by Jon Ziegler
My first attempt was when she was quite young, and had just discovered horses. Having only seen them on TV, books, or in parades, I figured I could end her relentless begging for one, by telling her that many horses have been known to eat small children whole. Snatching them up in their dragon-like jaws, leaving only socks and shoes where a child once stood.
I may have underestimated her gullibility, and a few discussions with less "creative" thinking adults over the next few weeks, confirmed to her that I may have been exaggerating a tiny bit.
During our next "I want a horse" argument, I tried to knock her off balance by telling her she could have one, but it would have to live in her room with her. She then looked up at me with no expression on her face, and then silently walked away.
I once again thought I had ended the horse debate by outsmarting her . . . . until I went upstairs later that same night. She had not only cleaned her room, but had also managed to get a large pile of freshly picked grass, and a large bucket of water for the arrival of the horse. I was both annoyed and amazed at her resolve.
Feeling cornered by my own genius, I then had to resort to "researching" the local building codes, where I found that all houses that had livestock living on the second floor were required to have 48 inch wide stairs. Since our stairs were only 32 inches wide, we would have to wait until we could afford to widen the stairs. This seemed be an acceptable, although disappointing answer to her.
The problem with most kids, is they get smarter as they get older. And then they start rehashing in their little brains, everything you've ever told them.
We happened to be vacationing at Niagara Falls when she realized that the whole 'horse in her room' was just a diversion tactic. This realization led to an impromptu horse argument as we stood overlooking the falls.
But the mounting fear that I would spend my afterlife being roasted for lying to my daughter, led me to switch tactics. I told her that she could have a horse if she swam over the falls, and survived. Once again, she looked at me and quietly walked away. I assumed her silence was due to her anger towards me, but at least there was silence.
Less than half an hour later, I was hailed by a park ranger who soundly chastised me for suggesting that my daughter should swim over the falls. Apparently she had cornered him and inquired what type of accommodations the park provided for getting someone back up to the top of the observation area after going over the falls.
So now, I am reduced to being that mean dad who just says "no" whenever the horse argument comes up, which is about every other week. However, as a consolation for my misguided attempts to discourage her horse freakness, we do now pay for her to take riding lessons.
42. COOL DAD
The other day, while driving my daughter’s home from school, I heard them talking about one of their friends. The discussion was centered on how much fun it was to stay at this girl’s house.
"What makes it so fun to stay at Christina's house?" I had to ask.
"They let us watch horror movies" Natalie answered.
"Christina's parents are cool, too" Hannah added.
"Yeah, her parents ARE cool" agreed Natalie.
The horror movie answer was a bit concerning to me, but had not nearly the sting of the cool parent’s statement. What made her parents cool? . . . . . I thought I was a cool parent. I've never worn dark socks pulled up to my knees while wearing shorts. And I was always doing fun and entertaining things when they had friends over. Like playing my DVD of Star Trek episodes with the talking dubbed over in German, or performing my famous word-for-word reenactment of Walter Cronkite's moon landing newscast, using a high falsetto voice. But apparently, it takes something far less substantial to be considered cool.
In the days that followed, it would bother me every time I thought about it. I remembered when I was a teenager, and how some of my friend’s parents were so much cooler than others. I couldn't stand it . . . . I had to be a cool dad.
That Friday, I pulled up to the front of the school ready to impress. I knew that the first thing needed was some loud bumping music.
I would have preferred to have picked out one of my daughters CD's to blast, but since the ol' 1986 Chevy Impala that I had acquired for $700, came equipped with a cassette deck, this was not an option. Luckily, I still had a few tapes in a shoebox in the garage, and luckier yet, some of my sisters old tapes had gotten mixed in with mine....teenage girl music is teenage girl music, I figured.
As I slowly drove along the student lined sidewalk in front of the school, I put in my sisters tape that I had picked out, a band called Menudo, and let it rip. The music was loud and had a catchy beat, but apparently teeny bopper music in my sister’s day wasn't any better than what my daughters listen to, because I couldn't understand a word they were singing. It was almost like they were singing in Spanish or some other language.
I had my hat on sideways, and despite the pain in my back, I was leaned way over into the middle of the car like I had seen other cool young people doing, and I tried my best to bob my head in time with the catchy, loud music.
I spotted my girls standing in the row of students, and stopped in front of them. Wanting to fully display my new found coolness, I cranked the poorly vocalized music even louder, and got out to escort my daughters over to the car. As I approached the sidewalk, I noticed quite a few students laughing and pointing in my general direction. There was a particularly criminal looking group of teen boys began yelling things like "turn that crap down, grandpa!” My oldest daughter seemed to be upset, and possibly crying. The youngest daughter marched up to me and screamed, "DAD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
"What?" I said calmly, "Do the rules of coolness not apply to guys over 40?"
