Monster Dive

"I've been training it, but we're not sure if we're going to use it.  We'll keep training it for another week and maybe make a decision.  It's a 3.8 in difficulty." - Former USA diver Laura Wilkinson on the “monster dive” she was practicing as part of her program in the Beijing 2008 Olympic Games.

The difficulty referenced, short for “Degree of Difficulty”, is often referred to as the "DD" in competitive diving.  The DD takes into consideration the number of twists and somersaults planned in a dive, among other criteria.  It’s one of the elements used to calculate a diving score.  It is multiplied with the judges' scores to create a total score for an individual dive.  The scores are added together for a final total score, with the highest score being the winner.

Simple enough.

So how does scoring work for plain-old recreational diving?  Those events where the only judges are your peers?  And with any luck, an orthopedic surgeon or two in attendance as well.  Coupled with the scoring criteria rationalized in competitive diving, I’m of the firm belief that your health insurance deductible should also be taken into consideration as well.  My thinking is that a high insurance deductible should add a solid two-tenths of a point onto one’s difficulty.  An unwritten directive in the sport of non-competitive crib-diving.  This would have given our toddler a solid 4.0 DD for her monster dive and a sure Sunday night Olympic Gold.

Sunday night…  Why is it always a Sunday night?

There was a loud “thud” from the second floor.  It’s a sound similar to those that we have become accustomed to hearing with our older children and their ritualistic, galloping burst of pre-bedtime lunacy.  Problem was, they were already quietly reading in their beds.  To break our monotonous routine, the noise was followed up with a piercing, painful cry erupting from our toddler’s bedroom.  This was certainly an added twist.

After laying her down for the evening, she managed to scale up and out of her crib…only to triple-pike and one-and-a-half twist herself into the carpet below.  Based on the height of the crib and the numerous technical/aerial possibilities, I’m guessing that her DD was epic on this particular dive.

As procedurally requisite by household edict, panic promptly ensued thereafter.

Once we were finally able to determine that she hadn’t permanently maimed herself, we started assessing her overall condition.  She favored her left arm and could barely lift it.  Having dislocated my shoulder in an icy snow-skiing debacle back in college, it looked awfully familiar.  To ensure that nothing was separated or broken, we deemed it necessary to perform a series of basic medical tests to gauge her overall diagnosis of damage.  The fact that neither my wife nor I are trained medical professionals just took the episode’s ridiculousness to an all new level of idiocy.

I promptly administered a mixed bag of assessments that included such battlefield-proven and AMA-certified tests such as “give daddy hugs”, “raise the roof”, and “grab the toy that I’m holding over your head”.  Luckily, it was determined that a trip to the ER was required before I was able to make her do “The Dougie”.

In the end, it turned out that it wasn’t her shoulder at all.  It was a buckle fracture of the wrist.  It was this obvious ineptitude in the medical diagnoses department which explained my high school guidance counselor’s propensity for giggle fits at the mere mention of my medical school aspirations.  To my defense, I did narrow the injury down to the correct appendage.  However, the overall success rates in defending the “round-about” diagnosis technique probably wouldn’t play out particularly well in a malpractice suit.

To ensure that her fracture healed correctly, the orthopedic surgeon stated that she was required to wear a hard cast over her wrist and forearm.  A little pink cast that would be required to stay on her arm for three weeks.

“Three weeks?  That’s it?  Three weeks is nothing!” 

It lasted roughly 24 hours.  After the swelling had gone down, she wasted no time in yanking it off with relative ease.  She casually strolled into the kitchen and handed us her cast.  Unfazed and completely unassuming, she followed it up with a firmly verbal “off” before leaving the kitchen.  I interpreted this in adult-speak as “silly minions, your petty restraints are no match for my iron-will and unrelenting determination”. 

Game on. 

I’ll see your “will and determination” and raise you “two unremitting parents”.  A trip back to the orthopedic doctor the following day warranted her a smaller, yet tighter cast.

Her second cast lasted considerably longer in comparison.  About five days to be precise.  You can’t fault her for a lack of trying though.  Tugging, pulling, even throwing herself into a tub of water in an ill-conceived attempt to bob for apples at a friend’s Halloween party.  Personally, I think that successfully snagging said apple while achieving little-to-no splash upon entry should provide for at least another two-tenths cushion in the DD department.  We’ve got to be up to a stellar 4.2 at this point.

In the end though, she managed to yank this one off too.  Yet another trip to the orthopedic office.

In a move that could be characterized as nothing short of desperation, the third cast was applied over her forearm and bent elbow.  Matching wills, we were just as determined to keep this one on as she was to get it off.

Good luck with that one, Houdini.

The third cast represented our “Alamo”.  A final stand that would limit her ability to do the everyday things, but also ensure that she had no way of getting it off.  A week later, however, we found it sitting next to her in her crib.

“Off.” 

Duly noted.

With only a couple days left on her three week immobilization period, we waved the white flag and conceded defeat to a determined two year old.  We were beaten.  Outwitted.  It had become apparent to us that her head was obviously harder than any of these casts were.  Besides, I think we were officially “black-balled” by that particular orthopedic practice after the second cast anyway.

Three casts in two and a half weeks.  Houdini, Copperfield, and Angel?  Those jokers were mere illusionists...  This kid was a magician. 

Even as I struggle to figure out the contorted physics behind her multiple escape acts, there is something to be said for her unconditional resolve.  As with everything else that she does, she doesn’t rely on others.  If there is something that she wants or doesn’t like, she simply grabs the bull by the horns…and cannonballs it.  There simply isn’t a DD measurement for that kind of monster dive.

