How Not to Dad: Episode 16: Icicles and Spidey Senses

Some of the fondest memories from my childhood involved the colder months of the year.  There was Christmas, of course.  Even better, though, were the snow days that got us out of school and allowed us to head out to a solid white landscape, smothered in fifteen layers of clothes, to throw snowballs and make snow cream and all the other fun stuff we do as kids.

We'd search for the largest icicles.  They were usually hanging from the eaves of the house, and if they weren't long enough to grab with a hop off the ground, then it would take a precision-thrown baseball to knock them down.  We used to eat them like Popsicles.  (Side note: I had no idea Popsicle was a brand name and not the general name for any bar of ice on a stick. I got that red squiggly line under the word after I typed it, and I was like "Oh hell no, I did not misspell popsicle.  Fight me, computer!"  Turns out I didn't capitalize the word.  That's why my computer judged me.  Apparently the generic name I was looking for is "ice pops."  I like Popsicle better, so that's what you're getting.  Just like every carbonated beverage is a Coke, right?)

The past couple of years have not brought much snow.  They have, on occasion, brought a type of cold that can cut straight through your jeans and turn your dangly bits to ice pops.  It has the ability to glue your car doors shut, and will create stalactites of ice on the bumpers of your vehicles.

About a week ago one such cold snap swept through our neighborhood overnight and left a few icicles in its wake.  It was a weekday and we had gone through our morning routine.  The conclusion to that routine occurs when Nikki carries Abby to her SUV, and Logan walks along with them.  I watch from the door's window until they're in the car.  This morning my eyes found a large, dripping icicle hanging from the side of my car just as my family were heading down the steps.  That's cool, I thought.  Logan will see that and he'll think it's neat.  He may pick it from the car.  Maybe he'll drop it on the concrete and watch it shatter, or want to save it in the freezer, or taste it like I would have done (though that one's probably a little unsanitary).  All acceptable responses.

That, however, was not Logan's response.  As if on cue he saw the ice and made a dash for it.  Nikki and Abby were ahead of him, heading toward the back seat to strap Abby into her car seat.

I'm not sure if it's a parent thing or just a human nature thing, but there are times when things go into slow motion, times when your mind has worked something out and is desperately trying to clue you into the fact that it knows some event is about to happen.  Kind of like spidey-senses.  Say, when your kid is about to fall off the couch or when a ball comes flying at your head, and you react first before you even really know what's going on.  Your mind has slowed it down for you, to give you time to process it.

Logan stood up from beside my car, and without even seeing his face (he was smirking, I could tell that from the back of his head.  Weird, huh?) I knew what he was about to do.  His elbow cocked back and his free hand went forward as if he were a pitcher about to deliver a fastball. Spidey senses tingling, I was still behind a closed door.

All I could do was watch as he launched the icicle towards Nikki and Abby.  It shattered on the concrete at Nikki's feet, causing her to jolt.  She turned and admonished him, and Logan quickly apologized.

I think kids have a sort of anti-spidey-sense.  If mine slows down to let me know something's wrong, Logan's seems to speed up.  Don't worry about consequences, just throw the damn thing! his brain tells him.  Get it done before you can think about it!  He had no intentions of hurting anyone, of that I'm sure, but he didn't allow himself time to understand that he was throwing a pointy projectile at his mother and infant sister.

In the end, it really wasn't a big deal.  Even if the icicle had hit them, the likelihood of an injury was maybe 0.01%.  If there's any concern, it's that I need to work with him on his pitching arm if he ever wants to play baseball.

That throw needed work.

How Not To Dad: Episode 15 - I'm Getting Old, Doo Doo Doodoo Doodoo...

   I'm Getting Old Doo Doo Doodoo Doodoo 

Did you know that cool has an expiration date?  I remember a time when I didn't know that...

When I got my first car, an '86 Honda Civic with a New Mexico tag and luxurious green carpet interior - and an alarm system for those who might want to steal that hunk of raw, four cylinder power - I thought I was the bees knees.

(Quick tangent: The "bees knees" phrase is thought to have derived from the word "business," as a slang word that meant something like the epitome of excellence.  Other adjectives that popped up in this period of the 1920's are "the cat's pajamas," the "eel's ankles," and the "elephant's instep." Around the same time, the British came up with their own animal/anatomical part combo: the "dog's bollocks."  Henceforth, since the word "bollocks" doesn't get used in the U.S. enough, I will be using that term whenever I can possibly fit it in.)

