How Not To Dad: Episode 30 - Anger Management

​I'm not a violent person. I think anyone who knows me can attest to that. Still, going back to my pre-teen years I have occasionally exhibited signs of what we might call a "quick temper." 

I once got mad at our local Walmart and wished certain doom on the store because they were out of stock of Skid Row's newest album, "Slave To The Grind." I'd specifically planned to get the cassette tape that day and when it wasn't there, well, my whole weekend was shot.  How was I going to listen to the song "Monkey Business" now?!

I once wished destruction on a clothing store because the jeans I bought (without trying them on) were too small in the waist and too long for my stubby-ass legs. I was not only mad at the store, I was mad at my own body for not fitting in the jeans. I went on a rant, rhetorically asking the universe, "How am I supposed to buy clothes? There isn't a fat midget section in any of the stores!" 

(My apologies to people of short stature. I get that the word "midget" is inappropriate and disrespectful. In my defense I did not get that back then, in the mid nineties. I was just a dumb kid with ill-fitting pants, saying any idiotic thing I could think of in my rage. No insult intended.)

I punched a lawnmower once. 

I suppose there should be some context here, though it won't make much difference. You see, I bought a zero-turn mower when we moved into our last house. I got that puppy out and had it buzzing through the back yard one day soon after, and things were going just fine. It had rained a couple of days prior, and I had yet to learn that the very back edge of our property tends to get swampy when that happens. 

I was putting along when I noticed the mower getting a little drift every now and then. Soon afterward it just stopped in the middle of the yard. I pushed the throttle sticks forward. The mower spun in place. I got off the thing, walked around it, determined it was stuck in the mud, and figured it would be easy to push out. I put it in neutral, got behind it,  and shoved. It didn't move but my feet did. I caught myself before they slipped completely out from under me. In the mud it was like standing on ice - "slicker 'n owl shit," as some old folks say. I slipped and slid a couple more times, trying to find traction with my shoes, before I gave up. 

Then I had an idea. I found a few flat pieces of cardboard and wedged them under the tires as best I could. The idea (don't laugh) was that the tires would rotate, pull the cardboard beneath them, and the cardboard sheets would give enough traction for the tires to grab, thus propelling the mower out of the ruts it had gouged into my land. Sounded pretty good at the time.

I climbed onto the mower and pushed the throttle forward, and the carboard pieces shot out behind the mower. The mower then sunk firmly back into its mudholes. 

Up until that point I'd been pretty patient, I thought. My wife had taken to watching me through the kitchen window. My hero, she must have thought as the cardboard and mud blasted from behind the mower like it had a case of explosive diarrhea. By the time she'd walked out there to assist my ears were turning red and my eye was twitching. 

"Here let me help," she said. I figured, with a little extra muscle, I should shift back to my first tactic and try pushing it out. So, we got behind it again and started pushing. Zero-turn mowers, come to find out, are frickin' heavy, especially on their ass-end. We pushed and slipped for a minute or so before I said "Okay, why don't you get on it, give it some gas, and I'll push." Nikki climbed aboard and did just that.

What threw me over the edge is that, on that last run, not only did I NOT get the mower unstuck, I got a healthy spattering of mud across my arms, chest, and cheeks. 

I think I yelled. "MOVE! MOVE YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

By that point Nikki had gotten off the mower and was watching my feeble attempts to push it free. She helped again, but I noticed she kept giving me the side eye. And why not? I was a freaking lunatic.

It happened.

I slammed my fist down onto the motor. "Move you piece of shit!"

Nikki continued to stare at me as I pushed and pushed with my shoes slipping through the mud behind me, until I gave up. Eventually we did get the thing out but it was a grade A booger-bear to do it.

So really that's it. That's the time I punched a lawnmower. You tell me that sonofabitch didn't have it coming, though. You tell me that!

So at this point, if you're still reading at all, you're probably thinking "Why is he telling me all this?"

My friends, I think the rage has been passed down. A week ago I was sitting on my bed watching TV when my daughter, who was sitting beside me watching my tablet, started getting mad. Every few seconds she would grunt or squeal in frustration. A minute or so later I hear a CLACK!

I looked over at her. "Did you just punch the tablet?"