Her teens ought to be a riot.

Flight of the Lemmings

Parents often refer to them as “making memories” or “character-building” events.  Kids typically look back on them as “disaster scenario <insert number>” or as “that time dad went postal”.  Seems most parents are pre-wired to make these attempts at providing memorable, lifetime experiences for their children.  Good, bad, or skit comedy of errors, it’s a rite of passage passed down from generation-to-generation.  More appropriately, lemming-to-lemming.  My parents did it, my wife’s too.  So obviously we're going to swan-dive off of that cliff and follow suit with our own children.

Much like my father used to, I go into these ideas with the best of intentions for my family.  Seeing nothing but the end goal of adventure, happiness, and togetherness.  Conveniently, and oftentimes deliberately, looking past the dozen or so traps that lie along our harmonious path to victory.  Traps that frequently turn into that psychotic, Clark Griswold “Wally World” impression.  Whistling “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” indeed…

My grand aspiration this time was to take the family camping in the mountains.  An early Fall weekend of camping and hiking, all while taking in nature’s incredible, scenic backdrop.  The kids were genuinely excited about going and the wife and I love it up there.  It was to be an ideal weekend outdoors, away from all of life’s stresses.

The weather forecast quickly put a damper on this plan though.  Ninety percent chance of rain on Friday.  Forty percent the rest of the weekend.  Friday was obviously out.  The weekend though…  With my college statistics professor vehemently shaking his head in the background and several Vegas bookies salivating nearby, the wheels began to spin. 

“Forty percent is less than half, right?  I’ll take those odds!  We’ll just leave on Saturday.”

Nearing the mountains that morning, however, I noticed a pillowy blanket of grey covering their tops.  Dense fog.  In keeping with that mentality, I kicked my native realism to the curb and continued to plow forward on our memory-making mission.  Stubborn and undeterred, I was certain that the fog would burn off in the afternoon sun. 

But alas, there would be no afternoon sun.  The fog was so thick that you couldn’t even see the next campsite.  We spent the better part of that afternoon chopping wood for the warmth of a much-needed fire.  Other than my in-laws, who were staying at a nearby lodge, we didn’t get many visitors stopping by to socialize.  Mainly due to the fact that our enchanted campsite possessed a scary-looking bald guy standing in the mist with an eight pound axe-splitter dangling from his hands.  The only things missing from this macabre vision were the gratuitous hockey mask and the screeching strings score from Hitchcock’s “Psycho” echoing in the background.  A precursor, perhaps?

In time, the fog became intermittent enough for us to get a quick hike in before dinner.  Once or twice, I think I actually saw the valley through a brief clearing in the clouds.  Verification of this fact, however, will be oft-debated for decades to come. 

Well after sunset, or at least after the fog darkened, we were finally able to collect on the moment that makes it all worthwhile.  All of that packing, unpacking, and setting up.  The skies cleared for that ever-so-brief moment of heavenly bliss.  Sitting fireside and seeing a billion stars in the absolute darkness of the wilderness sky.

Twenty minutes and two shooting stars later, the clouds and fog meandered their way back in.   Spiritually rejuvenated, and realizing that our window for star-gazing had officially closed for the evening, we retired to the tent for a wonderfully sound-slumber in the fresh air of the great outdoors.

I was awakened roughly an hour later by a dog barking from a nearby campsite…followed by low growling noise.  This wasn’t your typical Lassie “Help, Timmy fell down the well” growl.  This was a low and feral feline growl.  I sat up and listened again carefully.  Same growl followed by a loud, angry snarl.  My mind raced.  “Cat.  Biiiiiiiiig cat.  Mountain lion?”

A second vicious snarl, closer to the tent this time.  Axe, hatchet, and serial-killer mask packed consciously in the van, I reached for the only weapons available next to my sleeping bag.  A flashlight and a four-inch pocket knife.  What luck!  Perhaps I could distract it with hand shadow impressions.  Or, in the final throes of a life-or-death, man-versus-nature struggle, I could blind and tickle it to death.  My personal Animal Planet “I Shouldn’t Be Alive” episode was starting to read a lot like the “Airplane” movie script.

“I am serious…and don’t call me ‘Shirley’.”

My wife still laughs at the “mountain lion” reference.  In all honesty, it was probably nothing more than a bobcat.  But in the blackened silence of the woods, and in a tent with my wife and young children sleeping soundly nearby, the Fancy Feast cats might have sounded a lot like the Ringling Brothers main event to me.  In retrospect, I guess that would have made me the bearded lady.

After fifteen agonizing minutes of “Crouching Mike, Hidden Bobcat”, the campground finally quieted enough for me to confidently stuff myself back into my sleeping bag.  That’s when the rain returned.  A steady, pouring rain.  It started about 1:30 and never let up. 

That firewood that we had been chopping all afternoon?  Saturated and sitting in a full inch of mud next to the fire pit.  There would be no fire that next morning.  Not without a flame-thrower and the contents of our gas tank anyway.  No breakfast pancakes, no breakfast sausage.  Nothing but dry cereal and potato chips.  Oh, and beer.  For some odd reason, I suddenly became a little reminiscent of college…

At sunrise the next morning, and I was taking my watch’s word for it, we decided that it would be in the best interest of sanity to join my in-laws for breakfast at the lodge.  With no conveniently scheduled Jeff Probst appearances on the docket, it was decreed that a hot meal and a chance to dry out were mental essentials prior to packing up our campsite.  I’m not ashamed to admit that bit of outdoors “man-law” blasphemy.  I take solace in my belief that even fellow-survivalist, Bear Grylls, would have thrown-in-the-tourniquet by that point. 

