Some time ago, like many, many moons ago, I was living with my parents like most out of college kids (I may even still have been in high school at that point). I didn't have enough money for the finer things in life. Namely new audio cables. (Hey what can I say. I'm an audio geek.) So to combat the lack of funds I started to fix and/or make new audio cables that I had around. My ever attentive father got me this sweet precision screwdriver set and soldering iron. One of these gifts is used more than any other tool I have ever used; and it doesn't even get hot.
Since my children have grown, toys break. It is a part of life; just like the sun rising and the weather changing. I can remember my father hot gluing wheels on my General Lee. It turns out that that super car really can't fly. Sometimes parents say a prayer when a toy breaks. "Finally, we don't have to listen to that noisy toy at all hours of the day." or "Thank God! Time for some peace and quiet." We all want our children to have good, educational toys, but a line has to be drawn at the annoying factor. And most toys the kids want have an annoying factor of one million.
So yesterday we were at the fair (because it is now fair season and what better way to spend the day eating and buying crap than a fair) and the kiddies get their eye's on some of the finest toys the World Famous Goshen Fair has to offer. To our defense, it was a little noisy when the light up butterfly was purchased for an ungodly amount of money, but a mid afternoon tantrum in front of a packed fair wasn't in the cards. When we finally get to a nice quiet spot with our french fries doused in catsup and vinegar (my wife likes the vinegar on her fair fries) we are serenaded by the lovely, never ending, not annoying at all sound of this seizure inducing insect. Oh joyous day!
Fast forward to bed time and the kids are all riled as if they were mainlining pixie sticks. They finally settle when from up stairs I hear a voice that informs all that her butterfly is broken. "There is a God!" But like any good father would do, I inspect and see if it can be repaired, tell her it will take time and hopefully she will get it back tomorrow good as new. Upon my inspection, I come to the conclusion that there is no saving this high quality piece of crap and give up to finish watching Breaking Bad to hopefully return in the morning with a fresh mind and some bright ideas.
The morning comes and just like it happened seconds ago, she inquires about here busted hunk of overpriced plastic. Again I tried to fix it the best way I could think; taking it apart, super-gluing the tinniest of tiny plastic piece that won't stay put unless I had an injection mold for this one part. Defeated, my mind began to improvise, trying to bring joy to my little angle's life. Then I remembered the best tool ever made. Duct Tape! A gift from the heavens. Before I venture down the new repair road, I ponder if the aesthetics of the dull grey adhesive would be acceptable, but forge on anyway. After some strategically placed miracle tape, the fake crystal looking bug on a stick is back in action and joy is returned to a three year old's psyche. Score one for dad and Duct Tape.
The moral of this story is there are things that we used PC (pre children) that are just as important, if not more important than they are today (AC- After Children). Who knew a set of tiny screwdrivers would single handedly bring so much joy to my children. Such is life.
On a related note, the other toy, the stuffed dog on a stick, ripped in three places. No screwdriver is going to fix that. That one is up to her mother.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Are my kids bi-polar or just kids?
This morning Bayly woke up and was a pill from the get go. We are living in a hotel room for the week while my wife has a conference. A normal child will be grateful for the "spoiling" she has received. The pool trips. The later than any five year old should be allowed to go to bed bed times. The popsicles, candy, treats, junk food, crack cocaine (pixie sticks), movies and whatever else we did to keep them quiet and public appropriate.
So this morning Bayly "Couldn't find anything to wear!" She didn't want to wear a dress. No dress? She wears dresses to plant a garden. She wears dresses to ride a bike. She even wears dresses over her dresses to go grocery shopping. With the FIVE TO TEN dresses that are clean and packed out of the question, we move onto the other perfectly acceptable garments available to her.
"This is too tight."
"This is ugly." Even thought she has just about worn a hole in it.
"I don't want that."
"I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR!"
Normally I would just leave her in her room and let her tantrum it out. But we are living in the lovely Hilton Chicago. (More on the amenities of lack thereof later) I cannot in good fatherhood let her scream and yell and be a spoiled little "girl" where the whole 3000 room hotel can hear her. So I did what any "good" father would do. I told Cali that we were going to breakfast and left. I didn't really leave. We just left the room and waited in the hall. Usually that is enough to snap her into line. Usually. Three minutes or so later there was a little voice at the door. So I go in only to be sternly asked to "GIVE ME PRIVACY! GET OUT!"
"Where am I supposed to go?" I asked. "The bathroom?" There is only the bathroom and the main room. I can't hide out in the open. I have yet to perfect the cloaking device. Soon....Soon... And then I will make millions...........
So back into the hall Cali and I go. Soon its "I have no leggings, but Cali does."
"Fine, get hers but change your shirt. You wore it all day yesterday AND you slept in it."
This simple statement set off another whole ration of shit. At this point, I am the end of whatever frayed rope I have been dangling from.
"Fine. Wear the shirt, but lets go."
Crisis adverted. Not really but adverted in the loosest sense of the term. Off to breakfast. The kids agree to share strawberry pancakes because the restaurant doesn't do single flapjacks. Compromise. A step in the right direction. It would have been great, but either kid failed to eat any pancakes. Cali ate the strawberries and Bayly wasn't hungry. Whatever. I had no more fight in my for another public battle. But my cinnamon roll french toast was killer. If you come across it anytime, do yourself a service and gobble them up. Or go to Yolk in Chicago. Its up to you.
