I don't want you to get the wrong idea about my boys from the last blog. They will mix it up with each other over some pretty mundane things like who gets the blue light saber vs the red light saber, not letting the other finish the story they have started or finishing it for them, or even who got to feed the dog last, but nothing on the planet will unite them quicker than a battle with their father.
Seeing how they are getting larger, and their combined weight is now more than mine, I usually try to take them on one or two at a time. This never lasts very long though, I am puzzled at how I can yell upstairs non-stop for ten minutes and they can't hear me but they can be in the basement with the X-box cranked and sense when one has thrown down the gauntlet and decided that today might be the day to take out the old man. They all come running like they stole something.
I can usually hear them coming and prepare for the assault, you know, figure out where I'm going to throw the first one, decide who gets the scissor lock, and who will have to suffer the double wrist clench. But as they get older their tactics have started to evolve. I blame the Jurassic Park movies, they now attack like velociraptors. One stands in front of me, not close enough to engage, but close enough to distract, then the others start closing in from the sides. If I am not careful and show one of them my back, it is over. It's like walking into the primate exhibit at the zoo with bananas in your pockets. Lots of high pitched shreiks, bodies flying from every direction, and furniture being displaced.
Don't feel sorry for me just yet, I can still take them. The couple times the scale started to tilt I was rescued by my wife as she never lets the skirmishes last very long. But don't feel sorry for them either, they are starting to adapt an anything goes, all or nothing, leave it all on the floor mentality. They are not above jumping on my back and trying to choke me out, or using their innocence claiming they don't know what a "crotch" shot is.
I am not fooling myself, I know that sooner or later the big kid on the block gets what is coming to him, I'm just trying to stave that off for as long as possible. I have to go now, I need to re-new my gym membership and start my cardio program, the Band of Brothers will be out of school soon.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
......and so it begins
You probably know by now that I have three young sons, ages 7, 6, and 3. I truly am blessed considering for the first seven years of our marriage we were starting to wonder if we would have any children at all. I was convinced that when or if we did that we would probably have a girl or girls seeing as there is an extremely high number in the family. Not that there would have been anything wrong with that, it was the fact that I was the last male in our family and you know how guys can get when faced with the end of the family name. No pressure right? Maybe that was part of the problem. Anyhoo... girls would have been great also but as I said, we were blessed with 3 boys and they all arrived in pretty close approximation, you do the math.
There is a different set of challenges presented when you are talking about either boys or girls. A few years ago, as the two older boys "playfully" wrestled around in front of us, I told my wife that there would come a day when they would go at it and the only thing we would be able to do is move the things we didn't want broken and wait for the outcome. My wife thought this notion to be utter balderdash, not our boys, they were going to be best of friends. Right, we'll see.
Up to this point my wife has, for the most part, been correct. There have been a few haymakers thrown, an unseen push or two, a couple kicks, and some choke holds, but all in all pretty harmless. Most of these transgressions have been committed by the two older boys being only 15 months apart, there is a constant battle for supremacy, in everything they do. They have learned to pick their battles and sometimes will allow the other to be crowned without conflict, while other times it is on like Donkey Kong. This is why I was so surprised when the first report we received from school about a nasty playground confrontation involved my three year old.
I guess it would kind of make sense now that I think about it, he has had ringside seats for some of the greatest bouts in the house. He has entered the fray as a third party occasionally but usually is sent back out as quick as he got it. Did I mention they are all a little large for their respective ages? The oldest weighed 10 lbs. 8ozs. when born. The 6 year old was the shrimp of the group at 8 lbs. 12 ozs. The youngest carried on the string of consecutive C-sections, weighing in at 9 lbs. 7 ozs. and they are still large for their age. The 7 year old is four feet eight inches tall in second grade, so they do carry a distinct reach advantage into any fray not involving their own siblings. I also have a penchant for watching mixed martial arts on TV, and they may have picked up a few things that they are experimenting with, the "ground and pound", Muay Thai clinches, the rear naked choke to name a few.
Back to the call. I was coming home from basketball practice and called my wife to see how the day had went. I took the two "bigs" with me as she had meetings after school and received a memo stating that kids hanging around after school was not a "professional work environment" for some of the teachers, obviously their kids are grown or they have none. It's a school, right? I was a little concerned about what she might think when she saw the six year old as he had jumped off the grandstands in 007 style, tripped over his own feet, and bashed the side of his face into a divider that gave him a welt Sugar Ray Leonard would be proud of, but fortunately she was preoccupied with the story from preschool.
This is the account and can neither be confirmed nor denied: a child on the playground, I'm assuming close to the same age, apparently called my son the big one, yes the queen mother of all insults to a 3 year old......."You are a BABY!" My son proceeded to grasp the victim by the shoulders, dig his nails in, and shake him like a rag doll, dispensing him on the ground as soon as he ran out of energy. Now I am faced with another parenting conundrum, I don't want my kid to be that kid, but let's get real, 3 years old or not, you call someone a baby and it's go time. Did this kid think my boy was going to agree? Yes, you are right, I am a baby. NO! He has spent his whole life trying to shed that little doozie, one the "bigs" occasionally bring up just to watch him go off, it's kind of a game for them. Maybe that kids parents need a note saying how rude their three year old was being, or...... how about 3 five minute rounds in the octagon after nap time. Now we're talking.
I don't care how old or where you are, you call someone a baby and you only have two choices. You can tap out, or you can black out. Atta kid!
There is a different set of challenges presented when you are talking about either boys or girls. A few years ago, as the two older boys "playfully" wrestled around in front of us, I told my wife that there would come a day when they would go at it and the only thing we would be able to do is move the things we didn't want broken and wait for the outcome. My wife thought this notion to be utter balderdash, not our boys, they were going to be best of friends. Right, we'll see.
Up to this point my wife has, for the most part, been correct. There have been a few haymakers thrown, an unseen push or two, a couple kicks, and some choke holds, but all in all pretty harmless. Most of these transgressions have been committed by the two older boys being only 15 months apart, there is a constant battle for supremacy, in everything they do. They have learned to pick their battles and sometimes will allow the other to be crowned without conflict, while other times it is on like Donkey Kong. This is why I was so surprised when the first report we received from school about a nasty playground confrontation involved my three year old.
I guess it would kind of make sense now that I think about it, he has had ringside seats for some of the greatest bouts in the house. He has entered the fray as a third party occasionally but usually is sent back out as quick as he got it. Did I mention they are all a little large for their respective ages? The oldest weighed 10 lbs. 8ozs. when born. The 6 year old was the shrimp of the group at 8 lbs. 12 ozs. The youngest carried on the string of consecutive C-sections, weighing in at 9 lbs. 7 ozs. and they are still large for their age. The 7 year old is four feet eight inches tall in second grade, so they do carry a distinct reach advantage into any fray not involving their own siblings. I also have a penchant for watching mixed martial arts on TV, and they may have picked up a few things that they are experimenting with, the "ground and pound", Muay Thai clinches, the rear naked choke to name a few.