After an hour of packing, our car was finally loaded with our waterlogged belongings.  Relieved to be headed home, I exhaled aloud as I turned the ignition key.   A buzz sound greeted me.  Dead battery.  The apparent result of leaving the car doors open for about an hour.  My lips trembled, but I managed to mute myself.  With the grace and elegance of a gorilla, I immediately leapt from the driver seat and ran to the rear of the car to unload a barrage of growls and hisses that would have put any cat to shame.  Cougar, bobcat, or Meow Mix.

After the throbbing vein in my forehead had finally subsided, I wandered the campground looking for a jumpstart.  Since most of the smart people had vacated their campsites early that dreary Sunday morning, there weren’t many people around to help us out.  I eventually found someone who had cables and was willing to lend us a hand.

Leaving that campsite a tired, wet, and beaten man, my wife asked if we could grab a hot coffee for the ride home.

“Would you like one too,” she asked sympathetically.

“Yes, please.  Irish.”

In the end, much like my ancestral lineage had before me, we managed to create a memory for our children that weekend.  It was probably more Stephen King than Shel Silverstein, but a memory nonetheless. 

Ironically, prior to this trip, my father reminded me of a camping trip from my childhood.  An overnight outing so cold, that the liquid crystal display in his watch had actually frozen solid.  Much to my children’s chagrin, character-building in this family apparently also includes a healthy dose of hypothermia.    

Lemming lessons from that trip?  Extra socks and a temperature-resistant watch.  I’m officially adding a portable jump start system and a couple cans of Friskies to future supply lists.  Potentially a couple of those BASE jumping wingsuits as well, for some much needed style points.

The Disney Business

As a surprise for our children, my wife thought it would be a wonderful idea to plan a week-long trip to Disney next year.  Hey, count me in.  I loved Disney when I went with my family roughly thirty-plus years ago.  My parents took us for the day while we were visiting family in Florida.  We stayed at a Days Inn and ran around the Magic Kingdom the entire next day.  What fond childhood memories!

With the naivety of that kid still painfully evident, I hadn’t taken into account the amount of things that may have changed over the course of those thirty years.  I should have realized what was in store when Disney offered a free vacation planning DVD when you visited their website.  Free planning DVD?  Come on.  How hard could this be?  After all, wasn’t it Disney that taught us “hakuna matata” meant “no worries”? 

After inquiring with some in-the-know friends, visiting a few internet message boards, and delving deeper into the actual website though, we were slapped with the cold reality that successfully navigating a vacation to the “Happiest Place on Earth” these days was the virtual equivalent of deciphering the CIA’s Kryptos sculpture…or ordering a cup of coffee at your local Starbucks.  Gone are those days of just popping in for an “amusement park” visit.  This kind of planning required serious travel agent business acumen, appointment juggling skills, and extensive up-front prep work.  Ironically, the exact characteristics lacking in nonchalant, happy-go-lucky simpletons such as myself.  Shocking…I know.

In an effort to avoid rambling and for the sake of pure sanity, I’m going to entirely leave out the seemingly infinite number of actual theme parks and their own related organizational pandemonium.  I will concentrate merely on the basic, essential logistics of accommodations and meals.

First, you have to decide on an accommodation plan.  This is basically a choice of everything from your standard four-walls-and-a-bed hotel to Buckingham Palace.   Once you’ve selected an accommodation plan that is within your budget, it’s time to pick the themes and amenities that you desire in your hotel.  Keep peeling back the layers until you finally get to pick that hotel.  Did I mention that it helps availability if you burn incense and offer up a ceremonial sacrifice beforehand?

Next come the meal plans.  Pick through a list of dining plans based on the number of meals that you will require in a day and that is within your budget.  You can customize these as well.  Of course, each plan and associated customization thereof comes with about enough “if-then” stipulations to make even a BP liability attorney bow down to the almighty House of Mouse.

Now with your meal plan in place, it’s time to select your dining.  There are varying types to choose from.  They run the gamut from PB&Js on paper towels to sprawling five-star dining.   When you’ve selected your dining types in conjunction with the guidelines surrounding your respective meal plan, it’s finally time to start picking and choosing through the millennia of offered restaurants. 

“Just keep swimming, just keep swimming…”

Now that you’ve finally zeroed in on those restaurants of choice, you must now jockey for reservation days and times at those restaurants with roughly half the world’s population.  Revisit the aforementioned availability ritual above. 

On a side note, I also coupled this ritual with Iron Butterfly’s "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" and a constant flickering of the light switch.  In theory, I was shooting for maximum ceremonial effectiveness.  The wife didn’t appear as sold on this practice as I was though.

It’s also essential to keep in mind, when making these reservations, that you have a firm plan in place of which parks you are visiting and on what days.  I would imagine that being in one park and having your dinner reservations at a restaurant in another is a lot like flying into Orlando with your family and having your luggage land in Calcutta.  On second thought, let’s not go there.

In looking at this whole restaurant facet, I have to be honest.  The fact that reservations to these establishments open exactly 180 days prior to your visit is still completely unfathomable to me.  I can’t tell you what I want to eat an hour from now, let alone in 180 days.  Worse yet, my wife found that if you don’t log on and pick those restaurants and reservation times precisely at 6:00:01 am on that 180 day milestone, you’re essentially stuck eating lead paint chips for dinner at 3:00 in the afternoon.