So we finish breakfast of champions (really breakfast of wills) and head to the shuttle to go to the kids camp. Another perk of the conference. I have been kid-less for two afternoons. Bummer, I know. I make do. On the shuttle she's right as rain. I stopped trying to figure women out many many moons ago. I have found its easier and better for the psyche not to try. But I figured I would be able to figure out a five year old. Not so much.
Is she bi-polar? Is the "I change my mind because I am a woman" thought process (or lack-thereof) imbedded at birth? Is she just a kid? Am I out of my mind for thinking I could figure these beings out? All of the above? Perhaps. Probably. Most definitely.
As promised here is more about the Hilton.
I am writing this post from a Starbucks eight blocks from the hotel. Starbucks, where you can come, sit, buy an overpriced yet delicious beverage, or not, and use the WiFi.
Hilton Chicago. Where you get a room that costs more than a beverage from the barista (some of them, at least), and no free WiFi. They charge some ungodly fee and still charge for the room. Its a nice room. Not thee nicest room ever built but it works. Would it kill them to have some free WiFi? I've been to a fair amount of hotels and motels in my day and in my experience the fancier the joint the lack of free WiFi. But as you work your way down the price ladder of establishments, the more willing they are to give free internet access. Go figure.
If you work for Hilton, the last part was just a rant. Don't take it personally. If you don't work for Hilton, be prepared to dish out a few bucks if you want to access the interweb at their elegant and magnificent establishment.
So this morning Bayly "Couldn't find anything to wear!" She didn't want to wear a dress. No dress? She wears dresses to plant a garden. She wears dresses to ride a bike. She even wears dresses over her dresses to go grocery shopping. With the FIVE TO TEN dresses that are clean and packed out of the question, we move onto the other perfectly acceptable garments available to her.
"This is too tight."
"This is ugly." Even thought she has just about worn a hole in it.
"I don't want that."
"I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR!"
Normally I would just leave her in her room and let her tantrum it out. But we are living in the lovely Hilton Chicago. (More on the amenities of lack thereof later) I cannot in good fatherhood let her scream and yell and be a spoiled little "girl" where the whole 3000 room hotel can hear her. So I did what any "good" father would do. I told Cali that we were going to breakfast and left. I didn't really leave. We just left the room and waited in the hall. Usually that is enough to snap her into line. Usually. Three minutes or so later there was a little voice at the door. So I go in only to be sternly asked to "GIVE ME PRIVACY! GET OUT!"
"Where am I supposed to go?" I asked. "The bathroom?" There is only the bathroom and the main room. I can't hide out in the open. I have yet to perfect the cloaking device. Soon....Soon... And then I will make millions...........
So back into the hall Cali and I go. Soon its "I have no leggings, but Cali does."
"Fine, get hers but change your shirt. You wore it all day yesterday AND you slept in it."
This simple statement set off another whole ration of shit. At this point, I am the end of whatever frayed rope I have been dangling from.
"Fine. Wear the shirt, but lets go."
Crisis adverted. Not really but adverted in the loosest sense of the term. Off to breakfast. The kids agree to share strawberry pancakes because the restaurant doesn't do single flapjacks. Compromise. A step in the right direction. It would have been great, but either kid failed to eat any pancakes. Cali ate the strawberries and Bayly wasn't hungry. Whatever. I had no more fight in my for another public battle. But my cinnamon roll french toast was killer. If you come across it anytime, do yourself a service and gobble them up. Or go to Yolk in Chicago. Its up to you.
So we finish breakfast of champions (really breakfast of wills) and head to the shuttle to go to the kids camp. Another perk of the conference. I have been kid-less for two afternoons. Bummer, I know. I make do. On the shuttle she's right as rain. I stopped trying to figure women out many many moons ago. I have found its easier and better for the psyche not to try. But I figured I would be able to figure out a five year old. Not so much.
Is she bi-polar? Is the "I change my mind because I am a woman" thought process (or lack-thereof) imbedded at birth? Is she just a kid? Am I out of my mind for thinking I could figure these beings out? All of the above? Perhaps. Probably. Most definitely.
As promised here is more about the Hilton.
I am writing this post from a Starbucks eight blocks from the hotel. Starbucks, where you can come, sit, buy an overpriced yet delicious beverage, or not, and use the WiFi.
Hilton Chicago. Where you get a room that costs more than a beverage from the barista (some of them, at least), and no free WiFi. They charge some ungodly fee and still charge for the room. Its a nice room. Not thee nicest room ever built but it works. Would it kill them to have some free WiFi? I've been to a fair amount of hotels and motels in my day and in my experience the fancier the joint the lack of free WiFi. But as you work your way down the price ladder of establishments, the more willing they are to give free internet access. Go figure.
If you work for Hilton, the last part was just a rant. Don't take it personally. If you don't work for Hilton, be prepared to dish out a few bucks if you want to access the interweb at their elegant and magnificent establishment.
I am a dad. I am still a man.
