The Elf on the Shelf ... Still

We all know how it works. A few weeks before Christmas, a cute little elf shows up at the house. He sits on the shelf, lounges by the windowsill, keeping an eye on things. Then, at night, while everyone sleeps, he flies back to the North Pole, gives a full report to the big guy, then gets back to the house to assume a new position.  

We’ve had some elves for the past three years, only not the store-bought kind, some old guys who belonged to my father-in-law when he was a kid.It's fun, stashing them in different places, all the shenanigans and mischief as we build up to the big day. But then, later, after all the presents are opened, the elf heads home. 

And that's what happened, until...

This past Christmas, we were out shopping a few days after the holiday, spending some of that gift card goodness when Simon spotted an Elf on the Shelf near the counter. A um, name brand one, in the box, with the book. It was on sale, half off. So we figured, why not?

Let me tell you why not. 

This elf—the one my son named Triskit—was declared a pet elf. Wanna know a fun little secret about pet elves? They never go away. Nope, they stick around all jolly year 'round, just a bouncing through the house night after night. You never know where old Triskit might be hiding, so your kid has to leap out of bed everyday—and I mean e-v-e-r-y-d-a-y, at six thirty or seven, even on a Sunday and hunt him down.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing cuter than watching him wander through the house in pajamas, donning his punkrock bedhead hair, searching for this elf. What's not cute, is remembering to get out of bed in the middle of the night to hide the little freeloader. Every. Single. Night. 

Old Triskit is living it up. He's got his own pajamas, a sleeping bag. I’ve even put in a little shelf in my kid’s closet. Believe me when I tell you Triskit has it good for an elf.

I’m not sure how long it will go on. Valentines Day? St. Patty's Day? Halloween? 

In all seriousness, it's not that bad. And I can tell he's not fully buying this elf business, I think he just like’s to pretend. Sometimes he’ll come out of the bathroom, eyes wide, arms out, and say, “Dad, look where Triskit is hiding.”

And I do. I want to know. Because even as I joke, it’s fine with me. One day my kid will grow out of all this stuff. Or maybe he won’t and things will be downright weird. 

I'll keep you posted. 

Fraud

My son’s a bright kid. I’m not bragging, the little guy is just quick to pick up on things. We role play, we do comedy skits. Sometimes it’s easy for me to forget he’s not yet seven years old.  

We’re eating breakfast yesterday morning. Chocolate Cheerios for him, Chex Mix for me. We sit, slurping up our man-sized bowls, and I’m going through some mail left over on the table. One of them is a replacement credit card.

I see him watching me, and I try to sneak the card back into the envelope so that I can take care of it later. Still, nothing gets by this kid.

“Is that a credit card?"

Yep. Oh, side note. He has this little prank he plays where he opens the junk mail and fills out the forms (usually in crayon) then sends the prepaid envelopes back in the mailbox, flips up the flag. He finds this hilarious. Usually, either my wife or I intercept this secret return-to-sender when he’s not looking. No harm done. At least until that time over the summer when a couple of elderly funeral home employees arrived to follow up on our interest to plan for this not-so-easy time. Oops.

Okay so yeah, credit card. I found my older, expired credit card and handed it to him so that he could put it in his wallet with his library card and at least four of my former driver’s licenses. (Yes, I know, not the smartest move, but it’s not like the wallet leaves the house). But now he’s all wound up, ecstatic, asking questions in detail. I almost thought he was going to start grilling me about the interest rate and ATM fees. 

“So, how much money is on this card?”

I wave the new card in the air. “Well, until I call this one in, I’d say about five grand.”

His eyes go huge. I’m still not catching on that he’s not catching on the joke. 

“Really? I can buy those football pants I want?”

“Yep”

“And a helmet, like, the hundred-dollar helmet at Dicks?”

“Uh, huh.”

“Candy?”

“You bet. By the truckload.”

Here I should’ve seen he was getting entirely too worked up. But we play a lot of games in our house, do a lot of skits. I really thought he knew I wouldn’t hand him a card and tell him to go spend five grand.

But he was flying high.

And that was it. I went to work and never thought twice about telling my son he’d just been given a golden ticket. I get home from work that evening, ready to play or hangout or otherwise have a normal evening. But just as soon as I saw him … uh oh.

His face was like a strawberry. I very upset strawberry.

“What’s wrong, buddy?"

“You lied.”