Hats off to my wife though.  She pulled it off.  She took it upon herself and organized the entire trip.  Countless hours, days, and weeks in front of the laptop.  Constantly arranging, rearranging, plotting, and scheming.  With that amount of preparation now on her resume, I firmly believe that she’s qualified to run an international crime syndicate.  In fact, in an effort to punctuate her promotion to Consigliere within the cyber Disney Planning Cartel, I have started referring to her as “Vinny the Mouse”.  “Hakuna matata, Don Corleone.”

I, on the other hand, was about as productive as a potted fern.  Upon asking for my input, my wife was generally met with “I’ll eat whatever” or “yep, sounds great”.  Honestly, if this gig were left up to me, it would have been the Bankruptcy Suites, dollar menu, and Disney service entrance booked roughly two days before leaving.

Now our kids have a wonderful surprise week with Mickey and friends next year, thanks entirely to my wife.  Their experiences will last a lifetime.  I’m hopeful that my wife’s newfound insistence on having to plan everything 180 days in advance will not. 

Walt Disney himself was once quoted as saying, “It’s kind of fun to do the impossible”.  I’m not sure how many would vouch for that “fun” part, but it’s respectfully noted by my better half.  To Walt’s point though, I think that we merely have to keep in mind the hidden meaning within the hardships of actually planning and executing this trip.  “It's not personal, Sonny.   It's strictly business.”

"Life's tough. Wear a helmet."

My wife and I are alike in many ways.  We often find ourselves finishing each other’s sentences or ending conversations with each other’s jokes.  Although she won’t admit it, we also have the same sense of humor.  Mine may be a shade or twelve darker and slightly more twisted, but she often finds humor in many of the same places as I do.  I attribute most of the instances to being married for twelve years.  There are also those physical similarities too.  The ones that I am referring to, in this case, revolve around that perpetual klutz-factor. 

For myself, if there is a thumb to be found with a 20 ounce framing hammer, it’s usually mine.  Typically while in full assault mode.  Same could be said for the baseboards and their ongoing maiming of my toes.  Oh, and let’s not leave out the conspiring staircases that randomly grab my feet in an effort to throw off my graceful sense of equilibrium.  This, mind you, while my arms are full of heavy objects.  Revisit that cursed toes reference.  Even those rocks and sticks that are systematically kicked up by the lawnmower will inevitably plot to hit that invisible bulls-eye permanently affixed to my forehead.  The list is endless. 

The same could be said for my lovely wife.  In fact, her twisted ankles have become somewhat of a running punchline for me and my arsenal of ridicule.  Her ankles seem to subconsciously seek out that one, lone pothole in a fifty acre field.  A sick, biological mutiny of self-maiming. 

Unfortunately for our darling brood, we often find many of these same traits in our children as well.  Falling down the stairs, falling up the stairs, falling off stairs…just to give you an idea.  Carrying out those fate-tempting illustrations of mayhem that their father often refers to as that “agony of defeat” moment from yesteryear’s “Wide World of Sports” opening scenes.  A vast and endless comedy of errors filled with scraps, bruises, and dents...much like we remember self-inflicting upon ourselves as impressionable daredevils.

It’s these memories that prompt me to provide ominous warnings to my children when they see an opportunity to push the envelope.  I fully understand the need for kids to learn on their own, much like we did as kids.  However, there is a part of me that feels the need to vocally address the associated risks via firsthand experience in the creation of self-induced havoc.  To pass along sage advice bestowed upon my youth by a number of industry professionals.  General surgeons and orthopedic specialists, that is.

It was one evening after dinner that my daughter received some of this advice from dad, yet proceeded to tempt universal aerodynamics and most of the physical laws of momentum anyway.  Much like her father though, she was determined.  Mentally hard-headed…and fortunately, physically as well.

We decided to take a walk after a big dinner.  It was a nice evening and we thought that the kids could use the fresh air.  My two oldest decided to take their Razor scooters along for the trip for entertainment.  We walked down our street and up the hill to the next street.  Walking up a hill on the first leg meant going down a hill on our return trip.  I didn’t give much thought to it at the time.  However, somewhere in a galaxy far, far away, there was a shimmering disturbance in Newton’s Law.

Our home is situated on a street much like the home that I grew up in.  Fairly flat, but surrounded on both sides by large hills.  I can vividly remember just how perfect it was for bikes, skateboards, Radio Flyer wagons, and other assorted wheeled projectiles to achieve maximum speed.

And oftentimes associated maximum devastation…

The return trip seemingly channeled the inner Evel Kneival in our children.  Previous walks resulted in a slow, careful walk back to the house.  This time, however, they looked down the hill and shrugged.  Consequences?  What consequences?  Against my better wishes and in spite of my numerous narratives of personal carnage, they decided to conquer the hill.  Son and daughter blazing down the hill on their scooters, well in excess of twenty miles per hour.

My back was turned as I refused to watch the ensuing pandemonium.  I awaited the fate's background symphony of twisted metal and carnage.  To my relief, they both made it down unscathed.  I breathed easy.  Maybe my love-hate relationship with asphalt skipped a generation.  But then I heard fate’s satirical rebuttal. 

“Let’s do it again!”

For some reason, I turned to watch their second descent.  I should really have my head examined.  I lived this repeatedly as a child.  I know better than to watch!  Daughter rocketed down the hill at maximum speed yet again.  Then, that climatic moment that defies nature’s law of gravity.