It occurred to me the other day that fatherhood has changed me. This "revelation" came to me as the girls and I were watching Disney's "Brave". For those who have yet to see it, or won't ever see it, it is a story of an independent princess. But not a princess in the likes of the glitzy, girly, prince Charming waiting, evil step-mother having princess. This strong, independent princess will do good for girls near and far. She is very similar to my princesses. Independent, strong willed, don't tell me no, I can do it myself kind of princess. Sound familiar?
Back to the dad part. Ever since Bayly entered this world I noticed a change in myself. I am sure other father's have noticed the same change. I started to get teary-eyed at sappy movies. I started to see things differently in the way of emotional situations; mostly in movies and shows.
At the end of "Brave" there is an emotional reunion of sorts of the princess and her mother. I could feel the room get "dusty." Darn dust; always gets into my eyes and sure as the weather men are wrong my eyes start to water. I am totally confident it was the dust concentration in the air and had NOTHING to do with the movie. NOTHING.
So as I was driving my family to a business trip for my wife, and everyone in the car was either sleeping (wife), watching a movie (Bayly), or annoying her sister to no end (Cali) I had the aforementioned revelation. While I may have become an emotional movie watcher, or developed and very acute allergy to dust (more likely), I am still a man. I do man things. I mow the lawn, superbly. I fix things, sometimes just good enough, sometimes not superbly, sometimes it gets the job done. I do have two kids, ya know.
The moral of this is I can be both. I can show my princesses that a father can have that emotional side, or that its ok to be really allergic to dust and I can do masculine things. I guess that is just the juggling act of fatherhood. At least in the fatherhood of stay-at-home-dad land.
Being a good dad/father/man is tough work. All we can do is our best.
Back to the dad part. Ever since Bayly entered this world I noticed a change in myself. I am sure other father's have noticed the same change. I started to get teary-eyed at sappy movies. I started to see things differently in the way of emotional situations; mostly in movies and shows.
At the end of "Brave" there is an emotional reunion of sorts of the princess and her mother. I could feel the room get "dusty." Darn dust; always gets into my eyes and sure as the weather men are wrong my eyes start to water. I am totally confident it was the dust concentration in the air and had NOTHING to do with the movie. NOTHING.
So as I was driving my family to a business trip for my wife, and everyone in the car was either sleeping (wife), watching a movie (Bayly), or annoying her sister to no end (Cali) I had the aforementioned revelation. While I may have become an emotional movie watcher, or developed and very acute allergy to dust (more likely), I am still a man. I do man things. I mow the lawn, superbly. I fix things, sometimes just good enough, sometimes not superbly, sometimes it gets the job done. I do have two kids, ya know.
The moral of this is I can be both. I can show my princesses that a father can have that emotional side, or that its ok to be really allergic to dust and I can do masculine things. I guess that is just the juggling act of fatherhood. At least in the fatherhood of stay-at-home-dad land.
Being a good dad/father/man is tough work. All we can do is our best.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Update but on a happier note
The last post was a somber one. Today is my second birthday. Not second as in I am two, second as in it is the date of my second life. If you need further explanation refer to the other post on this day.
Any-hoo, since we last met I went on an extended vacation. And NO. I didn't get put in the clink, slammer or out to pasture. I went on a lovely vacation with my wife, kids and in-laws. A few days on the beach. Some golf. And what seemed like a lifetime at Disney. It only seemed like a lifetime because we were trying to get the most we could in our time there. It had NOTHING (and I'm serious here) to do with the company. Sure we had our differences and some of us (me) needed to cool off more than others, but once we got into the swing of things everything went rather smoothly.
Moving on....
If you have a chance to go to Tybee Island Georgia (aka Savannah) Go! Don't hesitate. Sure its a beach. Sure its crowded. But it is as close to paradise as Hawaii. Moral of this story is if you can't make it to Tybee, go to Hawaii. (Good luck with that. Let me know how it works out for you.)
Disney is great. If you have kids. But I had fun too. I would have liked to gotten all dolled up in the Bibbity Bobbity Glitter-fest but I guess they frown upon grown men getting all make-uped and putting on a dress and following around a princess all day. What do they know?! They could make a bunch of more money if they changed just a little....
The real travesty is the fact that there is no alcohol in Magic Kingdom; the flagship of Disney World Florida. Epcot you can drink around the world. Hollywood Studios. C'mon. Hollywood without any mind numbing substances would be Branson, MI. (I apologize for any and all of my Branson followers. I have never been your lovely city. I am just trying to make a humorous point.) Even Animal Kingdom allows alcohol. What could possibly go wrong with a drunken patron and live animals, right? But not in Magic Kingdom. I guess they are hedging their bets that the dads would get all boozed up while their kids are getting doused with more glitter than the end of the year parade at P-Town and end up hitting on the princesses. Or Minnie Mouse. Hey, some guys like that. Not me. I'm just saying I've heard some guys have a thing for a girl mouse. Whatever blows up your skirt, I guess.
Long story longer, the vacation was good. The last day we celebrated an 80th birthday of a grandfather-in-law with his seven (yes I said seven, as in one more than six and one less than eight) kids. Now I don't feel so bad with just two angels. Happy birthday Poppy Hoss!
