An Open Apology

This is an open apology to my children for the injustices they will endure as they are being raised.  There are a lot of things that, as my oldest son would say, are ‘not fair’.  Unfortunately, that is the way it’s going to be.  We are doing the best we can as parents, but I can already see that the demands of life and family are going to give each of them a unique experience as they move toward adulthood.

Griffin has the privilege of being the first child, and for nearly three years of his life, the only child.  He reaped humongous benefits out of that deal.  Mommy and Daddy were particularly careful with him, the house was childproofed to excessiveness, and his every cry got the attention it needed.  This, in itself, could account for why he needs to be around people so much.  The point is that he got the most attention poured into him that we possibly could.  The only other child to get this sort of attention will be our youngest, but she’ll be a teenager at that point and could probably care less.

That brings me to our second child…the middle child.  I’m sorry Gage, but sometimes you just draw a bad hand.  I first noticed that our youngest boy wasn’t getting the same consideration when his cries from the crib weren’t met with immediate attention.  We did our best to get to him, but sometimes you were in the middle of a myriad of other things and couldn’t be Johnny-on-the-spot.  In the question of nature versus nurture, it might be that our little boy learned patience and independence from the mere fact that we couldn’t hover about him and attend to his every want.  Regardless, there are also a few benefits to being second that the first child got cheated out of.  For instance, Gage gets to go to bed later than Griffin did at his age.  Also, Gage gets to watch cartoons that slightly outpace his age level.  We had Griffin hooked into Elmo and Sesame Street at his younger brother’s age, but Gage started right into Curious George and Phineas and Ferb.

Finally, there’s the youngest, who has yet to arrive.  I wish her well.  If we had less attention to share with the second, I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like for the third.  Hopefully, the fact that we’ve learned a few things along the way might make for more efficient parenting.  For example, if the situation arose where a child is stuck in a jammed car-seat strap, we might approach it differently with the third as opposed to the first.  In our earlier years, we’d have called the fire department to come and use the Jaws of Life to delicately extricate our precious snow flake from the restraint.  Now, with the third, we’re more likely to grab her by the heel and pull her out of it backwards so we can get dinner on the stove.  I’m not trying to be mean here, I’m just sayin’, through years of parenting you learn things like “kids are resilient” and “babies have short memories."

All kidding aside, when we headed into this parenting thing, I thought we could surmount these familial obstacles with style.  It turns out that we’ve found ourselves in the same place that most every other parent of multiples has.  You face challenges that get increasingly complex with the size of your family, and most of them center on not having enough time.  Unfortunately, none of us have the power to extend a day by even a second.  We can merely do our best with the time we have.

Diver Down

My truck is pretty easy to spot in a parking lot.  Our second year of marriage, Tamara bought me some scuba diving accessories for Christmas.  Part of that package was a couple of “Diver Down” stickers to put on my vehicle.  For the last eleven years, I’ve had those two stickers in my back windows.

If you got a glimpse of my vehicle, you’d think I was an avid, thoroughly equipped diver.  That couldn’t be much farther from the truth.  I own the basic snorkel, fins, and mask, with a few accessories here and there.  I don’t even have my own BCD!

The truth of the matter is that I only dive when it’s convenient for me.  If I go on vacation, and I happen to be at a place that does dive tours, I might take one.  My brother and sister (in-laws) in Northwest Arkansas are totally different.  They’ll plan their vacations around diving.  They have their own suits and equipment.  They occasionally take diving trips to lakes just because they love it so much.

Sure, I’m qualified to do it.  I’m a certified, licensed open-water diver.  But I’m pretty much only a diver in label.  Why do I say that?  Let me give you a few reasons.

A real diver has all their own equipment.  They can be prepared and ready to go at almost the drop of a hat.  A real diver seeks out opportunities to make that next dive and add another entry to their log book.  They know the places to go and the places to avoid because of all the experience they’ve garnered. And as an added benefit of this experience, they become better at what they do.  A real diver gets plugged into a community of like-minded individuals that can help teach them and go with them on trips.

Me?  I’m just not that into it.  And when you look beyond the label I proudly display on my truck, you can see that it’s obvious.

