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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Romance?

The windows were open all night so the air in the bedroom is fresh and has a crispy coolness that accentuates the warmth of the covers and her body lying next to mine.

She is on my left, always. I roll over to be near her and lay my arm over her sleeping body. I outline her beautiful collarbone with my finger and continue the line to her shoulder.

My head is pressed up against her and I can hear and feel her heart beating and her soft breathing.

She can sleep on her back, I can’t. I am an ugly sleeper. I can’t get a good night’s rest unless I am on my stomach with a pillow under one side, one knee drawn up to my head, and my mouth wide open to allow a puddle of drool to form so I can put my ear in it later.

But she sleeps on her back with her beautiful brunette hair splayed about in such a “I’m-sexy-without-even-trying” manner that I swear she arranges it herself before she falls asleep.

I continue to draw an imaginary line from her soft perfect shoulder down the velvety smooth skin of her arm. She works out almost every day and I can feel the subtle muscle definition in her arm, the slight rise and fall of the outside of her bicep.

I hear a faint little noise come from her lips. A sigh, a spoken breath? I love her lips. Lately she has been wearing lipstick more often. Lipstick is the greatest invention in the world. Forget the wheel. The only thing the wheel is good for is to get to the woman wearing the lipstick.

My fingers round the slight bend at her elbow and continue down her forearm. She is coming to the surface of consciousness. I can sense it. She isn’t awake, she isn’t moving, but she is leaving the depths of sleep and starting the journey to join me in the world of daytime. Is she breathing different? I can’t tell, but I feel her waking up.

My hand reaches hers. My fingers spread to match her fingers. I close my hand over hers and hold her hand for a moment. How many times in these 15 years of marriage have we held hands? How many times has this simple act represented our bond of love and friendship? How many times have our hands held each other in a passionate embrace?

I release my hold and turn her hand over. My fingers lightly graze her palm. I trace tiny and soft designs in her sensitive skin. So many nerve endings in the palm of the hand. Sensitive to the lightest touch, the feeling can linger far after the contact. I know I am sending little shivers of pleasure up her spine and to her brain.

I feel her awake now. She lies still while I continue to draw random lazy shapes across the lines of the palm.

She inhales a sharp breath through her nose. I anticipate the exhale that I know should come, the exhale that will part her lips. The exhale that will put power behind her sweet words of good morning and fill her voice with the lazy pleasure my touch has created.

Then she says, “Let’s paint the wall behind the couch green.”

Damn.

Dress Up

When I came home from work the other day I was greeted to a sight that put a smile on my face. I walked in the door to find my four year old little boy, exhausted from a long hard day of playing, asleep on the couch. He had settled into a nice warm spot in the sun as it shone through the front window.

Now I had obviously seen the little terror sleeping like an angel before but this time he was picture worthy. Curled up with his knees tucked under his tummy and his little fanny in the air, he was a perfect little ballerina sleeping in a pink leotard and tutu.

This kid is all boy. Tools, trucks, trains and swords are his usual fare. We are talking about a boy who was into guns before he even had one. In some type of unconscious effort to raise a pacifist, we hadn’t bought him any toy guns.

Then we noticed he had a genetic desire to blow things away. He started with sticks he would pick up outside to use as makeshift guns. Simply point and shoot with a little “Pschew, Pschew” action and he was good to go.

That’s the noise ladies. Right men? It’s not “Bang Bang” if you’re a guy. You make a quick P sound and then you loudly whisper the word “chew” but with an ‘s’ mixed in. Little boys are born with this knowledge and I don’t know if it can be taught.

I finally bought my little man a space blaster when he bit his cheese into the shape of a revolver and started firing pretend cheddar bullets at us. A year later he has a small arsenal of neon orange and green firearms in addition to a light saber for space fights and a plastic sword and commando knife for close combat situations.

So it’s a rare occasion when my bruiser son lets the household majority talk him into a dress or a little makeup. But he’s a good sport and hangs up his machismo for a little while to have a good time.

The girls are all set with frilly dance clothes and bright princess attire, fancy high heel shoes and feather boas. They have so much dress-up that my house is like backstage at a musical when their little girlfriends come over.

The problem comes when its time for them to go home and we end up looking for the clothes they were wearing when they got here. We ask brilliant questions like, “Where did you take them off honey?” and stupidly expect rational answers that refer to rooms in the house instead of “On the trampoline.”, “In the front yard.” Or “On the roof.”

