My father in law was immediately admitted and they began to run a tests. We did what everybody else does in the hospital, we sat there and waited. At some point, I excused myself to go to the restroom. I was standing at the urinal when I noticed something odd. I was pissing dark red, kinda the color of a nice Merlot. I puzzled over what could be the cause. Could it be the accumulated red dye from all the daiquiris? I didn't hurt anywhere, of course I was still I little tipsy.....I decided to get a second opinion. The last thing I wanted to do was alarm everyone else when they were already all freaked out.
I went to my wife and tried to explain it to her using the wine metaphor. Her eyes widened in concern, then narrowed in accusation," Did you hurt yourself when you jumped off the deck?"
"What?" I asked, " No way! It was only 15 foot jump! Besides, I think it's getting better. You want to see it?" As I walked away I began to get concerned, " Hmmmm...Could I have hurt myself trying to catch that damned lizard?"
I took a huge McDonalds cup with me the next time I had to pee. I rinsed it out, and started to take a sample. It was still a dark winey red. I thought that maybe the bigger the sample, the less red it would be. I'm not typically very girlish or anything, but I was sorta getting freaked out. So I kept peeing, and it just kept getting redder. So I filled that cup to the brim with warm, wine-red urine. That bastard was so full it had a meniscus, and it was still dark red.
"Fuck....."
Jill was waiting for me outside the bathroom.
I opened the lid, "See, its not that bad! I think its already getting a little better!"
"Ah....Chris....Goddamn it! What the hell is that?! You have to show the nurse right now!"
So I carefully walked to the nurse's stand and began to explain that I might need some help, but wanted a professional opinion. I told her the whole story about the daiquiris and the lizards, and then I placed the 44oz, warm, dripping paper cup on her desk.
"What is that?" She asked.
"Its a urine sample, I though you'd like to see it, you know maybe analyze it."
"Get that outta here!" She gave me a look like I was some sort of idiot. I was just trying to be helpful.
And so I found myself admitted to hospital.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Dropping Like Flies Continued
A few more sips of my Corona and I began to formulate a plan. A lizard would never, ever anticipate an aerial assault. If only I had a net....wait...I could use my hat....that'll work!!
I sat my book down and intently watched the dunes below. My target darted out of the grasses, and I dove off the deck, hat in hand.
I hit the sand really hard and rolled down the dune. I quickly checked my rolled up hat.....nothing. My friend look down from the deck at me laughing. It was a much bigger drop than I had anticipated and the lizard much, much quicker and more devious than I had anticipated. Shocked and more than a little pissed I didn't catch him, I dusted myself off and started walking up the steps. I was thinking about how I would alter my technique on the next dive when I heard screaming from inside the house.
"Now what?!" I thought
"Oh My God! Dad's had a stroke! Someone call 911!" It was sheer panic inside the house.
We could hear the ambulance coming from down the beach. My father law was dizzy, disoriented and weak. He didn't know his own name. Which was pretty scary. We all sobered up quick. The EMT's checked his vitals and loaded him on a gurney and zoomed off to the hospital, sirens wailing. We all piled into various cars to follow the ambulance to the hospital. The definition of what a good vacation would be had just changed, and none of us were worried about sleeping quarters, bulldozers or who was cooking dinner that night.
I sat my book down and intently watched the dunes below. My target darted out of the grasses, and I dove off the deck, hat in hand.
I hit the sand really hard and rolled down the dune. I quickly checked my rolled up hat.....nothing. My friend look down from the deck at me laughing. It was a much bigger drop than I had anticipated and the lizard much, much quicker and more devious than I had anticipated. Shocked and more than a little pissed I didn't catch him, I dusted myself off and started walking up the steps. I was thinking about how I would alter my technique on the next dive when I heard screaming from inside the house.
"Now what?!" I thought
"Oh My God! Dad's had a stroke! Someone call 911!" It was sheer panic inside the house.
We could hear the ambulance coming from down the beach. My father law was dizzy, disoriented and weak. He didn't know his own name. Which was pretty scary. We all sobered up quick. The EMT's checked his vitals and loaded him on a gurney and zoomed off to the hospital, sirens wailing. We all piled into various cars to follow the ambulance to the hospital. The definition of what a good vacation would be had just changed, and none of us were worried about sleeping quarters, bulldozers or who was cooking dinner that night.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Part Four: Dropping Like Flies.
OK...that last one was way too long. I'm going to condense for the next part.
