Rambler #13: Oh the kids

This morning has been one of those mornings I love being a parent. It wasn't the raucous thunderstorm last night that brought my son scurrying into our bed to kick and roll around for a couple of hours. It wasn't the announcement early this morning that he had wet through his pull-up and was in need of new underwear and pants. By the way, that's Lightning McQueen underwear which is pronounced "lightning and the queen".

It really came down to the simply interaction of my son, 3 and my daughter, 1. The usual interaction follows something like this. "Stop sitting on her head.... No, don't clothesline her...., you can't 'sweep' her face with the broom, no!... Don't drop your metal dump truck on her head.... Your sister is not a bed, stop lying on top of her.... So on and so forth.

But, this morning, my son calmly walks into the office, picks out a book and announces he's going to read it to his sister. And he did!

I may be young still, but I'm wise enough to know this is hardly ever the case. Such a pronouncement from my son is usually code for, "I took some medical tape from the bathroom and I'm going to use this book as a bodyboard to practice my EMT skills on my sister." A few minutes later, said sister is screaming and by the time I arrive on the scene it's something akin to Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory complete with maniacal laughter (my son providing the laughter, of course).

But today, wonder of wonders, he sat down on the couch and proceeded to read to his sister. And today, wonder of wonders, his sister complied. For she is not so innocent herself; but I would digress to head down that path.

As I finish this post, I'm sure I just violated a time-tested unspoken rule amongst parents to never publicly acknowledge such wondrous behavior lest the parenting gods curse us with bed-wetting-WWE-imitating children that... wait, gotta go, the screaming has begun already.

Rambler #11: Bi-Polar on the Road

Everyone knows about the obnoxious guy who hips out in front of you from a side street, causing sudden braking and a few choice compliments, right?

I met up with him yesterday. Down the hill I go and out from a side street he comes. Sudden braking and a few choice compliments. I looked in my rear-view to see if it was busy behind me. Of course, no cars for several hundred yards. Surely, this guy was in a huge hurry and therefore justified in risking an accident, right?

Well, immediately after whipping out, he brakes. Then he brakes again and again.

At first I think he's just trying to piss me off. Maybe he's wants to get rear-ended. He's trying to ditch the car, get an insurance settlement and maybe some pain and suffering thrown in.

For the next mile, obnoxious cut-off guy rides his brake down the hill, over the bridge and up the hill. I am, however, laughing out loud at this point. The road widens as we pull up to a light so I'm finally able to pull around him. I'm still laughing.

He's in the left turn lane and as soon as the light turns green (maybe even a 1/2 second before) he lays on his horn because the poor sap in front of him doesn't squeal off the line to make the left-hand turn.

I'm laughing again. This guy is unreal! He peels into the far lane and finally floors it off into the sunset.

Bipolar diagnosis please?

Rambler #10: Fourth of July

On July 2, 1776, John Adams made the following statement:

"The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more."

The Declaration of Independence wasn't actually approved by the Second Continental Congress until 2 days later, July 4, 1776.

Curious as to how, 233 years later, we as Americans have interpreted these solemn acts of devotion of pomp, parade and so on, I asked Bing to help out.

POMP...

PARADE...

SHOWS...

GAMES...

SPORTS...

GUNS...

BELLS...

BONFIRES...

ILLUMINATIONS...

Happy Fourth of July!

Rambler #9: Outsourced Love

I posted the content of this sign on Twitter yesterday but some of you didn't believe, so here's the proof in living color. It's a nursing home; I mean an extended care facility. It gets better. The other side of this sign says (I'm not making this up) "We believe in the sanctity of human life."

Seriously?

Yet they suggest that people outsource the loving of their parents? Let me be really, really clear. I am not entering the fray of the nursing home debate. Take the sign at face value. We will hug your parents for you.

But why stop with parents in nursing homes? Why not expand to the annoying Fourth of July cookout I have to go to this weekend with my family? My anniversary is right around the corner; could they handle that too? Oh, and my darn kids; so much loving is required with them.