Tears come rolling, and soon I’m backpedaling. “Wait, I say, trying to make sense of this. I, I was kidding. I wasn’t giving you $5,000.”

I mean, right? I look around. Somebody? Anybody. It's then  I catch a look from my wife, the one that says, You're an idiot. 

Eventually we get it straightened out. I explain to him I was kidding. You know, pretending. That we're living in a material world and I am a material--He's not having it. It's how a victim of one of those prank lottery tickets must feel. The guy's a little ticked about the whole deal. But we come to a compromise. Maybe, just maybe, if he does some chores around the house, gets homework done like he's supposed to, then we can think about those football pants. 

It's not five-grand, but hey, it's low interest. 

And then this morning, pouring our cereal, I find a sheet of paper on the counter. I must have missed it with all the fireworks last night, but it's filled with scrawled crayon, attempts at my name, printed then scratched out then printed again until it's just right. 

I point to it. “What’s this?”

"Oh," my kid shrugs. "I was practicing your name, for when I use the card…”

Oops. 

One Good Deed

My son can be stubborn about things. He can be rude, temperamental, irrational. He throws fits, rolls his eyes, gets himself in trouble. He can be a real six-year old at times. 

It can get frustrating, these battles. Not giving into his demands and standing up to a tyrant. I often remind him he’s not the boss.

When it comes to parenting, I do a lot of things wrong. I’m aware of that. This blog is more of a journal than a how-to guide. Then again, I do some things right.  And I’m always trying. It’s never a lack of effort that is lacking on my end.

As I’ve posted, he’s big into football. I mean, he's really into football. Every weekend for the past oh, two months now, he’s up and ready, in full football gear, ready to go to hit the field. This is our thing, and it shows no signs of waning. These days he likes to wear the gear: shoulder pads, helmet, he’s even got a mouthpiece. He likes to tuck in his jersey and hit the football field looking like a pro.  

*On a side note, if you’ve never played one-on-one football on a 100-yard field on a late June afternoon in Virginia, consider yourself lucky. Or, if you’re one of those cross fitters, add it to your regiment.

Leaving the gridiron on Saturday, we were sweaty and flushed. I suggested we get an early start on Sunday, being that it was 92 degrees and all. He agreed, so much so that by 9am on Sunday he was fully dressed in a helmet and shoulder pads, mumbling “Dad, are you ready?” through his mouthpiece.

“It was your idea,” my wife reminded me. And it was. So after slugging down two cups of coffee, we hit the high school field ready for action.

It was nice, though. Bright, quiet, the heat not yet taking hold on the day. We did some warm-ups, ran a few drills, then it was all business. After our game, I found myself sprinting a 40-yard dash. Bent over and heaving, Simon encouraged me. “Dad, you run like a teenager.” That was all it took. I found myself lining up and doing it again. I think motivational speaking is in that kid’s future.

After an hour and a half, he still wasn't ready to leave. I was, and this set off a fit. He had no problems letting me know just how unappreciative he was of his parents who’d just dropped everything on a Sunday morning so that he could play football. He wanted to continue kicking field goals. We had chores to do.

So he lashed out. And he got consequences. Later, when he pulled himself together, we went to the pool (because, you know, 92 degrees).

Redemption came at the pool. We were tossing the football when a group of kids wandered over and wanted in on the action. I took turns throwing it to each kid, but when I went to throw it to the youngest boy, maybe four, the others waived him off, “Oh, he can’t throw.”

I tossed the ball back to Simon, dunked myself underwater. When I came up, I saw something I won’t soon forget. My kid approaching the other kids, moving past the older kids and holding the football out to the little boy, the one who, “Couldn’t throw.”

Imagine my surprise, watching my son help this boy put his fingers on the laces, then going through the motions of throwing the football.

The boy tossed the ball to me. I told him he did great. Then I looked at my son, who was beaming with pride. And all I could think was how maybe I am doing something right.

Super Tecmo Madness

We’ve all heard the dangers of too much screen time for children. TV, tablets, phones and game systems. How often do you see kids (or adults) zoning out with a phone in their hands.

At our house, we’re hyper-vigilant about this sort of thing. But then again, we’re not.

We don’t let our kid play on our phones. If you do that’s cool, we just don’t. In fact, I make a conscious effort not to be on the phone in front of my kid. I don’t even have it on me when we’re together. Why would I? What am I missing? A post, some terrible news? A witty comment on Twitter? Nah, I’m good.