So back to what I was saying, I thought I was the dog's bollocks.  I could go where I wanted.  I had a sound system with a cassette player and a cassette-to-portable-CD-player converter that allowed you to play CD's through your car's tape deck.  It was a sweet setup as long as you didn't hit any bumps in the road.  Portable players were only meant to sit on a flat, level surface with no movement whatsoever, basically rendering them anything but portable.

I drove to school with the music screaming out of that little car.  I rocked out to Sublime, The Smashing Pumpkins, Nine Inch Nails, The Deftones, maybe a little 2Pac or Dr. Dre thrown in.  I drove with the windows down (I'm fairly sure the A/C was broken).  I wanted to feel the music running through me, so it needed to be played at as close to max volume as my little speakers could handle.  When they rattled, it was time to turn it down half a notch.  Best not test the factory speakers.

I don't think I was too obnoxious with my music, but then again does an obnoxious person know they're being obnoxious?  In my experience that answer is no.  No they don't.  I do remember a high school friend telling me they could hear my music from about three cars behind at a stoplight on the way to school, and that sounds pretty obnoxious to me.  But the world was big and I was young and it was a time for excess.  Strain those eardrums.  Let the music course through you.  In that day and age, your music was what made you cool!  At least that's what I thought then.

A couple of months ago my baby daughter and I were in town together and she had a little meltdown.  The drive home that day brought me to the realization that I had met the expiration date for being cool.  I drove with music blaring from my car, oh yes.  I got looks from people at stoplights and drew attention to myself like I had done twenty years ago.  This time, though, I wasn't singing along to Rage Against The Machine's "Killing in the Name" or "March of the Pigs" by Nine Inch Nails.  My phone was connected to my car, and through that phone the Youtube app played a little ditty called "Baby Shark."  For those of you that know it, I'm sorry for bringing it up.  For those that don't, I'm sorry for bringing it up.  I hate that friggin' video.

Also, I love that video.  Some angel had seen fit to post a one-hour-long version of that song on constant repeat.  Abby rode the rest of the way home in relative silence, enjoying the absolutely insane monotony of that song as it repeated over and over and over and over and over and over again.

So my level of badassery has diminished over the years.  I am no longer the dog's bollocks.  The streets of Cullman are more likely to hear "doo doo doodoo doodoo" wafting through the air around my car than any hard rock, metal, or industrial band.  Instead of feeling electrified by teenage angst I'm singing along with a family of cartoon sharks as they playfully try to eat two children.

Come to think of it that sounds pretty horrific.


Moral of the Story:  Embrace the baby shark.  By a narrow margin, it's better to hear this song on repeat than the screaming and crying of your child.