Back to the call. I was coming home from basketball practice and called my wife to see how the day had went. I took the two "bigs" with me as she had meetings after school and received a memo stating that kids hanging around after school was not a "professional work environment" for some of the teachers, obviously their kids are grown or they have none. It's a school, right? I was a little concerned about what she might think when she saw the six year old as he had jumped off the grandstands in 007 style, tripped over his own feet, and bashed the side of his face into a divider that gave him a welt Sugar Ray Leonard would be proud of, but fortunately she was preoccupied with the story from preschool.
This is the account and can neither be confirmed nor denied: a child on the playground, I'm assuming close to the same age, apparently called my son the big one, yes the queen mother of all insults to a 3 year old......."You are a BABY!" My son proceeded to grasp the victim by the shoulders, dig his nails in, and shake him like a rag doll, dispensing him on the ground as soon as he ran out of energy. Now I am faced with another parenting conundrum, I don't want my kid to be that kid, but let's get real, 3 years old or not, you call someone a baby and it's go time. Did this kid think my boy was going to agree? Yes, you are right, I am a baby. NO! He has spent his whole life trying to shed that little doozie, one the "bigs" occasionally bring up just to watch him go off, it's kind of a game for them. Maybe that kids parents need a note saying how rude their three year old was being, or...... how about 3 five minute rounds in the octagon after nap time. Now we're talking.
I don't care how old or where you are, you call someone a baby and you only have two choices. You can tap out, or you can black out. Atta kid!
Friday, October 19, 2007
Good-Bye Skurdy, Hello Steager
Well it's happened again. My 3 year old has made another new "friend". I know I've told you about Skurdy and some of their adventures but this new kid has taken it to another level. As the new school year started we were pleasantly surprised to find out that my wife would be needed to teach full time this year instead of the part time role she held last year. At least I was happy about it, she teaches kindergarten and now has 2 full classes for a total of 50 students. Listening to a few of her stories from school I am convinced that she should have her own blog to share with you.
This new development only really affected our 3 year-old as it meant that he would be going to day care during the week. Yes, I felt for him as the other two boys got to spend the majority of their pre-school years at home with Mom. It is truly amazing how an increase to my wife's pay and the household's bottom line can blur my vision when it comes to what's fair in the daycare world. Anyway, after justifying in my mind that daycare would really be a great idea for my three year old as it would boost his social skills, we found a great place called the "Windmill" and they actually had room for him. I also found out that the Windmill would just about negate the increase in pay, but who am I to bother with such trivial matters.
Apparently Skurdy has moved to Fort Collins to attend school or at least this is what my three year old has told me. I'm not sure if Skurdy was sad about this but I thought it was good riddance, and my three year seemed unfazed as he has met someone new, Steager. You have heard the saying "be careful what you wish for..." right? Well it couldn't be more true. Steager is a total disaster. At least with Skurdy it was just nibbling at the corners of out of bounds, but Steager has set new standards.
My three year old came home telling us about how Steager had brought a couple weapons with him to school. Let me clarify here, Steager is imaginary and so were the weapons, but it was still a little un-nerving. I was really thinking that the only things my son would be bringing home were pictures of flowers and self portraits but again, as it has been so many times before, I was wrong. My son also told us how so and so fell down on the playground and when I asked if they had tripped he said no, Steager pushed them down. At this point I had to inquire with his teachers if my son was acting these things out and blaming Steager, they fortunately said no, and who is Steager? I am hoping Steager moves out of town before they turn 16 and start cruising around town together. So much for the social skills huh?
So as I wonder what Steager is going to do next, I was picking up my three year old the other day and the Windmill had put up all their Halloween decorations. I told him I really liked how his room looked and he agreed except for the purple skeleton that lives in the next room. I had to ask him if the skeleton was a decoration and he said no, he looked at the door that connects the pre-school room to the room next door and said he lives in there and has purple bones, he chases me with them. I am now so far out of my league that I say you know he is just pretend right? Again, he looks at the door and says no, he is real. Now I'm getting a little creeped out and have to peek in the window. Only a bunch of 5 year olds coloring pumpkins out of paper plates. So I go to the old stand by, well, we'll have to tell Mom about that huh? Then he's off to showing me how he can use the drinking fountain all by himself.
So much for pre-school helping him to become "adjusted". I wonder if it's to late to get my money back.
Happy Halloween!!
This new development only really affected our 3 year-old as it meant that he would be going to day care during the week. Yes, I felt for him as the other two boys got to spend the majority of their pre-school years at home with Mom. It is truly amazing how an increase to my wife's pay and the household's bottom line can blur my vision when it comes to what's fair in the daycare world. Anyway, after justifying in my mind that daycare would really be a great idea for my three year old as it would boost his social skills, we found a great place called the "Windmill" and they actually had room for him. I also found out that the Windmill would just about negate the increase in pay, but who am I to bother with such trivial matters.
Apparently Skurdy has moved to Fort Collins to attend school or at least this is what my three year old has told me. I'm not sure if Skurdy was sad about this but I thought it was good riddance, and my three year seemed unfazed as he has met someone new, Steager. You have heard the saying "be careful what you wish for..." right? Well it couldn't be more true. Steager is a total disaster. At least with Skurdy it was just nibbling at the corners of out of bounds, but Steager has set new standards.
My three year old came home telling us about how Steager had brought a couple weapons with him to school. Let me clarify here, Steager is imaginary and so were the weapons, but it was still a little un-nerving. I was really thinking that the only things my son would be bringing home were pictures of flowers and self portraits but again, as it has been so many times before, I was wrong. My son also told us how so and so fell down on the playground and when I asked if they had tripped he said no, Steager pushed them down. At this point I had to inquire with his teachers if my son was acting these things out and blaming Steager, they fortunately said no, and who is Steager? I am hoping Steager moves out of town before they turn 16 and start cruising around town together. So much for the social skills huh?
So as I wonder what Steager is going to do next, I was picking up my three year old the other day and the Windmill had put up all their Halloween decorations. I told him I really liked how his room looked and he agreed except for the purple skeleton that lives in the next room. I had to ask him if the skeleton was a decoration and he said no, he looked at the door that connects the pre-school room to the room next door and said he lives in there and has purple bones, he chases me with them. I am now so far out of my league that I say you know he is just pretend right? Again, he looks at the door and says no, he is real. Now I'm getting a little creeped out and have to peek in the window. Only a bunch of 5 year olds coloring pumpkins out of paper plates. So I go to the old stand by, well, we'll have to tell Mom about that huh? Then he's off to showing me how he can use the drinking fountain all by himself.
So much for pre-school helping him to become "adjusted". I wonder if it's to late to get my money back.
Happy Halloween!!
Friday, August 24, 2007
So you're going to be a father?
It has come to my attention that a few of my younger cousins (three to be exact) are soon to be blessed with babies. One of them already has a child and the other two will be brand new parents. First of all congratulations!!! Now I know none of you asked and if you are anything like me probably are tired of being hammered with parenting advice from others that are trying to "help". This is why I'm different, I am in no way offering "help", you are on your own, these are your children, and as hard as you try to convince yourself that you are up to the task, you aren't and soon will be asking a lot of people for help.