"Why are you blasting 60's Spanish music loud enough for the whole town to hear?" She shrieked.
"It’s not from the 60's, it’s from th-- wait, that really is Spanish?" I mumbled.
"And why would you walk around in public like that?" she demanded, sounding even angrier.
I assumed she was talking about my hat being sideways, and my underwear showing a bit, like I had seen every other boy at the school wearing.
"Dads can't sport a little sag?" I asked.
"You have your underwear pulled up, not your pants sagged down!" (By now she was yelling) "And they are white fruit of the looms with the elastic band half ripped off!!!"
Unconvinced that hiking the undergarments up was any different than pulling the pants down, I turned to walk back to the car. As I stepped off the sidewalk the pain caused from leaning over in the seat intensified, and my back went out, causing me to collapse down on all fours. The violence of the fall tore my underwear band the rest of the way, so that they were completely detached. And although I couldn't turn around to look, it felt like there might now be some crack showing.
Meanwhile, a boy with purple hair from the group of criminals, had broken off one of the Impala's windshield wipers, and was using it to whip me across the buttocks as I crawled back to the car and into the driver’s seat. With a bit of difficulty, I managed to get the car door closed and drove away with agonizing back pain, two sobbing daughters, and a pair of stinging butt cheeks.
In the end, it was decided by my daughter's, my wife, and the principal that I would no longer be picking the kids up from school. My oldest daughter Hannah has started talking to me again, and hopefully Natalie will follow. I have decided that my level of coolness is what it is, and like nature, shouldn't be messed with.
43. THE AUDIENCE
Children have a way of taking over things. My daughters have taken over my free time, my kitchen, my television, and sometimes I think they've taken over my sanity. My girls have also taken over our bathroom and shower.
In our shower, there are now "people" that line the edge of our bathtub. There must be at least fifty of them. Everything from Fisher Price people, to Barbie’s and even Ken. I never really thought about it that much . . . . Until one day.
On this particular da
y, I climbed in the shower like I always do after work. The row of people were there, which like I said, was normal. But as I reached for the shampoo, I accidently knocked it off of the overcrowded shampoo/conditioner/body wash shelf. The shampoo, in turn, knocked several of the "people" from their bathtub perch.
This is the point at which these folks actually got my full attention. I leaned over to pick one up, and noticed how smiling and happy the person's face was . . . . Almost too happy.
As I picked up the rest of the fallen people, I realized that they were ALL smiling at me. So as I put them back on the ledge of the tub, I turned them so that they were facing the wall. Only, there were still forty or so faces of the ones who hadn't fallen, still looking at me.
Getting back to the business of washing my hair, I tried to forget about my audience, but every time I looked down, there they were . . . . . smiling. It was almost as if a large crowd had gathered to watch me take a shower, and for some reason, they seemed to think it was amusing. I was sure that I could even hear them laughing.
I suddenly felt like I should cover myself in my own shower. I tried turning myself so that I was facing the other direction, but there were laughing people facing that way as well.
One of the little people was actually winking . . . and the Ken doll had a smile that was obviously mocking me.
"Knock it off you JERK!" I said to Ken, getting more self-conscious.
And standing right next to Ken was Barbie, who was not only laughing at me, but pointing as well. It was as if she and Ken were sharing an inside joke about my showering. They were laughing and pointing and laughing some more.
"WHY, YOU LITTLE - . . . . WHAT IS SO FUNNY?" I screamed.
"Who are you yelling at?" my wife wondered from outside the door, "who else is in the shower with you?"
"THERE'S A WHOLE BUNCH OF PEOPLE . . . . Oh, never mind" I answered as I wrapped up in a towel.
I'd had enough. I stormed out of the bathroom with shampoo still in my hair. And leaving a trail of wet footprints and foam behind me, I marched upstairs to finish my shower in our other bathroom, free of an audience.
44. LAUNDRY HINTS FOR HELPFUL HUSBANDS
My wife and I both work long hours, at times. So we end up trying to get the house work done whenever we can squeeze it in.
The laundry seems to be a never ending battle that requires both of us doing it, just to keep up. During my years of doing some of the laundry, I have learned a few things that might be helpful to other husbands who want to help out.
First off, my wife always insisted that I sort the laundry by color. This means the color of the clothing, and not the color of the stains, as I originally thought. This makes a lot more sense to me now, because most of our laundry would either be in a dirt color load, or grass stain load. It could take a month or longer to finally have enough mustard or fruit punch stains for a whole load.