She must have hit a rock at the bottom of the hill.  As my grandfather used to say, she went “can over tea-kettle”.  I looked up and immediately saw Neo’s bullet-dodging scene from the movie “The Matrix” play out right before my eyes.  Arms and legs flying everywhere with blinding speed.  Only, she was inverted and spinning wildly in the air for a brief, breathless moment, before crashing to the asphalt.  Somewhere in the distance, from a circa 1978 color television set, I visualized that infamous ski jumper followed by Jim McKay’s introduction of America to “the agony of defeat”.     

There was road rash galore.  Arms, elbows, shoulders, and yes, helmet too.  The fact that not a single scrap adorned the lower half of her body just solidified the fact that she indeed went tea-kettle first while sliding across the pavement.  Luckily, there were no broken bones or missing teeth.  Much like that “Matrix” scene though, it was really kind of tough to see “what-landed-where” at that rate of speed.

Much to my amazement, my son continued to follow through on his second descent as well.  Even after watching this cataclysmic event unfold.  He sped right by his battered sister and her fresh road rash.  So much for that witness deterrence aspect…  Then again, he is my son.  If I didn’t learn things the hard way, I wouldn’t have learned anything at all.

Luckily, lightning did not strike twice. 

As for my daughter though, there was a bottle or two of antiseptic and a small cache of band-aids in her future.  She was fine though.  Shaken, not stirred.  She was even back on the scooter the next day.  Although since that evening, I have not gone out of my way to suggest any additional after-dinner walks with their scooters.

That evening presented valuable lessons to the family in Newton’s Law of Motion.  For everyone except my son, apparently.  “For every action, there is always an equal and opposite reaction.”  I dub this quote the family law of “Kneival-ness”.  Though you may be able to avoid rocks, ditches, and associated personal havoc, you can never avoid those genetically-fueled “agony of defeat” moments. 

Asphalt is now officially up on me, as well as my family, by a score of thirty-seven to zero.  Unfortunately, life has no mercy rule.  Better strap on a helmet.

The Lost Art of Aging Gracefully

‘Tis the Season.  The time for a plethora of regurgitated “You Know You’re Turning Forty When…” jokes.  You may have heard a few of these.  “Your new easy chair has more options than your car.”  “People call you at 9 pm and ask if they woke you up.”  “Conversations with people your own age become a duel of ailments.”  Typical amateur-hour, tongue-in-cheek humor.  I will admit that the last of those hits rather close to home though.

To the satisfaction of Hallmark cards and Spencer Gifts stores everywhere, I always had this mental image of hitting my 40^th much like a train slowly cresting the top of a mountain.  Sluggishly decelerating, following the last desperate attempts to retain the youthfulness of my 30ish body and mindset.   Looking over my shoulder one last time on my three decade ascent, before rounding the top and officially declaring my youth a DOA.  I envisioned that the accompanying post-summit descent would start slowly and pick up momentum as the years passed. 

What I hadn’t expected though, was for my body to completely jump the tracks as it neared the top and meteor violently towards the Earth in a blazing death spiral.  Then again, my life has always seemed firmly planted in the oft-magical world of fate and irony.  It has a lifelong public record of ad-libbing and creating its own satirical punch-lines when the prospect of self-humiliation presents itself.    

Said tracks came out from underneath of me a few weekends ago.  My father, father-in-law, and I spent an entire day installing new vinyl railing on my front porch.  It was a lot of running up and down stairs, cutting, drilling, squatting, and more running up and down stairs.  We put in some long hours that day, but managed to get the majority of it completed.  It was only after I had developed the inguinal hernia a day or two later, that it became apparent my body was of the firm belief that it was more a two or three day job.     

Precisely.  A hernia less than three weeks before my 40^th birthday.  Of course, when people ask how it happened, I don’t have that riveting, extreme-sports story to fall back on.  The one where I walk away from an insanely perilous stunt…with only a hernia and bruised ego.  No skydiving with a snowboard, no kayaking over a waterfall, and no participating in the “Running of the Bulls” with a red jumpsuit.  Not in the cards.  Somehow, hernia via vinyl rail installation just seems to lack that overall manly luster and accompanying prestige.

Truthfully, in the back of my mind, I always thought there was a common misconception about hernias only happening to “older gentlemen who still think they’re athletes”.  Apparently not.  They also happen to “older gentlemen who overdo home improvement projects”.  “Man law” blasphemy defined…

Ringing in my birthday with such mockingly dark overtones is exactly what I should have expected.  I make it a habit to approach life with a belief once penned by an 18^th century Danish philosopher.  “Irony is a disciplinarian feared only by those who do not know it, but cherished by those who do."  To that point, I have decided to travel my remaining 30s with a snare drum and cymbal attached to my side for the opportunistic rim shot.  Oh, and a pre-recorded laugh-track on standby. 

Life has emphatically announced that there will be no slow and orderly descent into my 40s.  My tranquil Hallmark vision of cresting that mountaintop gracefully was quickly replaced by the unpleasant image of a rusty car transmission seizing up one day before the warranty expires.  Now well-versed on this pending expiration date, I’ve added both Kevlar and a hard hat to my birthday wish list. 

After seeing a host of doctors, it was determined that surgery was required.  Days of hounding them incessantly and laying on the urgency of “getting me fixed quick”, I finally received a call on my surgery date.  Rim shot, please.  The day of my 40^th birthday.  Cue laugh-track.  But wait, it gets better.  Not only on the same day, mind you…but at the exact time of my birth as well.  Red flags and premonitions abound!  Good luck penning this one, Hallmark!