I am offering speculation and predictions. Even if I wanted to help I couldn't, I'm in my own war. You will be too, soon.
I recently heard a quote from one of the cousins through their mother to my mother, that his house is not going to be turned into "Romper Room". You are wrong, it will. What is comfortable to you no longer matters. Your house will become barricaded with devices made out of materials they use on the space shuttle, to protect your new born and also to frustrate you. You can no longer go to the cupboards and grab a snack. You will have installed 'locks' on all doors, compartments, drawers, and anything else that has a one in million chance of harming the baby. Now you have to use your cat burglar skills to crack the safe hiding the Doritos. What's that...you don't have cat burglar skills? You better start practicing. You will need to know how to crack safes, move silently and undetected, drive long distances in the middle of the night, and use hand signals to communicate with your wife as to not wake up the baby. (My wife usually only had to use one hand signal, yes, that one.) All electrical outlets will be covered with plastic caps that are impossible for a person over twenty to remove without breaking all your finger nails off, but are removed fairly simply by anyone under the age of four. You will also need to gate off every stairway, doorway, and fireplace so the place looks and feels like Waco, Texas. (no offense to the Texas cousins) Oh sure, it's fun to act like Renaldo Nehimiah a couple times and hurdle these things, but trust me, sooner or later you will fall flat on your face or pull a hammy. They also require the IQ of Einstein to open and close correctly, that's why I started hurdling them.
I know you think you have braced yourself for the fact that you will be changing a 'few' diapers. Wrong again. You will be changing 85% of the diapers and here's why. Your wife will be doing basically everything else, feeding, cuddling, putting down, getting up the baby. Not because it is her job, it is because mothers have these special baby powers that they are born with, and these enable them to do things you can't even comprehend. My kids would all still be sleeping in a crib and eating applesauce if my wife wasn't around. Ironic that I would mention applesauce and diapers at the same time huh? Don't know what I'm talking about? You will learn, see, and smell things that could end the war on terror when standing at the changing table. Also watermelon is considered a weapon of mass destruction, be careful with this one, there isn't a circus tent, let alone a diaper, that is built to handle to much watermelon.
Enjoy sitting down for dinner in the evenings? Nothing like a hot meal at the end of the day right? You will no longer be eating warm anything. You can also forget eating at the table with your family. At dinner, you will become the cook, gopher, and janitor. Don't get overwhelmed, all these jobs overlap and you will move smoothly from one to the next and not even know you are doing it.
Now for the most brutal realization that is waiting around the corner for you. Are you ready? You are no longer number one. As a matter of fact, you are now last on the depth chart. There is no 'you' time. You will be stealing glimpses of the fourth quarter on the TV as you pass by to take a bottle up to the baby. Babies don't like to fly fish, they don't like to gamble, they don't like your friends, and they don't like your TV shows. They hate golfing, fireworks, any loud noises, and they hate to sleep for a long time. I know that's a lot of info and it rattled me to the core, but the sooner you realize it and come to grips, the easier this transition will be for you.
Oh, I almost forgot, you need to start practicing for this right now. Go outside and break three or four glass bottles in the street, it's OK, everyone will know what you are doing. Now take off your socks and shoes and walk across the glass. I know it sounds bad but it hurts less and prepares you for all the Legos you will be stepping on in the middle of the night.
Once again, Congratulations!!
I am offering speculation and predictions. Even if I wanted to help I couldn't, I'm in my own war. You will be too, soon.
I recently heard a quote from one of the cousins through their mother to my mother, that his house is not going to be turned into "Romper Room". You are wrong, it will. What is comfortable to you no longer matters. Your house will become barricaded with devices made out of materials they use on the space shuttle, to protect your new born and also to frustrate you. You can no longer go to the cupboards and grab a snack. You will have installed 'locks' on all doors, compartments, drawers, and anything else that has a one in million chance of harming the baby. Now you have to use your cat burglar skills to crack the safe hiding the Doritos. What's that...you don't have cat burglar skills? You better start practicing. You will need to know how to crack safes, move silently and undetected, drive long distances in the middle of the night, and use hand signals to communicate with your wife as to not wake up the baby. (My wife usually only had to use one hand signal, yes, that one.) All electrical outlets will be covered with plastic caps that are impossible for a person over twenty to remove without breaking all your finger nails off, but are removed fairly simply by anyone under the age of four. You will also need to gate off every stairway, doorway, and fireplace so the place looks and feels like Waco, Texas. (no offense to the Texas cousins) Oh sure, it's fun to act like Renaldo Nehimiah a couple times and hurdle these things, but trust me, sooner or later you will fall flat on your face or pull a hammy. They also require the IQ of Einstein to open and close correctly, that's why I started hurdling them.
I know you think you have braced yourself for the fact that you will be changing a 'few' diapers. Wrong again. You will be changing 85% of the diapers and here's why. Your wife will be doing basically everything else, feeding, cuddling, putting down, getting up the baby. Not because it is her job, it is because mothers have these special baby powers that they are born with, and these enable them to do things you can't even comprehend. My kids would all still be sleeping in a crib and eating applesauce if my wife wasn't around. Ironic that I would mention applesauce and diapers at the same time huh? Don't know what I'm talking about? You will learn, see, and smell things that could end the war on terror when standing at the changing table. Also watermelon is considered a weapon of mass destruction, be careful with this one, there isn't a circus tent, let alone a diaper, that is built to handle to much watermelon.
Enjoy sitting down for dinner in the evenings? Nothing like a hot meal at the end of the day right? You will no longer be eating warm anything. You can also forget eating at the table with your family. At dinner, you will become the cook, gopher, and janitor. Don't get overwhelmed, all these jobs overlap and you will move smoothly from one to the next and not even know you are doing it.
Now for the most brutal realization that is waiting around the corner for you. Are you ready? You are no longer number one. As a matter of fact, you are now last on the depth chart. There is no 'you' time. You will be stealing glimpses of the fourth quarter on the TV as you pass by to take a bottle up to the baby. Babies don't like to fly fish, they don't like to gamble, they don't like your friends, and they don't like your TV shows. They hate golfing, fireworks, any loud noises, and they hate to sleep for a long time. I know that's a lot of info and it rattled me to the core, but the sooner you realize it and come to grips, the easier this transition will be for you.
Oh, I almost forgot, you need to start practicing for this right now. Go outside and break three or four glass bottles in the street, it's OK, everyone will know what you are doing. Now take off your socks and shoes and walk across the glass. I know it sounds bad but it hurts less and prepares you for all the Legos you will be stepping on in the middle of the night.
Once again, Congratulations!!
Monday, July 16, 2007
Floundering Lessons
Well with the run of 90 degree temperatures you know it is time for that annual rite of passage during the summer, swimming lessons, or in our case, floundering lessons.
