It's just Ava and me at home this afternoon. Lori is off with Brennan and Zoe enjoying the first day of Winter break at Skateland. Admittedly, I really like a quiet house in the middle of the afternoon. It's rare, but oh so enjoyable. It is prime time to do one or more of the following (in order of necessity):
1) Work
2) Nap
3) Read
After putting Ava down for her nap, my plan was to progress through that list over a three hour period in the following order: 1, 3, 2. However, 30 minutes in, I realized that none of that was going to happen. It started when she stuck her legs through the slats in her crib and donkey kicked against the wall, sending herself and her crib sliding into the middle of the room (this happens frequently, so I could tell what was going on simply by the sounds coming from upstairs). From there, she began to make a lot of noise - the kind of noise that is both distracting and entertaining. As such, there's really little else to do except ignore my own agenda, and document Ava.
I should preface this by saying that she was clearly tired and I went up to talk to her several times during the course of this performance. Because she was both tired and very entertaining, there's no way I was going to let her get out of taking a nap. So, neglect? Nah. Selfish? Probably a little.
Meowing, loudly. (1:17p)
Screaming, "Can't be mad at me..DAH-DEEEEE!" (1:19p)
Two things were just tossed from her crib. I'm guessing two books - one hard cover, one paper back. (1:22p)
"GO TO SLEEP...KITYYYYY!!!" (1:30p)
"I WANT...YOGURRRRRT!" (1:35p)
"I gonna be mad at you." (1:37p)
"ha ha. nah nah nah. try n' get me. ROARRRR!" (this repeated several times between 1:42p and 1:53p)
"I not asleeeeep, DAH-DEEEE!" (1:56p)
"Good NIGHT! Good NIGHT!" (1:59p)
*singing* "Flushed away. Flushed away. Every day, it's flushed away. You can't pee in my house." (2:02p)
"I'm awake, daddy. I'm awake." (2:03p)
"Come 'n find me, Daddy!" (2:05p)
"Daddy!? *Howl* Daddy!? *Howl* Daddy!?" (2:07p)
"There's a dragon in here." (2:11p)
And then (2:14p), asleep (Ava, not me)**. I feel bad that the last thing she told me prior to slipping into her afternoon slumber was that there was a dragon in her room. However, I'm also fairly impressed. She went to sleep despite the presence of a dragon. Or maybe that was simply the final scene in her performance. "Hey dad, there's a dragon in here. The heroine will slay it and THEN be able to rest knowing the people are safe."
I like that ending. It would have been better 45 minutes ago, but still, overall, a very strong performance.
** I went up to check on her, making sure that 'dragon' wasn't preschooler code for something that should actually concern me.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
sex drugs & rock n' roll
When parents use social media as an outlet to share stories about their children, they are clearly doing so because they are a) proud of their children and b) proud of themselves as parents. Typically the latter is masked in doubt, to signal to the reader that while they want you (everyone!) to know about their decisions, they are also a bit unsure about those decisions. After all, who wants to read about a know-it-all. Especially when it comes to parenting. This post, and this blog in general I suppose, are certainly guilty of that. I'm sorry you don't get to read raw parenting posts that involve Lori calling me a 'weirdo' and me giving Lori the bird. Those stories stay at home, and hopefully deep in the recesses of our kids' minds.
It started with Virginia Ave. and progressed when I put houses on Park Place. Zoe had self-selected into the role of banker so she could be in charge of the money. She sat next to me and likely observed me biting my finger nails every time Brennan rounded the "Go to Jail" corner, one roll away from landing on Park Place or Boardwalk (both of which I owned). I wanted to end the game, and I wanted to end it as the winner.
When Brennan bought two houses for Virginia Ave. he handed the money to Zoe and requested his little green return. Zoe** responded, "Two houses for Vagina Avenue, coming right up!" This of course got just the response she was looking for (uncontrollable laughter) and prompted an unexpected and uneasy sideways glance from Brenno. He was laughing, but he was also a bit nervous. Vagina Avenue was clearly not simply a spot on the board, but something that had recently taken on new meaning, and he implicitly told me that with his glance (then proceeded to laugh out loud).
Then I bought two houses for Park Place (the move that would eventually push Brenno into bankruptcy). "Two houses for Penis Place, here you go!" More laughter and another sideways glance from our son. Now vagina I can understand. It sounds funny. He doesn't have one. Learning about it from friends can be uncomfortable. But penis? He's been hanging out with a penis since day one (aware of it since day three) and typically sees me walking around the house at least twice a week Free Willy. But still the explicit discomfort. Vagina Avenue and Penis Place, once distant properties on opposite ends of the board, had become uncomfortably close. Crossing class lines and railroads. Almost neighbors. Certainly sharing some association. I have no idea if he was thinking about it in this way at all, but I was, and it led to the logical (probably unnecessary) conclusion that a sex talk was in order!
I planned my approach days in advance, knowing the exact conditions and location of my assault. My arsenal included one simple but lethal weapon: Mommy Laid an Egg. I typically read a bit of expert opinion before diving into some facet of fatherhood. With sex education however, I have stayed deliberately distant. Mostly. There are a few sources/people I trust, but for the most part I think everyone/everything else is totally insane. Most people cannot talk about the topic calmly, and it leads to education that is either tense and taboo-ridden, or relativistic and suggestively exploratory. So, I chose the book that has led to the most bans and critiques from the groups I trust the least, and use that as my go to. Mommy Laid an Egg is hilarious, informative, and in my opinion, completely sweet. It starts with a couple of hippies naively teaching the birds and bees to their kids and ends with crayon stick drawings (by the kids) of their parents having sex on a a skateboard. I placed this book in Brennan's backpack prior to heading out to his first real concert (The Avett Brothers).