Okay, so what do we allow? Well, glad you asked. The short answer?

Tecmo Bowl.

Yeah, that’s right. It’s actually Super Tecmo Bowl, released in 1991. When I took on my new job s a computer technician, I started tinkering with my old one in the basement. Simon and I would take out RAM, the harddrive, simple stuff he enjoyed doing. I taught him how to change and create passwords, profiles, set screen protectors and backgrounds. We’d pretend I was a new guy at the job and he’d help me get logged in. What can I say, we’re dorks.

Then one day he noticed an emulator on the desktop. “Dad, what’s that?”

“Oh, that’s,” I couldn’t control myself. I fired the thing up and began. “So look, this is how you play Super Tecmo Bowl on the computer. It's actually a rigged up 2013 version of the classic, and I had to teach him how to use the keyboard as a controller. I figured he’d play it for five minutes and that would be the end of it.

Not what happened.

As it happened, my son fell in love with one Ray Lewis. He's walking around in a 52 jersey, baffling kids and confusing adults, probably wondering why a six-year old is going on about a guy who retired five years ago.  

And not just that. The kid loves defense. We hang in the basement, on this old Windows Vista computer. He plays D and I play offense. He started asking football questions. I taught him about the downs, punting, special teams and reading a defense. And I have to say, I never realized just how complex the game of American Football actually is until I tried explaining the difference between a field goal, extra point, safety kick, punt, and a regular kick-off to a six-year old.

Believe it or not, it’s quality time. We go outside and play football, running pass routes and reenacting Super Tecmo Bowl. Imagine my neighbors, watching us act out a video game football contest, my son stating the physical conditions (excellent, good, average, bad) of each player before each play.

Now he’s learned football. Heck, he could coach football. He can read a zone defense and blitz schemes. He can count by sevens. He can read all sorts of variations of names.

He can play offense now. He can work a keyboard, because in the old edition you have to use a keyboard instead of the controllers.

The only probable is that all of his favorite players are retired.

And one last thing that’s come out of this. So, he really likes Ray Lewis. When I liked athletes back in the eighties, I had him write out a note, asking for his autograph. We’ve mailed it off with a self-addressed return envelope. I chuckle, thinking about Ray Lewis, opening my son’s letter, finding out he’s still someone’s favorite player.

Now we wait, and I really hope it works out because it will be cool for him to see the power of the pen.

Bedtime Stories

Like most households, we read books before bed. But lately the books aren't holding my son's full attention, so we’ve started making up our own stories. It all comes to life in the dark, and with his input, we've come up with some rather epic adventures all on our own.

We have Tooter Reuter, Tommy Two-Milks, Sally Simpson and Phillip Fatterwackle. And who can forget, the lovable lush, Johnny Junkfood.

Whatever the names, this is the cast of our ongoing saga. And what could be a better way to expand and explore what's in his little head? 

To say he's into it is an understatement. When the lights go out, my son snuggles up, his eyes wide and unblinking, staring at the ceiling. "Tell that one again!" He often pats me on the arm when he likes what he hears, saying, “More. Tell me more.”

He remembers every story we've made up, correcting me if I flub a line. He knows every detail. How Tommy Two-Milks got caught sneaking a milk up his shirt in class. How Tooter Reuter ate nothing but pizza for a month. How they went fishing and hooked a legendary fish called Pearly Purple, who snapped the line and made a narrow escape. Imagination, a good thing, right?

Well, about that. I must have glossed over the rules, the part about these stories being tales, not to be tried in real life. And the tales weren't just bedtime stories anymore. I was telling them at breakfast, while getting dressed, at dinnertime. And somewhere, along the way, I got sloppy. 

It started when with the tree climbing. He wanted to go up, way up high. "Like Tooter Reuter, Daddy." Then on the way to school, I fumbled through a hurried tale of how Tooter Reuter and Johnny Junkfood played a gag, putting rocks into Tommy’s book bag. Are you rolling your eyes? My wife is, because that was the day my son put rocks in a classmates boot.

Oops.

Storytelling gone wrong. Who knew? My wife knew, she explained, but I must have not heard the warnings over the clank of sword fighting and all the laughter. But she was right, it had gone too far. So I explained to our son that these stories are fiction and not to be acted out. That when Tooter climbs the tallest tree to the top, then uses his blanket as a parachute to float back down, it's make believe. I edited all the fun offending chapters. Now, I run each word through a mental filter, taking pains to find some kind of moral to each tale that enters my head. 