How Not To Dad: Episode 14 - Barrel O' Monkeys

14

Barrel O' Monkeys    

    I'm not going to gross you out here.  I've done that too much with past episodes.  This is a safe place.  Just know that I walked through our front door the other day holding my child and, about three minutes later, she hurled.  Repeatedly.  She and I were bathed in it, let's say, and I'll leave the imagery at that.
    Now, on to the meat 'n potatoes of this post (no, that's not a reference to the copious amounts of puke, or what my daughter ate to cause such an outburst, so quit thinking about those disgusting things).  Much like any other given moment in the span of my time as a parent, I didn't know what to do.  I stood there and thankfully remembered to lean her forward as the event took place so that she didn't choke, but after the deed was done I became neanderthal Luke (See episode 1) searching my cave for a towel, a washcloth, a stack of napkins, or just a simple clue as to how in the hell I was going to begin to clean this mess up.
    I started the cleanup by setting my daughter down and taking her shirt off.  It didn't occur to me until after I'd started to do this that hey, she probably doesn't want me to rake a puke covered shirt across her face as I remove it.  Probably didn't want any of it to get stuck in her eyebrows either.  Hindsight is always 20/20.  With my daughter screaming and her shirt gone, I pick her up and tip-toe around the mess.  I spot a pack of baby wipes on top of the microwave.  I'm saved.
    Here's where I lose it.
    With my one free hand I work the package open and I pinch the top wipe with my fingernails.  I pull, and a wipe comes out.  It has a friend.  And that one has a friend.  And the next one.  These friggin' wipes are playing Barrel O' Monkeys with me and I'm looking like a half-ass magician pulling a never-ending string of tissues out of the package while my baby sobs in my other arm.  Mind you, I'm still covered in puke at this point.
    I then do what most any man would do.  I get mad.  I pull faster, and wipe after wipe is jerked from the bag until finally they spill over the side of the microwave and a few drift to the floor.  When the chain is broken, I snap the string of remaining wipes like a bullwhip and I'm left with one.  The others scatter into the air and come to rest uselessly at my feet.  I wipe Abby's nose, mouth, and eyebrows.  I carry her to our bedroom where I lay her down to change her.  It is only then that I remembered my shirt and jacket had been, shall we say, severely soiled.  I may or may not have dripped said soilage down the hall as I hurried to get Abby cleaned up.  Luckily my wife stepped out of the bathroom as I changed the baby, and Nikki wasn't nearly as helpless.  Between the two of us we eventually got the mess cleaned up.
    We've put men on the moon.  We put robots on Mars, and others into orbit around the moons of Jupiter and Saturn and God knows where else.  We've sent two satellites on an interstellar flight that began in the 70's and they are still sending data today.  We can split an atom.  We've sent men into ocean depths several miles deep.  Untold thousands of obstacles were overcome in order to carry out these missions.  Surely somewhere along the way someone had to figure out how two damp materials could be pulled across one another without clinging to themselves and dragging all the others along for the ride.  Is there anyone in any scientific field that knows how to design a package of baby wipes that doesn't make you look like the world's saddest magician when trying to rip one from the package?


Moral of the Story:  When your baby wipes refuse to let go, it's you who must let go. 
Of your rage.

How Not To Dad: Episode 13 - Ghosts of Christmases Past

In light of the Christmas season that just passed, I thought I'd do a special episode of How Not To Dad that's a little bit different.  I did this for two reasons: One, because I just want to and this blog page doesn't cost anything so who am I hurting, right?  Two, Until this post I have only exercised my silly side, but I'm quite the nostalgiac (I don't think that's a word but it should be).  Let's flex that sentimental muscle for a minute.

Here goes...

Two years ago we - strike that, "Santa" - got Logan a Hot Wheels Super Ultimate Garage as his big gift for Christmas.  On the side of the main tower clung a toy gorilla that Logan referred to as King Kong.  This giant pile of snap-together plastic costed just shy of two hundred dollars, and it was all Logan talked about when we asked him what he wanted Santa to bring.  It had to be under the tree.

So Christmas Eve of 2017 rolled around.  The box this thing came in was about the size of the monolith on 2001: A Space Odyssey, and I had the pleasure of wrestling that box into a coating of wrapping paper that was red, white, and silver and would have looked right at home with a Budweiser logo on it.  The minute Logan walked into the room the following morning he pointed at the box.  "That's the King Kong thing!"  He said.  It was the last gift he opened that year, and he squealed with excitement as he tore through the beer paper... er... wrapping paper.  The look on his face as he opened the present told us we had done our job.

Logan played with it for a couple of months after we'd set it up in his room, but over time it became a really colorful place to set cups and books and other forms of debris that always seems to congregate in a child's room.  It spent the next year and a half being a dust catcher.  One of the orange strips that connected the garage to a winding, loopy off ramp disappeared.  The spaceship that perched atop the highest level of it vanished into a pit filled with balls and cars and Nerf guns and action figures.  The massive thing withstood the weather of a hyperactive young boy for two years, but now it squatted in the corner like an abandoned building awaiting a demolition crew.

This past week Nikki and I moved that heap of joy out of Logan's room and onto our front porch.  It's destination: the thrift store.  For some reason that I couldn't quite pinpoint at the time, it bothered me that we were getting rid of it.  It was bulky, it took up space, it wasn't used.  There was no reason to keep it.  Logan wasn't even all that upset that it was going away.

I guess that was the problem.  I was certain Logan would be attached to the toy garage because he'd wanted it so bad, but he'd had it for two years.  He's only six years old.  That was a third of his lifetime ago.  The garage had gotten its fifteen minutes with Logan, and it was time for it to move on.