The concert was great. Brennan got a little tired prior to the end but not before me getting teary-eyed during Murder in the City and Brennan getting his first good whiff of pot ("What's that smell? Is that a skunk? Did you toot?" "I'll explain in the car."). On our way out to the car Brennan asked what he could do on the way home. I told him that I packed a book for him to read. After explaining the smell to him (soccer is great because it usually provides some good material in these situations: "Is that why Maradona got kicked out of soccer?" "I'm sure Maradona smoked marijuana, but he got in trouble for cocaine and hamburgers.") he got into the book. I watched him in the rearview mirror. He was thoughtful. Then amused. Then confused. He read a couple of pages several times. He laughed, then put it away. Then gave me the same sideways Monopoly glance. Then he asked "What?"
What followed was a great conversation about eggs, seeds, tubes, holes, love, marriage, choices, and consequences. We both laughed. He told me about some jokes he had heard at school. He asked me if this is the reason that lesbians have to adopt kids to become mothers ("Because there's no seeds, just eggs, right? "Exactly."). He asked me if sex was bad, to which I responded of course not. That it is special, and fun, and powerful. He made the connection that if it weren't those things, people probably wouldn't do it, and then there probably wouldn't be people on the earth. And the earth needs people. Exactly. We talked about boundaries and unintended consequences.
We talked about a number of other things I won't share, with Brennan gracefully concluding the conversation, bringing us full circle, by asking about the UEFA Champions League. "Do you think Real Madrid will win this year?"
"Yes, buddy. I do. And here's why..."
** later in the evening Zoe would reprise her role as the family's raunchy stand up comic by butting in as Ava sang the ABCs with, "l-m-n-o VAGINA!"
It started with Virginia Ave. and progressed when I put houses on Park Place. Zoe had self-selected into the role of banker so she could be in charge of the money. She sat next to me and likely observed me biting my finger nails every time Brennan rounded the "Go to Jail" corner, one roll away from landing on Park Place or Boardwalk (both of which I owned). I wanted to end the game, and I wanted to end it as the winner.
When Brennan bought two houses for Virginia Ave. he handed the money to Zoe and requested his little green return. Zoe** responded, "Two houses for Vagina Avenue, coming right up!" This of course got just the response she was looking for (uncontrollable laughter) and prompted an unexpected and uneasy sideways glance from Brenno. He was laughing, but he was also a bit nervous. Vagina Avenue was clearly not simply a spot on the board, but something that had recently taken on new meaning, and he implicitly told me that with his glance (then proceeded to laugh out loud).
Then I bought two houses for Park Place (the move that would eventually push Brenno into bankruptcy). "Two houses for Penis Place, here you go!" More laughter and another sideways glance from our son. Now vagina I can understand. It sounds funny. He doesn't have one. Learning about it from friends can be uncomfortable. But penis? He's been hanging out with a penis since day one (aware of it since day three) and typically sees me walking around the house at least twice a week Free Willy. But still the explicit discomfort. Vagina Avenue and Penis Place, once distant properties on opposite ends of the board, had become uncomfortably close. Crossing class lines and railroads. Almost neighbors. Certainly sharing some association. I have no idea if he was thinking about it in this way at all, but I was, and it led to the logical (probably unnecessary) conclusion that a sex talk was in order!
I planned my approach days in advance, knowing the exact conditions and location of my assault. My arsenal included one simple but lethal weapon: Mommy Laid an Egg. I typically read a bit of expert opinion before diving into some facet of fatherhood. With sex education however, I have stayed deliberately distant. Mostly. There are a few sources/people I trust, but for the most part I think everyone/everything else is totally insane. Most people cannot talk about the topic calmly, and it leads to education that is either tense and taboo-ridden, or relativistic and suggestively exploratory. So, I chose the book that has led to the most bans and critiques from the groups I trust the least, and use that as my go to. Mommy Laid an Egg is hilarious, informative, and in my opinion, completely sweet. It starts with a couple of hippies naively teaching the birds and bees to their kids and ends with crayon stick drawings (by the kids) of their parents having sex on a a skateboard. I placed this book in Brennan's backpack prior to heading out to his first real concert (The Avett Brothers).
The concert was great. Brennan got a little tired prior to the end but not before me getting teary-eyed during Murder in the City and Brennan getting his first good whiff of pot ("What's that smell? Is that a skunk? Did you toot?" "I'll explain in the car."). On our way out to the car Brennan asked what he could do on the way home. I told him that I packed a book for him to read. After explaining the smell to him (soccer is great because it usually provides some good material in these situations: "Is that why Maradona got kicked out of soccer?" "I'm sure Maradona smoked marijuana, but he got in trouble for cocaine and hamburgers.") he got into the book. I watched him in the rearview mirror. He was thoughtful. Then amused. Then confused. He read a couple of pages several times. He laughed, then put it away. Then gave me the same sideways Monopoly glance. Then he asked "What?"
What followed was a great conversation about eggs, seeds, tubes, holes, love, marriage, choices, and consequences. We both laughed. He told me about some jokes he had heard at school. He asked me if this is the reason that lesbians have to adopt kids to become mothers ("Because there's no seeds, just eggs, right? "Exactly."). He asked me if sex was bad, to which I responded of course not. That it is special, and fun, and powerful. He made the connection that if it weren't those things, people probably wouldn't do it, and then there probably wouldn't be people on the earth. And the earth needs people. Exactly. We talked about boundaries and unintended consequences.