But I can't help feeling censored. My wife over there coughing when I skirt around her code of standards. I explain how any good story needs conflict. Oh, I found me some conflict.

So finally, amidst the criticism, like any prima donna Hollywood actress, I walked. I relinquished storytelling duty to my wife. Yawn. I’ll summarize.

Sally Simpson is perfect. She uses her manners and the teacher loves her. She gets to do all the fun chores in class because she’s nice and polite. All the boys need to follow suit.

There was probably more but my son and I dozed off. But hey, at least it puts him to sleep...

Aim Low

This post may come out all wrong but it’s something I’ve been turning over in my head for a few days. Months I guess. It goes like this:

For my son, I want to aim low.

That’s right. Low.

There’s so much pressure these days. College talk. Scholarships. Savings plans. Big hopes and dreams for the snowflake.  And that's fine, saving is good, right? Moms and Dads are dreaming big these days. Going to be an awful lot of doctors and lawyers, a surge of professional athletes. 

Obviously a lot of it is said in jest. I hope. You know, kid makes a shot and Dad’s ready for the draft.  But a lot of stuff, it’s there and it's real. It's lurking in the minds and in the hearts of well-meaning parents. And it can be a pressure cooker.

Okay, you say, what are you suggesting? 

Well, I want my kid to succeed…in happiness. 

Hey! Stop rolling your eyes. What I mean is that I want him to do what makes him happy. Sure I want him to dream and fight and try and strive. And right now, at my house, for my kid, happiness consists of taking stuff apart. Popping the hood of my car so that he can study the engine. He likes engines, loves them, and working parts are his thing right now. And if he wants to be an engineer, great, and if he wants to be a mechanic, great too.

Fine by me. He loves to learn about lawn mowers and car engines, even flipping over his toys to see what makes them roll, click, or turn. So yeah, I think for him being a mechanic would be a pretty decent way to make a living.

But when I say it, people think I’m joking.

I’m not.

Trade school sounds like a great plan. College diplomas are becoming increasingly more expensive and well, by the time he’s ready I’m not so sure I want him taking out loans he’ll have to pay for the rest of his life.

And everything is about money. It seems people just go to college to get a job. Okay, I'll say here that yes I’m naive and weird and in the distinct minority because I happen to think that kids should go to college to learn things.

Just to learn things.

I read all the time. Almost anything, because I love it. I’ve read college text books for fun, seriously, and didn’t pay a dime to do it. That said, I know people don’t go to college to learn things. That would be stupid. They go so that they can get a good job.

We need money. But we need time too. We need a healthy balance of time/money/love/ to be happy. To be peaceful. And what’s the point in going into massive debt to go to school to get a good job to get lots of money to pay the debt so that you can work your way into happiness? I think I’m confused.

What if my kid is comfortable? What if he’s a comfortable mechanic who lives a normal, non Earth-shattering life ? What if he does what he loves? 

Also--the kicker here--he could come over and the old man's car when it broke down. Win.

No seriously, this is not about me. What's wrong with comfort? With finding your own groove. Took me half a life to do it and I'm still working to get that groove right. So what do I know? Sure, we can nurture them and provide a stable environment for them to succeed, and if that’s college, great. If not, will figure it out. But in the end, the choice is his to determine.

Alone Time

Coming up on three-and-a-half-years old, my son is growing increasingly independent. I've noticed how he talks things out, solves problems on his own. Or maybe it's as simple as lying on his back in his play room after school, taking some time to decompress. 

I think it's a good thing, taking some time to get himself together. But a little time goes a long way, and this past Sunday, I found out the hard way not to let things get too quiet.

Sunday. Our neighbor stopped over with her ten-year-old daughter, as they do most Sundays for dinner and fun. Fun because whenever they enter the house, I become invisible. No big deal, it's just how it is. And this day was no different. 

Things started off with a bang as Simon and his future babysitter scampered off, into the living room to play hotel, which means stripping the beds of all covers and pillows and setting them up in the living room. This girl is great with my son. So much so that I’d gotten a bit lax with the supervision. I joined my wife and neighbor in the kitchen on the way out to fire up the grill.