Any-hoo, since we last met I went on an extended vacation. And NO. I didn't get put in the clink, slammer or out to pasture. I went on a lovely vacation with my wife, kids and in-laws. A few days on the beach. Some golf. And what seemed like a lifetime at Disney. It only seemed like a lifetime because we were trying to get the most we could in our time there. It had NOTHING (and I'm serious here) to do with the company. Sure we had our differences and some of us (me) needed to cool off more than others, but once we got into the swing of things everything went rather smoothly.
Moving on....
If you have a chance to go to Tybee Island Georgia (aka Savannah) Go! Don't hesitate. Sure its a beach. Sure its crowded. But it is as close to paradise as Hawaii. Moral of this story is if you can't make it to Tybee, go to Hawaii. (Good luck with that. Let me know how it works out for you.)
Disney is great. If you have kids. But I had fun too. I would have liked to gotten all dolled up in the Bibbity Bobbity Glitter-fest but I guess they frown upon grown men getting all make-uped and putting on a dress and following around a princess all day. What do they know?! They could make a bunch of more money if they changed just a little....
The real travesty is the fact that there is no alcohol in Magic Kingdom; the flagship of Disney World Florida. Epcot you can drink around the world. Hollywood Studios. C'mon. Hollywood without any mind numbing substances would be Branson, MI. (I apologize for any and all of my Branson followers. I have never been your lovely city. I am just trying to make a humorous point.) Even Animal Kingdom allows alcohol. What could possibly go wrong with a drunken patron and live animals, right? But not in Magic Kingdom. I guess they are hedging their bets that the dads would get all boozed up while their kids are getting doused with more glitter than the end of the year parade at P-Town and end up hitting on the princesses. Or Minnie Mouse. Hey, some guys like that. Not me. I'm just saying I've heard some guys have a thing for a girl mouse. Whatever blows up your skirt, I guess.
Long story longer, the vacation was good. The last day we celebrated an 80th birthday of a grandfather-in-law with his seven (yes I said seven, as in one more than six and one less than eight) kids. Now I don't feel so bad with just two angels. Happy birthday Poppy Hoss!
Its July 9th. What do you remember about today?
So here is a non fiction story. The setting is 19 years ago, today. In an old mill town in southern New England. This is how it happend, or so I am told....
A young boy was swimming in the family pool when a storm rolled through town like a two-bit carnival cutting short the refreshing swim. Thunder. Lightening. Rain. Normal early summer storm; nothing too spectacular. Just as the carnival rolled into town, it was gone. But unlike most suspect carnivals, this one didn't leave that much of an impact.
20 or so minutes after the much-a-do-about-nothing storm some neighbors decide to pass the time with a friendly soccer "kick-around" in the spacious front yard while dad shoots baskets in the driveway across the street, enjoying the summer afternoon.
Then it happened. As with perfect timing only a cheetah can match, a bolt of lightning came crashing down. It may have hit a large oak tree. It may have hit a whiskey barrel planter. It may have hit the 14 year old boy running after a soccer ball. Yes all of those scenarios are viable. But it doesn't matter who or what was the direct hit. The tree showed no signs of distress. The planter's metal bands were smoking. The boy, however, was on his way to a nice six foot flight across the yard. (Six feet doesn't seem like a "flight" per se, but six up and six over in the opposite direction he was running is some feat.) One other soccer player is down. Another is down and back up.
Basketball dad comes running, feet barely hitting the ground. His attention going towards the down soccer player but changes his direction when they rise. His attention is now focused on the lone child not moving; his son. When he turns his son over he sees the color fading from his face. Immediately calls are out to 911 and soon the dispatcher is relaying CPR instructions. Soon bystanders come to relieve the father of a duty that no father should ever have to do. A neighbor's daughter. An off duty Police Sergeant. Soon the paramedics arrive. Clothes are cut and torn exposing a burn from feet straight up to and around the neck and back to and around the waist with the most perfect bow at the belly.
The young boy is put into the ambulance and whisked across town the the hospital. All the major intersections were closed for this one young life. At the hospital he was flown to a bigger hospital, who were more equipped for such an emergency. The twelve or so minute flight must have seemed like an eternity to the boys mother as he was shocked back into a stable rhythm more than a few times.
Once stable, the child is admitted into the ICU and put on breathing machines and all the necessary monitoring devices. The parents, aunts, uncles and just about everyone close to the boy had a very long and tiring night ahead.
A 24 hour coma later the nurses were alerted to the boy's machines alarms. DId he stop breathing? Was there another complication? What is going on?
It turns out this kid was a fighter. He pulled out the breathing tube. He pulled the monitor leads off. He was done with that. But what about his brain? Would he be brain damaged? Would he know his family? Would he know anything? Family and the doctors were thinking the same thing. But at least he is alive.
Doctors do their thing, examining him. Testing him. It turns out the burns were the path the electricity took through the boy's body. The burn around the neck was from a cheap necklace he had on, which may have turned the charge around and back to the wet ties in his swim trunks. But what about his mental state?
Sleep. Awake. "Do you know where you are?"
"No."
"You're in the hospital. Do you know why you are here?"
"No."
"You were struck by lightening."
"Cool."