We talked about a number of other things I won't share, with Brennan gracefully concluding the conversation, bringing us full circle, by asking about the UEFA Champions League. "Do you think Real Madrid will win this year?"
"Yes, buddy. I do. And here's why..."
** later in the evening Zoe would reprise her role as the family's raunchy stand up comic by butting in as Ava sang the ABCs with, "l-m-n-o VAGINA!"
Thursday, November 3, 2011
3 > 32
There is surely a bit of narcissism behind the human desire to procreate. "Oooh, what fun! A little version of me. The world will be thrilled!" Or, "Ooooh, this could be scary. For the world's sake I hope that some of my genes get suppressed." In the former, we are great and should be replicated. In the latter, we recognize that perhaps we aren't so great, but we're excited that maybe we can create someone to share in our seemingly unique quirks. Everyone loves company!
When Lori was pregnant with Ava and we received news that her due date would fall somewhere in October, I'd like to say that her scheduled arrival coinciding with my own birthday had no effect on the aforementioned egoism, but alas, it didn't. I envisioned the two of us together, exuding libra charm as we diplomatically and idealistically floated through our self-indulgent lives. However, when Ava was born the day before my birthday (Oct. 8th to my 9th), it turned out to be a little too close for comfort. For the past three years now I have endured birthday cakes decorated with dogs and princesses. I have to yell, by myself, "AND DADDY!!" right after everyone else sings 'happy birthday, dear Ava.' In short, my shortsighted narcissism has backfired in a very serious way, rendering me obsolete and forgotten. The Fall used to be mine. No more.
In reality, sharing October with Ava is a delight. Much like Ava herself. For the week leading up to the 8th and 9th we'd play a little happy birthday game that could have only two players: Ava and me. I'd say, "Happy Birthday, Ava." And she would respond "Happy Birthday, Daddy." Ava, now that she is three, has found an entertaining new sense of self. She rejects any adjective BUT Ava used to describe her. "You are tired, aren't you?" "No, I Ava." "You are hungry, right?" "No, I Ava." She also keeps her prized possessions in a decorative bird cage that Lori elegantly placed next to her crib. Last night in the bird cage I found a bag of trail mix, a toy walkie talkie, a pocket watch, and a headband. Like something you'd see in Grey Gardens.
Gentzy tends to be my favorite adjective as well. I just looked in the drawer of my beside stand: Toy soldiers. Deodorant. Envelopes. A certificate recognizing my credentials as a minister in the Universal Life Church .
Ava, I love your company.
When Lori was pregnant with Ava and we received news that her due date would fall somewhere in October, I'd like to say that her scheduled arrival coinciding with my own birthday had no effect on the aforementioned egoism, but alas, it didn't. I envisioned the two of us together, exuding libra charm as we diplomatically and idealistically floated through our self-indulgent lives. However, when Ava was born the day before my birthday (Oct. 8th to my 9th), it turned out to be a little too close for comfort. For the past three years now I have endured birthday cakes decorated with dogs and princesses. I have to yell, by myself, "AND DADDY!!" right after everyone else sings 'happy birthday, dear Ava.' In short, my shortsighted narcissism has backfired in a very serious way, rendering me obsolete and forgotten. The Fall used to be mine. No more.
In reality, sharing October with Ava is a delight. Much like Ava herself. For the week leading up to the 8th and 9th we'd play a little happy birthday game that could have only two players: Ava and me. I'd say, "Happy Birthday, Ava." And she would respond "Happy Birthday, Daddy." Ava, now that she is three, has found an entertaining new sense of self. She rejects any adjective BUT Ava used to describe her. "You are tired, aren't you?" "No, I Ava." "You are hungry, right?" "No, I Ava." She also keeps her prized possessions in a decorative bird cage that Lori elegantly placed next to her crib. Last night in the bird cage I found a bag of trail mix, a toy walkie talkie, a pocket watch, and a headband. Like something you'd see in Grey Gardens.
Gentzy tends to be my favorite adjective as well. I just looked in the drawer of my beside stand: Toy soldiers. Deodorant. Envelopes. A certificate recognizing my credentials as a minister in the Universal Life Church .
Ava, I love your company.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
riding into cars with (vietnamese) boys
While riding my bike several weeks ago, I got hit by a car. This post is not about the accident. That story will not be heard by the general public until the insurance claim is closed. However, the accident was significant enough to be included in Brennan's most recent autobiography. He writes monthly memoirs. At 8. God help us if he becomes famous.
If you have siblings you've done it. You have accused your parents at some point of having a 'favorite' child. When I was younger (last week), I was pretty sure that my parents loved Maggie/Kari/Johnny more than me (my parents have four children). As a parent I know I will be accused of loving Zoe more than Brennan and Ava. I was actually accused of this, implicitly, this morning. To defend myself against the explicit accusations which will surely be launched in the future (most likely with this blog being used as evidence - I'm confident there are more Zoe posts than anything else), I would like to propose that I don't have 'favorites,' I simply have 'differents.' Let me explain.