Now the boys and I have done a wonderful job of presenting a united front when it comes to the topic of getting a small aluminum fishing boat for all the "men" in the family to use. I am really proud how we have stuck it out even in the face of ultimate veto power, my wife. We have had many other "brilliant" ideas, in our estimation, shot down with little or no resistance when in the face of MOM. It's really something to watch, the plan is concocted in the basement between me and the 3 boys, we sound it off each other, try to think of all the counters, then march upstairs to battle. It usually takes about 4.7 seconds for my wife to either sidetrack the boys with something else, or proceed to tear our plans to shreds by pointing out the many flaws, the biggest usually involving insurance premiums. But not this time. We have remained strong under a heavy barrage of anti-fun artillery. We are really getting to her because she brought out the weapon of mass destruction as a final resort. That's right, she finally relented and fell back on, you can get a boat, but first.........you all have to learn how to swim. Talk about kamikaze warfare. She hit the boys right where they are the softest, in the water. I didn't realize the extent of this torpedo shot until I showed up on the first day of "floundering lessons".
It might not have happened exactly like this but this is what I remember as a kid when my sister and I were "enrolled". Swimming lessons lasted everyday for about 12 weeks and 8 hours a day. We would be told to ride our bikes at 8:00 in the morning, over to the pool and wait for our lessons to begin. So we rode the mile and half to the pool and waited for an hour or so until it was our turn. We worked our way through beginners, advanced beginners, intermediates, jr. life-saving, etc. After a couple hours in the pool, we would get back on our bikes, ride over to a friends, and after they were ready, ride back to the pool and wait until the pool opened for the afternoon. We would stay there all afternoon, taking a forced break at 3:00 that the lifeguards said was "the law", eat a Marathon bar and drink a Dr. Pepper, then get back in until they closed at 5:00. Well, things have changed.
I showed up for the first day of my kids lessons, and it was something like this: The 6 and 7 year old are in Polywogs, or whatever the very lowest class is along with all the other 4 year olds. Great. This sends a jitter through me, as a proud father, I expect to see a couple of Michael Phelps' out there. Not the case. I walk over to where my wife is sitting with some other friends and notice that they are all having a great time watching our boys take on their own personal demons in 3 feet of water. I tell myself, it's the first day they will get the hang of it and soon be on their way to ducklings, or whatever is next. Not so. I focus on what's happening in the pool and come to the unfortunate realization that there are three instructors for the class, one with the 7 year old, one with the 6 year old, and one with all the other kids. So they need a little one on one attention with this new stroke they are learning, no they need the attention because they aren't going to let go of the side! I'm starting to sweat a little bit. Fortunately, the class only lasts half an hour. When it is over, the boys get out and I see that all the other kids are wet from head to toe while my kids are dry from the eyeballs up. Their mother gives them words of encouragement and tells them we will be getting them goggles after swim lessons to help with the whole underwater thing. I try to say something but my throat is dry as a see mothers walking by smiling at how "cute" the non-amphibious ones are. My three year old is next, he wades right in. Now we are talking. Their assignment is to throw objects across the pool and go get them. My son makes a very strong showing, he throws more things than any other kid. OK, here's our chance at redemption, then it happens, one of the other kids throws a ball that glances off my kid's head. No blood no foul right, nope, my kid takes a swing at him. They are separated and the other parents settle in to see what is going to happen next. I gradually slink towards the door.
Swimming lessons last for two weeks, so I'm sure this story isn't over. Until then, we'll be out there, floundering away, thinking about the boat that could have been.
Now the boys and I have done a wonderful job of presenting a united front when it comes to the topic of getting a small aluminum fishing boat for all the "men" in the family to use. I am really proud how we have stuck it out even in the face of ultimate veto power, my wife. We have had many other "brilliant" ideas, in our estimation, shot down with little or no resistance when in the face of MOM. It's really something to watch, the plan is concocted in the basement between me and the 3 boys, we sound it off each other, try to think of all the counters, then march upstairs to battle. It usually takes about 4.7 seconds for my wife to either sidetrack the boys with something else, or proceed to tear our plans to shreds by pointing out the many flaws, the biggest usually involving insurance premiums. But not this time. We have remained strong under a heavy barrage of anti-fun artillery. We are really getting to her because she brought out the weapon of mass destruction as a final resort. That's right, she finally relented and fell back on, you can get a boat, but first.........you all have to learn how to swim. Talk about kamikaze warfare. She hit the boys right where they are the softest, in the water. I didn't realize the extent of this torpedo shot until I showed up on the first day of "floundering lessons".
It might not have happened exactly like this but this is what I remember as a kid when my sister and I were "enrolled". Swimming lessons lasted everyday for about 12 weeks and 8 hours a day. We would be told to ride our bikes at 8:00 in the morning, over to the pool and wait for our lessons to begin. So we rode the mile and half to the pool and waited for an hour or so until it was our turn. We worked our way through beginners, advanced beginners, intermediates, jr. life-saving, etc. After a couple hours in the pool, we would get back on our bikes, ride over to a friends, and after they were ready, ride back to the pool and wait until the pool opened for the afternoon. We would stay there all afternoon, taking a forced break at 3:00 that the lifeguards said was "the law", eat a Marathon bar and drink a Dr. Pepper, then get back in until they closed at 5:00. Well, things have changed.
I showed up for the first day of my kids lessons, and it was something like this: The 6 and 7 year old are in Polywogs, or whatever the very lowest class is along with all the other 4 year olds. Great. This sends a jitter through me, as a proud father, I expect to see a couple of Michael Phelps' out there. Not the case. I walk over to where my wife is sitting with some other friends and notice that they are all having a great time watching our boys take on their own personal demons in 3 feet of water. I tell myself, it's the first day they will get the hang of it and soon be on their way to ducklings, or whatever is next. Not so. I focus on what's happening in the pool and come to the unfortunate realization that there are three instructors for the class, one with the 7 year old, one with the 6 year old, and one with all the other kids. So they need a little one on one attention with this new stroke they are learning, no they need the attention because they aren't going to let go of the side! I'm starting to sweat a little bit. Fortunately, the class only lasts half an hour. When it is over, the boys get out and I see that all the other kids are wet from head to toe while my kids are dry from the eyeballs up. Their mother gives them words of encouragement and tells them we will be getting them goggles after swim lessons to help with the whole underwater thing. I try to say something but my throat is dry as a see mothers walking by smiling at how "cute" the non-amphibious ones are. My three year old is next, he wades right in. Now we are talking. Their assignment is to throw objects across the pool and go get them. My son makes a very strong showing, he throws more things than any other kid. OK, here's our chance at redemption, then it happens, one of the other kids throws a ball that glances off my kid's head. No blood no foul right, nope, my kid takes a swing at him. They are separated and the other parents settle in to see what is going to happen next. I gradually slink towards the door.
Swimming lessons last for two weeks, so I'm sure this story isn't over. Until then, we'll be out there, floundering away, thinking about the boat that could have been.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
MAR-LY-VOUS
Here we go again. If you have been tuning in to what's going on around the house lately, you are well aware of our new addition Piper, the family dog. The family has made some adjustments to this new lifestyle, but not much has changed. Oh sure we are minus a few things that have been shredded, torn, and pulverized by the puppy, but that's a small price to pay for the immeasurable amount of joy and happiness that now abounds in the house. Are you catching the sarcasm here? Who knew that all you really need for a puppy to be happy is a box of Pampers diapers? Not the cheapest chew toys on the market.