Please, come over to my house! Tuck my kids in bed, kiss them and then make sappy comments about what angels they are when they sleep.

Help me! I don't have time for all this loving.

Rambler #7: Hummingbot

My son got his first transformer the other day. Nothing fancy, one of those dollar impulse buys in the checkout line. I don't even think it was a Transformers transformer; it was that cheap.

It came out of the box shaped like a robot. After watching it transform into a truck, my son looked up and said, "Cool! Can you make it into a hummingbird?"

"Um, no."

The toy was quickly discarded.

Rambler #6: Helen

To the best of my recollection, the following is a true story from my days working at an unnamed bookstore….

Register duty from 4-6 on a weekday is the worst. The afternoon shoplifter is gone so I’m bored. Technically, I’m not supposed to read; I’m supposed to straighten. But I’m done with that so I’m sneaking pages from the latest Grisholm bestseller and scanning for my boss.

Then she shows up. Let’s call her Helen.

Helen plops a book on the counter and ripples run from her arms down out of sight and threaten alerting the local seismic activity center. Her black sweat suit was quite probably from a spray can. Trying not to stare was futile; a car wreck to be sure.

Helen says nothing. Instead, she shifts. Her left foot, unable to withstand the onslaught from above, urges the weight, with monumental effort that comes in times of great duress, off onto the trembling right foot.

This high-stakes game of seesaw makes Helen look like a warning buoy near some dangerous shoals (a large warning buoy covered in black spray paint).

Helen’s eyes shot wildly about. Her brain is unable to focus anywhere longer than the moment it takes to receive the impulse and fire a response to move on. Receive-fire-receive-fire.

I’m still thinking about the afternoon shoplifter, and Helen’s frenetic action could easily be considered suspicious. But I’m totally confident Helen is incapable shoplifting. She cannot focus on a single item long enough to decide if it’s worth the risk of lifting before her brain fires and she moves on to the next item. [Ooh, a cd…ooh, a calendar… ooh chocolate]. It’s a wonder she’s buying anything. Her brain’s synapses are firing at blazing speeds, yet neither considering nor meditating on what is being fired at or the consequences of that firing.

Her brain pauses on a tin of breath mints, an impulse buy. If ever an impulse buyer existed, Helen is one. She grabs the mints and shakes them hard — up, down, up, down — real fast. She sets them back in their place. The synapse has fired.

“$19.85 is your total tonight,” I say.

“Ssssshhhhh!,” she leans in close and continues in a fierce whisper, casting a fearful glance toward a man nearby. He stood with his back to us, oblivious.

The hissing continues. “Don’t let him hear; he’ll have a cow!” Helen even used one hand to cover up her mouth when she said "cow".

I nod. I’m a little nervous now. “you have a great night ma’am”.

Snatching the receipt, Helen wedged it into one of her pants pockets. So it’s not just paint after all, I thought.

Helen need not worry that her husband will ever find that receipt. The great pressing outward against the threads of cloth will forever grip the receipt. She need only to avoid removing her pants and her secret will forever remain kept; Dr. Atkins help us all.

Rambler #5: Scary Red Light

For the past week or so the same exasperating routine has played out around 8 PM in my house. Both kids are in bed and a precious few minutes of silence have passed. My wife and I are collapsed on the couch, willing our bodies to continue functioning.

Then, my son creeps down the hallway. He’s crouching. Why does he crouch? Like maybe it’s less of a transgression if he’s crouching? He crouches into the living room and announces that the scary red light is back.

I don’t know what the scary red light IS, but it lives in his closet and it’s, well, it’s scary. I don’t know what the scary red light DOES, but it’s something awful I’m sure.

I’ve tried exorcising it and just straight up rationalizing to my son that a scary red light is a ridiculous thing to be afraid of. Perhaps if we had just watched The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and he was hearing chainsaws outside his window I would be more understanding.

So, he ends up falling asleep in my bed (my wife usually sleeps in it too) since the scary red light has yet to move in there. Then I move him back to his room once he’s asleep. It’s like a never-ending prescription — repeat forever and call if nothing changes.