It was 10:00am and I was on my third Corona. I was leaned against the railing of the porch, reading. Everyone else was already down on the beach. The bulldozers were gone, Gary was gone, the sky was blue. It was the perfect day.
Out of the corner of my eye, 15 feet down, I saw lizards frolicking in the sand dunes. Sip by sip, page by page, I found the lizards increasingly captivating. I though to myself, "I wonder if I could catch one."
There was no way I could catch one on foot. I was too slow and heavy from the beer. Oh how they taunted me with their rapid feet and joyous scampering. I simply had to catch one. But how?? Only surprise would work.
It was 10:00am and I was on my third Corona. I was leaned against the railing of the porch, reading. Everyone else was already down on the beach. The bulldozers were gone, Gary was gone, the sky was blue. It was the perfect day.
Out of the corner of my eye, 15 feet down, I saw lizards frolicking in the sand dunes. Sip by sip, page by page, I found the lizards increasingly captivating. I though to myself, "I wonder if I could catch one."
There was no way I could catch one on foot. I was too slow and heavy from the beer. Oh how they taunted me with their rapid feet and joyous scampering. I simply had to catch one. But how?? Only surprise would work.
Monday, June 23, 2008
The Worst Vacation Ever Part 3: The Surprise Guest
It was early in the evening, the workers and bulldozers had long gone the way of the setting sun, and we all sat down at the bar for a few cocktails. A pleasant ocean breeze swept across the deck and the lovely sound a whirring blender intermittently punctuated the laughter and conversation. There was a big bucket of fresh chilled peel and eat shrimp. We were drinking, talking and laughing off the unplanned for presence of bulldozers on our vacation. This vacation was still going to be great. Then we heard the doorbell ring.
Somebody left to go answer it. When they came back, they tried (and failed miserably) to keep a pleasant face while announcing that Gary and his family were here. At the time, I did not know Gary. But I couldn’t help but notice that those who did quickly blanched, their jaws dropped and they all turned to face my father in law, giving him an accusing look that said, “ What did you do?!”
Being completely in the dark, I could only think, “Who the fuck is Gary and is that really his name?” I instinctively knew it couldn’t be good though. I have never known a Gary that I liked. I had a neighbor named Gary once, and he was a dick. Based on the reactions of those that knew this Gary, I wasn’t expecting to be pleasantly surprised.
I later learned that this particular incarnation of Gary, while of no biological relation, was my father in law’s stepson from his 1st marriage. There must have been a rift or an estrangement between the two some time in the past. Gary had moved away to Florida after this, and it had been several years since anyone had seen or even spoken to him. In my father in law’s mind, it was past time for a reconciliation. So my father in law had taken it upon himself to invite Gary and his family to spend some time with us. Since this decision was not shared with the family, and since the house while big, was quite full with paying guests, not too many people were excited. Not mention those that apparently knew Gary weren’t real excited to see him under any circumstances, let alone what was supposed to be a relaxing family vacation.
Regardless of my extreme prejudice against all Gary’s big and small, and not withstanding the overwhelming lack of enthusiasm his arrival had generated amongst those that knew him, there stood Gary in the doorway. He was carrying an open 12 pack of Naty Lite, several cans light, one in his hand. A slight, wiry man with a sun-weathered unshaven face, dirty yellowed eyeglasses and trucker cap that wasn’t intended to be ironic. He bore no resemblance in any way to anyone else I had ever met in the family. He had two adorable children, a little girl with tangled blond hair and a smaller girl still in diapers. He wife stood slightly behind him, a cigarette perched between her fingers, sending a steady plume of smoke in the air. There was a collective moment of silence before we gathered ourselves and welcomed them into the house.
Kids are always seem to better in awkward social situations than adults. It was seconds before their children were playing and running through the house with the rest of the kids. On the adult side, there was stilted conversation and introductions, some minor chit chat. One of Gary’s kids, not doubt too excited to stop playing, accidentally wet herself. His wife promptly removed the wet clothes and hung them on the porch rail, not bothering to rinse them. Gary shrugged as if to say, “What are you gonna do? Kids gotta pee…” then graciously took off his shirt and gave it to his daughter to wear. Gary shirtless and stripped down to his awkwardly short jean shorts was as much a treat for me as it was all the ladies in the house. He did the legacy of his name proud. It was about then we collectively decided to move to the bar, some of us faster than others. I sprinted.