We have also had a shift in expenses at the store where pre-puppy our 5 gallons of milk per week (the boys are growing like weeds) was the largest amount of liquids purchased. Post-puppy I would say that stain and odor remover has moved into a close second on the liquids list. I still can't wrap my head around the fact that a puppy that small can produce so much "liquid" itself. It also only took a month for me to figure out that when you catch her in the act of relieving herself inside, you shouldn't scream NO at the top of your lungs because now you have two puddles and a snail track to clean up as she scampers away. I already told you I'm a slow learner right?
Well it was time for us to take Piper for her first check-up, and being the humane people we are we decided to go. Big mistake. I did not attend the dog's consultation but was called and told to report to the Pet Dr.'s office. When I arrived the caper was already set into motion, not even all the superheros in the Justice League could stop it now. The three boys were cuddling two gray kittens that were six weeks old, I also noticed, while surveying the crime scene, my wife engaged in a cozy conversation with the pet Dr. who happens to be a fairly good looking guy. Yes, I'm secure enough in my manhood to admit this. It was going something like this: (handsome pet Dr.) I would suggest you feed Piper this one of a kind dog food sold exclusively at our office. (my wife) Oh, OK. (smiling) (handsome pet Dr.) Now that you have decided to "adopt" one of the kittens I recommend this one of a kind kitten food sold exclusively at our office. (my wife) OK, sure. (smiling) (handsome pet Dr. with a charming grin) We also ask for a small donation to the Humane Society to help with the next litter, you know? (my wife) Oh, of course. (still smiling). Even if I had a calculator I wouldn't be able to keep up with the tab that handsome Pet Dr. was un-spooling right before my eyes. At this point I realize that if I were to try and stop this trainwreck, the moment had long passed, it was probably way back on the phone when she asked me to come by the pet Dr.'s, so I am reduced to a shadow on the periphery of my wife's vision as the handsome pet Dr. weaves his tapestry of wonderment. I'll admit it, he is a smooth operator, no pun intended. We probably would have bought one or two of everything in there, maybe even the building, if handsome pet Dr. had suggested this.
Long story short, we load up the dog, the kids, the new bags of animal food, and our new kitten who is named Marley.
Mar-ly-vous, just Mar-ly-vous.
We have also had a shift in expenses at the store where pre-puppy our 5 gallons of milk per week (the boys are growing like weeds) was the largest amount of liquids purchased. Post-puppy I would say that stain and odor remover has moved into a close second on the liquids list. I still can't wrap my head around the fact that a puppy that small can produce so much "liquid" itself. It also only took a month for me to figure out that when you catch her in the act of relieving herself inside, you shouldn't scream NO at the top of your lungs because now you have two puddles and a snail track to clean up as she scampers away. I already told you I'm a slow learner right?
Well it was time for us to take Piper for her first check-up, and being the humane people we are we decided to go. Big mistake. I did not attend the dog's consultation but was called and told to report to the Pet Dr.'s office. When I arrived the caper was already set into motion, not even all the superheros in the Justice League could stop it now. The three boys were cuddling two gray kittens that were six weeks old, I also noticed, while surveying the crime scene, my wife engaged in a cozy conversation with the pet Dr. who happens to be a fairly good looking guy. Yes, I'm secure enough in my manhood to admit this. It was going something like this: (handsome pet Dr.) I would suggest you feed Piper this one of a kind dog food sold exclusively at our office. (my wife) Oh, OK. (smiling) (handsome pet Dr.) Now that you have decided to "adopt" one of the kittens I recommend this one of a kind kitten food sold exclusively at our office. (my wife) OK, sure. (smiling) (handsome pet Dr. with a charming grin) We also ask for a small donation to the Humane Society to help with the next litter, you know? (my wife) Oh, of course. (still smiling). Even if I had a calculator I wouldn't be able to keep up with the tab that handsome Pet Dr. was un-spooling right before my eyes. At this point I realize that if I were to try and stop this trainwreck, the moment had long passed, it was probably way back on the phone when she asked me to come by the pet Dr.'s, so I am reduced to a shadow on the periphery of my wife's vision as the handsome pet Dr. weaves his tapestry of wonderment. I'll admit it, he is a smooth operator, no pun intended. We probably would have bought one or two of everything in there, maybe even the building, if handsome pet Dr. had suggested this.
Long story short, we load up the dog, the kids, the new bags of animal food, and our new kitten who is named Marley.
Mar-ly-vous, just Mar-ly-vous.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Skurdy and Co.
I will be the first to admit that I have never been accused of being a mental giant, and rightfully so. Oh sure, I can quote obscure Denver Bronco facts from as far back as 1972, quote every line from the movie A Christmas Story, store tons of useless facts just so I might be able to call BS on someone at a party, and remember every humiliating event from my friends and family's lives and bring them up when there is a lull in the conversation but I don't think Mensa will be knocking down my door anytime soon. (Apparently a 28 on the ACT in 1986 doesn't assure you spot next to Stephen Hawking.)
The reason I bring up this flaw of mine is I wasn't told that I would need to become an expert in child psychology when I became a father. I was pretty sure all you had to do was tell them what to do and everything would run smoothly. Further proof of my intellectual inadequacy.( I just had to look up how to spell inadequacy.) Are you getting the point? My three year old is administering a crash course in Psych 101, 201, 301 every day. While his brothers are at school each day and coming home with wild and far out stories of the trials and tribulations of elementary school, the 3 year old has entered into his own social world. He does interact with other kids and has started to recount some of their sordid experiences.
He first mentioned his friend "Megan" to me. I of course had no idea who Megan was but I encouraged him as he told story after story about how he and Megan play together, what Megan's mom let's her do, and all the other things assorted with best friends. I thought it was very telling that he had a girl for his best friend, of course I perceived this as him being a Don Juan already. Finally I asked my wife who this Megan was and she just looked at me with that look like "Hey you just missed the short bus" and told me Megan was imaginary. What? Is that normal? Apparently it is so I had to take some time and digest this info. Pretty soon He started talking about Megan's cat "Jealous". Now this coincides with his older brothers starting to attend classmates birthday parties and having even more things to tell us when they get home. I don't think the cats name is a coincidence, but hey, I'm still learning here, I don't want to read to much into it.
After a couple months of getting used to the follies of Megan and Jealous, it's pretty cute at this point, there comes that kid. You know the one, it was probably me for some of my innocent friends and cousins, the one that pushes the line, makes you do things you know you shouldn't, tells you don't worry it will be fine, or it didn't hurt that bad. Enter "Skurdy". Skurdy is the same as nobody, you know when you ask them who spilled this? He now says Skurdy did it. He likes to tell us what Skurdy says or does, like Skurdy ate bird poop. Of course this catches you off guard and you say what? So his plan works flawlessly and he gets to say bird poop again. When you tell him we don't need to say things like that, he says not me, Skurdy said it.