The great thing about kids here is that they don’t need a reason to play dress up or have fun with playtime. Us ‘responsible grown-up types’ get all hung up on clothes and are afraid to do things that are silly or things that some might label “insane”.

When was the last time you threw on a pink leotard with a tutu or donned a royal princess dress complete with tiara and wand? No, Halloween doesn’t count. Don’t you want to just spend a Saturday in nothing but a pair of red trimmed Spiderman underwear and a cape made from a blanket? Now I wouldn’t advocate going to town that way. But maybe mowing the lawn dressed up like Cinderella wouldn’t be out of the question.

There’s a guy in my own neighborhood that rides his bike around wearing a baby blue tuxedo. I remember a mother in my girl’s last school that used to walk her son to class every morning with bare feet in her Big Bird pajamas.

Sure, I don’t know these people personally, and I wouldn’t be inclined to spark up a conversation, or even make eye contact, or walk on the same side of the street. But they look like they’re having fun, so good for them.

We had a birthday party for the twins last year with a fairy theme. They were all issued your standard set of fairy wings and we all made wands together. Making fairy wands with ten kids at a party for six year olds was way more fun that a root canal. If you ever decide to do it yourself, let me caution you, do not…seriously…do not use a hot glue gun. Sometimes at night I think I can still smell my own burning flesh.

But when all the little fairies had their wings and wands, look out. Fairy dust everywhere. Smiling pixies and sprites flitting around the house, up the stairs, on the beds, in the closets, oh what joy. And of course, there was my boy, having a blast, flitting right along behind them, wings and all, using his ribbon covered magic wand as a sword.

Bingo

Transcript of an actual argument from the back of the minivan only a few days ago:

Oldest Singing (Eight year old red headed girl): There was a farmer had a dog and Bingo was his name-o, B I (clap) G O, B I (clap) G O, B I (clap) G O, and Bingo was his name-o.

Younger sister (Stubborn six year old) twin: You’re doing it wrong, it starts out (clap) I N G O, (clap) I N G O, (clap) I N G O, and Bingo was his name-o.

Oldest Laughs: Oh yeah, G O, (clap) I N G O, (clap)…

Younger interrupts: No, No, No. You have to start over from the beginning or it doesn’t make sense.

Oldest is miffed: It doesn’t matter; I already sang that part so I’m just starting here. (Clap) I N…

Younger yells as loud as she can while sitting only eight feet away in an enclosed space smaller that your average walk in closet, (not that we have a walk in closet, but I’ve seen them.): MOMMM! SHE’S SINGING THE BINGO SONG WRONG!

Oldest, also screaming: I ALREADY SANG THAT PART.

Dad: DON’T YELL.  Then to Mom with wonder and amazement in his voice: They are arguing about the Bingo song.

Mom: Yeah, welcome to my world, and they get out of school in two weeks.

Then, for some unexplained reason only children understand, there is peace. A great reconciliation is made. An armistice is in force and sisterly love reigns throughout the van as they sing Bingo together. Another fine example of the arts bringing two factions together in love and harmony.

Our children love to sing. They will sing in the car, at church, in bed, at the table, in the tub, on the trampoline; everywhere. It is wonderful when they are singing and getting along. It’s like the Sound of Music with a Dad who sings like Oscar the Grouch. Its all fun and games of course, until someone gets their eye poked out.

Only a few minutes after a gentle musical peace was established, the cease fire was broken once again with fighting words: “You’re Rude”.

In a house where words like hate and shut up are considered ‘bad words’ worthy of a soapy mouth, the statement of one having been rude is the worst possible accusation a sibling can legally make to another. I have seen those words bring tears. Of course I didn’t see it very clearly, what with all the tears clouding up my vision.

Now you parents know that there comes a time in every childhood argument when the parents, fair as they try to be, finally give up with the “What happened?” and the “Why did you call your sister rude?” type questions and just say, in your very loud voice, “OK, Everybody just be quiet. No more talking. Hey. I said no more talking. Shall we have spankings right now?” (What, you don’t spank your kids? To bad, you’re really missing out.)

Then there is an enforced peace. It sounds like peace because its quiet, but you can almost hear the laser beams shooting out of their eyes and into the back of your own head. But the quietness is worth a few laser burns. The hair grows right back.

So its quiet for about 30 seconds and the two married people in the front of the school bus, I mean van, start to do something they hardly ever get to do in a car full of the constantly talking proof of their love and affection for each other. That’s right, they start to talk. They talk about the news, money, yard work, the future, and many other wonderful things that grown up types talk about when they are on the open road. It’s glorious.