It couldn’t have been much past 9:00, the once bubbly pre-guest conversation flattened out and began to drag. Soon yawns started filling mouths, and I knew something had to be done. If it was one thing this evening was going to need, it was cocktails, and lots of them. My wife, our friends and I are all ex bar-tenders and we had a very well stocked and equipped bar established. I was determined not to loose a night, especially if I had to dodge bulldozers by day. We would all have fun by God! Little did I know I was throwing gas on the fire. I stepped behind the bar and fired up the blender, not yet aware of what I was getting myself into.
It was quickly apparent to me as I worked behind the bar making drink after drink after drink, that whoever the hell they were, the one thing Gary and the Missus could do was put a serious hurtin’ on a bar. The slurping of straws in empty glasses gives me flashbacks of denim and hairy skin to this day. The Naty Light was gone and forgotten and the rum was disappearing fast. Gary had long since entered the bleary eyed, slurring, clumsy stage and was working on the belligerent, falling down stage. He wasn’t even bothering to peel the shrimp any more. His wife was weaving in her chair, eyes half closed still holding a cigarette, which was about to burn her fingers. She could have tumbled from her stool at any minute. We had all dealt with drunks before but there was no protocol for cutting off drunken house guests, who were somehow related to everyone here. Plus it seemed mean to keep drinking in front of them, which I most certainly would have done.
Thankfully my father in law interceded and quietly asked us to close the bar, and take all the booze with us. We locked it in our bedroom and waiting for the next step. There was no way Gary and family were driving anywhere that night. They would have to stay with us. To further complicate things, their children were still running around the house like wild Indians. How would we get the kids to bed? Where were the diapers and pajamas? Where would they all sleep? Every room in the house was taken. We all started to argue about where to put them. I knew one thing, in his condition, there was no way Gary could help me blow up an air mattress. Besides we were already doubled up with our friends. Plus we were the Booze Alamo. I was half concerned he might try to break in at any moment. Our room was off the table.
After much whispered arguing, we made room for the kids on the floor of the bunk room and Gary and his chain-smoking wife were directed to the couch. We all silently prayed we wouldn’t see or hear them doing it in the middle of the night. But I admit to being curious if his wife could have sex and smoke a cigarette at the same time…while being drunk. I bet she could.
They stayed the next morning long enough for breakfast, after which Mrs. Gary put the little girl in the now dried clothes from the night before. They never had been washed. Gary put back on his shirt and they left. I have heard his name mentioned once since then.
Somebody left to go answer it. When they came back, they tried (and failed miserably) to keep a pleasant face while announcing that Gary and his family were here. At the time, I did not know Gary. But I couldn’t help but notice that those who did quickly blanched, their jaws dropped and they all turned to face my father in law, giving him an accusing look that said, “ What did you do?!”
Being completely in the dark, I could only think, “Who the fuck is Gary and is that really his name?” I instinctively knew it couldn’t be good though. I have never known a Gary that I liked. I had a neighbor named Gary once, and he was a dick. Based on the reactions of those that knew this Gary, I wasn’t expecting to be pleasantly surprised.
I later learned that this particular incarnation of Gary, while of no biological relation, was my father in law’s stepson from his 1st marriage. There must have been a rift or an estrangement between the two some time in the past. Gary had moved away to Florida after this, and it had been several years since anyone had seen or even spoken to him. In my father in law’s mind, it was past time for a reconciliation. So my father in law had taken it upon himself to invite Gary and his family to spend some time with us. Since this decision was not shared with the family, and since the house while big, was quite full with paying guests, not too many people were excited. Not mention those that apparently knew Gary weren’t real excited to see him under any circumstances, let alone what was supposed to be a relaxing family vacation.
Regardless of my extreme prejudice against all Gary’s big and small, and not withstanding the overwhelming lack of enthusiasm his arrival had generated amongst those that knew him, there stood Gary in the doorway. He was carrying an open 12 pack of Naty Lite, several cans light, one in his hand. A slight, wiry man with a sun-weathered unshaven face, dirty yellowed eyeglasses and trucker cap that wasn’t intended to be ironic. He bore no resemblance in any way to anyone else I had ever met in the family. He had two adorable children, a little girl with tangled blond hair and a smaller girl still in diapers. He wife stood slightly behind him, a cigarette perched between her fingers, sending a steady plume of smoke in the air. There was a collective moment of silence before we gathered ourselves and welcomed them into the house.