I will frame this post around Zoe, not because she is my favorite, but rather because last week was her sixth birthday. I say 'last week' because it lasted seven days. Zoe has a birthday like an Indian has a wedding. I adore Zoe. I adore how she sprints up to school every morning, as fast as she can. I adore how she smiles and giggles incessantly while playing soccer. (A relevant aside: photos of Lori were featured in our local newspaper no less than 10 times her senior year of High School. Volleyball, graduation, softball, etc. And in every shot, regardless of activity, Lori is smiling and/or giggling. I also found that adorable.) Last night in order to feign abundance despite our current meager circumstances I bought a small container of Dibs ice cream nuggets for the kids to share on our way home from running some errands. I gave the container to Ava so that a) she could be in charge, which she is good at and b) so she could share, a lesson she still needs to work on. She did famously with this little task. At some point I turned around in the car to ask for one, but Ava responded that none were left. I said, "What!?" quite loudly, and before I could follow it up with a "just kidding," Zoe had taken one of the ice cream nuggets out of her mouth and offered it to me. Zoe loves chocolate and ice cream. I adore that despite this love, she loves me more. So, a confession: I probably do adore Zoe more than Brennan or Ava. It doesn't mean that I love her more; I love her differently. I admire Brennan, and I revere Ava. I'm ok with these distinctions (until they lead to therapy) because to love them all the same way would be disingenuous, denying them of their individual uniqueness. It simply means that I like hugging Zoe more than I like hugging them. Which is convenient, because unlike the other two, Zoe hugs me back.
The downside to this adoration is the need I feel to protect - something adorable also has the tendency to be treated as vulnerable, or weak. Like a bunny. Have you ever seen a cat kill a bunny? I have. It's awful. I fear that as her father, and as the result of her being as adorable to me as she is, I will feel the need to intervene when I should otherwise allow Zoe to exercise her own power to overcome whatever obstacle she is facing. Lori and I would do anything to make life easier for our children; but in so doing we may rob them of the chance to exert their own influence, develop their own confidence, and harness their own strength.
Last week during the annual Fall festival that is Zoe's birthday, we took brownies into her kindergarten class. The kids were excited about the brownies and the singing, so as soon as we walked into the room they jumped up and got a bit rambunctious. Zoe, adorably, told everyone to sit down and wait until the brownies were handed out. They all listened. She then, adorably, chose a quiet little girl sitting towards the back of the class - not one of her good friends - to help pass out the brownies. After the brownies were passed out and the song had been sung, the kids left the brownies on their desks and began to mill around a little bit, paying their individual respects to Queen Zo Zo. I noticed that one boy, I'll call him Josh, was paying a lot of attention to Zoe. I was sure it was due to the general attention she was receiving, but I was intrigued nonetheless, so I kept watching him. He finally called out her name, and when she looked in his direction, he blew her a kiss. If it had been one of those sweet little kindergarten kisses that kids blow to their parents, it would have been fine. But no. Josh's kiss to Zoe had, "I learned this from a Ke$ha video" written all over it. It was dirty, and I wanted to break his pinkie toe (scary specific, I know). Zoe was clearly (thankfully) unimpressed, so my worries were assuaged. She can take care of herself. She is, and will be, fine. We've taught her how to deal with twerps like Josh.
I can let Zoe be adorable AND strong. I can let her grow and get hurt, and I can detach when my emotional over-involvement would lead to unnecessary pain, resentment, control, and anxiety. I can do this. Even for our little Zo Zo.
I may or may not have put a booger on Josh's brownie.
If you have siblings you've done it. You have accused your parents at some point of having a 'favorite' child. When I was younger (last week), I was pretty sure that my parents loved Maggie/Kari/Johnny more than me (my parents have four children). As a parent I know I will be accused of loving Zoe more than Brennan and Ava. I was actually accused of this, implicitly, this morning. To defend myself against the explicit accusations which will surely be launched in the future (most likely with this blog being used as evidence - I'm confident there are more Zoe posts than anything else), I would like to propose that I don't have 'favorites,' I simply have 'differents.' Let me explain.
I will frame this post around Zoe, not because she is my favorite, but rather because last week was her sixth birthday. I say 'last week' because it lasted seven days. Zoe has a birthday like an Indian has a wedding. I adore Zoe. I adore how she sprints up to school every morning, as fast as she can. I adore how she smiles and giggles incessantly while playing soccer. (A relevant aside: photos of Lori were featured in our local newspaper no less than 10 times her senior year of High School. Volleyball, graduation, softball, etc. And in every shot, regardless of activity, Lori is smiling and/or giggling. I also found that adorable.) Last night in order to feign abundance despite our current meager circumstances I bought a small container of Dibs ice cream nuggets for the kids to share on our way home from running some errands. I gave the container to Ava so that a) she could be in charge, which she is good at and b) so she could share, a lesson she still needs to work on. She did famously with this little task. At some point I turned around in the car to ask for one, but Ava responded that none were left. I said, "What!?" quite loudly, and before I could follow it up with a "just kidding," Zoe had taken one of the ice cream nuggets out of her mouth and offered it to me. Zoe loves chocolate and ice cream. I adore that despite this love, she loves me more. So, a confession: I probably do adore Zoe more than Brennan or Ava. It doesn't mean that I love her more; I love her differently. I admire Brennan, and I revere Ava. I'm ok with these distinctions (until they lead to therapy) because to love them all the same way would be disingenuous, denying them of their individual uniqueness. It simply means that I like hugging Zoe more than I like hugging them. Which is convenient, because unlike the other two, Zoe hugs me back.
The downside to this adoration is the need I feel to protect - something adorable also has the tendency to be treated as vulnerable, or weak. Like a bunny. Have you ever seen a cat kill a bunny? I have. It's awful. I fear that as her father, and as the result of her being as adorable to me as she is, I will feel the need to intervene when I should otherwise allow Zoe to exercise her own power to overcome whatever obstacle she is facing. Lori and I would do anything to make life easier for our children; but in so doing we may rob them of the chance to exert their own influence, develop their own confidence, and harness their own strength.