As I walked out of Wal-Mart the other day and saw my stickers, it got me to thinking about what other labels I wear (Father, Husband, Friend, Christian).  Am I doing the same thing in these areas of my life?  Am I prepared each day to be the father, husband, and friend that my family and friends need me to be?  As a Christian, do I seek Christ and pursue ways to show His love?  Am I surrounding myself with people of like mind who are willing to help me and encourage me along?

I see displays of this incongruity around me every day.  It’s evident in the car that speeds by you with the driver gesturing rudely all while sporting the Christian symbol on their bumper.  I see it in parents who refuse to provide boundaries for their children.  I see it in husbands that have vowed to love and cherish their wives, yet can’t be bothered to listen and respond to her needs.

There are some things in life that are far too important to simply wear the label.  In the end, there’s no point in waving the flag above your head if that’s not who you are underneath. 

So Different

How can two little brothers be so different?  We made them both, of that I’m sure.  The family resemblances are undeniable.  Though Griffin favors Tamara’s side more and Gage my side, we can see our traits in both of them.  Griffin might be a Brown in appearance, but he’s got his daddy’s love of crawling around in tight spaces, not to mention a killer sense of direction.  Gage is the spitting image of me at his age, but he’s the boy of a thousand faces.  If you check Tamara’s old picture albums, you’ll quickly come across a few looks that he stole straight from his mother’s playbook.

On some level, you’d think that if they were both our kids, they would be nearly identical.  I guess it just doesn’t work that way.  Consider something as basic as eating habits.  Griffin gags when he tries to eat eggs.  We’ve tried scrambled, fried, boiled, deviled, and even flan.  The best we’ve been able to do is French Toast.  Maybe it’s all the syrup that lets him get past the egg taste.  On the other hand, with Gage…chickens tremble at the mention of his name.  I have seen the boy put away six scrambled eggs in one sitting before his mother finally cut him off.  To my knowledge, we’ve never officially tested to see how many he would eat if we didn’t stop him.  I fear he would blow himself apart at the seam.

And it’s not just with food, though we could go on and on about that.  Even with something as simple as TV time, they differ so greatly.  Griffin could literally watch the television all day and then cry when you make him turn it off.  Gage would cry too, but only because brother is doing it.  His attention span for cartoons is closer to twenty minutes.  He gets bored just lying on the couch and staring.

Our older boy is a little clingier too.  He needs to be around people.  He doesn’t mind playing by himself as long as someone else is in close vicinity to him.  Gage is perfectly content to head back to his room and play cars or transformers for hours on end without coming out to check and see if an adult is still in the house.

I was reminded again of this oddity when we went to the book fair earlier this week.  While Tamara went about the process of paying for the books, I took the boys out to see our hometown heroes.  On display in the parking lot, we had an ambulance, a police car, and a fire rescue vehicle.  It was funny how the boys naturally gravitated toward different service vehicles.  Griffin wanted to be on the Fire Truck and Gage in the Police Car.  Thankfully, Gage gravitated toward the front seat instead of the back.

Things like this leave me wondering what little sister will be like when her personality starts to come in.  Will she favor one side of the family more than the other?  Will she be more like Griffin as opposed to Gage?  Or will she be something entirely different on her own?

Despite the many personalities that exist within our little home, I can truly say that I love them all.  There’s not a thing I would change about my family and I’m happy that all the trials and decisions have led me to this point and these people. 

The Law of Conservation of Time

I was in high school when I first learned about the Law of Conservation of Energy, which states that the total amount of energy in an isolated system remains constant over time.  But, I would like to make known that I have discovered another phenomenon that works under the same principle.  We could label it the Law of Conservation of Time, or The Gage Corollary for short.

There are two properties to this corollary, and they are as follows:

1)      The total amount of time that can be saved on any given activity will be spent in the process of getting my kids out the door and into the car, ultimately causing us to remain on or behind schedule.

2)      The more urgent the need for us to leave the house, the more problems we will encounter.

Think about it, and I believe you’ll come to understand that the forces of the universe are at work to impose this law.  How else can you explain why one shoe is missing from where you knew you set it five minutes ago, or why the keys you just had in your hand are now under a stack of papers you haven’t moved in a month?