Kids are always seem to better in awkward social situations than adults. It was seconds before their children were playing and running through the house with the rest of the kids. On the adult side, there was stilted conversation and introductions, some minor chit chat. One of Gary’s kids, not doubt too excited to stop playing, accidentally wet herself. His wife promptly removed the wet clothes and hung them on the porch rail, not bothering to rinse them. Gary shrugged as if to say, “What are you gonna do? Kids gotta pee…” then graciously took off his shirt and gave it to his daughter to wear. Gary shirtless and stripped down to his awkwardly short jean shorts was as much a treat for me as it was all the ladies in the house. He did the legacy of his name proud. It was about then we collectively decided to move to the bar, some of us faster than others. I sprinted.
It couldn’t have been much past 9:00, the once bubbly pre-guest conversation flattened out and began to drag. Soon yawns started filling mouths, and I knew something had to be done. If it was one thing this evening was going to need, it was cocktails, and lots of them. My wife, our friends and I are all ex bar-tenders and we had a very well stocked and equipped bar established. I was determined not to loose a night, especially if I had to dodge bulldozers by day. We would all have fun by God! Little did I know I was throwing gas on the fire. I stepped behind the bar and fired up the blender, not yet aware of what I was getting myself into.
It was quickly apparent to me as I worked behind the bar making drink after drink after drink, that whoever the hell they were, the one thing Gary and the Missus could do was put a serious hurtin’ on a bar. The slurping of straws in empty glasses gives me flashbacks of denim and hairy skin to this day. The Naty Light was gone and forgotten and the rum was disappearing fast. Gary had long since entered the bleary eyed, slurring, clumsy stage and was working on the belligerent, falling down stage. He wasn’t even bothering to peel the shrimp any more. His wife was weaving in her chair, eyes half closed still holding a cigarette, which was about to burn her fingers. She could have tumbled from her stool at any minute. We had all dealt with drunks before but there was no protocol for cutting off drunken house guests, who were somehow related to everyone here. Plus it seemed mean to keep drinking in front of them, which I most certainly would have done.
Thankfully my father in law interceded and quietly asked us to close the bar, and take all the booze with us. We locked it in our bedroom and waiting for the next step. There was no way Gary and family were driving anywhere that night. They would have to stay with us. To further complicate things, their children were still running around the house like wild Indians. How would we get the kids to bed? Where were the diapers and pajamas? Where would they all sleep? Every room in the house was taken. We all started to argue about where to put them. I knew one thing, in his condition, there was no way Gary could help me blow up an air mattress. Besides we were already doubled up with our friends. Plus we were the Booze Alamo. I was half concerned he might try to break in at any moment. Our room was off the table.
After much whispered arguing, we made room for the kids on the floor of the bunk room and Gary and his chain-smoking wife were directed to the couch. We all silently prayed we wouldn’t see or hear them doing it in the middle of the night. But I admit to being curious if his wife could have sex and smoke a cigarette at the same time…while being drunk. I bet she could.
They stayed the next morning long enough for breakfast, after which Mrs. Gary put the little girl in the now dried clothes from the night before. They never had been washed. Gary put back on his shirt and they left. I have heard his name mentioned once since then.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The Worst Vacation Part II: Beach Reconstruction
The next morning, I was awoken way too early by a curious beeping sound. My head was still fuzzy from all the frozen margaritas, so I thought it was an alarm clock going off unattended. I made my way out of the closet, and started to search for the offending clock. To my surprise, it was coming from the beach. I opened the sliding glass door and stumbled outside. I was so shocked at the time, I do not remember having a specific reaction to what I saw. By specific reaction, I mean one other than….What…The…Fuck?!
There in front of me was an enormous, smoke-belching, metal tread-having, bright yellow bull dozer tearing up the beach and leaving huge tread prints all over the place! The noise was enormous! Clanking wheels, hydraulics, the big diesel engine. It was so close to the deck, I could spit on it. Or throw up, which at the time seemed more likely.
“What….The….Fuck… are you doing?!” I yelled over the din and gestured at the driver.
“Beach Reconstruction!” he yelled back.
“How long you gonna be doing that?”
“All week long!” he said with a smile as he put the bulldozer back in gear, lowered the blade and rumbled on.
A few minutes later, I heard the beeping sound again, as he backed up, turned around and came back towards our location. After a few cycles, it became apparent he would be working the half mile or so that was directly in front of our house. And he would be doing that…wait for it…. All….Week…Long.
Breakfast on the deck that morning was unforgettable. A huge spread of biscuits, eggs, gravy, and assorted meats. The clear blue water and cloudless blue sky contrasted nicely with the Caterpillar Yellow of the bulldozer. The smell of diesel smoke and the rumble of steel tread grinding through sugar white sands blended effortlessly with the sounds and smells of the Gulf.