Reminded on a daily basis of just how eerily unpredictable irony and fate can be, my superstitions got the better of me.  I quickly rescheduled the surgery for August.  I'm abruptly equipped with this newly-mangled mental image of turning 40...and this dark, celestial alignment of events was scheduled to take place on my birthday as well as my exact time of birth? 

Maybe I have seen too many “Twilight Zone” episodes as a kid or too many “Final Destination” films.  I’m thinking “Man has uneasy premonition and doesn’t get on plane.  Plane explodes upon takeoff.”  Just go ahead and substitute “surgery” and “hernia” in that sentence wherever you see fit.

When all of this is over, I plan on shopping my chilling account to Spielberg and DreamWorks Studios.   Although in the end, Pixar just may be the better fit.

Personality Goes a Long Way

By the time our third child was born, I felt like a seasoned pro.  You develop that intuitive sixth sense as to what your children are thinking, even before they start thinking it.  Anticipating in advance of what they’ll do in order to preempt subsequent catastrophe.  What I had forgotten about, though, were their subtle personality differences throughout their development. 

Our son was our first born.  Being the oaf that I am, I was deathly afraid that I would break or maim him as a baby.  He was more or less raised in bubble wrap by my wife and me.  In turn, he always seemed a little more cautious as a toddler.  Now, however, he barrels down the street on his bike in excess of 30 mph and is an extreme roller coaster fanatic.  He’s the thriller seeker, the envelope pusher.  The experimentee of all-things road rash.  He represents the epitome of mental mutiny.

Our oldest daughter was second.  She was our climber and our “button-pusher”.  There were several instances where I would find her standing on the dining room table.  I’d pull her down, only to find her back up there five minutes later…waiting for some kind of reaction.  Well into her childhood now, she can still be found power-vaulting over the couch like an Olympic gymnast as well as continuing to fine-tune the art of pushing her brother’s buttons.  Her M.O. is apparently plowing the status quo.

Our youngest daughter is just starting to come into her own.  Fiercely independent and vocal immediately come to mind.  We walk one way, she sprints the other.  Moving her away from rummaging through a kitchen cabinet is often met with unrepentant physical and verbal rebellion.  Although of independent body and mind, she’s also much like her siblings in many ways.  Regrettably, both as thrill seeker and climber.  Something that has become painfully apparent in the last couple of weeks.

Upstairs, I heard a frustrated groan coming from my wife.  As such sounds are common place throughout our tranquil abode around bath time, I remained unfazed and continued working with my son on his homework.  Several minutes later, another loud groan was devised, followed by what sounded like the words “poop” and “carpet”.  I winced awkwardly and announced to my son that it appeared as though I would be cleaning the carpet that evening.

Seemed that as my wife filled the tub with water, daughter had apparently scaled it behind her and tossed herself in fully-clothed.  Exhibit: Groan A.  As she picked up child number three, fully-saturated diaper forcefully evacuated its resident contents of number two onto the carpet below.  Groan redux. 

After a brief EPA Superfund clean-up, numerous mental notes on toddler Parkour techniques were jotted down for future bath-related events.  Looking back, I’m really just still amazed at just how much water those diapers actually retain.  I nearly needed a winch and a forklift to get that thing out of the house.  For future potential money-making endeavors, I’m mentally filing away the idea of filling sand bags with Pampers in order to address flood prevention.  Seems like a patent no-brainer to me.

My “Father of the Year” qualifications were enhanced just a few weeks later.  As my wife ran the older kids to swim practice, I offered to keep tabs on our youngest while performing cooking duties on the grill and in the kitchen.  Hey, I multi-task dozens of issues at work every day.  How hard could it be? 

With the meat on the grill, I grabbed number three and quickly moved to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner.  I left the kitchen door to the screened porch open, so that she could power-waddle between rooms unabated.  That should occupy her for a good five to ten minutes.

While working at the sink, I happened to look out the window.  Double-take.  What in the name of Homer J. Simpson just darted across my line of sight?  We’ve had an abundance of small animals stroll through our yard on occasion, but this was larger than I was used to seeing in the daytime.  My eyes widened to the size of dinner plates upon realizing the specific species of this creature.  Laughing and speed-toddling wildly across the backyard was number three…in true jailbreak fashion.

In under two minutes, she was able to open the screen door, descend the stairs, and bolt for freedom.  First, ninja-like climbing abilities.  Now, covert escape tactics.  It appears as though this child has a legitimate future in the cat burglary business.  Cue “Mission: Impossible” intro here.

However, the icing on the cake incident that effectively doubled my age came shortly thereafter.  No longer am I turning 40 next month, as anticipated.  Honestly, 80 now seems more accurate.  Looking back, you think you’ve experienced it all as a parent of three.  Then, there’s that five minutes of sheer terror that redefines your humility and leaves a permanent mark on your psyche…as well as certain articles of clothing.

In the kitchen one afternoon, I saw number three pick something up off of the floor and put it into her mouth.  She was near the dog dish, so I instinctually grabbed her to see if she had shoved a kibble or a bit into her mouth.  In instances such as these, preventative intervention is a prerequisite.  It turned out to be cereal that had fallen from her high-chair.  Crisis averted.

However, with trademarked verbal rebellion now fully deployed, there was a gag and a choke.  As she was delivering her closing arguments, she must have inhaled a second, unseen piece of food.  Choking quickly turned violent.  Panic ensued.  After numerous attempts by my wife and me to clear the blockage, I sprinted to call 911.  Fortunately, she coughed up the obstruction moments before emergency personnel arrived.  Her color returned.  She was shaken, but fine.

