually echoed with “Benjy the Dog” and “Obi-Ben Kenobi” (Star Wars was huge). The most uninspired was “Ben, Ben, the big fat hen” and the one that boiled my blood, pushed my buttons, and almost guaranteed a fight and a trip to the principle's office, was the dreaded “Ben Gay”. Of course, now I use Ben Gay on my old man shoulders once in a while.
So now I search for something that will hold the name-calling down to a minimum and still meet my wife’s requirements of great meaning.
My fourth child and first son is named Tyler. An uncomplicated name with the same meaning in almost any language: a guy that lays tile. So thinking along those lines I came up with Sawyer, Thatcher, Mason, or Hammer-er. Then I realized that if I choose one of these I’ll have to get my contractor’s license and go into business with my boys.
So I came home the other day and my princess had prepared a list (she’s big on lists) of names along with their meanings that she gleaned from some Internet site. Now I had been perusing a few baby name sites at work (while on break of course) and a name on her list caught my eye. I had already noticed that name in my own search. Immediately excited, I believed I had found a possible name for our son.
There on her paper she had the name Kimball, and the Anglo-Saxon meaning was noble or brave. Of course I had seen this name before and had taken note of it. This one could be a winner. I like the sound of it, it’s a strong name, not too common, and my wife likes the name and the meaning. Of course we won’t tell her that I prefer the Welsh meaning: Warrior Chief.
So my wife and I are expecting our fifth (and final) child. We already have three beautiful daughters and one incredibly handsome son. That’s right, he looks just like me. Through the miracle of squishy gel and sound waves we just found out that we are pregnant with a second boy (and when I say we I mean she).
Oh what joy fills my bosom at this wondrous discovery. Of course now we are faced with the daunting task of finding a name for the new air breather. Ah, to name a child, your own flesh and blood. To find that right combination of letters and syllables that will be the first and foremost reason that your offspring utters the words “My parents are idiots”.
My wife Tracy and I have never had a hard time finding the perfect names for our children, until now. Oh we would throw names out there and suggest ideas to each other, but the right moniker always seemed to rise to the surface early on in our search. In fact, I believe we had the name of our oldest picked just a few weeks after the stick turned pink. But this last baby has been eluding a label now for 30 weeks and with the deadline of birth in site we are feeling the pressure to find this boy a name.
It may be because he is the last and this is our final chance to get it right. Or it may be the fact that he is a he and all the good names that come to mind are for girls, but this name thing is harder the fifth time than it was the first four.
As good responsible parents we (again, here I mean she) want to find something that embodies strength, tenderness, intelligence and leadership. To be honest I just want a name that means something cool like ‘warrior’, or ‘killer’, or ‘warrior killer’.
About two years ago I learned about a name in our past from a family member that is into genealogy. We have some ancestors whose last name was Sheriff. What a cool name. I could have a son named Sheriff Martin right out of the gate. No waiting for him to grow up, develop a career in law enforcement, and become an elected official.
And whenever someone looked at me funny and asked me how we came up with the name I could stick up my nose and simply say “It’s an old family name”. However, as you can imagine, a more ‘sensible’ head prevailed and vetoed me while laughing her sensible little head off. So now I’m just trying to find this boy a cool name that won’t help him bring extra black-eyes home from school.
I remember my school days as a young one plagued by my name and cursing my parents for it. Nowadays Ben is probably not such a bad deal, but in the late 70’s and early 80’s my grade school virtually echoed with “Benjy the Dog” and “Obi-Ben Kenobi” (Star Wars was huge). The most uninspired was “Ben, Ben, the big fat hen” and the one that boiled my blood, pushed my buttons, and almost guaranteed a fight and a trip to the principle's office, was the dreaded “Ben Gay”. Of course, now I use Ben Gay on my old man shoulders once in a while.
So now I search for something that will hold the name-calling down to a minimum and still meet my wife’s requirements of great meaning.
My fourth child and first son is named Tyler. An uncomplicated name with the same meaning in almost any language: a guy that lays tile. So thinking along those lines I came up with Sawyer, Thatcher, Mason, or Hammer-er. Then I realized that if I choose one of these I’ll have to get my contractor’s license and go into business with my boys.
So I came home the other day and my princess had prepared a list (she’s big on lists) of names along with their meanings that she gleaned from some Internet site. Now I had been perusing a few baby name sites at work (while on break of course) and a name on her list caught my eye. I had already noticed that name in my own search. Immediately excited, I believed I had found a possible name for our son.
There on her paper she had the name Kimball, and the Anglo-Saxon meaning was noble or brave. Of course I had seen this name before and had taken note of it. This one could be a winner. I like the sound of it, it’s a strong name, not too common, and my wife likes the name and the meaning. Of course we won’t tell her that I prefer the Welsh meaning: Warrior Chief.
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