"It won't play my videos!" She said. The way she said it was accusatory, like she was telling on a kid at the playground.

From the corner of my eye I had seen her tapping the screen, trying to get the video thumbnail to activate. When it didn't work she made a fist and straight-up decked it.

And that's my girl. My chip off the ol' block. That's the kind of issues she gets to deal with thanks to the genetics passed down to her, courtesy of her lawnmower fighting dear old dad. You're welcome Abby.

Moral of the Story: 

Just when you think you've got a handle on your own issues you find out that your kid has them too. So, you get to deal with those issues for another 18+ years, in the form of a smaller version of yourself that still has to figure it all out. Fun stuff.

How Not To Dad: Episode 29 - Pajama Knots and the Magic of Christmas

Another Christmas has come and gone, and this one was different in a lot of ways from the previous year. For starters, we're in the midst of moving into a new house. It's an old house with a vintage look to it, and I've been told on more than one occasion that it looks like a miniature version of the Home Alone house (and I do mean miniature, compared to the mansion in that movie. Seriously, as the meme goes, what did Kevin McAllister's dad do for a living to afford that thing?). We were only partially moved in by Christmas. As a result, our tree was just a pre-lit, plain Jane tree with no ornaments on it, placed in front of a window with no curtains or blinds, in a living room with no couch in it. In fact there's not a single window in the house that is covered by curtains or blinds yet, so for now we're pretty much on display to the neighbors across the street.

Another difference is that we were actually able to celebrate on Christmas Eve at my grandmother’s house, a tradition that has spanned my entire forty years on this earth - minus one, which was last year. This Covid business has been a real wrecking ball. 

Yet another change was that this was Logan’s first year celebrating Christmas in which he knew the Santa secret. This was a little painful to me because I know what it's like to lose that magic, or at least feel like you've lost it. It didn't help that he was fairly vocal about the fact that he wished he still believed, and every time he mentioned this to my wife or me it was like a tiny little dagger stabbing our hearts. Not only is it a pivotal moment in his development, an understanding of a new and ever so slightly less cheery world, but it's also a reminder to us (as if we needed any more reminders) that he's growing up. A little piece of his innocence was chipped away, and now his whole world is different.

There were two things that made me realize it was going to be okay for him. One was that he became really enthusiastic about hiding the Elf on the Shelf, which Abby had christened "Jimmie," and in my little Christmas-spirit heart I knew that Logan was already taking up the reins and being his own version of Santa, just as we did as parents. He wanted to hide the Elf so Abby could wake up every morning excited to see where he’d moved, just like Logan had done in years past. The other thing he did that made me realize he was fine was that as soon as he walked into the living room on Christmas morning and saw the presents under the tree, he walked back over to his mom, hugged her and looked at me, and whispered "Thank you." Now, I didn't want a thank you. Let me be clear about that. What that gesture meant to me was that he'd accepted "Santa" for what he was, and that he was moving on with his new understanding.

I always wonder if we're doing the wrong thing teaching our kids to believe in the magic of Santa Claus, only to pull the rug from under their feet years later (usually before they're truly ready). After this ordeal with Logan I feel a little bit guilty explaining to Abby when she asks how the elf moves around at night that "he's magic, he flies," or that Santa is going to come down the chimney with a sack full of toys for her and her brother, or that reindeer fly, or any other Christmas magic story we tell our kids to make them happy. In the back of my mind I know that day is coming when I'll have to tell her the truth, and I know that will break her heart as it did Logan's.

I think of that stuff and feel guilty. The other side of me, though, remembers believing in that magic. I remember thinking Christmas was always the most exciting time of year, a night when true magic exists. I can't help but wonder if that fascination and passion we had as kids doesn't carry into adulthood, even after we've stopped believing in the traditional Santa Claus story. Maybe the magic we felt as kids is substituted for time with our families, and that same joy born of childhood magic idles within us because we're surrounded by the ones we love. Maybe we're manufacturing magic of our own, and we couldn't do it so easily if we hadn't believed in it as children. 

Well, there's my reflections on the Christmas season. Now onto the funny stuff...