Last week during the annual Fall festival that is Zoe's birthday, we took brownies into her kindergarten class. The kids were excited about the brownies and the singing, so as soon as we walked into the room they jumped up and got a bit rambunctious. Zoe, adorably, told everyone to sit down and wait until the brownies were handed out. They all listened. She then, adorably, chose a quiet little girl sitting towards the back of the class - not one of her good friends - to help pass out the brownies. After the brownies were passed out and the song had been sung, the kids left the brownies on their desks and began to mill around a little bit, paying their individual respects to Queen Zo Zo. I noticed that one boy, I'll call him Josh, was paying a lot of attention to Zoe. I was sure it was due to the general attention she was receiving, but I was intrigued nonetheless, so I kept watching him. He finally called out her name, and when she looked in his direction, he blew her a kiss. If it had been one of those sweet little kindergarten kisses that kids blow to their parents, it would have been fine. But no. Josh's kiss to Zoe had, "I learned this from a Ke$ha video" written all over it. It was dirty, and I wanted to break his pinkie toe (scary specific, I know). Zoe was clearly (thankfully) unimpressed, so my worries were assuaged. She can take care of herself. She is, and will be, fine. We've taught her how to deal with twerps like Josh.
I can let Zoe be adorable AND strong. I can let her grow and get hurt, and I can detach when my emotional over-involvement would lead to unnecessary pain, resentment, control, and anxiety. I can do this. Even for our little Zo Zo.
I may or may not have put a booger on Josh's brownie.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
barbie Q princess and the silver lined slippers
I should have just left them in the local grocer's freezer. Not typically a sucker for frozen food allure, the eight frozen crab cakes for $5 just felt right. I could probably convince the kids they were chicken nuggets and Lori and I would get a quick and mildly appealing (if not novel) meal. Oven preheating at 450, I went back into the living room to watch Rio with the kids.
After about 15 minutes I smelled burning plastic. I went into the kitchen expecting to find a melted spatula on the stove-top, but instead I found black smoke billowing out of the range. Disregarding everything I learned from the movie Backdraft, I opened the oven door, feeding the perfect gulp of oxygen to the fire that was raging inside.
What happened next occurred so quickly that my memory is a bit hit and miss.
Version 1: The fireball was sufficient enough to singe my eyebrows off and immediately engulfed the kitchen wall. At that point, it must have found some susceptible (and unsafe) wiring, as it proceeded to rip through to the living room, where the kids were peacefully watching the movie. The couch was the first to burst into flames, followed by the area rug and coat tree. I grabbed all of the kids in one fell swoop, just as the ceiling was falling in. I kicked open the front door and jumped through the flames, face covered in soot, sweat, and two angel tears. The kids were crying and clutching my neck. Now when people ask them what they want to be when they grow up, they respond, "Our Dad."
Version 2: I closed the oven door immediately, then thought to myself, "If the kitchen goes up in flames, what do I grab first?" The answer came immediately and emphatically: the blender. I fought the urge to grab the blender and instead ran upstairs to yell at Lori (who was in the shower), asking her where I could find the fire extinguisher. She responded with an "in the closet" that contained both information and judgment ("It's in the closet. What completely inane thing are you going to show the kids with the fire extinguisher."). Sensing her suspicion, I mentioned that the kitchen was on fire and that she might want to call the fire department. I really just wanted to see her run naked through our neighborhood. However, her hair was dry and make up was perfectly applied by the time the firetrucks arrived. All eight of them. (Lori insists that she still had conditioner in her hair and scrub on her face when she exited the house. Details.)
When the first firefighter popped out of his truck with an axe and about 78 pounds of gear, I knew he'd be greatly disappointed. We were sitting in our neighbor's driveway at this point. Before entering our house with hoses blasting, I told him that I was quite sure the fire had been successfully contained and eliminated (that's fire people speak). He confirmed my pyro prowess, then proceeded to break a lamp and book end, just to feel like a contribution had been made.
This all happened at about 6 pm on a Friday. At about 2 pm on Friday Ava had placed a Barbie in the stove. That Barbie, cooked at 450 degrees Fahrenheit, became * barbie-cued into a billion pieces covering almost every visible inch of our downstairs. The settlement came in from the insurance company today: after all was said and done, content damage (from smoke and soot) was $2154 and the ServPro cleaning bill came in at just over $7k. That's a lot of crab cakes.
The night of the fire as we were driving over to Cory and Mel's house--where we stayed during the four day cleaning--Zoe commented that, "the house will be really clean after the cleaners." Yes, that's right. What else, kids!? Brennan offered that, "maybe my legos will be ruined and I can get some money to buy something else." Ok. That's positive, I suppose. We're also getting a new stove out of the deal, our house is ridiculously clean, apparently I'm installing a new floor in our kitchen next week, all of our ducts have been meticulously flushed, and we're getting new skillets!
And my blender's fine. Thank you for the concern.
* thanks Mel.
After about 15 minutes I smelled burning plastic. I went into the kitchen expecting to find a melted spatula on the stove-top, but instead I found black smoke billowing out of the range. Disregarding everything I learned from the movie Backdraft, I opened the oven door, feeding the perfect gulp of oxygen to the fire that was raging inside.
What happened next occurred so quickly that my memory is a bit hit and miss.
Version 1: The fireball was sufficient enough to singe my eyebrows off and immediately engulfed the kitchen wall. At that point, it must have found some susceptible (and unsafe) wiring, as it proceeded to rip through to the living room, where the kids were peacefully watching the movie. The couch was the first to burst into flames, followed by the area rug and coat tree. I grabbed all of the kids in one fell swoop, just as the ceiling was falling in. I kicked open the front door and jumped through the flames, face covered in soot, sweat, and two angel tears. The kids were crying and clutching my neck. Now when people ask them what they want to be when they grow up, they respond, "Our Dad."