 

And if it’s not some physical impediment that blocks a hasty exit from your abode, then it’s the complete lack of urgency in the young ones that bars your way.  If I had a dime for every time I’ve uttered the phrase, “It’s time to go.  Where’s your pants,” then I’d have…well…at least enough to buy a Cherry Dr. Pepper at Sonic.  The point is, if the Law of Conservation of Time can’t delay you by an outward physical means, it’ll go internal.  I’ve lost count of the times we’ve gotten the boys dressed, taken them to the bathroom, and put them in the car, only to have Gage immediately load the most foul, runny diapers that I’ve ever had the privilege to change.

And it never fails that this will happen on Sunday morning, when we’re already running late for church.  “Get up earlier, sluggard,” you might be tempted to say.  I’ve tried that.  I’ve gotten up hours earlier and found myself in the same position as always.  So, feel free to grab my sneakers and walk a mile before you toss out any useless solutions.

I’ve worked very hard to keep the urgency and nervousness out of my demeanor, as I try to herd the children through the various obstacles toward our departure.  I thought that maybe if they couldn’t sense how bad I wanted them to move, they’d go at an acceptable pace.  But still, somehow, they manage to lag further and further behind.  There’s an inverse law at work here.

I have gained a certain amount of comfort with the discovery of this rule.  Instead of growing frustrated at the children for their constant lollygagging and shenanigans, I realize that I’ve been fighting against a Law of Physics, and I wasn’t meant to be able to beat it.  I can no more make my family be on time than I can jump to the moon.

Yes, there is a certain measure of peace in powerlessness.

What I Know About Soccer

Like almost every other average, red-blooded southerner, I have absolutely no idea what the game of soccer is all about.  Up until recently, I thought ‘soccer’ was something you did to your dog when she dug up the flower bed in the back yard.  Fortunately, I’ve been blessed to work next to a couple of guys, one from the Congo, one from Argentina, that have done their best to educate me on the sport.  Apparently, it’s the biggest thing going to the rest of the known world. 

The only reason this issue is even remotely newsworthy, is because Griffin has decided that he wants to play this mysterious sport.  In fact, he had his very first practice last Saturday, and seems to love it.  He wants to wear his boots (I call them cleats) around the house, and sleep with his soccer ball at night.

The bulk of what I know comes from my coworkers and the few matches of the World Cup that I got to watch earlier this year.  That being said, I still feel like I’m way behind the curve on knowledge of the game.

There are strange penalties that I don’t really understand.  The biggest of which is the error of “Off-sides”.  This rule seems to give the referee a way to punish the team with the fastest runners.  Kick the ball ahead to a teammate who’s managed to outrun all the defenders, and the whistle will be blown, giving the ball back to the defending team.  It’s kind of like our current socio-economic climate, “Punish the person who manages to get ahead.”

Another aspect of “football” that I had never stopped to consider is that it requires a great deal of acting.  We’re really going to have to work with Griffin on this.  In the professional matches that I’ve watched, if a defender even so much as grazes the offensive team, it is incumbent upon the ball handler to fall over and feign mortal injury.  Many times, it will result in a favorable penalty call from the ref.  I don’t know what goes through the officials mind, but it’s probably something like, “By Jove!  I didn’t see what happened, but since that man’s head is partially removed, there must have been a foul!”  It is truly a complex sport that requires its participants to not only have athletic ability but also an extensive thespian background.

And speaking of penalties, there is also some sort of card game that gets played through the entire match.  It is only played by the officials on the field, so I presume it is something to keep their minds busy during the long endless periods when neither team can get a ball in the goal.  I don’t imagine that it’s too complex of a game, since it is only played with a yellow and a red card, but it does merit some more research on my part.

Finally, in the event that a team does score a goal, there is the complex and painful scoring celebration.  In my opinion, you never want to be the guy who makes a goal.  First, you are required to rip your jersey from your body and run toward the sideline, holding your arms in the air.  Next, your entire team is obligated to completely mob you.  It’s inescapable.  I’ve seen guys try to slide and get out of the way, to no avail.  Their entire team dog-piled them anyway.  I can only hope that Griffin is never unlucky enough to score a goal.  

Maybe he’ll get the goalie position.  At least then he can use his hands to protect himself from the ball.