Back inside, the kids have moved to the table to draw. So I hang in the kitchen and we talk about what conditioner works best with our hair where it occurred to me that I don’t really hang out with many guy friends these days. Oh, and that things were awfully quiet in the other room.

I drifted back and poked my head in.

Oh, finger painting. Cool. I’ve learned to stay away when it comes to activities with friends. That or get shooed away.

So back to chit-chat. The ladies were talking about those cute little pictures our kids painted last year. We all smiled, our hearts aflutter as the room filled with parental joy over our kids' special bond. And it's with this sentiment that I casually peeked back at the two of them again.

Oh My God.

My kid turned to face me. He was completely red. Gulp, that’s paint, right? He was covered. Across his neck, his arms, his hair. A thick film of paint on the table. I could only watch as he inspected the slimy paint on his palms. And started clapping. 

Paint went flying.

“Uh, honey, we need a wipe.” 

We didn't need a wipe. We needed a hose. Quite possibly an exorcist. At that point I didn't even know where to begin but I started by searching the floor for pig carcass. My son stood proudly on his chair, a picture of a Stephen King novel amidst the red paint spatter that was all over the curtains, the wall, the dogs.

I looked to the preordained sitter. A few smudges of red on her shirt. A smear on her arms. She was putting the finishing touches on a rainbow or meadow or it’s not important. My eyes widened.

“What happened?”

“Oh. He wanted a lot of paint.”

Enter my wife. Thankfully she is better than me at taking charge because I’d just been standing in the doorway, mouth hanging open in shock, unsure where to begin. She took charge by removing his shirt off for starters, but then things got difficult. Because he’s three and all.

Simon hopped off the chair and bolted for the living room, waving his dripping hands above his head, southern baptist church choir-style. He was pretty much covered, from hair to toenails in red paint, shedding it on the walls as he swung around the corner and down the hall out to the sun room as he busted free and clear to the carport, chanting what I'm pretty sure was a Mayan death ritual song. 

I gave chase, following the paint trail after my kid who was now streaking across the lawn. Part of me was wondering how I’d explain this to authorities, because it sort of looked like some sort of voodoo massacre had transpired.

I scooped him up. He kicked and squirmed and I was awfully thankful that all I wear are $6 shirts these days when he wiped his face on my chest in his flailing, worked up something good between the warpaint and my reaction.

Back in the kitchen. Screaming. Cleaning. Mopping. Wiping. Forensics. Laundry. 

I wrestled this kid into the tub. No easy task considering he was in full-on Apocalypse Now mode. 

Mom to the rescue. She talked him down.Talked me down. She convinced him that it was time for a shower. To get a rinse. Pink water swirling in the tub.

I stepped out into the hall wet and streaked and like a man who'd gone 15 rounds in a parental grudge match. The neighbors helped with the cleaning. The chicken needed to be flipped on the grill so I staggered out to handle that.

Maybe my kid’s not quite ready for all this alone time.

Potty Training.

What comes in, must come out. Somewhere. In a diaper. A potty. One time down his leg onto the floor. 

http://sabbyinsuburbia.blogspot.com/2010/03/adventures-in-potty-training-part-1.html

Oh that's gross? Sorry, it's just that once a naked three-year-old does a cartwheel right in your face, well, you just kind of get past all that. 

But the potty training, how's it going you didn't ask? Well, some days it’s a breeze, he tears off his pants and heads for his little froggy toilet in the bathroom just a ringing and singing. Other days, such as this morning, the mere mention of it sets off a horror movie scream that has the dogs taking cover.

But mostly he gets it right. And he’s awfully proud of himself. Like last night. He was on his little potty, giving Mom and me a play-by-play of what was happening. How he wasn’t quite done, in case we were wondering. Then it was back to singing Christmas carols while on his potty. 

Such are the times.

But it will be nice not having to buy diapers. Or change them. Or even look at them after three years of handling full ones. And I think he's ready to be done with them too, be a big boy, where some Underoos. 

And being that we're not completely in the clear I have to keep an eye on his expression. I can face read him like a champ. The narrowing eyes, the furrowing brow, means that a storm's abrewing and we'd better get him where he needs to go. Some jumping up and down, a slight smile, well, that means the dude needs to pee.