That exchange went on for a few sleeps all the while watching "Ferris Beuler's Day Off" again and again and again. This is not what the parents were hoping for. Then one day the answers changed. He KNEW where he was and WHY he was there. The doctors were asking memory questions and he was getting them correct. He knew his family. His girlfriend. He could even count backwards from 100 by three's (no easy feat, even for the doctors).
All told a week in the hospital, a couple of take home heart monitors and a neuro-psych test later he is given a clean bill of health. So much so that he decides to take a 30 mile bike ride through the hills of northern Connecticut less than one month after the accident. And you thought he wouldn't be ok.
So there is the story of how I was struck by lightening. Some of the facts may not be 100% accurate, but I wasn't really there. Its just pieces of what I remember people telling me. To this day I have no recollection of July 5th through July 12 or 13. I'm just gonna chalk it up to being a kid.
A young boy was swimming in the family pool when a storm rolled through town like a two-bit carnival cutting short the refreshing swim. Thunder. Lightening. Rain. Normal early summer storm; nothing too spectacular. Just as the carnival rolled into town, it was gone. But unlike most suspect carnivals, this one didn't leave that much of an impact.
20 or so minutes after the much-a-do-about-nothing storm some neighbors decide to pass the time with a friendly soccer "kick-around" in the spacious front yard while dad shoots baskets in the driveway across the street, enjoying the summer afternoon.
Then it happened. As with perfect timing only a cheetah can match, a bolt of lightning came crashing down. It may have hit a large oak tree. It may have hit a whiskey barrel planter. It may have hit the 14 year old boy running after a soccer ball. Yes all of those scenarios are viable. But it doesn't matter who or what was the direct hit. The tree showed no signs of distress. The planter's metal bands were smoking. The boy, however, was on his way to a nice six foot flight across the yard. (Six feet doesn't seem like a "flight" per se, but six up and six over in the opposite direction he was running is some feat.) One other soccer player is down. Another is down and back up.
Basketball dad comes running, feet barely hitting the ground. His attention going towards the down soccer player but changes his direction when they rise. His attention is now focused on the lone child not moving; his son. When he turns his son over he sees the color fading from his face. Immediately calls are out to 911 and soon the dispatcher is relaying CPR instructions. Soon bystanders come to relieve the father of a duty that no father should ever have to do. A neighbor's daughter. An off duty Police Sergeant. Soon the paramedics arrive. Clothes are cut and torn exposing a burn from feet straight up to and around the neck and back to and around the waist with the most perfect bow at the belly.
The young boy is put into the ambulance and whisked across town the the hospital. All the major intersections were closed for this one young life. At the hospital he was flown to a bigger hospital, who were more equipped for such an emergency. The twelve or so minute flight must have seemed like an eternity to the boys mother as he was shocked back into a stable rhythm more than a few times.
Once stable, the child is admitted into the ICU and put on breathing machines and all the necessary monitoring devices. The parents, aunts, uncles and just about everyone close to the boy had a very long and tiring night ahead.
A 24 hour coma later the nurses were alerted to the boy's machines alarms. DId he stop breathing? Was there another complication? What is going on?
It turns out this kid was a fighter. He pulled out the breathing tube. He pulled the monitor leads off. He was done with that. But what about his brain? Would he be brain damaged? Would he know his family? Would he know anything? Family and the doctors were thinking the same thing. But at least he is alive.
Doctors do their thing, examining him. Testing him. It turns out the burns were the path the electricity took through the boy's body. The burn around the neck was from a cheap necklace he had on, which may have turned the charge around and back to the wet ties in his swim trunks. But what about his mental state?
Sleep. Awake. "Do you know where you are?"
"No."
"You're in the hospital. Do you know why you are here?"
"No."
"You were struck by lightening."
"Cool."
That exchange went on for a few sleeps all the while watching "Ferris Beuler's Day Off" again and again and again. This is not what the parents were hoping for. Then one day the answers changed. He KNEW where he was and WHY he was there. The doctors were asking memory questions and he was getting them correct. He knew his family. His girlfriend. He could even count backwards from 100 by three's (no easy feat, even for the doctors).
All told a week in the hospital, a couple of take home heart monitors and a neuro-psych test later he is given a clean bill of health. So much so that he decides to take a 30 mile bike ride through the hills of northern Connecticut less than one month after the accident. And you thought he wouldn't be ok.
So there is the story of how I was struck by lightening. Some of the facts may not be 100% accurate, but I wasn't really there. Its just pieces of what I remember people telling me. To this day I have no recollection of July 5th through July 12 or 13. I'm just gonna chalk it up to being a kid.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
I'm a good samaritan!
In another chapter of "My life is a Sitcom", here's a story for y'all.
So I was on my way to go deal with a child and bed time issues (read "My wrist hurts"and "my leg hurts" and "I can't fall asleep. I tried really, really hard", etc.) when I spotted some geese and a duck in my front lawn. Normally I would think its pretty cool to have such exotic wildlife in my lawn, but I also remembered that a few weeks ago a neighbor searched my woods for some of her foul that had been run amok the night prior. After I laid down the nighttime law, I went over the the aforementioned neighbor's house to altert them of their runaway feathered pets. There was no answer at the door; pitch black inside. Either they are being really, really quiet, or they are away. I wonder which is the logical answer. I mean, they have kids and I know how hard it is to keep kids quiet for a second let alone a few minutes. They must be hiding....