I had managed to steer clear of the whole "matching pajamas" craze over the past few years, but this year it finally got me. My wife bought a family set from Walmart with the Grinch plastered all over them. I stood there as she rummaged through the different sizes, and all I could think about was how clingy pajamas used to feel when I was younger, like they were always too small.

I'm a hefty fella. Clingy and hefty don't mix. I fit solid and comfortable into an XL size in most clothes (except for clothes ordered from overseas, where an XL is really like a Medium in U.S. terms. I guess we really are some tubby sumbitches over here). Knowing how thin and elastic pajamas usually are, I advised my wife to search for a 2X size. She found it.

The plan, my wife informed me, was to put them on Christmas Eve and take a picture in front of our naked Christmas tree. When we got home from my grandmother’s house that night I realized it was time to “don we now our gay apparel” (Fa la la la la la la la la). 

I was hoping for a slightly baggy feel when I began to pull the clothes on, and the shirt was just that. A little too big, but fine. Comfortable even. It was when I unfolded the parachute that was the pajama pants that I realized I was going to have a problem. Apparently sometime between 1989 and now, pajama companies realized how small their clothes were and began oversizing everything. When I put these pants on it felt like I was wearing a garbage bag. It's been a while, but I don't recall ever needing a belt before when wearing pajama bottoms. They were so big that I literally could have fit in them twice. 

When I showed Nikki she sighed. "Logan's don't fit either. His are too small." As she said this Logan stepped into the hall where we stood and he looked like a sausage link about ready to burst through its casing. He didn't seem to care though.

Standing there with my knees out to hold up my pants, I landed on an idea. "Check this out," I told Nikki. 

You know those shirts 80’s girls used to wear that are tied in a knot on the side, usually exposing a little midriff? Did you know you can do that with oversized pajama pants? I may have created a new fashion trend that Christmas eve. By God it worked, though! I tied one side up in a knot and voila! Instant fit. The knot was a little difficult to negotiate but I made it happen. 

Anyway, we all sat in front of the tree and the kids opened a couple of presents from us. Somehow I got out of having to have my picture taken with the family in front of the tree. Not sure why. It couldn't have been because my pants looked bad. In the end I think Nikki was jealous of my pajama-knot fashion statement and didn't want it to catch on with the rest of the world. She’s always holding me back....

But I digress. That's not even the good part. After we put the kids to bed we proceed with the Santa stuff. I had migrated all the gifts from our bedroom closet into Abby's room at the top of the stairs. She and Logan were sleeping in our bedroom with us at the time. The house is big and empty and they weren't used to it yet. Well, we begin lugging the gifts downstairs. I'm on my second run, and about halfway down the stairs, when I feel something shift on my pants.

They get loose.

"Oh no." I say, and feel the knot in my pajamas fully give way at about the same time. 

The pants start to fall.

My arms are full, and I'm on the stairs. 

At the foot of said staircase is the front door, and like all the windows in the house, the window in the front door is sans curtain. My neighbor's house is directly across the street, a mere thirty yards away, facing the front door. 

I go into crab mode. I spread my knees in hopes of holding up the Hammer pants at least until I get down the stairs. I waddle a few more steps down, and finally realize there's no use. The pants are falling down and the more I try the worse it gets. With no trick left in my arsenal, I just do what has to be done. I simply walk out of my pants. The waistband hits my ankles, exposing my underwear to the neighbors. I move as quickly as possible while trying my damnedest not to drop all the presents and wake the kids up. Had they been looking, our neighbors might have gotten a gift they didn’t ask for this Christmas.

We finally got all the presents under the tree, after two midnight runs back to the old house in my oversized pajamas. Ever the fashionista, I tied the knot back and continued to wear the Grinch pajamas until Christmas morning. All in all it was a year to remember, for my family and for whomever might have been looking the wrong way on that cold, clear, magical night.

Moral of the story:

Christmas magic is real. Sometimes Christmas magic is a childlike belief in a story of a man who lives at the North Pole and brings toys to all the kids on Christmas Eve. Sometimes Christmas magic is the joy you feel when you share time and laughter and smiles with your loved ones. And sometimes Christmas magic is a view through a window of your half naked neighbor hobbling down the stairs like a crab with his arms full of presents, trying desperately - and failing - to hold his pants up and keep at least one single shred of dignity. Whichever magic you subscribe to, it's all pretty spectacular in its own way.