I thought back on Christmases when I was young.  The memories that gathered in my mind were blizzards of voices and laughter and chairs sliding on the floor and silverware on plates and the crackle of wrapping paper.  I thought of fifty people laughing in a tiny house my grandparents had owned for half a century. I thought of counting houses decked out with Christmas lights on rides home after dark, and I thought of mom making us sing carols in the car along with the radio station.  I remember being seven years old and seeing a red blinking light in the sky - no doubt an airplane -  at my other grandparents' house.  I believed with every bone in my body that it was Rudolph's nose as he guided a sleigh through the night sky. I thought of being unable to go to sleep on Christmas Eve, and wondering when Santa would show up.  I thought of waking up at two in the morning with my brother and creeping into the living room to see the presents, and the sheer torture mom forced on us by making us wait until she and my dad were awake before we started opening them.  All that came drifting back when I thought of Christmases past, but not a single thought was given to individual gifts I'd received.

In the end, I decided that the Super Ultimate Garage, now taking up all my porch space, could go on to its next adventure with my blessing.  The conclusion I reached is that it's okay for your kid to blow through life giving passing glances to the toys he loved yesterday.  The toys, the material things, are not what he'll think about when he looks back to these times in his life.

I hope he looks back and remembers family movie nights watching Home Alone or Elf or The Grinch.  I hope he remembers his parents driving his sister and him through the Christmas light display at Sportsman's Lake, and playing with his cousins at the family party on Christmas Eve.  I hope he remembers opening gifts with his sister in their pajamas on Christmas morning, drinking hot chocolate, and eating candy from his stocking.

One day I hope he'll set his own child's toys outside when it's time to let them go, and memories of what made Christmas so important will flood through him. If we've done a good enough job as parents, those memories won't center around a toy Hot Wheels garage, but around the people he loves and the times spent with them.

How Not To Dad: Episode 12 - The Christmas Showcase Showdown

    At the end of every episode on the classic game show The Price Is Right, two contestants have to duke it out to win one of two Showcases.  One will have a washer/dryer set and a one-night-stay at a Motel 6 in Utah or something, where the other will have a new Ford Mustang, a sailboat and an all-expenses-paid trip to the Bahamas.  One always seemed to be crap compared to the other.
    As a parent of two kids you play the Showcase on a daily basis, usually minus the awesome prizes.  Sometimes it's choosing between a dirty diaper and a Nerf bullet to the left testicle.  Most of the time it's more mundane, like would you rather sit at home and watch two hours of some twenty-something kid play video games on YouTube with your son, or take your daughter to her doctor's appointment?
    Oh, and you can't say "neither."  That gets you into the secret, third Showcase which includes one of the previous two showcases plus a healthy dose of dread as you await the argument that will come later because you decided to be a smartass.  (To give myself a little credit here, I would never say I didn't want to take my child to the doctor, or spend time with my kid by watching YouTube videos, but sometimes neither is really appealing).
    On Christmas Eve we went to my grandmother's house.  My family on my dad's side is enormous.  My grandparents had eight children, and those children produced sixteen grandchildren.  Now there are almost a dozen great-grandchildren.  You throw in a few family friends and some in-law relatives and that's about fifty people crammed into one house.  I have spent every Christmas Eve of my entire life surrounded by these people, and I have a great time doing it.
    With two kids in tow, though, a few challenges arise.  I wish I was one of those lizards with the roving, cone shaped eyes that move independently.  That way I could see both kids at once.  Instead, it usually devolves into my wife watching one kid while I watch the other.  It usually works well.
    This Christmas Eve, though, I got a little confident.  Surely with so many people around I wouldn't have to keep eyes on them the whole night, right?  After all, the house is full of adults, and the kids are occupied with other kids.  At least Logan is fine by himself for a little while, surely.
    With this illusion in mind I saunter into the kitchen where my brother, two cousins, and an uncle stand and talk.  I nudge my way into the conversation.  We all share a few laughs and carry on the way we always do, and at one point my eyes lock onto my wife's.  She's apparently been trying to wave me down for ten minutes.
    I do the whole raise-my-eyebrows-and tilt-my-head-back routine.  What's up?
    "I need you over here." She calls through the noise.
    I saunter back.
    "You can either change Abby's diaper or help Logan in the bathroom.  He's calling me from the door and she needs a diaper change."
    The Showcase presents itself.
    I can see clearly what's behind door number one: a diaper change (though I don't know the severity of the soilage of said diaper).  What I don't know is what's behind door number two, although there is a twinge of understanding that door number two most likely has to do with "number two."  Still, I can only speculate.  I'm closer to door number two so that 's what I chose.
    Door#2: The son in the bathroom.
    It turns out Logan was having some digestive difficulties and needed some encouragement, but by the time I tapped on the door and let myself in he'd completed his duties (hehehe).  I told him to go ahead and flush and we'd be on our merry way.
    He'd been coughing for the past two days, though, and after he'd flushed the toilet a fit of hacking sputtered in his chest.  Eventually the coughs became too much.  Logan leaned over.
    Oh Jeez, he's gonna...
    And it came up.
    And it was red.
    I tried to stay calm.  All kinds of ailments, diseases, and physical problems ran through my mind for the next few seconds.  Why is it red?  Please God don't let it be blood.
    "Um, Logan?" I frowned as I studied the pinkish brown blob in the toilet.  "Why is it-"
    "I ate a cookie earlier."
    Oh thank God!  Right after he said it I remembered he'd asked for the cookie just a half an hour earlier.  It had red icing.
    My son was not puking blood.
    I told Nikki about the vomit and the alarming color, being quick to remind her he'd had a cookie with red icing not long ago.  We asked Logan not to run around as much.  We figured he'd gotten hot and that made him momentarily sick to his stomach, and I think we were right.  He hasn't gotten sick since.
    So that was my Showcase: Pee diaper or poop with a dollop of red puke.  I didn't come away with a new car or a trip to a tropical paradise, but on the bright side my son was not coughing up blood.  There's always a silver lining.