After I gave up on the neighbors are hiding from me theory, I followed the mini flock up the street with the intention of coaxing them back home. How? I had no idea. I've never moved geese before. I tried whistling at them. Calling them. Chirping at them. Kissing and click noises. They were not amused or even remotely interested in me. I felt that they would be fine and eventually make their way home. The neighbor told me that they are very good at finding their way back home so I felt confident that they could fend for themselves until they meandered home.
As I was walking back to my lovely abode, I looked back up the street to see my new feathered friends crossing the road. (Please no "Why did the goose cross the road" jokes) I live on a very busy main route. People come flying by all the time. Last year a very intoxicated woman decided my mailbox looked better 50 feet down the road than at the end of my driveway. I just wish she used her words instead of her car at a high rate of speed. So I am motioning to the coming cars to slow down to give my feathered comrades a fighting chance of crossing the busy thoroughfare. One gentleman thinks I was waving at him and kindly waves back. Eventually he realizes what I was alluding to and stops to let them cross. As for the other lane of traffic, not so much. I can only be in one place a one time. This one driver didn't see the birds until it was too late. Two of the five hollow boned animals met their maker with a feathery, automobile-ic thud. The guy that hit them was very concerned and apologetic. I really felt bad for his tween daughter in the passenger seat who witnessed the whole episode. She seemed to be taking it quite well. He felt so bad that he called the police then ran to BJ's for a few things. But he said he'd be back to check in before going home. What a nice guy.
So he leaves. I get the rest of the very sad flock (if you can call it that) into the back yard and into their pen. Then the police officer arrives. I fill him in on the situation, who the rogue birds belong to and whatnot. This officer and I spot another lone bird and decide to reunite hime with his feathered brethren. This bird is a little more agile and astoot. It was one of the city's finest and me, chasing a duck, trying to steer him this way or that. We succeed to get him back to the pen after about 20 minutes or so. It must have been some sight. Then the driver who assaulted the geese/ducks came back.
A car pulls into the driveway of the house that houses these birds. I'm thinking the owners came back from dinner or a night out on the town or discovering some far new land or something. But nope. It was just the duck-sitter; the person responsible for locking up these guys at night. Then another (or the same one) bird is spotted. Now its on!
For the next HALF AN HOUR (or so) me, the duck locker-upper, and a couple of neighbors try to get this fast, smart, ornery, sly, insane, black duck back home. And the cop just drove right by. I guess he is only good for one wildlife call per night. I'm sure he will be talking to this call to all his cop buddies for a while. Back to the runaway duck. We corner it. It gets away. The helper takes a few dives to try to grab it but it gets away. It was quite comical. Finally we get him cornered in a bush and he is captured. Ordeal over! Just use your imagination and try to see us chasing a duck around the neighborhood. Laugh at will. I did.
All in all it was an unexpected turn of events that broke up the normalcy of a Saturday night. And I did some good samaritan work. Maybe this will get me off the fast track to the bad place when I meet my maker. I just hope it won't be as I'm crossing the road with my feathered friends.
And I forgot....
HAPPY FATHER'S DAY TO ALL MY DAD READERS
So I was on my way to go deal with a child and bed time issues (read "My wrist hurts"and "my leg hurts" and "I can't fall asleep. I tried really, really hard", etc.) when I spotted some geese and a duck in my front lawn. Normally I would think its pretty cool to have such exotic wildlife in my lawn, but I also remembered that a few weeks ago a neighbor searched my woods for some of her foul that had been run amok the night prior. After I laid down the nighttime law, I went over the the aforementioned neighbor's house to altert them of their runaway feathered pets. There was no answer at the door; pitch black inside. Either they are being really, really quiet, or they are away. I wonder which is the logical answer. I mean, they have kids and I know how hard it is to keep kids quiet for a second let alone a few minutes. They must be hiding....
After I gave up on the neighbors are hiding from me theory, I followed the mini flock up the street with the intention of coaxing them back home. How? I had no idea. I've never moved geese before. I tried whistling at them. Calling them. Chirping at them. Kissing and click noises. They were not amused or even remotely interested in me. I felt that they would be fine and eventually make their way home. The neighbor told me that they are very good at finding their way back home so I felt confident that they could fend for themselves until they meandered home.
As I was walking back to my lovely abode, I looked back up the street to see my new feathered friends crossing the road. (Please no "Why did the goose cross the road" jokes) I live on a very busy main route. People come flying by all the time. Last year a very intoxicated woman decided my mailbox looked better 50 feet down the road than at the end of my driveway. I just wish she used her words instead of her car at a high rate of speed. So I am motioning to the coming cars to slow down to give my feathered comrades a fighting chance of crossing the busy thoroughfare. One gentleman thinks I was waving at him and kindly waves back. Eventually he realizes what I was alluding to and stops to let them cross. As for the other lane of traffic, not so much. I can only be in one place a one time. This one driver didn't see the birds until it was too late. Two of the five hollow boned animals met their maker with a feathery, automobile-ic thud. The guy that hit them was very concerned and apologetic. I really felt bad for his tween daughter in the passenger seat who witnessed the whole episode. She seemed to be taking it quite well. He felt so bad that he called the police then ran to BJ's for a few things. But he said he'd be back to check in before going home. What a nice guy.