How Not To Dad: Episode 28 - I Wish I Was A Baller

 

Well getting older sucks.

I'll explain. Logan has started playing basketball. This is his second season playing, really, but the first season playing for Sacred Heart, his school's team. It's the same school team I played for back in the 1900's when I was a kid, and the fact that he's on that team and will be playing on that court where my little L.A. Gear sneakers had once tread has brought with it a feeling of nostalgia for me. I'm not exactly an athlete, but I was decent at basketball. I was never aggressive enough, but I could shoot and dribble with the best of them. 

Last weekend I had the kids to myself for a couple of hours, and I decided to take them to the park in town. It was a nice, clear day, if a little chilly with a breeze. Logan's dad (I'm his stepdad, for those who don't know) is coach of his basketball team and had asked him to practice his dribbling, so we took our well-worn basketball with us to the park to practice. Abby decided to take her toy soccer ball. We walked along, with Logan awkwardly dribbling down the path, until we made it to the outdoor court that had recently been renovated. It's a full sized concrete court with fresh blue paint in the keys. Logan took to shooting immediately, and I was for the moment preoccupied with making sure Abby didn't wander too far away on the soccer fields surrounding the court. Once I made sure she was good, running around in the field beside us, I turned my attention to Logan.

"Feed me the rock." I said and held out my hands. I'm sure he had no idea what that expression meant (hello 90's slang!) but he eventually understood that I wanted the ball. He tossed it to me.

Watch this, I thought, and edged backward until I was behind the three-point line. 

I shot the ball.

It whooshed through the air. My aim was on. I could see it travelling straight toward the goal, and almost nodded to myself before I saw it fall about five feet short of even grazing the rim. I frowned. Logan chased after it.

"Give me another one." I called to him after he'd trotted back from the field that the ball had bounced into. He tossed it to me again. I squared up. Took the shot. 

Airball.

The wind, I thought, the wind is knocking it down.

"Again," I called to Logan, and he bounced it to me. I fired, this time using pretty much all of my arm strength, feeling like I was shooting a half court shot.

Airball.

Well this is bullshit, I thought. Thankfully I didn't say that out loud. I always prided myself on my shooting ability. That was the thing I could do. I'd gone to the county free throw competition because of my knack for shooting accuracy. I was put into games sometimes solely to shoot free throws when a technical foul was called. And now I can't even hit the bottom of the net from the three-point line with a youth basketball. My how the mighty have fallen.

I turned forty a few months ago. When I do the math, I realize it's been at  the very least ten years since I've played any sort of basketball, save for shooting on the kiddie goal at home that even I, with my 2.3 inch vertical leap, can dunk on. I'd venture to say in reality it's been more than fifteen years since I've really played. I guess your body can only remember how to do it for so long before it just gives up. 

My Muscle Memory: "Yeah, this dude's forty years old. He's never gonna play basketball again. No point in remembering this garbage."

I shot about ten more three-pointers that afternoon, and only rung one of them. The others were mostly airballs. I found myself hoping to just hit the rim, for crying out loud. I think it's safe to say Logan didn't walk off the court that day thinking "Wow, he's a great basketball player." He didn't follow behind me as I strutted away, wishing he could shoot like me. 

On the upside, though, Logan's shooting and dribbling has gotten infinitely better since last year. Most of what I did that day was let him dribble and shoot while I nursed my bruised ego, and he played well! I guess I'm going to need to sneak out to the courts and practice by myself a little, or he'll be beating me in one-on-one by the time he's ten years old. 

And I can't let that happen.

Moral of the Story: Before you try and show your kid how good you are at something, best make sure you are actually good at it.

How Not To Dad: Episode 27 - It's All In The Reflexes

Well it’s soccer season again. Time for us parents to sit in our fold-out chairs and eat popcorn or chips and pretend like we know what we’re talking about when we call out to our kids on the field. Time for us to yell things at them like “Just kick the ball!” or “Pay attention here it comes!” or “Wrong goal! Wrong goal!” in an attempt to confuse them as much as possible. 