You see what I'm up against here? I'm being played by a three year old, or should I say Skurdy. If there was just one kid I think I could handle it, but this makes me wonder what the 6 and 7 year olds are getting away with. There are three of them and only two of us, we have had to go from a man-to-man defense to a zone, and everyone knows a good shooter, or dribble penetration will nullify a zone in no time. So far the 7 year old shows good ball handling skills, and Skurdy is shooting the lights out.
I place my trust in my wife, she is "the big man in the middle", a great shot blocker, she contests every shot and plays at the rim. She is the coach on the floor, telling me where to be, who to cover, what shots to allow, and when to box out. As far as I can tell the score is all tied up, but it's only half time. All we can do is go out and keep doing what we did in the first half, we are all heart baby!
Check the box scores....It's anybody's ball game at this point.
The reason I bring up this flaw of mine is I wasn't told that I would need to become an expert in child psychology when I became a father. I was pretty sure all you had to do was tell them what to do and everything would run smoothly. Further proof of my intellectual inadequacy.( I just had to look up how to spell inadequacy.) Are you getting the point? My three year old is administering a crash course in Psych 101, 201, 301 every day. While his brothers are at school each day and coming home with wild and far out stories of the trials and tribulations of elementary school, the 3 year old has entered into his own social world. He does interact with other kids and has started to recount some of their sordid experiences.
He first mentioned his friend "Megan" to me. I of course had no idea who Megan was but I encouraged him as he told story after story about how he and Megan play together, what Megan's mom let's her do, and all the other things assorted with best friends. I thought it was very telling that he had a girl for his best friend, of course I perceived this as him being a Don Juan already. Finally I asked my wife who this Megan was and she just looked at me with that look like "Hey you just missed the short bus" and told me Megan was imaginary. What? Is that normal? Apparently it is so I had to take some time and digest this info. Pretty soon He started talking about Megan's cat "Jealous". Now this coincides with his older brothers starting to attend classmates birthday parties and having even more things to tell us when they get home. I don't think the cats name is a coincidence, but hey, I'm still learning here, I don't want to read to much into it.
After a couple months of getting used to the follies of Megan and Jealous, it's pretty cute at this point, there comes that kid. You know the one, it was probably me for some of my innocent friends and cousins, the one that pushes the line, makes you do things you know you shouldn't, tells you don't worry it will be fine, or it didn't hurt that bad. Enter "Skurdy". Skurdy is the same as nobody, you know when you ask them who spilled this? He now says Skurdy did it. He likes to tell us what Skurdy says or does, like Skurdy ate bird poop. Of course this catches you off guard and you say what? So his plan works flawlessly and he gets to say bird poop again. When you tell him we don't need to say things like that, he says not me, Skurdy said it.
You see what I'm up against here? I'm being played by a three year old, or should I say Skurdy. If there was just one kid I think I could handle it, but this makes me wonder what the 6 and 7 year olds are getting away with. There are three of them and only two of us, we have had to go from a man-to-man defense to a zone, and everyone knows a good shooter, or dribble penetration will nullify a zone in no time. So far the 7 year old shows good ball handling skills, and Skurdy is shooting the lights out.
I place my trust in my wife, she is "the big man in the middle", a great shot blocker, she contests every shot and plays at the rim. She is the coach on the floor, telling me where to be, who to cover, what shots to allow, and when to box out. As far as I can tell the score is all tied up, but it's only half time. All we can do is go out and keep doing what we did in the first half, we are all heart baby!
Check the box scores....It's anybody's ball game at this point.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Easter Egg Practice
You had to see this topic coming right? Once again, when there are three small boys under one roof and you throw in the chance to humiliate your siblings (cue Wide World of Sports "The Thrill of Victory and the Agony of Defeat") by simply collecting more eggs than the others, it's like putting a lighter to hairspray.(or so I've heard)
I happen to work for a company that also owns a nursery and it is the perfect setting for the annual Easter egg hunt. 14 acres of trees, shrubs, perennials, ponds, mud, dirt, and rocks. Now to this add 10,000 eggs, approx. 1000 kids divided into 3 age groups, 2000 parents, the Easter Bunny and you have a fairly explosive setting. We have to get the city police department to help with parking otherwise there would be altercations involving well-meaning parents whose judgement has been clouded by the jubilation of kids drunk on the thought of jelly beans and tootsie rolls. Yes, it's that serious.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think I am the only parent that secretly harbors the thoughts of seeing your kid find "The Golden Egg" and basking in their glory as they give play by play accounts of how it was discovered. This might be a vision that I put a little more stock in since at the age of 5 I watched from the sidelines as my 7 year old sister actually achieved this feat in our home town. Yes the prize was a blue stuffed rabbit, but it looked like the greatest blue stuffed rabbit in the world and she WON it. So yes, there is a part of me that has carried that moment around for the last 30+ years, and if I can grab a slice of it vicariously through one of my kids, than maybe we can close that chapter, maybe. I know, I know, there are therapists out there drooling to get their hands on me.
Back to the hunt. A couple days ago I was out in the yard trying to puppy proof the yard (see previous post) and the boys came out to "practice" for the egg hunt. As a coach I was naturally excited and pleased to see this kind of extra work being put in before the week-end. My 7 year old had weaved his own basket at school that day, (what are they learning? where's dodge ball?) He was very proud of it and as far as I could tell, had created a masterpiece of construction paper. He made the serious mistake of deciding to use this during the practice session. All three boys were at it, the 7 year old, 6 year old, and 3 year old and it was going all right. Then out of no where, I hear a banshee scream. I turn to see if anyone has lost an appendage, not yet. I am able to take in this much, the 7 year old has set down his marvelous creation and in that moment it is snatched up by the 6 year old and he runs with it. (The 3 year old is busy filling his plastic eggs with sand from the sand box which he will shortly take inside and open on the kitchen table.) I see the 7 year old running at the 6 year old and screaming a battle cry reminiscent of William Wallace at Falkirk. The 6 year old hears the warrior scream and knows he has stepped over the line and stops to see if amends can be made. In the blink of an eye, the 7 year old has covered the ten yards and proceeds to lay a bone crushing tackle on the six year old, a real snot bubbler. In slow motion I see the air filled with multi-colored plastic eggs and construction paper. The six year old starts to cry, and I don't blame him.
Now I am faced with a parent conundrum. The hit was excessive and vicious, but at that moment I am thinking that that is the most athletic move my 7 year old has made to date and it was text book. He had his head to the side and drove through his target with his shoulder, if it would have been a ball carrier instead of an egg carrier and his little brother, he would have been tackled for a loss, and forced into an obvious passing down where the defense could pin their ears back. A game changer!! Focus Dad, focus.
I glance at my 3 year old and he says, "Bailey (the 7 year old) bad boy." This shakes the Friday Night Lights from my head and I am able to scold the 7 year old and send him inside where the terrible fate of explaining why his brother is crying to his mother awaits him, because I really am thinking to myself, how can you be mad about that kind of tackle? I take this moment to pull my 6 year aside and talk with him. He is no longer crying because he knows justice is about to be handed out on the other side of the sliding glass door. I offer condolences and some advice. You know if you keep your feet moving, make a jab step left, then stiff arm him under the chin he doesn't lay a hand on you. My wife overhears part of this and yells from the kitchen, what are teaching them?