It won’t be too long until we move beyond practices and start playing games, so if you get a chance and want to come out and watch the Eagles play, feel free.  I’ll do my best to explain the game to you.  I’ve been working on basic ball handling with Griffin, but we should get the jerseys soon, and when we do, I’ll start working on helping him rip the shirt off his head and run for his life.

It's A Trap!

I’ve been playing quite a bit of Starcraft 2, lately.  I’ve been fortunate to get in at least a couple of hours a week.  Though I’m not very good at it, I’ve even gotten a chance to hook up with my nephew, in Texas, and play an online match between us and the computer.  He’s much further advanced in the game than I am.

I’m glad we get to spend some time together playing online.  He’s taken a job down there and lives at least six hours away from us.  I miss him, but that’s just part of life.  I often wonder if he’s had the same thoughts that I had when I got out of college and started into the workforce.  I think it can best be put in the words of Admiral Ackbar of the Rebel Alliance when he said, “It’s A Trap!”

Like so many other things in life, you spend your time working toward and looking forward to something, only to realize that once you have it, you’re locked into it for life.  It quickly begins to lose its flavor and you find yourself feeling cheated by what you’ve been left with.  And no, I’m not talking about marriage here, you jaded people who had it pop into your mind.

I remember being a little kid and watching my dad lather his face up to shave.  I even used to go in and get shaving cream on my face and scrape it off with an empty shaving tool.  I thought it was the greatest thing in the world…until I actually had to start doing it for real.  But by the time you reach that point, there’s no turning back.  You’re locked in for the rest of your life.

Here’s another one for you.  Guys, remember how we couldn’t wait until we got to mow the whole yard all by ourselves?  How did that turn out for us?  You’re stuck mowing it for decades until you can raise your own son to pass the ability off on.  And even at that, they’re only going to do it for a certain number of years. 

On the one hand, I can hardly wait until my sons are capable of doing it on their own.  On the other hand, I’m being a bit hypocritical by subjecting them to what I’ve gone through.  But that’s the way of life.  And you can bet I’m building it up for all it’s worth.  “Hey boys, won’t it be fun when you can run the lawnmower yourselves!”

There are so many things we just can’t understand the impact of until we’ve gone through it.  These are decisions we make and then live with the consequences the rest of our lives.  I guess since you brought up marriage earlier, we might as well say something about it too.

It’s impossible to foresee the results of what our unions will bring.  I’m of the opinion that if young lovers could get a good glimpse of what life is like in that adjustment period of the first few years, there would be a lot less marriages.  The upside is that there’s no limit on the joy two people can have if they decide to work together.  When husband and wife both determine that they don’t just want to exist together and instead want happiness, that’s when things get good. 

But, since you insisted on bringing up such a heavy topic, let me leave you on a light-hearted note.

What’s the longest sentence in the English language?

I do.  =)

Bedtime Tactics

Technically, ‘filibusters’ can only take place on the congressional floor.  However, I have noticed a peculiar phenomenon around our house about the hour of bedtime.  My young ones seem intent on using the ‘art of delay’ to maximize the time they spend awake.  I’m not really sure why.  It’s not like we’re breaking out the party games and having a grand old time once they’re in bed.

Still, they’ve become quite the little masters at it.  There seems to be an unwritten checklist of activities that must be accomplished before they can be left to their slumber.  If even the smallest of items on that list is not met, they have grounds to stage a postponement.  A short list of activities includes, but is not limited to:  using the potty, kissing and hugging both mommy and daddy, brushing teeth, saying prayers, turning on the night light, picking up any random toy they see fit, and getting stuffed animals and blankets. 

On most nights, I somehow manage to forget one thing or another. 

Along the way, I’ve learned that you have to watch them closely when they go to amend a situation.  For instance, if they have not given Mommy goodnight love, you’ve got to stay on top of them and make sure they give her a hug AND a kiss.  If they intentionally leave out the kiss, they’ll begin howling about it as soon as you turn out the light and make to leave the room.  Tricky little devils, those two.