Okay, that’s not the intention but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t happen every game. In truth, though, Logan is finally learning the fundamentals. He’s eight years old and has played since he was four, and you can see the wheels turning when he plays now. He’s scored a few times, he hustles more, he knows how to pass and what the difference is between offense and defense. He plays with a little confidence now. He and his age group have also gotten pretty good at kicking the ball, too. 

Kicking it hard.

Which is where my fatherly instincts come in. I sit in my red folding throne like an emperor watching a battle in the colosseum. I nod approvingly when my team scores. I say things like "They're not getting back on defense fast enough," or "They've got to shoot before they get too close to the goal or the goalie will pick it up every time." followed by, ten seconds later, “See? Every time...” (for more on my soccer knowledge credentials, see footnote #1)

I’m already flexing some dad muscles here. Specifically the one I like to call The Commentator, wherein from the comfort of my chair I not only understand the fundamentals and the strategics of the game I’m watching, I magically know how to impart that knowledge onto a player from the far sidelines by barking commands to a kid who in all likelihood can’t even hear me. It’s quite a skill to have.

So I’m lounging there, analyzing the game while my white knees are burning in the brutal Autumn sun, when the capacity for my dad powers are tested. A soccer ball flies toward us, courtesy of an errant kick (kid probably kicked with his toes and not the side of his foot, but that’s beside the point). It bounces once but shows no sign of slowing down.

My daughter is standing in the ball’s path.

I have maybe two seconds. Without even leaving my lounge chair, I lean forward and kick my leg out in front of my daughter like a traffic barricade arm in a parking deck. I have a split second to gauge the height of the ball. I shift my leg up a couple of centimeters.

The wind brushes the hairs on my legs. It’s a southeasterly. I adjust for windage.

 

At the last second the ball strikes my calf a few inches above my sandal and bounces harmlessly away. A chorus of nearby parents praise my heroism. I smile and nod, wave at a couple of them. “Dad reflexes,” I reply. “Just the dad reflexes.” (see footnote 2. Or just ignore it. No need to read it really. LET ME HAVE THIS!)

After all the ooh’s and aaah’s we settle back down in our chairs. I bask in the reverence for only an instant. The boys have played on, and I return my attention to the field. With my daughter sitting safely beside me, it seems I still have a soccer game to analyze….

Moral of the Story: Know your surroundings. Be vigilant. You never know when your child will need you to instantly transfer dad powers from The Commentator to The Bodyguard in the blink of an eye.

Oh, and second moral: Don’t read footnotes.

   

----------------------------------------------------------

Footnote #1: I've never played a game of soccer in my life, except for on a school playground.

 

Footnote #2: Okay, so the ball wasn’t really going that fast. If anything it would have glanced off my daughter’s chest and maybe caused her to take a step back. She’d whine for about five seconds and she’d be fine. And really it wasn’t like I reacted with the speed of a striking snake. In fact I’m fairly certain I grunted when I lifted my leg up to block it.

How Not To Dad: Episode 26 - Where is Abby?

Fun fact about me: My attention span can be measured by microscope. You know how you can look forever for your sunglasses and find out after ten minutes of rummaging through your house that they were pulled up on your head the whole time? I've got that beat.

A few weeks ago in a land not so far away...

It was a fine Spring day, warm in the sun but cool in the shade, a deep blue sky overhead carrying a fleet of clouds so white they almost glowed. The kids had soccer games. (Well, "game" might be a stretch for what Abby and her age group are doing. It's more of a boot camp for toddlers. Imagine disturbing an ant hill and then trying to teach each ant how to dribble a soccer ball with the inside edge of their feet, or dodge plastic cones by dribbling around them in a maze, or hop through rings laid out in a specific pattern. That is a toddler "game" of soccer). Before the games, though, the kids were supposed to get their pictures made. It was a frenzy of attempted order that resulted in chaos. Children were scattered across the fields, revolving in ever-widening circles around their parents and trying to break free of their folks' gravitational pull. The parents themselves walked around confused, unsure of which line to stand in. Random kids shouted or cried or laughed. 