My reply, we're just practicing!!
I happen to work for a company that also owns a nursery and it is the perfect setting for the annual Easter egg hunt. 14 acres of trees, shrubs, perennials, ponds, mud, dirt, and rocks. Now to this add 10,000 eggs, approx. 1000 kids divided into 3 age groups, 2000 parents, the Easter Bunny and you have a fairly explosive setting. We have to get the city police department to help with parking otherwise there would be altercations involving well-meaning parents whose judgement has been clouded by the jubilation of kids drunk on the thought of jelly beans and tootsie rolls. Yes, it's that serious.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think I am the only parent that secretly harbors the thoughts of seeing your kid find "The Golden Egg" and basking in their glory as they give play by play accounts of how it was discovered. This might be a vision that I put a little more stock in since at the age of 5 I watched from the sidelines as my 7 year old sister actually achieved this feat in our home town. Yes the prize was a blue stuffed rabbit, but it looked like the greatest blue stuffed rabbit in the world and she WON it. So yes, there is a part of me that has carried that moment around for the last 30+ years, and if I can grab a slice of it vicariously through one of my kids, than maybe we can close that chapter, maybe. I know, I know, there are therapists out there drooling to get their hands on me.
Back to the hunt. A couple days ago I was out in the yard trying to puppy proof the yard (see previous post) and the boys came out to "practice" for the egg hunt. As a coach I was naturally excited and pleased to see this kind of extra work being put in before the week-end. My 7 year old had weaved his own basket at school that day, (what are they learning? where's dodge ball?) He was very proud of it and as far as I could tell, had created a masterpiece of construction paper. He made the serious mistake of deciding to use this during the practice session. All three boys were at it, the 7 year old, 6 year old, and 3 year old and it was going all right. Then out of no where, I hear a banshee scream. I turn to see if anyone has lost an appendage, not yet. I am able to take in this much, the 7 year old has set down his marvelous creation and in that moment it is snatched up by the 6 year old and he runs with it. (The 3 year old is busy filling his plastic eggs with sand from the sand box which he will shortly take inside and open on the kitchen table.) I see the 7 year old running at the 6 year old and screaming a battle cry reminiscent of William Wallace at Falkirk. The 6 year old hears the warrior scream and knows he has stepped over the line and stops to see if amends can be made. In the blink of an eye, the 7 year old has covered the ten yards and proceeds to lay a bone crushing tackle on the six year old, a real snot bubbler. In slow motion I see the air filled with multi-colored plastic eggs and construction paper. The six year old starts to cry, and I don't blame him.
Now I am faced with a parent conundrum. The hit was excessive and vicious, but at that moment I am thinking that that is the most athletic move my 7 year old has made to date and it was text book. He had his head to the side and drove through his target with his shoulder, if it would have been a ball carrier instead of an egg carrier and his little brother, he would have been tackled for a loss, and forced into an obvious passing down where the defense could pin their ears back. A game changer!! Focus Dad, focus.
I glance at my 3 year old and he says, "Bailey (the 7 year old) bad boy." This shakes the Friday Night Lights from my head and I am able to scold the 7 year old and send him inside where the terrible fate of explaining why his brother is crying to his mother awaits him, because I really am thinking to myself, how can you be mad about that kind of tackle? I take this moment to pull my 6 year aside and talk with him. He is no longer crying because he knows justice is about to be handed out on the other side of the sliding glass door. I offer condolences and some advice. You know if you keep your feet moving, make a jab step left, then stiff arm him under the chin he doesn't lay a hand on you. My wife overhears part of this and yells from the kitchen, what are teaching them?
My reply, we're just practicing!!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Puppies
The idea of getting a puppy is always a great thought, especially for someone who has always had one. Our last dog, Sasha, has been gone now 2 years and the house has seemed a little empty, or as empty as it can feel with three small boys thinking their life is one long episode of romper room. Now I was all for getting another dog but when the subject is brought up by the entire family, ready to dive in head first, I felt as if someone needed to be the voice of reason.
This in and of itself is a ridiculous suggestion. Anyone who knows us knows that all decision making is either approved (usually her ideas) or vetoed (me and the boys ideas) by my wife. She has supreme veto power even in the face of 4 to 1 odds, no two thirds majority here. So now you are probably thinking, why are you using democratic terminology to explain what clearly is an autocracy? Well, we all need a little bit of hope, right?
Anyway my wife and I have an invisible dance we do when certain subjects come up. I think it is mainly on big ticket items where down the road a ways there may be some buyers remorse, and if that happens then I am in the boat up the creek with her to share the burden. (Really pretty crafty, maybe even diabolical on her part) We will discuss a topic like should we get that new car, or I was looking at this new furniture, or should we get a puppy. Here is where the slight of hand comes in. She actually asks me, what I think and if I think it would be a good idea. This opening salvo serves two purposes. First I am stunned into thinking that I might be involved with making a serious decision and who doesn't like the way that feels. So now I have been blinded with what I conceive as a form of flattery, (oh she knows what buttons to push, am I really that shallow...yes) and am totally off balance. Then she follows up with, well...maybe we shouldn't. AHA! Now I am am making the decision, it is up to me and only me, I'm wide open, no one else around, time to make the big play, everyone is watching. My thought process is this, if I say no I am considered an ogre. If I say yes I will be loved and favored by all the subjects in my court, and who doesn't like the way that feels. I barely notice my wife and kids huddeling up and high fiving. They have me just where they want me. I hear the little voice in my head saying not to quickly, savor the moment, it doesn't come around that often. So it begins...
I don't know....
Please Please Please!!!!! Can't we get one? We'll take care of her. Please Please Pleeeeeease Dad.
They are a big responsibility, you know we would have to find someone to watch her if we wanted to go anywhere.
We'll stay home, we don't need to go anywhere.
You have to feed and get her water.
We already get our own water, that's easy! We all know where the food is, no problem.
I mean get water for the dog and food for the dog. She can't get her own like you guys. (Except 20 minutes after lights out when you all suddenly are hungry and thirsty)
Yes Yes We will do it.
Someone has to pick up after her.
I can pick her up, she is tiny.
No, outside, after she goes the bathroom, someone needs to pick it up. (My poor yard, it was looking great)
Um,....... I'll do it. (Not as many volunteers here, but at least one is stepping out on that ledge)
The delight in everyone's face is multiplying exponentially with every question. They are going to love me forever. Now who is the clever one? I have already made my decision but they hang in the balance. Oh how sweet it is. Well, if you guys promise to take care of her and love her than I guess we could get a puppy. The applause and rejoicing is deafening, I am the greatest father on the planet, drink it up big guy. You have done it!! Finally a decision all by yourself. As the jubilant cheers start to taper off my wife says great here is an address, they have puppies, meet us there at ten. Huh? Just meet us at ten. The next five days is a blur of chew toys, kibble, and puppy cries in the night.
That's how it ends, I have to go now. My boys are playing downstairs in the warmth of our basement while a spring snow storm howls outside. The puppy has had some food and water I gave her, now I have to carry her out in the snow and wait for her to do her business, then pick it up.