 
Moral of the Story:  There's not one.  Whenever a Showcase presents itself, just choose one quickly and move on.  You may think you're choosing the path of least resistance, but then someone vomits and all bets are off.

 

How Not To Dad: Episode 11 - I Thought It Was Something Good But It's Snot

Yesterday morning began as one of those perfect golden moments between my daughter and I.  Like many mornings I was the first one awake.  I took care of my morning routine (Okay okay, I had to pee.  Peeing is my morning routine.) and laid back down in bed for a little while.  Soon enough, our baby monitor blasts the voice of our daughter into the room.  She sobs for a couple of seconds and then stops.  I look past my wife to the video feed and see Abby begin to stir in her crib.  Eventually she sits up and looks around her room with sleepy eyes.  That's my cue.

I get up, walk into her room, she smiles at me as I pick her up, and we head to the kitchen to get her morning cup of milk.  Once the lid to the sippy cup has been secured we amble back to the bedroom where I sit her on the bed beside me and we chill out.  It's the weekend, after all.

She babbles, I babble back.  She drinks her milk and pats the bed sheets and looks around.  Her mom lies asleep beside us.  Every now and then Abby slaps at her mom's back to wake her up, but it doesn't work.

The sun creeps through the bedroom window, casting a subtle golden light into the room.  As it climbs higher the light gets stronger, and ignites the fine fibers of corn silk hair on my daughter's head.  Her chubby cheeks are crested with sunlight from the window behind her.  She looks up at me with a content smile.  She leans back to drink more of her milk, and I cup my hand around the back of her head to keep her from leaning too far back and falling.  She pulls the sippy cup out of her mouth and looks at me.  I smile at her.

"I love you Abs."  I say.

Kind of a sweet moment, right?

Have you ever used one of those hand-held misters?  The spray bottles with the little fan attached to it?  You pull the trigger and the fan spits a cloud of vaporized water into your face, coating you with a cool sheen that is refreshing on a hot summer day.  Well, it's slightly less refreshing when you're in your bedroom, and the liquid that is scattered across your cheeks isn't water but baby snot.

I caught the look in her eyes less than a second before the sneeze hit.  The first wave misted my face with globules of mucus.  The second wave shot an earthworm-sized snot rocket from my daughter's right nostril that flopped over her mouth and began oozing its way toward her chin.  The third and final wave pushed the booger rope further out of her nose, and she smiled that adorable OPEN MOUTHED smile at me once the sneezing fit had ceased.  The slime from her nose sagged into her mouth.