As we entered the park I could see several sub-lines that had formed in front of a row of soccer goals. The photographers had set up here. Kids and parents alike were being ushered (herded) through the lines with calm yet firm haste towards the photo lines. Those lines were the end goal, but before that we learned we had to stand in the first line, a big fat snake of a thing that crossed the main walkway from the concession stand and curved into the fields where the cameras awaited.

My wife, who is the force of order and organization in our family, stood silently losing her mind in the chaos from the minute we arrived. Being the force of absent-minded lollygagging, I just stood there watching it all, waiting for our turn. The depths of my (probably diagnosable) ADD are almost boundless, and today those depths sunk even deeper into the abyss. 

Observe the aging gray-headed southeastern moron as he interacts in the wild:

As we stood in line Abby played with another kid on her "team." At one point she took a spill and landed on her butt. She started crying so I picked her up and held her. Several minutes went by, in which Logan tested boundaries by wandering farther and farther from us. With all the commotion going on  I couldn't focus on any one thing for more than a few seconds. My brain was playing ping pong with my vision. The problem was, my eyes were faster than my brain. 

It all happened in less than two seconds.

For one fleeting moment of moronitude (new word; you're welcome), a synapse snapped in my mind. I couldn't see my daughter anywhere! Panic sputtered like a candle flame in my stomach and I said aloud for everyone to hear, "Where's Abby?" I even turned to scan the throng of people. She'd wandered out of my field of vision, I was sure. That's when I noticed the weight in my arm. 

I was holding her.

When my head spun to locate her I found myself face to face with her blue eyes.

"What did you say?" Nikki asked from beside me.

I chuckled. "I said Abby, but I meant Logan. Where's Logan?"

Here's a little secret, though: I didn't mean Logan. Yes, I really did forget for a second that I was holding my own daughter and started to look for her. Yes, for approximately one and a half seconds my brain farted so hard I felt its wind ruffle my hair. Yes, daydreaming all day is probably bad and all those years being absent minded have caught up with me in my old age. 

I'm going to be forty in a few months. I thought my body might at least give me those few months before it started its slow crumble. 

I was wrong.

Moral of the Story: Exercise your mind. Sharpen your focus. Read books, play memory games, be aware of things, don't get old. Most of that's easy to do. 

Or so you would think.

How Not To Dad Episode 25: And All Through The House...

There's a little ritual that my wife and I both take part in. Maybe it's a rite of passage for parents, or a necessary obstacle to try and salvage your sanity in the face of nonstop loud noises, voices, fights, and run-stomping that sounds like a herd of bison tearing through your home and not just two young kids playing. I practice this ritual on the weekend mornings, and my wife does it while Abby naps during midday. 

(Cue the Mission Impossible music)

I swing my feet over the side of the bed and let them sink slowly into the carpet. The first test presents itself. Will the floorboards creak? Doesn't matter, it's a chance I have to take. I stand, putting my full weight on my two feet, and hear only the faintest of sounds of protest from the floor.

Good.

Using the balls of my feet - and my toes for balance - I creep toward the bedroom door. Daylight is already beginning to filter into the room from the window, and my watch reads six-thirty a.m. I have time. Surely I have time.

The hallway presents the biggest challenge. In days past I'd sneak right down the center of the hall, hearing floorboards protest in sounds ranging from short, dry murmurs to shrieks of dumb fury at every other step. Only a few months ago did my wife let me in on a little secret: if you stay near the walls the floor is less likely to creak. 

So that's what I do. I hug the wall like a jumper on a ledge who's had second thoughts. My feet shuffle against the baseboards. The farther I get away from the door at the end of the hall, the more carefree I can be, but it's best not to chance it. Right now it's 6:32 and I have a good fifteen or twenty minutes to myself. Maybe even thirty. Who knows? A man can dream, right?

The call of nature is usually strong in the morning. Luckily a bathroom rests halfway down the hall, on the opposite side of bedrooms. If you're a guy, you're in luck. You can aim. The trick is to not hit the actual water with your stream, or it'll sound like a mini waterfall inside the house. You skirt the water in the toilet, aim for the sides of the bowl. This method will almost eliminate sound altogether from your morning bathroom routine. With that deed done I wash my hands (using the low setting for the sink faucet, allowing only a murmur of water instead of a high pressure blast), and it's time to continue the trek to the ultimate destination: the recliner in the living room. There's only one more stop to make.