And who doesn't like the way that feels?
This in and of itself is a ridiculous suggestion. Anyone who knows us knows that all decision making is either approved (usually her ideas) or vetoed (me and the boys ideas) by my wife. She has supreme veto power even in the face of 4 to 1 odds, no two thirds majority here. So now you are probably thinking, why are you using democratic terminology to explain what clearly is an autocracy? Well, we all need a little bit of hope, right?
Anyway my wife and I have an invisible dance we do when certain subjects come up. I think it is mainly on big ticket items where down the road a ways there may be some buyers remorse, and if that happens then I am in the boat up the creek with her to share the burden. (Really pretty crafty, maybe even diabolical on her part) We will discuss a topic like should we get that new car, or I was looking at this new furniture, or should we get a puppy. Here is where the slight of hand comes in. She actually asks me, what I think and if I think it would be a good idea. This opening salvo serves two purposes. First I am stunned into thinking that I might be involved with making a serious decision and who doesn't like the way that feels. So now I have been blinded with what I conceive as a form of flattery, (oh she knows what buttons to push, am I really that shallow...yes) and am totally off balance. Then she follows up with, well...maybe we shouldn't. AHA! Now I am am making the decision, it is up to me and only me, I'm wide open, no one else around, time to make the big play, everyone is watching. My thought process is this, if I say no I am considered an ogre. If I say yes I will be loved and favored by all the subjects in my court, and who doesn't like the way that feels. I barely notice my wife and kids huddeling up and high fiving. They have me just where they want me. I hear the little voice in my head saying not to quickly, savor the moment, it doesn't come around that often. So it begins...
I don't know....
Please Please Please!!!!! Can't we get one? We'll take care of her. Please Please Pleeeeeease Dad.
They are a big responsibility, you know we would have to find someone to watch her if we wanted to go anywhere.
We'll stay home, we don't need to go anywhere.
You have to feed and get her water.
We already get our own water, that's easy! We all know where the food is, no problem.
I mean get water for the dog and food for the dog. She can't get her own like you guys. (Except 20 minutes after lights out when you all suddenly are hungry and thirsty)
Yes Yes We will do it.
Someone has to pick up after her.
I can pick her up, she is tiny.
No, outside, after she goes the bathroom, someone needs to pick it up. (My poor yard, it was looking great)
Um,....... I'll do it. (Not as many volunteers here, but at least one is stepping out on that ledge)
The delight in everyone's face is multiplying exponentially with every question. They are going to love me forever. Now who is the clever one? I have already made my decision but they hang in the balance. Oh how sweet it is. Well, if you guys promise to take care of her and love her than I guess we could get a puppy. The applause and rejoicing is deafening, I am the greatest father on the planet, drink it up big guy. You have done it!! Finally a decision all by yourself. As the jubilant cheers start to taper off my wife says great here is an address, they have puppies, meet us there at ten. Huh? Just meet us at ten. The next five days is a blur of chew toys, kibble, and puppy cries in the night.
That's how it ends, I have to go now. My boys are playing downstairs in the warmth of our basement while a spring snow storm howls outside. The puppy has had some food and water I gave her, now I have to carry her out in the snow and wait for her to do her business, then pick it up.
And who doesn't like the way that feels?
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Fishing 101
Fishing is one of the few sports that my young boys have taken a real interest in. I've found that shoving all the "ball" sports down their throats at a young age when they aren't coordinated enough to walk and chew gum yet is like asking your wife if you can get a boat before they are old enough to swim. (I smell another blog with that topic) The idea is entertained only long enough to create visions of them throwing touchdowns and hitting home runs in the bottom of the ninth only to be crushed as soon as a butterfly or roly poly is spotted.
So, fishing it is. My 7 year old was the proud recipient of his very own spinning rod combo on his birthday in January and we finally had nice enough weather to take it out for a test drive. Here I have to give you some backround, on Saturday mornings instead of cartoons all three boys are enthralled with the fishing shows on various outdoor networks. Excellent right? Remember they are 7,6, and 3 so at this age anything seen on television can be duplicated after watching it one time. (Also works the same with my wife and home shows) You merely need watch the 17 minutes of a program minus the commercials and suddenly know more than anyone, especially your father, on any topic under the sun.
Back to the marvelous gift. With the pole he received a low grade tackle box with a few assorted lures and jigs, none of these any serious fisherman would spend two cents on. But here is where being 7 and knowing everything comes into play. He decides that since he saw a show where the host was using a jig to pull out monstrous bass that it's as simple as having your dad tie one on and throwing it in the water.
Now my plan was to take them to a gravel pit close by, because if we don't catch a fish in 20 minutes it's on to the next thing like butterflies and sticks, to catch a few bluegill and get the season started on a positive note. Being the swami of fishing tactics I suggested we tie on a fly and bobber and soon we would be pulling them out hand over fist. No. He is going to use a jig and that is that. OK, waste your time and see if I care.
My 6 year old, still using one of my 2 foot ice fishing rods, can feel the controversy building and decides the fly sounds like a good idea and we hook him up with that. Now I have a control for the experiment and I am ready to gather data.
We arrive at the gravel pit and as I am setting down everyone's tackle boxes, bottles of water, and other necessities my seven year old makes exactly 2 casts and pulls in a bluegill. "Dad I caught one!" he says, and as I congratulate him I ponder how he has beaten the unbelievable odds of such a feat also hoping he won't remember the previous discussion. 7 year olds don't forget...anything. As I'm helping release the prey, I hear a casual, "I told you so." As I fight the urge to sling him and his new pole out into the water I muster up, "Yeah, you did, good job."
Fast forward 45 minutes, time I have alternated between the two boys poles unwinding, unsnagging, and re-stringing lines. The 7 year old says dad i'm tangled and I choose this time to explain one of life's hard lessons, "Part of fishing is taking care of your own gear, there isn't always going to be someone around to help." Pretty deep huh? A life lesson covered with a fishing metaphor. Nice work Dad. I see him sit down and set to work on his tangle. I'll have to admit he worked pretty hard at it because after 10 minutes the tangle was 100 times worse than it had started. Realizing this he sets down the pole and states,"I'm taking a short break." I figure he hasn't quite given up yet so I'll see how it goes.
My six year old's eyes light up like a gambler seeing the strip and casually saunters over to the new pole, tangle and all and picks it up. He notices that there is about 7 feet of line still available before the mother of all knots and proceeds to start dragging the line up and down the shore line. I am taking this break in the action to actually make a few casts myself, and hear the six year old behind me say, "I got one!!" Without turning I say it's probably a snag and he says, "NO, it's a BASS!!" Then I turn and see that he has, against all the rules of mother nature and the fishing gods, somehow landed a 7 inch smallmouth bass.
Now the commotion has gotton the 7 year olds attention and he is on his way over to see what all the noise is about. "Is that a bass dad?" he asks. It sure is I say, what a proud papa, their first bass. Then I hear, "I told you so."
New rod and reel combo $35, fishing license with habitat stamp $30 dollars, kids not restrained with knowledge but an immeasureable ability to belive in one self....Priceless.
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