After only two or three minutes of this the rebels start to stir and begin little conversations of their own. It goes unnoticed so the stirring and talking and quiet singing build while the oblivious lovebirds in the front forget they are trying to run a concentration camp behind them and continue to converse like big people. Fools!

A few weeks ago my genius children discovered that the tune to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and the ABC song is the same. Being the musically talented terrors that they are they realized that they could sing these songs all at once. Each girl picks a song and the oldest boy jumps in wherever. It sounds like: “Twinkle C D E F Star, How I J K L You Are, Q R S The World So High, W X, In The Sky, Now I Know My Little Star, Next Time Wonder Sing With Star.” Yeah, it was really cute the first time. Not such a big deal the billionth.

So they are all singing this now while my beloved and I are rapidly being drown out by the festivities. Of course they are not fighting so we don’t mind. Then someone is singing someone else’s part, or someone said Star when they should have said Far and we hear another “You’re Rude!” rumble through the mini echo chamber. Voices erupt in argument.

I look over at the holder of wisdom.

Silently, but with great deliberation, she rolls down the windows then reaches over and turns up the radio.

Tantrums

Have you ever been to a grocery store?  Have you ever seen a lady that looks normal but you know she has to be crazy because she brought five little monkeys dressed in children’s clothing? You know that lady?  That lady is my wife.

When I come home from work and I see a trail of spilled produce from the minivan to the front door and shredded grocery sack plastic scattered all over the lawn, I know that I did indeed marry a crazy woman.  I know she’s crazy because as soon as I walk through the door she tells me that she took all the kids grocery shopping and they were terrible. At which point I’m thinking, “Duh.”

Apparently she thought that this trip would be different from the previous four thousand trips where the kids were terrible in the grocery store.  She thought this would be the day when reason and calm finally seeped into their little sugared up heads and they would behave like normal people.

I keep telling her kids aren’t normal people.  I keep telling her to wait until I get home and she can go shop all by herself or, worst case scenario, I go with her.  But the crazy lady has to do it her way and try to keep track of eight little hands grabbing ramen, gum, dried pineapple, escargot shells, spaghetti noodles, raw fish, lemon heads, and $25 bottles of wine.

We have good kids.  Sure they’re still kids and they do the normal kid stuff, but for the most part, they are pretty neat people.  I mean, I really like them. And I think its good for a father to like his kids.

But when you take them into a store, especially a grocery store, something happens.  I don’t know if any studies have been done but I would venture to say that there is a chemical in the brain of children, storaphoze or hypershopstaphin, that is released by shiny linoleum and tall aisles with bright packages.  This stuff makes my kids forget all the brainwashing, I mean manners, that we have spent years teaching them.

They get in that store and all five of them start heading in different directions. Once you get them rounded up again you parade them through the place yelling like a cattle herder: “Hya! Don’t touch that.  Wooe! Put that back. Ho! Come on back hear little doggie. Ya! Don’t bite the stock clerk! Com’on now.”

So the whole store knows that you’re shopping with kids and you are obviously a terrible parent because they are running all over the place and you can’t keep them under control.

And then the thing happens that you knew would happen.  The thing that you have been dreading since you walked through the door.  One of them sees an item they have just now decided is key to their continued existence. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, can we get new beef jerky flavor soda pop?”  And you have to say no. And then it comes. All the bones in the child’s body melt at once.  You don’t even see her decent to the floor.  One second she is standing.  The next second she is on the floor with no will to continue living.  Just a sobbing, hysterical pile of kid.

Upon realizing that this is not going to get her the sugar, caffeine or booze containing item she so desires, the young strategist decides that her argument lacks volume and movement.  So limbs and lungs kick into high. The verbal abuse starts with things like “You never buy us anything we want. You only care about yourself.” Or, our favorite, “You don’t even like us, you only have us because Grandma likes us.”

While these things may be true, it’s no fun to have them yelled at a billion decibels in front of the meat counter. And the arms and legs attacking the air make it almost impossible to pick that kid up.  It’s like a two-foot defense perimeter that is bound to send you to the hospital the moment you breach it.

So you try to negotiate with them when you really wish you could just spank them and move on to the frozen veggies.  But you can’t spank them because you’re afraid you’ll end up in an eight by ten cell for six years with a murderous drug-dealing roommate who’s father obviously spanked him in the middle of a grocery store.