“Can you pass the bacon?!”
“WHAT?!”
“I said, ‘Can you pass the bacon?!’”
“WHAT?!”
“How about this locations?!!”
“Oh!.....THERE IS NO MORE BACON!”
There in front of me was an enormous, smoke-belching, metal tread-having, bright yellow bull dozer tearing up the beach and leaving huge tread prints all over the place! The noise was enormous! Clanking wheels, hydraulics, the big diesel engine. It was so close to the deck, I could spit on it. Or throw up, which at the time seemed more likely.
“What….The….Fuck… are you doing?!” I yelled over the din and gestured at the driver.
“Beach Reconstruction!” he yelled back.
“How long you gonna be doing that?”
“All week long!” he said with a smile as he put the bulldozer back in gear, lowered the blade and rumbled on.
A few minutes later, I heard the beeping sound again, as he backed up, turned around and came back towards our location. After a few cycles, it became apparent he would be working the half mile or so that was directly in front of our house. And he would be doing that…wait for it…. All….Week…Long.
Breakfast on the deck that morning was unforgettable. A huge spread of biscuits, eggs, gravy, and assorted meats. The clear blue water and cloudless blue sky contrasted nicely with the Caterpillar Yellow of the bulldozer. The smell of diesel smoke and the rumble of steel tread grinding through sugar white sands blended effortlessly with the sounds and smells of the Gulf.
“Can you pass the bacon?!”
“WHAT?!”
“I said, ‘Can you pass the bacon?!’”
“WHAT?!”
“How about this locations?!!”
“Oh!.....THERE IS NO MORE BACON!”
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
The Worst Vacation Ever. (Part One)
I always look forward to summer vacations. We are big time beach people, and for as long as I have been going on vacation, we have shared our vacation time with either friends or family. It’s great for economic reasons and it’s great now that we have kids because they typically have someone to play with. It also allows us to have a parenting break from now and then. I love taking turns cooking meals. I love sitting on the porch after kids are in bed, drinking beer, talking and listening to the waves. Sometimes we get on each others nerves, sometimes nature doesn’t cooperate. Over the years we’ve had some great times. But one year, the laws of nature demanded balance, and we had the worst vacation ever.
When we first checked into the house, we quickly decided it was the best house we had ever rented. To this day, it still is. It had tons of space. Space is key when you’re staying with 6 kids and 10 adults in one house. It had 3 levels, a kid’s bunkroom, tons of bathrooms, a 2 deck porch facing the ocean with build in cushioned benches, a huge kitchen and living/dining space. But the best part was, on the beach level, there was an outdoor bar complete with blender, icemaker, fans and stools. This looked as if it was going to be the best vacation ever! And for a few days…it was.
The first storm clouds appeared the very first day, when we arrived after driving all day to discover a complete free for all over bed rooms. It was like a land rush, only you were trampling over Grandma and Grandpa, and little nieces and nephews to secure the best rooms. Weighed down with luggage and still stiff from the drive, we were screwed from the word “Go!”. Before we could react, we had been left with one room, with one bed, to share with our close friends who had also made the trip. As a consolation prize, we were issued an air mattress and told that one of us could sleep in the walk in closet. Not a great start, but we laughed it off went down to the bar to have a drink.
On the way down, I helped my father- in- law get the flip flop prints off his back, and put ice on my 5 year old niece’s black eye. Once we made it down to the bar, things started to look up. One drink turned into several, and truth be told, by the time we went to bed, the closet didn’t seem that bad. Dark, but cozy like your mother’s womb. The down-side, we did learn inflating an air mattress in the dark while intoxicated is very, very hard. In fact, impossible.
At this point, I was still convinced it was going to be a great trip!
When we first checked into the house, we quickly decided it was the best house we had ever rented. To this day, it still is. It had tons of space. Space is key when you’re staying with 6 kids and 10 adults in one house. It had 3 levels, a kid’s bunkroom, tons of bathrooms, a 2 deck porch facing the ocean with build in cushioned benches, a huge kitchen and living/dining space. But the best part was, on the beach level, there was an outdoor bar complete with blender, icemaker, fans and stools. This looked as if it was going to be the best vacation ever! And for a few days…it was.
The first storm clouds appeared the very first day, when we arrived after driving all day to discover a complete free for all over bed rooms. It was like a land rush, only you were trampling over Grandma and Grandpa, and little nieces and nephews to secure the best rooms. Weighed down with luggage and still stiff from the drive, we were screwed from the word “Go!”. Before we could react, we had been left with one room, with one bed, to share with our close friends who had also made the trip. As a consolation prize, we were issued an air mattress and told that one of us could sleep in the walk in closet. Not a great start, but we laughed it off went down to the bar to have a drink.