The same could not be said for me.  Eventually, my complexion returned as well.  Pale gray.  There were also those dozen or two nightmares that interrupted my lucid slumber that evening.  But hey, at least the older kids got a personal tour of the ambulance, right?  Psychologist Carl Jung once said “to be normal is the ideal aim of the unsuccessful”.  Does this include successfully cutting my lifespan in half?

Subtle differences.  Life served me with a few of those gentle reminders regarding our kids’ subtle differences.  Much like the differences between 120 over 80 and 190 over 120 for blood pressure, 60 and 145 for a pulse rate, and 40 versus 80 in accelerated age.

It’s times such as this that I’m glad our kitchen isn’t carpeted.  “Clean up on aisle three.”

Neighborhood of Not-So Make Believe

Unfortunately, I have become that guy.  The lunatic father yelling at all of the neighborhood kids.  Since I’m the only one yelling, it appears that I’m the only one on-duty these days.  I didn’t complain much at first.  The kids flock from all corners of the block to play in my yard with my kids.  It keeps them entertained.  Keeps them busy.  Tires them out.  What I hadn’t counted on though, was the destruction and mayhem that they would bring with them.

Unsupervised children are just that.  Unsupervised.  Think the old Wild Animal Kingdom specials.  Sometimes they are the pack of elephants stampeding through my landscaping.  Sometimes they are the lion chasing the gazelle, tearing across my rain-soaked lawn on BMX bikes.  In short, they are undomesticated carnivores devouring my property and everything residing in it. 

It appears that my wife and I have been elected, apparently via secret ballot, to serve lone dictatorship over all of the children in the neighborhood.  The Grand Poobas over our mortgaged kingdom as well all inhabitants trekking, plodding, and stomping through it.  Think Ghadafi…minus the disco hair, John Waters ‘stache, and grandiose Village People outfits.  Although I firmly believe that I could pull off one of his electric-purple Bedouin robes, I’m also willing to bet that more than a few passer-bys would likely call social services on me.

You know how it starts.  The way it always does….with a large dog tied to a piece of patio furniture galloping down my driveway and smashing into the side of my new car.  Like I said.  Your typical, everyday scenario.  Ask anyone.  Even that ridiculously irritating car insurance guy with the blue phone on TV would vouch for the normalcy of this kind of debacle on my street.  I don’t necessarily know if he’s on my side, but I know for a fact that the large scrap and noticeable dent in the side of my car certainly is.

I have to admit.  That kid and his dog should have felt pretty lucky to have made it home that afternoon.  I had the unfortunate fates of Luca Brasi and Old Yeller swimming upwards from the darkened recesses of my mind.  However, as my wife and next-door neighbor were both standing witness to said event, they also would have been required to stand state’s witness in the aftermath of my psychotic and verbally educational tirade.  In the end though, I merely bit my tongue, hard…nearly severing it, and walked briskly into my backyard for some much-needed “me” time.  Pursed lips trembling uncontrollably with each and every step, as a wide array of muted profanities attempted full jailbreak.

The following weekend, same kid, sans dog under specific shoot-to-kill orders per totalitarian decree, thought it would be a first-class idea to show my five year old daughter an educational episode of “Family Guy” on his iPhone.  First of all, yes, a ten year old with an iPhone.  I digress.  When my wife questioned him about what he had shown her, he lied and said that it was a video that he had taken of his bike.  How about a video of you taking you and your phone home?  iPhone and patio furniture dog now reside in the same respected company.  Exiled.  Can you hear me now?

Several days later, I happened to look out the window to a group throwing sticks and other assorted items belonging to my children, at my son’s new basketball hoop.  This time, my wife wasn’t around.  I immediately adopted a personalized version of the Castle Doctrine and let loose with a pointly colorful tirade at all of the children within a half mile audible radius.  It somehow concluded with handing over “$250 in cold, hard cash” to pay for a replacement.  Cold, hard cash?  When did my inner-Pacino suddenly make a cameo?

Although I anticipate that these instances will probably continue to make our lives a running punchline, I did reach a breaking point.  The point where I had to stop, count, and mentally wait for my systolic number to return to normal.  Whatever normal is these days. 

While shooting baskets with some of the kids one afternoon, a ten year old girl from down the street thought it would be great fun to drill the basketball into my chest while I was talking to my son.  Missing my chin by mere nanometers, I received an obnoxious laugh and an “I got you”.  Really?  What kind of kid does this?  If I had done that to an adult, as a kid, I would have walked with a clubbed foot for about a month. 

It took me a few seconds to remember that was a child though…and not of blood-relation.  Calmly, and with an over-exaggerated smirk, I picked up the ball and asked how funny it would be if I were to return the favor.  The laughing ceased…and for some reason, we don’t see her around the house much anymore. 

So this is what I have resorted to?  The intimidation and thuggery of children?  I’m the Don Corleone of the neighborhood pre-teens.  “Leave the Nerf gun, take the cannoli.”

I can’t help but to think back on what my friends and I must have put my father through.  I’m pretty sure that we were just as obnoxious.  My money is on “considerably worse”.  I specifically remember him having to stop and count on more than a few occasions, in an effort to avoid tossing one or all of us over the fence for assorted adolescent misguidedness.  Although I never dented his car, showed lewd videos to pre-K kids, or attempted to inflict a broken nose on an adult, I definitely remember a variety of broken doors, windows, and pool covers.  I’m hoping that this isn’t a progressing cycle of havoc. 