Version 2: I closed the oven door immediately, then thought to myself, "If the kitchen goes up in flames, what do I grab first?" The answer came immediately and emphatically: the blender. I fought the urge to grab the blender and instead ran upstairs to yell at Lori (who was in the shower), asking her where I could find the fire extinguisher. She responded with an "in the closet" that contained both information and judgment ("It's in the closet. What completely inane thing are you going to show the kids with the fire extinguisher."). Sensing her suspicion, I mentioned that the kitchen was on fire and that she might want to call the fire department. I really just wanted to see her run naked through our neighborhood. However, her hair was dry and make up was perfectly applied by the time the firetrucks arrived. All eight of them. (Lori insists that she still had conditioner in her hair and scrub on her face when she exited the house. Details.)
When the first firefighter popped out of his truck with an axe and about 78 pounds of gear, I knew he'd be greatly disappointed. We were sitting in our neighbor's driveway at this point. Before entering our house with hoses blasting, I told him that I was quite sure the fire had been successfully contained and eliminated (that's fire people speak). He confirmed my pyro prowess, then proceeded to break a lamp and book end, just to feel like a contribution had been made.
This all happened at about 6 pm on a Friday. At about 2 pm on Friday Ava had placed a Barbie in the stove. That Barbie, cooked at 450 degrees Fahrenheit, became * barbie-cued into a billion pieces covering almost every visible inch of our downstairs. The settlement came in from the insurance company today: after all was said and done, content damage (from smoke and soot) was $2154 and the ServPro cleaning bill came in at just over $7k. That's a lot of crab cakes.
The night of the fire as we were driving over to Cory and Mel's house--where we stayed during the four day cleaning--Zoe commented that, "the house will be really clean after the cleaners." Yes, that's right. What else, kids!? Brennan offered that, "maybe my legos will be ruined and I can get some money to buy something else." Ok. That's positive, I suppose. We're also getting a new stove out of the deal, our house is ridiculously clean, apparently I'm installing a new floor in our kitchen next week, all of our ducts have been meticulously flushed, and we're getting new skillets!
And my blender's fine. Thank you for the concern.
* thanks Mel.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
(b)old and spicy
Spicy by association. Lori and Zach provided a nice, hot smoke screen. I slipped in undetected. Thanks for the bone anyway, Mags. And I hope you do great with NAVY. May it be everything and more that Buster experienced with ARMY. Just run in the opposite direction if they ask you to do some work with the SEALS.
On Tuesday evening Lori and I headed down to St. Louis to catch the Fleet Foxes at The Pageant. It was a great show. We were right next to the stage and even got there early enough to score a couple of seats with the other old people. However, it was right next to the general admission area (where people were standing) which meant that it attracted stragglers. People who got to the concert late, but still wanted to be close. As in, directly in front of us and obstructing the early birds' view of the stage. We allowed this during the opening set (a really great performance by country rocker Alela Diane), but I was having none of it once the Fleet Foxes came on.
First it was two women. I tapped one on the shoulder politely. "You're going to need to move down to the floor, or off to the right. But you are not going to stand right there." Pause. As with the others, they waited for me to flinch, trying to detect if I was a) an employee b) full of crap, or c) just crazy enough to make a scene. The answer was b. Every time. But they all guessed a or c. Every time. Next came the affable and clueless stoner. Authoritative tap. "Down, or back there...or you can kneel down." He gazed and grinned. Then knelt down. I felt so bad (read: good) about his decision, Lori and I offered him a bar stool next to us for the remainder of the show. Then there was the guy and his gal. "Dude, that's not happening. Down to the floor, or move on. Or watch from your knees." He looked at me, sized me up. I didn't blink. From Montezuma on he watched the show from a squatting position.
My best "old lame guy at the concert" moment came when I pointed out the dude and his hitter. To be fair, the guy had on a Primus t-shirt and was head-banging to White Winter Hymnal. He was disturbing everyone. And he was in the front row. Had he been of the laid back pot smoker variety, I would've let it slide (inconvenience outweighs principles). I got the attention of the security guard by pointing to the guy and making the internationally recognized 'smoking grass' hand gesture. He then called in the big mean looking security guard. Primus was never seen again. His name WAS mud.
Like a dog: marking my territory early and then defending it in earnest. I was determined to have a good musical experience and to ensure the unobstructed view of my fellow 'too old to be here' concert goers. I barked and did my best alpha dog...when really I am just a pansy in a pair of Chacos.
Like any good dog, I enjoy impressing my master. Which, more often than not is our children. So on Saturday when the kids encouraged me to join them on the slip and slide at my in-laws, I only said, "No, no," once before my shirt was off and I was lubing the slide with dish detergent for decreased friction and increased awesome. The first few slides were pretty impressive. It didn't hurt too bad and I got going fast enough to fly off the end and into the grass, popping up on my feet before the mud puddle.
Brennan then created a complicated game which involved rules and points: the game consisted of running, sliding on your feet, then leaping over the puddle at the end to see who could end up the farthest from the slide (Zoe: "And after you land, you yell, 'hotbox!'" She's still milking it.). Brennan went first. He athletically stayed on his feet the whole time, then landed a nice leap at the end for maximum points (which he awarded himself). At this point the neighbors had come by to observe the summer fun and Lori's father was watching from the kitchen window. Not to be outdone by my son I tore across the grass for my soapy takeoff. When I hit the slide my toe got caught underneath, whereupon my other foot slid too far in front of me, flipping me to the side where I crashed down on my face, slid five feet, then ended up a mangled, soapy mess at the end of the plastic carpet to hell with my right ear almost touching my left shoulder, left arm sticking straight up, and legs bent in all the wrong directions. I'm pretty sure the plastic sliver I pulled out of my butt yesterday was a toe nail. Ava had her hands on her mouth in horror, Brennan and Zoe began laughing hysterically, the neighbors quickly and awkwardly headed for home, and Lori's dad - not exactly the kind of guy who would fling himself down a slip and slide - asked Lori with concern (read: disgust), "Is he ok?" The consequence: two small scratches on my face, a bruised shoulder, abrasion on my back, and a neck in need of a Rainbow rub (which I'm still trying to get from the Italian).