On the way down, I helped my father- in- law get the flip flop prints off his back, and put ice on my 5 year old niece’s black eye. Once we made it down to the bar, things started to look up. One drink turned into several, and truth be told, by the time we went to bed, the closet didn’t seem that bad. Dark, but cozy like your mother’s womb. The down-side, we did learn inflating an air mattress in the dark while intoxicated is very, very hard. In fact, impossible.
At this point, I was still convinced it was going to be a great trip!
A Brief Update
I am working on a series of posts about the worst vacation ever. Every vacation we have taken since, regardless of what challenges we may encounter, has always seemed great when we stop to think of the one really bad one. Its a story I must tell, lest my subconscious supress it.
I also started back at work this week and thus Emma started day care. So there will be work stories and day care stories. Oh, T-Ball starts Saturday and I am coaching 4-5 year old....alone. That should be loads of good stuff to write about. Also I was trapped and sexually molested by a whorish cat in my own bathroom. So plenty of material to work with....lets just hope I have the time to post.
Sorry I have been so quiet.
I also started back at work this week and thus Emma started day care. So there will be work stories and day care stories. Oh, T-Ball starts Saturday and I am coaching 4-5 year old....alone. That should be loads of good stuff to write about. Also I was trapped and sexually molested by a whorish cat in my own bathroom. So plenty of material to work with....lets just hope I have the time to post.
Sorry I have been so quiet.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Things Not To Do: The Liquor Store
Being a Stay at Home Dad even for so brief a time, I have accumulated lots of knowledge. Most of it gained through painful experience. Today I learned a new lesson. Did you know, dear readers (all 6 of you), that it is generally speaking frowned upon to take your 7 month old to a liquor store?
Granted, I was purchasing for vacation and so my cart was steadily filling before I noticed the stares. I think it was when I grabbed the second large bottle of rum that I saw a fellow customer in the wine section visibly blanch, her eyes fixated on my 90 proof shopping binge. Then the man in cold beer shook his head as I price shopped bourbon. By the way, Maker's Mark over-priced, but also delicious.
Then there was The Alleged Alcoholic's Walk of Shame I had to take when I pulled out of the line for the register to get Creme De Banana. Every customer I wheeled by, regardless of the MD20/20 or the 30Pk High Life they were eagerly waiting to purchase, had the same reaction. First the smile for my daughter, and then when they saw my cart, their expression changed to a mixture of concern and disapproval. I could almost feel their tsking and head shaking behind my back. "What a shame. That poor child doesn't have a chance..." It also didn't help that Jim, the cashier, knew my name.
I wanted to turn around and explain to all that all this booze was for a vacation. That there would be 4 adults and we had these special drinking cups and designated cocktails for daytime and evening hours, we would be drinking through out the day, and through out the course over the week! If you really if you took that into consideration, I really should be buying more. I thought about how that might sink in, and I realized it was best to just keep quiet.
As I sit here enjoying a large delicious Manhattan, I don't feel the need to justify my shopping trip to anyone. If they spent all day with a 7 month old and most days with a 5 year old, they would want to bulk drink too. Never the less, to avoid the withering glances, perhaps next time I might leave her in the car with the windows up in the middle of a 90 degree heat wave. That way we all feel more comfortable. or perhaps just leave her at home in the play pen with a box of Cheerios and a sippy cup. I'll leave the box shut, so she'll be entertained trying to open it, and then get the tasty oat circles as a reward for her diligence.
Granted, I was purchasing for vacation and so my cart was steadily filling before I noticed the stares. I think it was when I grabbed the second large bottle of rum that I saw a fellow customer in the wine section visibly blanch, her eyes fixated on my 90 proof shopping binge. Then the man in cold beer shook his head as I price shopped bourbon. By the way, Maker's Mark over-priced, but also delicious.
Then there was The Alleged Alcoholic's Walk of Shame I had to take when I pulled out of the line for the register to get Creme De Banana. Every customer I wheeled by, regardless of the MD20/20 or the 30Pk High Life they were eagerly waiting to purchase, had the same reaction. First the smile for my daughter, and then when they saw my cart, their expression changed to a mixture of concern and disapproval. I could almost feel their tsking and head shaking behind my back. "What a shame. That poor child doesn't have a chance..." It also didn't help that Jim, the cashier, knew my name.