I’ve made some very concerted efforts to sweep the children into bed without running afoul of any rituals, only to have a new tactic thrown into play.  Griffin will always want to ask you a question before you leave the room.  When he was younger, they came across as something like, “Daddy, I wanted to ask you, if someone comes to our house, tell them that I love you.”  As he’s grown up, they’ve become more relevant to the activities of the day.

Gage’s modus operandi is the never-ending prayer.  It doesn’t take long to figure out when we’re headed into one.  He’ll begin praying for everyone he knows, by name, to have a ‘good sleep’.  Then we’ll start into cartoon characters he knows, the cast of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, the Little Einsteins, the Backyardigans, etc.  He’s very thorough.

Even passing all these obstacles doesn’t guarantee an instant win for the home team.  Gage isn’t quite potty trained yet, so it’s only Griffin that pulls the next move.  After about thirty-minutes to an hour, we’ll hear the bedroom door open, and out will come our bright-eyed five-year-old.  “I need to use the potty,” he’ll say with a smirk on his face.  He’s learned over the past year that he better actually need to go, or there will be consequences for telling a lie.  Thankfully, that has trailed off a bit in recent months.

I guess it’s just a fact of life that bedtime will occasionally be an ordeal.  

The Kid Wash

As a parent, I’ve always been open to new ways of getting my kids clean.  During Griffin’s potty training days, I found that an effective way to clean the poop off his hiney and underwear was to take him out in the yard and use the power spray option on the garden hose nozzle.  It was nice and cool in the summer and Griffin still talks about it, though whether or not it’s a fond memory for him I can’t tell.

So, I was pleasantly surprised when the kids came up with a new way to get themselves clean, last Tuesday evening.  At first, it irritated me a little, since I had already washed them and let the water out of the tub, but I’m thinking we could be on the tip of something big.

Worn out from the day, I went in to sit down with my wife, while the kid’s bathwater was spiraling down the drain.  I could hear normal bath time play going on, so I didn’t get too concerned about it.  When I heard a solid THUMP emanate from our bathroom followed by incessant giggling, I knew something was afoot.

Dragging myself out of my chair, I went to see what all the fun was about and if I needed to put a stop to it.  It turns out that the boys had taken a bar of soap and run it over the entire length of the damp bathtub.  They’d made enough suds to completely coat the inside of the tub and as a result, made it slicker than snot on a doorknob.

By the time I’d gotten there, they had managed to transfer the bubbly soap suds to their own bodies, and were having a blast slipping, sliding, and spinning in the empty tub.  From neck to toes, they had managed to do a better job soaping up than I did when I washed them.

It was a little more challenging to get them rinsed off the second time around.  Especially for Gage, who barely deigned to get more water on his body.  But, I think the idea has some merit to it.  Next time we get ready for bath, I’m going to wet the tub, give the boys a bar of soap and tell them to go to town.

Keep watch on this space to see which one is first to visit the ER with a busted head. 

Eyes In The Back Of My Head

As a child, I held my mom’s ability to sense what I was doing in high regard.  It never seemed to fail that when I was about to get into some mischief, she’d know exactly when to show up.  She always told me that she had eyes in the back of her head.  I knew that was a lie because I looked for them.  I finally pieced together that she was just good at listening for certain things.  As a child, you seem to miss the subtle clues that you give off. 

“Get off that bed,” she would yell, and you would freeze in wide-eyed disbelief of how she knew, from the other side of the house, what you were doing.  All the while, you were completely oblivious to the ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP sound the headboard was making as it slammed against the wall.  The wire of the box-springs screaming their protest somehow evaded your ears as well.  But not Momma’s ears.

Slowly I learned that it was these tell-tale sounds that gave me away, but it took even longer for me to learn that it was the sounds I didn’t make that also gave me away.  As a parent, I’ve learned that silence is golden, but too much is an indication of trouble afoot.  There is a certain spectrum of white noise that is always present in our home.  When that drops to pure stillness, it’s time to track down the boys.

 As we grow, life meanders on and we’ve become more accustomed to picking up on those clues.  Boys have accidents all the time.  There’s frequent crying from bumps and bruises that are unintentionally inflicted.  I don’t mind that, but I don’t want big brother using little brother as a punching bag.  Thankfully, it’s quite easy to tell when this sort of thing has happened.  Observe:

{A loud sound from the other room grabs our attention}

{Gage begins to wail}

Griffin then says to his little brother, “You’re not even hurt”

At this point, it’s safe to assume that whatever Gage is ‘not even hurt’ over was caused by his elder brother.