So he leaves. I get the rest of the very sad flock (if you can call it that) into the back yard and into their pen. Then the police officer arrives. I fill him in on the situation, who the rogue birds belong to and whatnot. This officer and I spot another lone bird and decide to reunite hime with his feathered brethren. This bird is a little more agile and astoot. It was one of the city's finest and me, chasing a duck, trying to steer him this way or that. We succeed to get him back to the pen after about 20 minutes or so. It must have been some sight. Then the driver who assaulted the geese/ducks came back.
A car pulls into the driveway of the house that houses these birds. I'm thinking the owners came back from dinner or a night out on the town or discovering some far new land or something. But nope. It was just the duck-sitter; the person responsible for locking up these guys at night. Then another (or the same one) bird is spotted. Now its on!
For the next HALF AN HOUR (or so) me, the duck locker-upper, and a couple of neighbors try to get this fast, smart, ornery, sly, insane, black duck back home. And the cop just drove right by. I guess he is only good for one wildlife call per night. I'm sure he will be talking to this call to all his cop buddies for a while. Back to the runaway duck. We corner it. It gets away. The helper takes a few dives to try to grab it but it gets away. It was quite comical. Finally we get him cornered in a bush and he is captured. Ordeal over! Just use your imagination and try to see us chasing a duck around the neighborhood. Laugh at will. I did.
All in all it was an unexpected turn of events that broke up the normalcy of a Saturday night. And I did some good samaritan work. Maybe this will get me off the fast track to the bad place when I meet my maker. I just hope it won't be as I'm crossing the road with my feathered friends.
And I forgot....
HAPPY FATHER'S DAY TO ALL MY DAD READERS
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Well, Its been a while... But here's an amusing story
Ok. You caught me. I will plead to "I haven't felt all that creative and I'm kind of lazy" in the first degree. But I will change. I promise. Just give me a slap on the wrist, a verbal reprimand, 15 lashings across the.... Oh never mind. I will try to be better.
So since I've been gone some stuff has happened. One band fizzled. I pseudo-joined another, which has slowed. And another is in the works. So that's the musical update.
The dog is good. He's a little stinker at times, but we (most of us) love him. Its hard to imagine but its been almost a year that we have had him. Time flies.
Kid wise is a different story. We have gotten into our groove with school, errands, playing, and what-have-you. Bayly is doing great in school. Reading. Writing. Spelling everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. I can't even spell out "bad words" anymore because she will figure it out. Why do they have to be so smart? I blame the schools.
Cali is coming into her own; her own devilish character. For instance, I would be cleaning up, kids playing together and as soon as I look up I see Bayly do some sort of bodily harm to her sister. The first couple of times I reprimanded the elder child and imposed a fitting punishment. After the fifth or so time this happens I realized that it was the younger offspring that was instigating. Bayly was just defending herself. The little (insert adjective here) was timing it just so that she wouldn't be caught. This is going to make for great teenage years.
This past week has been one of Cali's "best" weeks. And I use quotation marks to show sarcasm. (I think that is understood, but adding these few more words makes the whole post seem longer, and in turn making me feel like I have written more than I actually have.)
The other day while playing together during relaxation time, (for those of you who do not know what relaxation time is, its after lunch when I get to do laundry/watch TV/look for jobs on the internet/research garden ideas/goof off/etc. and the kiddies play upstairs. Play is usually what they do in between screaming at each other.) the two of them made a whole poop-storm of a mess. Not actual poop, just a big F'ing mess. The older one blames it on the younger one and vice-versa. Long story short, they are not allowed to be freed of their mess until it is cleaned. After some time, they clean it up and all is well in the world.
The next day relaxation time again (it happens every day for sanity's sake). Laundry folded and I get to chill for a bit before I get the "Can we come down yet?" hollers from the stairs in their most angelic voices. Only this time its a little different. "Daddy, Cali's pouring water on the bed." WHAT?! It make perfect sense to pour water onto you bed if it were on fire or smoking or was a fish. But her bed was and is none of these things. So up the stairs I go to investigate The Great Waterbed Caper.
I need to preface the bed thing just a bit. Cali has been potty trained for a long time. It was recently that we kicked the pull-ups for bed and were going with gotchies a.k.a. undies. A couple of weeks prior she was a super star. Waking up dry, after us getting her up at 11 to sleepily put her on the potty. Then she regressed. One night was three sets of sheets in one night. Then it was a couple days of bed wetting. On the morning of the GWC, she was waiting for me when I came out of the shower, wet P.J.'s and all. I clean her up, clean the bed up, put the sheets in the washer, etc. Now before relaxation time, I had made her bed. She saw me do it. She witnessed the putting on of the new, non-urine smelling sheets. Mind you they were the same ones that she soiled because I work that fast!