I make it into the kitchen. Here, there are two loud sounds that could spell doom for my brief time of solitude. One is the hot water knob at the kitchen sink. For some reason, the knob for hot water lets out its own screech every time you turn it. I'm a lefty and no matter how hard I try to remember to just turn the damn cold water knob with my right hand instead, ol' Mr. Left has a mind of its own and reaches for the closest one before I can stop it. 

Why do I have to turn the water on at all, though, right?

Coffee is why. Without that hot, sweet bean nectar this time alone will mean nothing. It'll be spent trying to clear my head and focus my eyes while a random song plays on repeat in my head (seriously, every morning of my life that I can remember has been accompanied by a soundtrack. Sometimes it's a good one, more often I'm getting Rick-rolled or hearing Baby Shark on a loop). Without coffee I'll sit on the recliner and wonder what day it is until I hear Abby start calling my name. So I have to have coffee. Hence, I have to turn on  the water to fill the pot. 

That brings us to the second loud sound: the coffee maker itself. Granted, it's not too loud, but it still coughs and burps little exclamations of noise into an otherwise quiet house. Add to that my (hopefully dainty) footsteps tip-toeing back and forth to and from the pot, it can be the recipe for disaster. 

I lived alone for several years before I got married. I'm introverted, and alone time was my jam. I like being around people, sure, but I always enjoyed going home and sitting in the silence of my house, watching a movie or playing a video game or reading. 

Now, roughly ten years later, I'm experiencing the flip side of that coin. I wouldn't trade my married life with my kids for anything, but it does not offer an ample amount of time to oneself. I can give up my alone time, but I'm still going to scrounge for little pockets of it whenever I can get it like a druggy jonesing for his next fix.

So I do my little covert waltz through the house. I tip-toe, I wince when my weight causes a snap, crackle or pop, I breathe shallow and slowly ease myself into my recliner. Well over half the time I realize once I've sat down, and once the faux leather has stopped squawking, that I have forgotten the book I was going to read or that my phone is laying on the kitchen island. It requires extra sound to make up for that error. A good rule to remember: Always picture yourself in your spot of rest, doing what you plan to do. What all is around you? What do you need to bring?

In the end my sneaking usually doesn't pan out. Not for any useful length of time, anyway. I may make it a page or two into a book, but inevitably a little voice in the back of the house speaks up.

"Daddy?"

And if you don't answer? If you think Maybe she's still half asleep. Maybe she'll drift off for a few more minutes? Well then the voice gets more assertive.

"Daddy." (No longer a question. A statement, short-clipped, bordering on admonishment.)

...

"Daddy, tum dit me." (Translates into "Daddy, come get me.")

And if I wait too much longer the little voice begins to wail. "I wan' dit outta dis!"

If that voice doesn't speak up first, there's another sound. I'll hear a door open in the hall. A seven-year-old whirlwind will zip toward me, ready to play immediately and fully prepared to send me on a guilt trip if I say no. 

And it's all okay. It's great, even. Alone time can play second fiddle to the boy that spins through the house like the Tasmanian devil or the little smiling girl that calls from the back room. I imagine I'll get my alone time back in some form years from now, and I doubt I'll be looking forward to it so much by then.

Even knowing all that I still sneak alone time when I can get it. Tomorrow I know I'll be back to hugging the wall and slinking my way through the house, avoiding creaky floors and working the coffee pot as if it were a dangerous chemistry experiment, hissing to myself at any noise I make, praying for just a few minutes of solitude before the sounds begin. 

Moral of the Story:  Alone time is great. I mean GREAT. But not as great as spending these younger years with the kids that are literally begging you to notice them at all times. If they interrupt your alone time, give them a pass. Every time. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.

How Not To Dad: Episode 24 - Ingenuity

The laws of physics can be cruel. 

I can't dunk a basketball. I can't fly, I can't camouflage myself to blend in with my environment, I can't burn holes through concrete with my laser eyesight. I don't have a single, solitary superpower that I'm aware of (unless you count the ability to smile and nod as if I understand a topic while in a conversation even though my mind is doing cartwheels in the land of make-believe). 