Am I being taken advantage of? Probably. This is the same kid who gets asked a litany of “did you…?” questions before bed to remove every possible reason for getting out of bed. This is the same kid who yesterday split his head open while spinning on the bed. Jumping was expressly forbidden; spinning was not. I really need a good contract lawyer to help me close up the loopholes.

So maybe he’s just figured out that an irrational fear is the ace in the hole. If a scary saggy bathing suit moves in under the bed, I’ll know he’s screwing with me.

Rambler #4: Poop Finally

You didn’t listen to my advice did you and now you’re in the heart of it. If you’ve only just started, you can still turn back. If you’ve purchased real underwear adorned with Lightning McQueen or My Little Pony and there’s no going back.

I’ll try to help you salvage what you can.

First, modern-day diapers can absorb a child’s full body weight in pee and poop. That’s right, their full body weight. You can note this when you buy diapers. In the bottom left corner of the packaging is a weight range, say 24-36 pounds. That’s 24-36 pounds of pee and poop that can be absorbed by one single diaper. And you just removed this space-age protection from the loins of your child. You will be appalled by the amount of what exits from your child.

Second, if you have a son, he will soon realize that he can, in fact, control the stream of urine. With reckless abandon, he will fire upon any object within range, be it furniture or sisters. He will not pee in the potty if at all possible.

Worse still results from the ill-advised notion that bathing two kids in the tub at once is a great idea — think of all the water you save. Remember the sleepover where the poor kid who first fell asleep got his fingers stuck in warm water and peed his pants? As soon as your son’s feet hit the warm bath water, his Gatling gun will release a withering assault on his sister’s head.

One small solace is that you will save water in flushing the toilet since no pee ever actually goes in. I haven’t done the research, but these cost savings may, actually, be offset by bulk-order purchases of disinfectant.

Finally, you will likely see progress early on, but you’ll pay a steep price. A real life experience of my own…. My son (age 3) jumps up and hollers, “I have to go peepee!” He disappears into the bathroom. He returns a minute later having completed a magic trick — all his clothes are gone. Handing his underwear over to my wife he directs, “Touch them, mommy.” My wife ignores the directive; instead, she provides the appropriate affirmation, praising his sphincter control. My son (still naked) gets more specific. “Touch them mommy,” he says. “Touch them right on the bottom. They’re a little bit wet.”

Yes, that’s what he said. “Touch them right on the bottom.” And yes, my wife touched them. This will be your penalty for disregarding my advice; you too will touch peed-on underwear and pretend to be excited by the fact that your kid started to pee his pants, stopped and made it to the bathroom.

Hopefully, this phenomenon will stop before high school.

Rambler #3: Arthur P. Rohr

My wife's grandfather is named Arthur P. Rohr. He is part of the Greatest Generation. I had another post scheduled for today (round 2 of poop), but scrapped it Saturday after doing some reading on D-Day. I felt since that I couldn't storm a beach surrounded by high cliffs infested with hundreds of machine gun nests, my life most likely snuffed out before I hit the water with 65 pounds of gear strapped on my back (or I'd quite possibly drown before getting to the beach), that reading a bit about the Great War was the least I could do. I'm quite the patriot.

Arthur was a tail gunner on a B-25 bomber during WWII. He flew missions over Italy and was shot down over Sicily during a bombing run. The last thing he remembers as the plane is going down is jumping up and down on the hatch; it was jammed and wouldn't open. So there he was, the plane going down in flames and he's jumping — up down up down. What could possibly be running through your mind in a situation like that? UPDOWNUPDOWN — that's all I'd be thinking.

The next thing Arthur remembers, he's on the ground.

He got the hatch open, somehow...

pulled his chute, somehow...

and landed, somehow....

He doesn't remember any of it.

Two of his crew died in the crash, two got captured by enemy soldiers. He shed his uniform and spent the next three weeks evading capture by hiding with sympathetic Sicileans (sorry, bad movie flashback here) in barns and houses before getting back to Allied-controlled territory.

Can you even imagine?