Eventually they give up. Yep, after about ten minutes they realize that they are not going to get those beer battered gummy worms and they get up and brush themselves off like nothing happened. So you start to move on down the isle just in time to see their brother or sister start the same routine in front of the donuts.

So last week we found ourselves in the cereal isle when my wife responded negatively to a question about cola soaked sugar coated chocolate cookie caramel flaky flakes.

Of course someone instantly dropped to the floor in a crying hysterical mess.  Arms impossibly flailing in every direction.  Legs kicking, or maybe peddling the air. Voice screaming about injustice and the lack of love and never buying stuff that tastes good.

Calmly, and with reason that only comes with experience, my loving wife simply looked down at me and said “Honey, if you don’t get up off the floor right now I’m leaving you forever…and I’m not taking the kids.”  Yeah, I got up.

The Magic Word

The word ‘Please’ in our house is just another one of those make-believe polite words that we only use when company is over.  Saying “Please” ranks right up there with “Thank you”, “Excuse Me”, and “Sorry I spilled hot soup on your lap Dad.”

In our house we have the magic word that puts please to shame.  This magic word is not so much a word as a phrase. Not so much a phrase as a concept. Here is a scenario when the magic word might be applied in our house:

Any one of my five children, lets say one of the twins, walks through a room being a perfect little angel and minding her own business.  The sweet and unsuspecting child’s only mistake is entering a room where I, her loving and devious father, am sitting.

Her next moment of awareness is a tight grip on her ankle as I drag her toward me while my other hand is tickling her with no mercy.  Her eyes widen in surprise and her hands fan the air in attempts to fend off my darting fingers, as an excited scream leaps out of her smile and melts into the tumbling laughter of an extreme tickle attack.

At the first chance she has to catch a quick breath she yells the Magic Word: “Daddy’s the best!”  Then she is free to go on about her business or launch a return attack of tickling fingers on her poor defenseless Dad.

I am proud to say that I am the inventor of this magic word.  I cannot claim that it struck me like a bolt of lightning, that one day I just came up with the concept of Daddy’s the best.  No, this indeed has been a labor of love that has taken over 20 years to develop.

My research began in the early days of life with my parents where I had the foresight of being born first.  My youngest brother was ten years lower on the food chain and was a key component to the development of the magic word concept.  My little brother would often ‘volunteer’ for the important tests we undertook.

We began with the obvious word ‘Uncle’ that would free him from what he now affectionately calls living death.  As this word is blatantly too short and quick conclusion offers no satisfaction to the tickler, the new magic word to be spoken by the victim (I mean subject) quickly became “Ben is the best!” Me being the Ben in question.

While this is the original idea behind the current magic word employed by my children, (and on certain special occasions, my wife, wink wink) my brother and I did experiment with alternate magic words such as “Ben is the best, I will name my first born child after you.”

That last one became the standard for years until my brother’s age and level of intelligence allowed for use of more sophisticated and poetic magic words, or phrases if you will.  There is nothing like tickling someone while they are trying to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, in Spanish  “Yo prometo (pause for laughter) fidelidad (pause for breath) de la bandera,(more laughter) delosEstadosUnidosdeAmerica (so fast its all one word).”  That’s just good clean fun.  And with research like that, how can you go wrong.  Hey, that’s how my brother learned the Gettysburg Address.

So as my children developed from babies to little people I began to implement my years of magic word research in our home.  Of course it just starts out as a garbled “Daddy Best!” but you know how it goes, one step at a time.

Now our family enjoys the magic word on a nearly daily basis.  As I mentioned earlier, it is a concept that can be applied to any family member, not just Daddy.  If my oldest is exercising her first born right to tease her younger siblings then they can escape her by yelling out the magic word; “Maddy is the Best!”

On occasion, or more like every single day, my loving little ones gang up for an attack on their Dad.  This is my opportunity to use the magic word and tell them they are the best.  Of course with five kids trying to tickle you with fingers that dig into your ribs like little railroad spikes, it takes awhile to get through all the names.

Someday I know they will start to grow out of the use of the magic word and we’ll have to start behaving like adults.  How will I know when that time is near?  Will it be when they mutter the Magic Word every time they enter a room I’m in?  When I drop them off at college or attend their wedding?  Or when they hit the teens and refuse to laugh, stare into space, and coldly say “Daddy’s the best” through gritted teeth?

I’m sure I’ll recognize that time when it comes.  For now I’ll just enjoy the magic word and the fun we have with it.  Besides, I think its time to start working on that Gettysburg thingy.