I have, however, developed a decent understanding of the basic laws of physics over the almost forty years I've roamed this earth. On occasion I use that knowledge to my advantage, and harness its power for the forces of good. 

Case in point: Abby and I were in the Dairy Queen drive thru after I'd picked her up from daycare a couple of weeks ago. There are a few toys I have in my car to keep the kids entertained when they ride with me. One is a stuffed Godzilla and the other is a tiny football that fits in the palm of your hand. Abby chose the football as the source of entertainment for the ride home, and that did not bode well for me. Godzilla, destructive as he is, can pass for what Logan would call a "snuggly toy." It's just something soft to hold against you. Abby holds him and plays with him within the confines of her car seat. 

The football is a different story. There is enough college football playing at our house (whenever it's on she points at the screen and yells "Foopah!") for our daughter to understand at least the most basic actions required by the sport.

She knows to throw the ball.

This inevitably leads to a high pitched shriek the minute it leaves her hand. Being strapped into a car seat like a Talladega racecar driver doesn't allow for much of a reach. She throws it, immediately realizes she wants it back but can't reach it, and at least eighty percent of the time I can't get to it myself to hand it back to her. I get to drive the rest of the way home to the song of a mad, whiny toddler.

That night I had made it all the way from town to the Dairy Queen near home without issue. After I'd placed the order with the young lady, I crept forward toward the window to get our food.

Abby let out a whine.

"What's wrong?" I asked in my playful, counter-whine voice.

"Foopah!" Abby responded.

I turn and see the little ball nestled above the middle seat beneath the rear window. It had landed in the perfect location to torment both myself and my daughter. It was within eyesight of her, but just out of reach. With my seatbelt on I couldn't reach it either, and as soon as I tried the car in front of me moved forward and I had to follow the train of vehicles.

"I wan' my foopah!" Abby called.

"I can't reach it, honey. You're gonna have to wait a minute."

Good thing my daughter is extremely patient, right? 

Wrong.

"I WAN' MY FOOPAH!"

I try to reach for it again. No dice. By that time I had gotten to the window and had handed the girl my debit card. An unreasonable yet determined wave of anxiety washed over me. I didn't have time to unbuckle. The minute I did and worked around to a kneeling position in the driver's seat (assuming I could even achieve this without causing a scene with my ass bumping into the horn on the steering wheel or something) she'd be back to hand me my card and my food. She'd have to watch me awkwardly shift and struggle while the car shook with my efforts and my daughter screamed for her foopah in the background. I wasn't having it.

"I can't reach it yet Abby." Used her actual name that time. Hopefully that would let her know I meant business.

"I.. WAN'... MY FOOPAH..." The tears began. 

Anxiety and frustration buzzed like the whine of a half dozen mosquitos hovering just outside my ear.

The worker handed me the food and the debit card. I took a quick glance at the rearview mirror and noted there was only one other car behind me, and they were still placing their order. My focus changed to the little red ball taunting me at the edge of the seat. Abby's hand reached out for it periodically.

And that's when I knew what I had to do.

It's funny how stress forces answers into your brain. Maybe they aren't the smartest answers, but when you're back's against the wall your brain starts pulling from any available experience or bit of half-baked intelligence you might possess. You start calculating, running risk analyses, taking complete stock of your surroundings and making decisions in rapid fire succession.

I was not going to listen to my daughter whining for the rest of the ride home. 

My idea was a simple one. I crept the car forward until I was out of the way of the drive thru window. I looked left, I looked right. Satisfied, I nodded to myself.

I stepped on the gas, the force of acceleration pushing me back against my seat for a second or two, and then I immediately hit the brakes.

The change in force pushed me forward. Abby, strapped firmly into her car seat, probably felt nothing. The football shot forward and hit the back of the console near my elbow with a satisfying thud. I reached back, grabbed the ball that was now easily within reach, and handed it to my fussing daughter.

I reveled in my victory for a moment, thinking of how ingenious the solution had been. I held a half smile on my face for roughly the next minute and a half...

Until she threw the damn ball again.

Moral of the Story: I don't know. Just don't give your kid something that they feel inspired to throw when on trips in the car. You won't always be able to harness the power of physics to help.