"Oh no!  No no no..."  I say as I look for any available napkin or tissue.  Normally my nightstand is a Swiss army knife of useless junk: books, remotes, earphones, mail, a cup or two.  I take a quick stock of items near me.  There are no absorbent materials. Finally I accept what I already knew was the answer the minute I saw the goop hanging from her nose: I would have to sacrifice my shirt.

I keep hold of the back of her head, work my hand beneath my shirt, and make a sort of puppet out of my thumb and pointer finger.  I clamp my shirt-covered fingers onto Abby's nose before she even knows what hit her, squeeze, and swipe.  It gets about half of it, so I have to do it again.  This time, though, my daughter is ready.  She takes evasive action as I struggle to hold the mouth of my shirt puppet - now smeared with boogers - open.  After she jukes me a few times I catch her nose with my hand puppet (let's just call him Booger McSnottersen) over her nose and mouth and make a quick sweep across the bottom half of her face.  I get it all that time, for the most part.  Later there will probably be a crusted coat across her mouth, nose, and chin, like the cracked ground of Death Valley, but the hard part is over.  All it costed was a perfectly good t-shirt.  Booger McSnottersen is a mess, to say the least.

Moral of the Story:

"Tissues are your friend.  Keep them everywhere.

(with menacing eyes and deep voice) EVERYWHERE."

                         - Booger McSnottersen

How Not To Dad: Episode 10 - Prey At Dawn

    My wife and I lay in bed facing each other.  It’s just past 4 a.m.  Our eyes are mostly closed.  We peek at each other from time to time. 

    A line from Jurassic Park is rolling through my head, and I will the thought towards my wife.  I hope she has the psychic ability to pick up on the message.  

    She can’t see us if we don’t move.

    That’s the line from the movie, as the T-Rex is sweeping the scene for hints of the presence of Dr. Alan Grant, Lex, and Tim after it has destroyed the Jeep.  

    On this night a fourteen month old baby is the roving monster.  She’d awakened screaming in the middle of the night, her nose running and her chest slightly congested.  My wife volunteered me to go get her so I crept through the house to her room, opened her door, and lifted her out of the crib.  

    Nikki had whispered to me as I’d exited our room “Don’t talk to her when you go in.  Just pick her up and bring her in here.”  That may sound mean, but it’s the only way to hold on to the thin veil of sleepiness that the baby is still clinging to.  If we were to talk to her or turn on the light everything would be ruined.  Once we were in bed and she had been laid comfortably between us, we couldn’t open our eyes. She had to believe we’d gone back to sleep or she’d be awake, and nothing would stop her from keeping us awake.  The illusion would be destroyed.   

    That was the theory, anyway, and a damn good one it was.  It has worked in the past.  This morning, though, Abby didn’t want to go back to sleep.  It seems she’s gotten smarter.

    Clever girl…

    I crack my eyelids to take a peek.  The room is dark, but my eyes have adjusted and indirect light has softened the shadows just enough so I can see the silhouette of my daughter.  She sits on the bed, looking from me to her mom, waiting on one of us to break.  

    We’re being hunted…

    She leans in towards her mom, her face mere inches away.  I can see Nikki’s eyelids twitching.  Hold it, I think.  Be strong.

    The baby raises her hand and swings.  It connects with Nikki’s cheek, and a little smack! breaks the silence of the room.  Nikki flinches slightly, but her eyes remain closed.  

    I stifle a laugh and that draws attention to me.  I might as well be waving a road flare.

    The dark silhouette shifts, and is now hovering over my face.  

    “Dah!” The baby blurts, and slaps my face.

    I bite my lip.  The slap doesn’t hurt, but it’s funny as hell that we’ve come to this.  

    Go to sleep! 

    This time I’m trying to psychically link up to my daughter.  As expected, it works about as well as a squirt gun putting out a house fire.

    In the end it took about thirty minutes of pretending to sleep (and, indeed, being half asleep) to get the baby to give up.  She eventually eased her head down onto the pillow between us and grew still.  It didn’t exactly stop there, though.  There was one last act of defiance left in her, performed while she was asleep. She wormed her way around and ended up sleeping horizontally across the bed, her feet in my back and her head pushing Nikki’s back.  We clung to the cliff edges for the remainder of the night, balancing precariously on the edges of the bed, while our daughter slept comfortably between us.