I wanted to turn around and explain to all that all this booze was for a vacation. That there would be 4 adults and we had these special drinking cups and designated cocktails for daytime and evening hours, we would be drinking through out the day, and through out the course over the week! If you really if you took that into consideration, I really should be buying more. I thought about how that might sink in, and I realized it was best to just keep quiet.
As I sit here enjoying a large delicious Manhattan, I don't feel the need to justify my shopping trip to anyone. If they spent all day with a 7 month old and most days with a 5 year old, they would want to bulk drink too. Never the less, to avoid the withering glances, perhaps next time I might leave her in the car with the windows up in the middle of a 90 degree heat wave. That way we all feel more comfortable. or perhaps just leave her at home in the play pen with a box of Cheerios and a sippy cup. I'll leave the box shut, so she'll be entertained trying to open it, and then get the tasty oat circles as a reward for her diligence.
The Love Parade....An Update.
So, we recently attended my son's preschool graduation. It was a very cute event. They all wore little yellow gowns and mortar board caps complete with tassels. They performed a song, we watched a video of each of the students answering questions about the future, and they passed out diplomas. But the best part was yet to come. Each student was given a special award. Haley was named Most Athletic. Dustin was named Class Clown. Alex was Nicest Person. I waited with a mixture of dread and anticipation for my son's turn. I was guessing Biggest Spaz or given some issues we had earlier in the year that continue to pop up from time to time: Best Pants Wetter. As it turns out my son was given a very unique award: the award for Best Hugger. Ahh my little Cassanova. I'm getting major mileage out of this when he's older. I'm going to hang it up every time he brings a girl over.
"So Tiffany, now you and Jon have been on a couple dates, how do his hugs measure up? They're supposed to be pretty good. I am sure he told you he once got an award for Best Hugger? Its right there on the wall....."
"So Tiffany, now you and Jon have been on a couple dates, how do his hugs measure up? They're supposed to be pretty good. I am sure he told you he once got an award for Best Hugger? Its right there on the wall....."
Monday, June 2, 2008
The Monster Within....
We've all seen and heard stories of overzealous sports dads. Most of us say, "Oh, that's terrible!" and we shake our heads and pride ourselves on our better judgement. Then something happens that make you realize just how fine the line is between engaged, teaching parent and raving lunatic nutjob parent. This weekend, I saw the line, and kicked grass on it.
I was not athletic as a child. Gangly and in need of glasses, I was possibly the worst ball player on the worst team in our Knothole League. I can remember my Dad's frustration with me at times. "Keep your eye on the ball!", he would bark from behind the cage. The problem was my eyes were so bad, I couldn't see the pitcher clearly let alone the damn ball. At the time, I thought the kids on the mound were throwing some serious heat, because I never saw the ball unless it hit me...which it often did. Over time, it became obvious I needed glasses, but that year marked the beginning of the end for me and ball based sports. It was my decision, but years later, I regret quitting. I wish I had kept playing.
I quit because I was intimidated because I sucked and because I really didn't know that much about the games. I had a zero sports IQ. With my son, he may or may not play, but I want him to understand the basics of many sports. And so it was, that this past weekend, I found myself playing catch with my 4 year old. One day was baseball, and the next day was football. His schedule...not mine. There's no organized training regimen yet.
My son's catching technique is the same for both sports, just add a glove for baseball. Hands palm up, arms out, elbows bent. Kinda like he is carrying an imaginary armload of wood. He then makes a scooping motion with his arms. If its football, he sometimes traps the ball against his body. If its baseball, he wonders why anything other that a pop up or grounder is "too hard to catch." There is no lateral movement of the glove or body, and no natural use of the hands or wrists to "catch."
I puzzled on this phenomenon that evening, and as we started throwing football the next day, I puzzled some more. First I tried throwing the ball left or right of him. He would then do a ballet like spinning-scoop move. He kept the arms in, and his feet stayed planted in the same place. I tried throwing low, and he did a bailing motion like his boat was sinking. I threw high and he scooped so hard I thought he might do a back flip. Well.....at least the effort was there. I tried showing and talking about using the hands, moving to the ball, keeping the ball in front of your body...even if that means moving your feet. All to no avail.
Then as I gripped the nerf football for the next pass I had an idea. A wonderful idea! A wonderful, terrible idea. The next pass was thrown a little harder, then harder still. Balls bounced off him and caromed into the neighbors yard. He laughed and kept scooping. He giggled and kept bailing. Then, I as my resolve set in, the line between teacher and wacko blurred. "He won't get his hands up....He won't catch naturally....I must break this scoop-shit. He'll get his hands up by God!"