   

Also, toddlers and younger don’t seem to have a fully functional volume control.  A whisper from my five year old is just as audible across a room as if he were speaking normally.  And he’s genuinely surprised when I can tell him what he just said. 

One of my favorite applications of this occurred early one Saturday morning when Griffin wanted us awake.  The boys came in our room and I heard Griffin whisper to his brother, “Tell daddy that you want breakfast.”  Without opening my eyes, I said, “Griffin, quit trying to get your brother to wake us up.”  With an air of disbelief and defiance, he said “You didn’t even hear that.”  I couldn’t help but chuckle.  Obviously I had heard it.

Hopefully, it’s a good long while until our kids figure out the signs that give them away. 

Labor Day Camping

The boys and I celebrated Labor Day in style.  The weather had been so beautiful over the past few days, I decided to take them camping.  I didn’t want to go far, in case something happened with Tamara and the baby (oh, like the onset of an early labor).  So, I took them camping at mom and dad’s pond.

On Sunday afternoon, I ran over and set up the tent along with all my camping equipment.  And I’ve got to tell you, that five man tent wasn’t meant to be put up by one person.  Thankfully, it was a still day, and I didn’t get blown into the pond while attaching the rain-flap.

Sunday evening came, and I was really glad that I had put the tent up earlier.  By the time we got to our site and got a fire started, we could already see the first star of the evening.  Mammy and Pa came and roasted hot dogs with us, and then Uncle Russ and Aunt Charlotte dropped by to have a roasted marshmallow.  The boys were so excited that someone else had come by.

They got to stay up later than normal, and even when we went to bed, they weren’t really ready to go to sleep.  I told them stories about when I was a little boy, especially the stories about camping.  We slept alright for a couple of hours, and then the wildlife came out in full force.

I hate Screech Owls.  Hate them with a passion.  We had heard them earlier in the evening, but around midnight, one decided to land in a tree, RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR TENT, and screech all night.  And lest you think I’m exaggerating, I mean all night, from 12:00 to 5:00 am.  It was enough to keep waking me and Griffin up.

Every little noise that happened in the intervening periods woke me up as well.  As a father, you worry about the situation you’ve put your kids in.  I mean, we’re not technically in bear country, but what if one just happened to wander by.  I took the standard precaution of locking food in the vehicle so I wouldn’t attract predators, but seriously, aren’t we food to predators?  I couldn’t very well lock us inside the truck and still call it camping.  Of course we have a tent to protect us, but how much protection is a thin sheet of polymer going to provide?  When I see a food item wrapped in some sort of plastic, I don’t give up and go away.  I simply unwrap and eat it.  It’s what I call junk food.

It was nearly 3:00 am before I heard something crashing through the woods.  I’m sure it was a wee critter like a raccoon, armadillo, or opossum, but those things sure sound big in the middle of the night.

After a fitful night’s sleep, we all woke up about 6:30.  Instead of making our own breakfast, we trekked across the wet field to my parents house and had biscuits, eggs, and bacon, while the boys pants were drying.  Now that’s the way to camp!

I was genuinely surprised when they wanted to go back to the campsite instead of staying at Mammy’s house and playing.  They had a great time running around the pond and throwing sticks and rocks in it.  I was afraid that I’d have a hard time getting them to leave, but once the bees started buzzing around, Griffin was ready to head to the house (he had a bad experience with wasps a while back).

It was a lot of fun, and I’m glad I got to take them.  It seems like we seldom get the opportunity to camp.  I wasn’t quite ready to let the experience go, myself.  So, Monday night, I asked Tamara if she would mind shrieking at me about every forty seconds or so.  She didn’t think that was as funny as I did.

Gone To The Dogs

The moral of today’s story is, “Don’t get in too big of a hurry.”  Sometimes being in a rush will create a bigger mess than taking your time.  That being said, if you are squeamish or have a weak stomach, do not read beyond the warning line.  I’m talking to you specifically, Rissa.