And my pride? I think it's doing fine. The little bit that remained after the fall was left at the concert. Kneeling in front of me. Not to get out of my way, but rather in hiding. Ashamed to have ever been associated with the (b)old guy.
On Tuesday evening Lori and I headed down to St. Louis to catch the Fleet Foxes at The Pageant. It was a great show. We were right next to the stage and even got there early enough to score a couple of seats with the other old people. However, it was right next to the general admission area (where people were standing) which meant that it attracted stragglers. People who got to the concert late, but still wanted to be close. As in, directly in front of us and obstructing the early birds' view of the stage. We allowed this during the opening set (a really great performance by country rocker Alela Diane), but I was having none of it once the Fleet Foxes came on.
First it was two women. I tapped one on the shoulder politely. "You're going to need to move down to the floor, or off to the right. But you are not going to stand right there." Pause. As with the others, they waited for me to flinch, trying to detect if I was a) an employee b) full of crap, or c) just crazy enough to make a scene. The answer was b. Every time. But they all guessed a or c. Every time. Next came the affable and clueless stoner. Authoritative tap. "Down, or back there...or you can kneel down." He gazed and grinned. Then knelt down. I felt so bad (read: good) about his decision, Lori and I offered him a bar stool next to us for the remainder of the show. Then there was the guy and his gal. "Dude, that's not happening. Down to the floor, or move on. Or watch from your knees." He looked at me, sized me up. I didn't blink. From Montezuma on he watched the show from a squatting position.
My best "old lame guy at the concert" moment came when I pointed out the dude and his hitter. To be fair, the guy had on a Primus t-shirt and was head-banging to White Winter Hymnal. He was disturbing everyone. And he was in the front row. Had he been of the laid back pot smoker variety, I would've let it slide (inconvenience outweighs principles). I got the attention of the security guard by pointing to the guy and making the internationally recognized 'smoking grass' hand gesture. He then called in the big mean looking security guard. Primus was never seen again. His name WAS mud.
Like a dog: marking my territory early and then defending it in earnest. I was determined to have a good musical experience and to ensure the unobstructed view of my fellow 'too old to be here' concert goers. I barked and did my best alpha dog...when really I am just a pansy in a pair of Chacos.
Like any good dog, I enjoy impressing my master. Which, more often than not is our children. So on Saturday when the kids encouraged me to join them on the slip and slide at my in-laws, I only said, "No, no," once before my shirt was off and I was lubing the slide with dish detergent for decreased friction and increased awesome. The first few slides were pretty impressive. It didn't hurt too bad and I got going fast enough to fly off the end and into the grass, popping up on my feet before the mud puddle.
Brennan then created a complicated game which involved rules and points: the game consisted of running, sliding on your feet, then leaping over the puddle at the end to see who could end up the farthest from the slide (Zoe: "And after you land, you yell, 'hotbox!'" She's still milking it.). Brennan went first. He athletically stayed on his feet the whole time, then landed a nice leap at the end for maximum points (which he awarded himself). At this point the neighbors had come by to observe the summer fun and Lori's father was watching from the kitchen window. Not to be outdone by my son I tore across the grass for my soapy takeoff. When I hit the slide my toe got caught underneath, whereupon my other foot slid too far in front of me, flipping me to the side where I crashed down on my face, slid five feet, then ended up a mangled, soapy mess at the end of the plastic carpet to hell with my right ear almost touching my left shoulder, left arm sticking straight up, and legs bent in all the wrong directions. I'm pretty sure the plastic sliver I pulled out of my butt yesterday was a toe nail. Ava had her hands on her mouth in horror, Brennan and Zoe began laughing hysterically, the neighbors quickly and awkwardly headed for home, and Lori's dad - not exactly the kind of guy who would fling himself down a slip and slide - asked Lori with concern (read: disgust), "Is he ok?" The consequence: two small scratches on my face, a bruised shoulder, abrasion on my back, and a neck in need of a Rainbow rub (which I'm still trying to get from the Italian).
And my pride? I think it's doing fine. The little bit that remained after the fall was left at the concert. Kneeling in front of me. Not to get out of my way, but rather in hiding. Ashamed to have ever been associated with the (b)old guy.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
spontanuity. and my girls.
Mimi and Papa just bought a cabin in the woods of Minnesota. Their plan was to save some more money, then ease into the Minnesota woods, building a cabin on the land sometime in the next 5-7 years. That all changed when we descended upon Minnesota last week, only to discover the perfect cabin in the woods, up on a bluff, less than a mile from the cemetery where my Minnesotan maternal grandparents were laid to rest. I love the continuity. Our family will continue to build ties to the north woods. And I love the fact that the continuity came about by spontaneity...it had to be that way. It's how we roll. Plans shmans. Reckless precision.
the kiss of death
I love trying to get kisses from Ava. Every time is like a music video for Ben Harper's, "Steal My Kisses." She doesn't give them away easily, and I typically have to sneak my way into her affection. A couple of mornings ago, I figured she would be groggy enough to submit to my smooch, but when I asked for the kiss she turned away, and quite loudly, and teenager-ly yelled, "Kiss my back!" She's going to yell such mean things to me as we age, I have no doubt. I have a good friend whose older sister was competing in a cross-country meet in high school, and when her father overdid his encouragement as she passed by, she yelled "f&*k off, dad!" I am prepared for these outbursts. And a bit excited, I must admit. I can respect tenacity and passion. (Kirstin and Nancy, please correct me if I have misquoted what was yelled at Wane.)
zoe. spot on.