So on today, the day after the day after we remember D-Day, I remember Arthur P. Rohr. He's 87 and still going strong.

Rambler #2: Poop

You know how they say, “write what you know.” Two quick thoughts. First, and un-original I confess, is who is they? Whoever they is (or are), they has quite the racket going. In any conversation, cite they and you gain the upper hand instantly.

Second, the topic of the day….poop. Write what you know. I have two kids under four. I know poop.

Malcolm Gladwell’s latest New York Times Bestseller is titled Outliers. According to Wikipedia, an “outlier is an observation that is numerically distant from the rest of the data,” like Mr. Gladwell’s hair.

In his book, Mr. Gladwell describes various sensations like the Beatles and Bill Gates — experts in their respective fields — as having spent at least 10,000 hours practicing whatever it is they are awesome at. This is the “10,000 Hour Rule.”

That's it, I thought, That's all it takes to become an expert? I pulled out a calculator and calendar and soon realized that I was, indeed, an expert parent! In fact, I was an expert parent nearly three times over with 30,000+ hours of parenting practice. 

According to Mr. Gladwell, it typically takes 10 years to achieve the label of “expert”. But I’m a parent 24 hours a day, so I achieved expert status in a little more than a year.

Remember, Mr. Gladwell’s book is on the New York Times Bestseller list. Anything in it can and should be accepted with full impunity. What solace; what comfort; what power I now have.

Back to poop. Well, potty training really, but having Poop in the title helps the seo. My eldest, my son, is potty training, nearly trained. They say this is a very important developmental phase in your child. As an expert, I have much to say; today will be a short intro.

Lesson #1 — Potty training (before you begin)

As your child approaches potty-training age, you will feel nervous excitement. By this time, you’ve changed upwards of 10,000 diapers, consequently making you a diaper-changing expert. You are tired. You are elated at the idea not having to extract your child from a mound of poop every morning.

Instead, you'd sit on the couch sipping your coffee and reading this blog while your child plays calmly on the floor. Suddenly, he stops his play, arises from the floor, walks into the bathroom and takes care of business. All the pee and poop goes in the toilet. He washes his hands and goes back to playing. You continue to sip your coffee and shower soft accolades on your child for being so mature.

This is a lie. It never happens. Let me be very clear, it never happens. Listen to the expert... it's a lie. 

I recommend a simpler (and sanity-saving course of action) — simply continue to change diapers… forever. Don't potty train... ever. Don’t do it. Listen to the expert....

Next — Lesson #2: Potty-training (what to do after you ignore my advice)

Rambler #1: The s.f.d.

“I hate writing, but I love having written.” This quotation is traditionally attributed to writer Dorothy Parker. Regardless the source, it’s true for me. I really, really hate writing. When I say writing, I don’t mean this post. This is like eating cotton candy — it takes little effort, leaves a cloying taste in your mouth and probably does nothing for you other than increase your blood sugar count.

By writing, I’m talking about communicating an honest observation of the world to your audience through a character in space and time. I’ve finished two picture book manuscripts recently and the finish, the having written, is euphoric.

Getting there is brutal.

I have no deadlines, no boss and for some reason the weather report for the next five minutes has become irresistibly important. My bladder is suddenly overactive and my desktop icons constantly need rearranging.

In the midst of these struggles, I’ve found a drinking buddy in writer Ann Lamott. Of all the writing books I’ve read (let’s pretend that number is in the dozens), Lamott’s Bird by Bird is perhaps the most honest acknowledgement of the doubts, weaknesses, and triumphs a writer faces.

Lamott acknowledges that the first draft will be utterly terrible, horrid to the point that no human being outside of oneself should ever read it. Lamott calls it the [expletive warning] shitty first draft and that's exactly what mine are. But that’s the point; no one reads them. The [censorship warning] s.f.d. is vitally important to step 2: revising. Eventually, the s.f.d. stops looking like the awkward kid whose birthday invite you avoid and more like the flaxen-haired, doe-eyed girl you chase around the playground.

Hopefully, my future editor was neither the awkward kid or the girl as that would be potentially embarrassing.