Then I zipped one right at his pretty blue eyes....hard. I saw them widen in shock and then he hit the deck and ball slammed into the wall behind him. He popped up, indignant, "Dad, you threw that at my face!"
"The ball slipped...if you'd catch with your hands you'd be fine!"
After the 5th high heater, my son told me he was ready to play by himself. I protested but to no avail. I left the yard, puzzled, frustrated and only slightly sheepish. I didn't think I had erred until much later. At the time, I was more upset that he never did put his hands up. That's how it happens people. That's how you go from progressive parent to a dad that deliberately threw at his own kid. And a Dad that at the time thought he was doing him a favor. Whether you vocalize it or, think it to yourself, the familiar lines bubble to the surface, passed by generation to generation, "It's for your own good Son! This hurts me more that it'll hurt you!"
I always wonder what stories my son will tell about me to his friends and kids. This one should probably make the list. I can hear it now, " You kids have it Sooo easy....my old man used to throw at my face trying to get me to catch the ball the way he thought I should catch it.....and I WAS ONLY FOUR!!!!"
I was not athletic as a child. Gangly and in need of glasses, I was possibly the worst ball player on the worst team in our Knothole League. I can remember my Dad's frustration with me at times. "Keep your eye on the ball!", he would bark from behind the cage. The problem was my eyes were so bad, I couldn't see the pitcher clearly let alone the damn ball. At the time, I thought the kids on the mound were throwing some serious heat, because I never saw the ball unless it hit me...which it often did. Over time, it became obvious I needed glasses, but that year marked the beginning of the end for me and ball based sports. It was my decision, but years later, I regret quitting. I wish I had kept playing.
I quit because I was intimidated because I sucked and because I really didn't know that much about the games. I had a zero sports IQ. With my son, he may or may not play, but I want him to understand the basics of many sports. And so it was, that this past weekend, I found myself playing catch with my 4 year old. One day was baseball, and the next day was football. His schedule...not mine. There's no organized training regimen yet.
My son's catching technique is the same for both sports, just add a glove for baseball. Hands palm up, arms out, elbows bent. Kinda like he is carrying an imaginary armload of wood. He then makes a scooping motion with his arms. If its football, he sometimes traps the ball against his body. If its baseball, he wonders why anything other that a pop up or grounder is "too hard to catch." There is no lateral movement of the glove or body, and no natural use of the hands or wrists to "catch."
I puzzled on this phenomenon that evening, and as we started throwing football the next day, I puzzled some more. First I tried throwing the ball left or right of him. He would then do a ballet like spinning-scoop move. He kept the arms in, and his feet stayed planted in the same place. I tried throwing low, and he did a bailing motion like his boat was sinking. I threw high and he scooped so hard I thought he might do a back flip. Well.....at least the effort was there. I tried showing and talking about using the hands, moving to the ball, keeping the ball in front of your body...even if that means moving your feet. All to no avail.
Then as I gripped the nerf football for the next pass I had an idea. A wonderful idea! A wonderful, terrible idea. The next pass was thrown a little harder, then harder still. Balls bounced off him and caromed into the neighbors yard. He laughed and kept scooping. He giggled and kept bailing. Then, I as my resolve set in, the line between teacher and wacko blurred. "He won't get his hands up....He won't catch naturally....I must break this scoop-shit. He'll get his hands up by God!"
Then I zipped one right at his pretty blue eyes....hard. I saw them widen in shock and then he hit the deck and ball slammed into the wall behind him. He popped up, indignant, "Dad, you threw that at my face!"
"The ball slipped...if you'd catch with your hands you'd be fine!"
After the 5th high heater, my son told me he was ready to play by himself. I protested but to no avail. I left the yard, puzzled, frustrated and only slightly sheepish. I didn't think I had erred until much later. At the time, I was more upset that he never did put his hands up. That's how it happens people. That's how you go from progressive parent to a dad that deliberately threw at his own kid. And a Dad that at the time thought he was doing him a favor. Whether you vocalize it or, think it to yourself, the familiar lines bubble to the surface, passed by generation to generation, "It's for your own good Son! This hurts me more that it'll hurt you!"
I always wonder what stories my son will tell about me to his friends and kids. This one should probably make the list. I can hear it now, " You kids have it Sooo easy....my old man used to throw at my face trying to get me to catch the ball the way he thought I should catch it.....and I WAS ONLY FOUR!!!!"
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