As the property despot, it appears as though I have unconsciously adopted the alter-ego of Mr. Rogers.  Minus the cardigan and the whole talking to inanimate toys thing.  Although, I have been known to publicly berate lawn equipment that refuses to start after the first ten, or seventy, pulls.  Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood was gentle and calm.  Simplistic.  Mine has animals dragging patio chairs, la cosa nostra tactics, and a raving thirty-nine year old lunatic. 

Would you be mine?  Could you be mine?  Won’t you be my neighbor?

Deeper Shade of Soul

As I looked into the mirror, lyrics from “A Deeper Shade of Soul”, a song by the 90s fusion band Urban Dance Squad, immediately popped into my head.  “Surprise, surprise; so you rub your eyes…” Thing is, I kept rubbing, but it was still there.  Sparsely scattered throughout my freshly-grown goatee.  My soul patch, my grunge mange, my Shaggy.  It no longer reflected that deeper shade of soul.  What I saw was the lighter shade of old.

The infamous goatee is one of those things that has come and gone since my mid-20s.  It was my youthful change-up from the same-ole-same-ole blandness of everyday me.  Since my head is now clean shaven in the shiny image of a cue ball, it’s basically the extent of what I’m able to mix up in the appearance department.   It’s my lame self-expression of suburban mutiny.  My pointless rebellion of corporate professionalism.  After a few months, it runs its course and vanishes yet again in another tantrum of self-expression and pointless anti-rebellion rebellion.

Squint, blink, blink, squint harder.  I tried several different angles in three separate light sources, but to no avail.  As much as I would try to deny it, they simply weren’t blonde hairs.  My waning optimism humbled.  Execution-style.

Deep down, I have always been a firm believer in the premise that you are only as old as you feel.  Even as I accelerate towards 40 at break-neck speed, I literally still view myself as that carefree, 26 year old lout.  More often than not, this viewpoint also directly conflicts with the physical limitations imposed by Father-time upon my 40 year old carcass.  Limitations that aren’t fully realized until the agonizing aftermaths and their associated maimings have thoroughly run their course.  In retrospect, maimings that may have been avoided if I simply switched my multi-vitamin to their “silver” product line.

I have to admit.  This was new territory for me and it really played with my psyche.  The shaving of the head thing never really bothered me.  It was somewhat trendy and it didn’t actually advertise my genuine ripeness.  This gray business though.  It was truly the first time that I looked into the mirror and viewed myself as a 40 year old man.  I didn’t necessarily like the mental images.

Here I’ve gone from Redbeard, the ruthless and enigmatic pirate of the Mediterranean…to Greybeard.  You guys remember Greybeard.  The pirate on the beach with the blackened bifocal visor and metal detector, who throws his back out trying to pull his treasure from the dunes.  The pirate who takes long afternoon naps before raiding English merchant ships.  The pirate who dons tan polyester shorts coupled with black dress socks and sock suspenders over his wooden leg.  OK, so I made up Greybeard.  However, you have now assembled the visuals running rampant through my head. 

“Yo ho ho and a bottle of Mucilex.  Now get off my lawn!”

Honestly, I should have seen this coming.  Shortly before Apple’s release of the iPad, I heard two guys anxiously discussing the latest tech sensation at a coffee shop.  I merely assumed they were just medical students discussing post-surgical eye care.  Droid, Kindle, and 4G were new Transformers characters until I was educated otherwise by a CNN business report.  Techo-geriatrics or just outright senility?  Quite possibly, a combination of both. 

Of course, I also get those not-so-gentle reminders in my assorted daily dialogues as well.  Last summer, I had a college sophomore as a summer intern at work.  While looking up places to eat lunch on the internet one morning, he happened upon a local establishment called “Mel’s Cafe”.  I spun towards him and immediately delivered, in a deadpan falsetto drawl, “kiss my grits”. 

You could classify the look that I received as your classic combination of shock and utter disgust.  “What did you just say?”

“Mel’s Diner?  Flo?  Kiss my grits?  Come on…really?  Nothing?”  Oh right, he’s twenty.

My desperate attempts at disguising the self-carbon-dating of myself are equally as pathetic.  For example, I am a self-proclaimed music nut.  Music has always been my universal topic of discussion in bridging generations and genres of influence.  I pride myself on staying current with the modern rock and R&B scenes.  That is, until I start unconsciously slipping in references of a reminiscent yesteryear.  Words such as “album”, “B-side”, “45”, and “record store” inadvertently incorporate themselves into my geezer gab and inevitably rat out my four decades of existence.

I’m still leery about the broadcasting and outright marketing of the fact that “my beard is weird”, but I have decided to keep it around for a little longer.  I recently caught Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead on the radio reassuring that “oh well, a touch of grey kind of suits you anyway.”  At this point, I can’t say that I agree with that sentiment.  After all, deep down…I’m still only 26.  This billboard of gray just doesn’t project me at all. 

However, reality is oftentimes as subtle as a cinderblock to the toes.  Apparently, it’s time for me to accept the fact that my deeper shade of soul has officially walked the plank.  No longer do I channel that serious alt-rock mystique with the goatee.  Probably more the creepy old guy from that “very special episode” of a sitcom.    

Garcia does provide me with some solace at the end of that song though.  “I will get by.  I will survive.”  I still don’t accept it, but point taken.  The fact that I’m quoting the Dead, though, most likely means that I’m already well-beyond hope anyway.  If that’s the highway that I’m headed down though, I’m going out kicking and screaming…doing 30 mph in the fast lane.