When he does his business in the potty you'd think he'd won the slots. A parade ensues. He gets high-fives, we cheer him down the hall to the kitchen where he receives a bit of candy to grease his palms. And he's ready to tell anyone about it.The other night we went to dinner with friends, their 8 and 5 year-old girls were at the end of the table. My son hops out of his seat, struts back to them with a gleam in his eye and says, “I’m potty trained.”

It just may be the best come-on line in history.

And things aren't always a breeze, not with such a stubborn strong-willed kid. But every kid is different, and will take to doing things at different ages. For my kid this was all about comfort. For a time his reason for not pooping at school was that the toilet is too loud. Not sure if that was truth or just a well thought out excuse but it was fine with me. He's going now so all is well.

Man, when did I get here, writing about poop? Maybe after my last  shred of dignity was bundled up and tossed into a diaper genie. Or perhaps before, when I was fumbling sloshing bottles of breast milk in the fog of night. Either way, this is just one more notch in the belt of parenthood. Next up, hang on, uh, there’s poop on the floor….

'Tis the Seasons...

The other morning, through a smear of yogurt, my kid, with his hair still fuzzy and wild from a good night’s sleep, was asking about balloons. More specifically, his You're the Best! balloon from months ago that I tossed in the trash because it lay in a heap under the table like a wet plastic grocery bag.

“Well, your birthday’s coming up, I’m sure you’ll get a balloon then, right?”

“And presents?”

“Yeah, you’ll probably score some gifts too."

His gaze wandered to where our tree had stood, now a barren corner and a stark reminder that Christmas is over.

"We can put them under the tree?"

“Well, uh, you see…”

And there’s the dilemma. Where I’m happy the kid enjoyed Christmas, he’s having a tough time letting it go. My wife said they pulled into the driveway the other evening and he said the house looked sad because we "put Christmas away.”

An unpardonable offense in his eyes. He wants to watch The Grinch. He wants presents under the tree. He wants to sing Jingle Bells, or, some form of it anyway… Omaha, it is to ride, in a one horse open….Hey!

We just might have a Christmas theme for his January birthday.

Now, I’m not some jerk who doesn't want his son to enjoy himself. I'm okay with a slight extension to the holiday season. We traveled this year for Christmas, so he wasn’t at home to enjoy the tree and the lights. So fine, we left everything up stayed merry and stretched things out a bit. While other people were pitching trees to the curb, ours glowed in full glory. 

I’m no longer one of those rip-it-all-down and be done with it on the 26^th type of guys. I don’t let the shopping season or commercials dictate what holiday to celebrate. Truth be told we could all use a little Christmas cheer all year around.

But…

After a while, wouldn't it get...weird, not too mention brown....if we had the tree up all year? And again, I've made some concessions already. I’ve left some lights up, white ones, on the fence post out front, and there's a snowman...

But these two, both of them, wife and kid. They want full tilt Yule tide. 

So I'm branded the Grinch.

Fine. But to me, part of what makes Christmas special is the wait. If it was here all year then it would not only get weird, and brown. It would lose some of it’s luster. But try explaining this at my house, while you're reading Little Blue Truck's Christmas and everyone's wondering why the little tree on the last page won't light up. *Hint, it's the batteries, because it's JANUARY...

I’m sure hope this will all pass. I’m guessing with his birthday and all he’ll get back into the groove of things and Jingle Bells will give way to the Easter Bunny. Or maybe by Halloween we’ll have him ready to go trick or treating, singing spooky songs and getting into the spirit of things. 

Maybe he can go as Santa Clause. 

Thoughts on Family Travel...

Holiday travel. Every year I say never again. Yet every year I find my hands on the wheel. Sure, getting away is fun. Seeing family is great.  But the getting there, that is tough sledding.

It starts with a three year old. Not easy, right? Add two dogs, one on each side of the little guy and now we’re getting close. Okay stuff the car to the gills and then pretend that you abhor being confined to a seat for more than a half hour or so. 

Now we’re cooking.

I'm sure that some of you out there drive all the time, and you may like nothing more than hitting the open road at full speed. Well, God bless you for it. Me? No, not my thing. I-81, with its steep inclines and trucks and constant road construction? I’d rather chew on a rusty wad of steel wool. 

My whole family was packed into that car. The only thing missing was a jar around my neck with our two little goldfish. One wrong move, me or the other guy and well...it’s more than my nerves can take. That’s why I chug along at a paltry 68-72 mph. I pass cops with a smile. The Fast and the Furious? I’m not what would be considered the ideal demographic.