***  WARNING:  GROSS COMMENTARY TO FOLLOW  ***

Late Thursday evening, I set about the task of giving the boys a bath before bedtime.  Normally, we can throw them both in the tub, let them splash around a while, then clean them up and get ready for bed.  However, with Griffin’s head injury and the glue holding it all together, we can’t get that portion of his head wet.  So that means no splashing and no little brother in the tub with him, since Gage excels at getting water into places it doesn’t need to be.

Gage chose this time to walk over where Tamara was working on the computer, stand beside her, and begin downloading a deposit into his diaper.  My wife seized the moment to get our youngest on the potty while I maneuvered Griffin into a position where I could wash his hair.  Gage sat and sat, but didn’t really do anything, so mommy let him down to come in the bathroom and get ready for his turn in the tub.  She didn’t put a diaper on him since that would be just another thing I’d have to take off to get him cleaned up.  That turned out to be a BIG mistake.

Unbeknownst to me, our darling child came in to our bathroom where I was up to my elbows in shampoo, stood beside me, and finished pushing his poop out all while being naked from the waist down.  You might think my first clue of something wrong would be the malodorous fumes creeping across the bathroom, but you’d be wrong.  What tipped me off was the fact that my dog was furiously licking something off the tile right next to me.

Things started happening very quickly, at this point.  Gage began to whine and run out of the bathroom into our carpeted bedroom.  I realized that the mass of brown waste my dog was eating shouldn’t, under any circumstances, be on our floor.  Holding Griffin still in the tub, I turned to see my youngest trailing into our room with a mass of poop running down the back of his right leg.  I screamed.  Loud.

“TAMARA, GET IN HERE!  GET HIM!”

In a testament to grace under pressure, my pregnant wife whisked our youngest off the floor and got him back into our tiled bathroom without dropping a single pooplet on our carpet.  The damage in the bathroom was a different story.  It was on the tile, it was on the towels, it was on the rug in front of the tub, and it was still running down the back of Gage’s leg.

All the while, the dog sat happily munching away.  It turns my stomach to think about.  She was quickly sent to her crate so we could deal with the aftermath.

A lot of wipes and a lot of toilet paper later, Gage was finally clean enough to get in the tub.  In retrospect, I’m glad he did it before the bath instead of after or during.  Still, it’s a situation I’d have preferred to avoid all together.

If there’s one other thing we might be able to take away from this whole situation, it would have to be this:  Don’t ever let my dog kiss you in the face…or anywhere else, for that matter.  

Chicks Dig Scars

Well, Kindergarten hasn’t changed much in the last thirty years.  Maybe physical injury is some rite of passage that my family is destined to go through.  Or, maybe there are just some mean kids out there.  I only got kicked in the forehead by a pointy-toed-boot-wearing-girl (you know who you are Stephanie).  In his second week of school, my son has already gotten a lot worse.

On Wednesday, Tamara got a call from the school nurse that she needed to come pick Griffin up and take him to the doctor.  When she got there, the poor boy had a bruised cheek and was leaking blood from a small gash above his right eye.  And let me tell you, he was not happy at the prospect of getting stitches.

How did it happen?  Griffin was in a stall in the bathroom, when one of his fellow kindergartener’s decided to try and crawl under the door.  My boy told him, in no uncertain terms to, “GET OUT!”  That’s where the story should have ended, but it didn’t.  Upon finishing his business, Griffin unlocked the stall and started to walk out.  On the other side of the door, this ill-behaved child decided to kick the opening door and hit my son with it.  He accomplished what he set out to do, because the corner of the metal door caught Griffin right in the face.

A teacher rushed in as my boy started howling, and caught the other kid.  It turns out that this child was in the teacher’s class and has already exhibited a large amount of disciplinary problems.  That boy was sent to the principal’s office and then later made to come tell Griffin’s teacher what happened and apologize to my son.

Upon seeing the doctor, Griffin was much relieved to find out that there would be no needles or stitches.  They used the same type of glue that they closed up my surgical incision with.  I don’t know what the thought process was there, when they closed the gash and put a big dollop of glue on his eyebrow.  Maybe it will come off easier than I’m thinking, but if not, this whole process promises to be thoroughly traumatizing.