Back to the story. So I enter the room of play to find a very wet bed and a very devilish Cali grinning. She may be a psychopath. Or she may be three. Or she's both. Well I was not pleased to say the least. There may have been some talking in loud tones, I'm not sure, but I was ready to lock her in a tower until she was 45. (Anyone got a tower I can borrow?)
The funny thing about my kids, and it may be the same for other families as well, when one is in deep do-do, the other one is overly helpful and polite. It changes from one to the other, but when it hits the fan the other one knows to be an angel. Which is nice. But why can't they just act like that all the time? So Bayly quietly and without so much as a peep cleans up the disastrous play-room while her sister is wondering if she will have the same fate as Rapunzel.
She was marooned to her tower. That was until mommy got home and freed her. Damn Price Charming. Always ruining everything and freeing the princess. I blame Disney.
Long story short, the Stay-At-Home-Dad thing is great. There is always something new to keep me on my toes. I wouldn't trade it for the world.
P.S. If anyone wants to make a sitcom of my life, let me know. I'm sure it would be amusing. And I said sitcom. None of this reality TV B.S. There's enough of that on already. I mean they have a show centered around duck calls. Whats next?
That's it. I'm done. For today. For the week. For a few months. Maybe. Maybe not.
So since I've been gone some stuff has happened. One band fizzled. I pseudo-joined another, which has slowed. And another is in the works. So that's the musical update.
The dog is good. He's a little stinker at times, but we (most of us) love him. Its hard to imagine but its been almost a year that we have had him. Time flies.
Kid wise is a different story. We have gotten into our groove with school, errands, playing, and what-have-you. Bayly is doing great in school. Reading. Writing. Spelling everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. I can't even spell out "bad words" anymore because she will figure it out. Why do they have to be so smart? I blame the schools.
Cali is coming into her own; her own devilish character. For instance, I would be cleaning up, kids playing together and as soon as I look up I see Bayly do some sort of bodily harm to her sister. The first couple of times I reprimanded the elder child and imposed a fitting punishment. After the fifth or so time this happens I realized that it was the younger offspring that was instigating. Bayly was just defending herself. The little (insert adjective here) was timing it just so that she wouldn't be caught. This is going to make for great teenage years.
This past week has been one of Cali's "best" weeks. And I use quotation marks to show sarcasm. (I think that is understood, but adding these few more words makes the whole post seem longer, and in turn making me feel like I have written more than I actually have.)
The other day while playing together during relaxation time, (for those of you who do not know what relaxation time is, its after lunch when I get to do laundry/watch TV/look for jobs on the internet/research garden ideas/goof off/etc. and the kiddies play upstairs. Play is usually what they do in between screaming at each other.) the two of them made a whole poop-storm of a mess. Not actual poop, just a big F'ing mess. The older one blames it on the younger one and vice-versa. Long story short, they are not allowed to be freed of their mess until it is cleaned. After some time, they clean it up and all is well in the world.
The next day relaxation time again (it happens every day for sanity's sake). Laundry folded and I get to chill for a bit before I get the "Can we come down yet?" hollers from the stairs in their most angelic voices. Only this time its a little different. "Daddy, Cali's pouring water on the bed." WHAT?! It make perfect sense to pour water onto you bed if it were on fire or smoking or was a fish. But her bed was and is none of these things. So up the stairs I go to investigate The Great Waterbed Caper.
I need to preface the bed thing just a bit. Cali has been potty trained for a long time. It was recently that we kicked the pull-ups for bed and were going with gotchies a.k.a. undies. A couple of weeks prior she was a super star. Waking up dry, after us getting her up at 11 to sleepily put her on the potty. Then she regressed. One night was three sets of sheets in one night. Then it was a couple days of bed wetting. On the morning of the GWC, she was waiting for me when I came out of the shower, wet P.J.'s and all. I clean her up, clean the bed up, put the sheets in the washer, etc. Now before relaxation time, I had made her bed. She saw me do it. She witnessed the putting on of the new, non-urine smelling sheets. Mind you they were the same ones that she soiled because I work that fast!
Back to the story. So I enter the room of play to find a very wet bed and a very devilish Cali grinning. She may be a psychopath. Or she may be three. Or she's both. Well I was not pleased to say the least. There may have been some talking in loud tones, I'm not sure, but I was ready to lock her in a tower until she was 45. (Anyone got a tower I can borrow?)
The funny thing about my kids, and it may be the same for other families as well, when one is in deep do-do, the other one is overly helpful and polite. It changes from one to the other, but when it hits the fan the other one knows to be an angel. Which is nice. But why can't they just act like that all the time? So Bayly quietly and without so much as a peep cleans up the disastrous play-room while her sister is wondering if she will have the same fate as Rapunzel.
She was marooned to her tower. That was until mommy got home and freed her. Damn Price Charming. Always ruining everything and freeing the princess. I blame Disney.
Long story short, the Stay-At-Home-Dad thing is great. There is always something new to keep me on my toes. I wouldn't trade it for the world.
P.S. If anyone wants to make a sitcom of my life, let me know. I'm sure it would be amusing. And I said sitcom. None of this reality TV B.S. There's enough of that on already. I mean they have a show centered around duck calls. Whats next?
That's it. I'm done. For today. For the week. For a few months. Maybe. Maybe not.
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