Our journey began in Virginia and ended in the North Country, a mere 50 miles from the Canadian border. All in all it was something to the tune of 26 hours in that car with stops at the downtown Hilton in Scranton, Pa, both there and back. And By the way, those good people at the Hilton are top notch, and I highly recommend their hotel if you’re travelling with pets. Last time up  I chose a roadside motel to save a buck with the expected results.

But nope, this time we spent the extra money and got fancy. Two queen beds meant one for mother and child and one for man and dogs. It's funny because I used to leave a hotel room in a daze. A fog of cigarette smoke hanging and a string of beer cans strewn along the floor. Now it's Goldfish crumbs and baby wipes. 

Times change.

Dogs. Boy was that something. After the first time they flat out refused to get back in that elevator. A fool-me-once sort of deal. So then it was three flights of stairs whenever I had to let them out or in. Other than that they were well behaved. Even Mason, our neurotic husky mix did okay. A few pants and some trembling at times when traffic got hairy, but hey, the same went for me.

The kid. He did great too. Minimal napping and maximum discomfort, and yet he handled most of it like a champ. At one point, there was us, in the empty hotel lobby/bar, drinking a draft and trying to de-frazzle ourselves while our kid played with his tractor on the floor. Sure, there were those times on the road, when he’d yank at his car seat belt while shouting, “Get me out of here!” Then again, I did the same thing.

On the way home—which became the longest effing trip home since trips and homes and roadside mowing was invented—we hit a snag in traffic and came to a lurching halt on the interstate. My son, awake but weary, piped up from the back.

“We’re going home?”

“Yes son.”

“We’re going home really slow?”

“Yep.”

Home. There’s nothing better. Walking into that familiar place, with its smells and sounds and comforts. With its absence of traffic and lurking dangers. Where the dogs sleep without worry and snore through the night. Where the stress melts away. Where my kid isn’t tying a leash to the hotel chair or eating with a plastic spoon. Where there are no elevators or parking garages or check out times. Home. Where all is well.

Happy Holidays.

The Day I Learned...

  

I can’t say I was shocked. Surprised, yes. Sweaty? Very. But not shocked.

It was evening, back in the day of few responsibilities. When I look back on this life-changing encounter with my wife, it’s boggling to think of all the free time. Floating around, there for the taking…Okay, sorry, where were we? Surprised. Right.

I’d just come back from basketball and stumbled upon an extremely frazzled woman sitting at the edge of the couch. Upon further inspection I noticed that that woman was my wife. She told me to sit down, then after some fidgeting, “Wait, take a shower first.”

I shot her a look. Something was up. Did she get a raise? No, as a public school teacher that line of thinking falls squarely in the joke category. And she wasn’t exactly smiling. So I took a shower, my mind racing with possibilities of what was coming. My wife isn’t prone to getting worked up. She’s not a fidgeter. That's my department. She’s the even in our keel, so to see her all red faced and breathing funny it had to be good. Or bad. It could be bad...

“Okay, what?” I asked, my physique shimmering in the glow of dusk. Whatever, this is my depiction, here. My wife pointed to the couch. 

"Sit.”

I sat.

“So….” She gave me a look. Like I was missing something. I sorted through my thoughts. I really gotta get my jump shot back on track.

“I’m pregnant.”

Wait. “Huh?"

More staring.

“Are you sure?"

More staring, this time with a look I've since deciphered to mean: You're an idiot. 

“Yep.”

Elation. A thrill of joy I will never forget. A family. This is great. Although we have/had that Jamaica trip planned, but…A Kid!

The reason I wasn’t shocked was because a few months prior we’d passed by the nearby CVS. My wife had mentioned that she needed to refill her birth control. I’ll never forget sitting at that light. Turn left and get the pills. Go straight and pull the goalie.

The light turned green and I plunged ahead, thus sacking the goalie. Man, such a rebel. But honestly I didn’t feel that rebellious. I was thirty-six and I don’t know how else to put this but I really didn’t think my stuff worked. We went about our business. Trying but not trying. The last thing I wanted to do was tell the world, “Hey guess what? We’re trying to have a baby!”

So on that couch I was less than shocked but more than surprised. And that euphoria that hit when she told me she was pregnant? Well, it lasted through most of that initial embrace. Goosebumps hit like a pad of bristles under my skin. My mind flooded with the happiest happy I’ve ever experienced in my life until that point.