The Champaign public swimming pool has a great water slide. It's steep enough to be moderately exciting for kids (kids ride with adults on a two-person tube), yet short enough that the line keeps moving along quickly (which is important to me). The only downside is the end. And not because it's over, but because it dumps you into the lazy river. And while the lazy river isn't the problem, its inhabitants are. Upon being shot out of the slide into the river, the slide riders glide across the water into the people who are lazily drifting by. Groups of teenagers. Old, lazy river people. Giggling girls. The couple in their 40s on a first date at the public pool. The entire J.V. basketball team at Champaign Central HS. The single guy who hangs out in the river because of the chance that something lovely will glide into him. You get the point. Groups of people that don't want intruders, yet have no choice when the slide spews forth its phlegm. It's just uncomfortable for everyone. Conversations are stopped. Odd body positions are struck to avoid physical contact with a stranger. On separate occasions, I've heard at least 3 people fart during the human log jam. I was two of those people.
On Saturday while we were at the pool, Zoe asked to go down the slide, and I gave in without any objection. The place was HORRIBLY crowded, and I was excited to get out of the main pool area. We headed down the slide without incident, Zoe screaming and laughing hysterically the whole time, making the glorified slip and slide feel like a roller coaster. As we approached the end, I surveyed the humanity we would soon be joining, and realized that if the main pool area was HORRIBLY crowded, the lazy river was the lawn at my last Dave Matthews concert (it was SEVERAL years ago, for the record). I braced myself for contact and farts, and glided across the water towards an older couple, 4 teenage girls bound together by intertwined arms and legs, and three 10 year old boys. Butt cheeks clenched, gripping the tube, I was at a loss for something to say or do. I wanted to hand paddle my way to open water, but there was none. Not typically a guy who's at a loss for words or actions in a crowd, I froze. And then, I got outdid. Before we glided to a stop, nestled amidst our fellow river rats, Zoe yelled, "AWWWWKWARRRRD!!" So appropriate, so well-timed...so Zoe. Tension cut, people began to laugh and point at my lovely little daughter. We became one with the river crowd. We drifted along. The water bubbling two separate times below my trunks, just for good measure.
the kiss of death
I love trying to get kisses from Ava. Every time is like a music video for Ben Harper's, "Steal My Kisses." She doesn't give them away easily, and I typically have to sneak my way into her affection. A couple of mornings ago, I figured she would be groggy enough to submit to my smooch, but when I asked for the kiss she turned away, and quite loudly, and teenager-ly yelled, "Kiss my back!" She's going to yell such mean things to me as we age, I have no doubt. I have a good friend whose older sister was competing in a cross-country meet in high school, and when her father overdid his encouragement as she passed by, she yelled "f&*k off, dad!" I am prepared for these outbursts. And a bit excited, I must admit. I can respect tenacity and passion. (Kirstin and Nancy, please correct me if I have misquoted what was yelled at Wane.)
zoe. spot on.
The Champaign public swimming pool has a great water slide. It's steep enough to be moderately exciting for kids (kids ride with adults on a two-person tube), yet short enough that the line keeps moving along quickly (which is important to me). The only downside is the end. And not because it's over, but because it dumps you into the lazy river. And while the lazy river isn't the problem, its inhabitants are. Upon being shot out of the slide into the river, the slide riders glide across the water into the people who are lazily drifting by. Groups of teenagers. Old, lazy river people. Giggling girls. The couple in their 40s on a first date at the public pool. The entire J.V. basketball team at Champaign Central HS. The single guy who hangs out in the river because of the chance that something lovely will glide into him. You get the point. Groups of people that don't want intruders, yet have no choice when the slide spews forth its phlegm. It's just uncomfortable for everyone. Conversations are stopped. Odd body positions are struck to avoid physical contact with a stranger. On separate occasions, I've heard at least 3 people fart during the human log jam. I was two of those people.
On Saturday while we were at the pool, Zoe asked to go down the slide, and I gave in without any objection. The place was HORRIBLY crowded, and I was excited to get out of the main pool area. We headed down the slide without incident, Zoe screaming and laughing hysterically the whole time, making the glorified slip and slide feel like a roller coaster. As we approached the end, I surveyed the humanity we would soon be joining, and realized that if the main pool area was HORRIBLY crowded, the lazy river was the lawn at my last Dave Matthews concert (it was SEVERAL years ago, for the record). I braced myself for contact and farts, and glided across the water towards an older couple, 4 teenage girls bound together by intertwined arms and legs, and three 10 year old boys. Butt cheeks clenched, gripping the tube, I was at a loss for something to say or do. I wanted to hand paddle my way to open water, but there was none. Not typically a guy who's at a loss for words or actions in a crowd, I froze. And then, I got outdid. Before we glided to a stop, nestled amidst our fellow river rats, Zoe yelled, "AWWWWKWARRRRD!!" So appropriate, so well-timed...so Zoe. Tension cut, people began to laugh and point at my lovely little daughter. We became one with the river crowd. We drifted along. The water bubbling two separate times below my trunks, just for good measure.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)