The day it happened, Griffin came home with a different story than the teachers were telling us.  He thought the whole thing was an accident.  I went to school with him the next day and had him show me where it happened, and I tend to believe the story that the teachers told.

 I don’t want to know which kid it was, because I’m already biased against him.  I’m angry that a parent didn’t teach their kid the basic social skill that you don’t go out and hurt someone else on purpose.  But at that age, wounds heal fast.  It wouldn’t be entirely out of the question for my boy and this unruly brat to become the best of friends someday.  I hope not.

On a different note, do you know how hard it is to give a kid a bath and wash their hair when they can’t get their head wet?  It’s extremely difficult to keep water off the glue.  I tried tying a plastic bag around his head, but he kept passing out (just kidding, mom).

The Deep Places of the Earth

My biggest hobby, my favorite pastime, is cave exploration.  Some call it spelunking, some call it caving.  I’ve been a member of the National Speleological Society since 2003, and have been enjoying the sport for much longer than that.

Much to my displeasure, the Department of the Interior and the National Forestry Service has tightened down on our sport for now.  They have good reason, and I don’t begrudge them for it.  The spread of White Nose Syndrome among the bat population has been on the rise for a number of years now, and they are putting every effort into slowing the spread of this mysterious disease.  What this means for cavers, is that all caves that are potential bat habitats located on national property have been closed, except for very special permits.  It’s put a serious crimp in my pastime.

So, for now, I’m going to live off of the memories of past trips, and let you in on one of them.

 

I can’t remember the name of this particular cave, but since it is located in Shepherdstown, Maryland, we’ll call it the Shepherdstown cave.  When I worked in Baltimore, I met my good friend Carl, and he was brave enough to go with me on all of my caving adventures in the Old Line State.  It was our second trip to this particular cave that I’m thinking of.

After a mile walk, we reached the entrance and headed in.  There was a slight pit before the crawlway and an old wooden ladder was used to get us up to the entrance proper.  The tunnel was about three foot in height, and snaked around in an S-curve, taking us through the occasional puddle of water.  It was almost impossible to remain completely dry through this section of cave, but we did our best.

Being the second time through, we focused on squeezing into smaller holes to see if they led anywhere interesting.  I don’t know if either I or Carl could get into some of those places now.  If we did, I’m sure our backs would not be grateful for the twisting we did.  I remember one particular fissure, we had to take off most of our gear to get through, and then we found that it didn’t go anywhere beyond ten feet.

After a little exploring, we followed the main tunnel back to a seventy foot drop off.  Carl had all the vertical experience in our group, so he rigged a rope to a large stalagmite with another relief line lashed around a huge boulder.  We used the line to let ourselves down to the lower level of the cave, making sure to stay out of the pool of water at the base of the cliff.  We spent some time exploring around a huge breakdown pile that was off to the left.  At the top of the pile were some columns, stalactites, and stalagmites, some of the only speleothems in this small cave.  We ate a quick lunch before looking around some more.

Back by our rope, we spent a considerable amount of time looking for any passages that might shoot off to new sections of the cave, and sure enough, we found a hole that we had missed on the previous trip.  It was a tight squeeze in places, but I was surprised when it suddenly turned into a clay incline, that we almost slid down like a waterslide.  I could tell from marks in the earth that we were not the first to come down this passage.  Still, I was surprised when we reached the termination room.  It was small, no bigger than the interior of a minivan, but all around the room, someone had taken the soft clay and made sculptures.  On almost every flat surface, someone had taken great pains to place small humanoid figures in various poses.  None were sculpted to the point of having defined facial features, but it was a marvelous display, nonetheless.

Still to this day, I’m amazed that hundreds of feet below the surface, in a dark, tiny room made of dirt and rock, there is a hidden art exhibit for those who are brave enough to travel down and see it.  That’s just one of the many reasons that caves interest me so much.  You never know what you’re going to find when you push for that next passageway.  You may actually walk in a place that no human being has ever been before.  Who knows, maybe somewhere, in some deep crevice, there’s a small rock with a stamp on the bottom of it that says ‘Made By God’.

It brings to mind King David’s words in Psalm 95:3-4:

For the LORD is a great God, and a great King above all gods.  In His hand are the deep places of the earth: the strength of the hills is His also.

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