Then it was gone.

An immense fear followed. It engulfed me like an itchy wool cloak of uncertainty. A human. A real, walking talking, pooping human. My human. I would be responsible for seeing that it was fed and clothed and didn’t like soccer (I’m kidding, he can like soccer). On top of that I had to raise it so that it wouldn’t grow up and be a serial killer. And then, after being sure that my well-fed, clothed, moderate-to-decently-raised human wasn't a career criminal, I had to hope and pray he wouldn't cross paths with a serial killer. Phew. It's not easy living in this mind of mine.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. What in the hell was I thinking? That goalie had been the only thing keeping my fragile mind at ease. Now I was freefalling. This wasn’t like picking out a dog. Where you go to the kennel and pick out that cute little mutt. I was great with dogs. Throw the stick and the fetch the stick. This was different.

That week was a blur. Me. A father. How would this work? Everything was about to change. Alternating voices controlled my thoughts.

Everyone has kids. It’s part of life. No big deal. HUGE DEAL. YOUR KID IS GOING TO BE A BABY FRANKENSTEIN. WHAT IN THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? YOU CAN HARDLY TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF!!!

And since that day, this has been the ongoing struggle...

I told my friends (Ha, I had friends!). Had a few guys over and we had some beers. I broke out the news. At that point my joy in becoming a dad overpowered my anxiety. But not for long. Something happened to me. 

Up until then I thought panic attacks were something the paper bag companies came up with to spike sales. But it was no joke, I’d wake up sweating, my pulse racing and my breaths light. I'd bolt out of bed, pacing, swearing it was the big one. 

Then it happened again. Wake up, bolt upright. Shortness of breath, cold feet. Sweating. It happened so frequently that I finally saw a doctor. A few test and he assured that everything was fine. Calm down.

I calmed. I quit smoking. I watched my sugar intake.. I went a little crazy and started drinking organic apple cider vinegar. (I’d read that it helped, sorta).

Again, my doctor assured me I was fine. He told me not to come back for two years. He refused to be facebook buddies with me. He pointed from his heart to his head and said, "I’m not so sure the problem is here, but here.”

I babystepped my way out of his office, officially labeled a headcase by a physician. My wife laughed out loud.

The next few months were peaceful. We planned. I started a blog to document my craziness. I found out we were having a boy. I was still scared but I had no choice but to answer the call. We were going to have a family.

And now here we are...

It's Go Time...

Ahh summer....When the days are long and everything slides to a leisurely pace ....Enjoy the pool or enjoy the shade...Just grab a drink, kick back and relax. It's the only way to beat the heat...

Or destroy the bathroom. All the way down to the studs. That's right, pick up that sledgehammer and eat some plaster and/or asbestos.

Our house was built in the 1950’s. And from what I've discovered it was built to weather any major war or class five hurricane. I’m not kidding, the place is a fortress. Just like it's not exaggerating when I say that there is enough plaster and drywall and concrete in our modest bathroom to pave the moon. Twice.

For years it seemed the whole bathroom remodel was something to be done….just later. You know, like, Oh sure when we do the bathroom, and kitchen, and install our zero gravity room. You know, that kind of thing. Whenever I thought about it, it was more, fuzzy-around-the-edges-still-in-the-infancy-stages-of-my-mind. And yes, I tend to think of things in cartoon vision. What, that's not normal?

But my wife is scary sneaky. And somehow when I wasn’t paying attention, this renovation project got moving. We bought a sink and stored it in the basement. I still had time. I chipped away at some tile. Then we bought a shower. Then I took the old sink out. Then there was a dumpster in the driveway. Suddenly, our cute little tadpole of an idea morphed into a big old ugly toad.

Now I live in a construction zone.

Which wouldn’t be so bad. But then I remembered that there’s a highly active toddler running around our house.

He likes tools.

He loves vacuums.

He absolutely adores a mess.

So that leaves us here. We don’t have walls but we have a lamp on the studs and we still have the big old pink tub. I have most of the walls gutted. The main problem is trying to time everything.

See, while I get to play Mr. Construction Worker—which comes with a pretty good chance at major injury—my wife and child are taking their yearly sojourn up north. And that’s when the tile guy and the plumber come in. And that’s when I start taking showers with the hose in the backyard. This ought to be good.

I’ll keep you posted.