Also, if you run out of detergent and decide to use shampoo as an alternative, do not use a full detergent cup full, as it tends to be a bit more sudsy. Certain shampoos can take up to 8 rinse cycles to finally get all the bubbles out.
Work boots that were worn all day in the rain, should not be put in the dryer. The musty, dirty foot smell will linger for a month and transfer to clean clothing.
And finally, I don't recommend putting clothes in the dish washer when the washing machine is broken. Loose articles of clothing can make their way down to the dish drying heat element causing a small fire and ruining your wife's favorite bra, making her mad and vengeful enough to take scissors to your favorite Pink Floyd t-shirt.
Likewise, dishes should not go in the washing machine when the dish washer is broken . . . . . you will end up buying new dishes.
45. THE NEVER ENDING BATTLE
It has been said that one should "let sleeping dogs lie". This is sound advice, however, it fails to explain just how to get the dogs lying and sleeping in the first place. Getting my two wiggly, giggly girls into bed is a losing battle that begins shortly after dinner, and carries on through the entire evening, leaving me exhausted from the sheer amount of arguing, threatening and screaming that it involves.
When they were yet quite small, it didn't seem as taxing. I would put them into bed, they would cry, and sometimes come wandering back out, at which point, I would take them back. At the very least, it was a simple game.
As they got older, it became more and more complicated. They have mastered the technique of making excuses for postponing bedtime, and for getting out of bed once that I've gotten them there. Somehow, they have honed in on just what to say in order to give their excuses just enough legitimacy to keep me from bodily forcing them into the bed and duct taping them to the mattress. Their creativity in this department is within the realm of prodigy.
Every night, shortly after dinner, I make the announcement in my stern and commanding voice, that it is time to get ready for bed. As scripted, my darling daughters begin with their opening arguments.
"But DAD! It's only six-thirty! Bedtime is at eight-thirty! Why do we have to start getting ready now?"
I give my standard reply, "Bed time IS at eight-thirty, but I know that it will take at least two hours to get you wild animals ready and calmed down! In fact, we might be hard pressed to actually make the eight-thirty deadline”. This argument we are having now, usually takes at least twenty-five minutes to complete!"
Once this argument has run its course, we begin the slow and painful process of getting them into pajamas. This alone, can take up to forty five minutes, and usually sounds something like this:
"I can't find any clean pajamas. . . . . I don't like this pair . . . . Natalie is wearing my pajama bottoms . . . . . but they don't fit Hannah anymore and mom said they were now mine . . . . This pair makes me itch . . . . . that pair always smells like cauliflower".
And all the while, I am firing back responses in the name of bedtime progress:
"Did you look in your drawer . . . . . You don't have to like them, you just have to wear them . . . . . Your butt quit fitting in that pair two years ago, they barely fit Natalie . . . . . . Wear them and scratch wherever they itch . . . . . . Then put on the pair that you say always smells like lemons . . . . . GO TO BED NAKED FOR ALL I CARE!!!!!"
Finally, the pajamas have been put on. My wife, sensing my growing irritation and fatigue, usually jumps in about now to give me a short break from the nightly fray. On this particular evening she orders them:
"Go wash your teeth and brush your face."
Now she's gone and done it. What would seem to most people as a simple slip of the tongue, will now add at least twenty minutes onto the nightly routine. The peanut gallery, quick to take advantage of such a folly, starts up with their predictable silliness:
"HA HA HA! . . . . . Mom said wash your teeth and brush my face! . . . . . Giggle, giggle! . . . . OK MOM, I'M BRUSHING MY FACE! . . . . . HA HA . . . . . HEY MOM, WANT ME TO FLUSH MY BUTT AND WIPE THE TOILET? . . . . . . HEE HEEE!" and so on.
I do my best to put out this fire of additional delay, "Alright, it wasn't all that funny . . . . . Let’s settle down . . . . . . That's enough butt and toilet talk, Natalie! . . . . . C'mon girls get it under control."
Once they have finally been pajama'd and tooth brushed, it is time to try and actually get them into their beds. Knowing that it was now this time, they both scatter, as if the crack of a pistol had signaled the start of a race. Natalie runs to find her blanky. Hannah wants a book to read . . . "where's the cat?, I always take the cat to bed . . . . . . Momma didn't give me a hug."
Doing my best to keep them heading in the direction of bed, I begin to feel like a soccer player chasing two little girl soccer balls. Trying in vain to keep kicking them towards the goal. But even the best World Cup player never had to deal with two soccer balls at once.
Within a half an hour or so, I finally kick two goals and they are now in bed, but there is little relief in this fact.
I then head back downstairs to my recliner
where I await the next phase of sleep avoidance by the two bouncy soccer balls. This comes in the form of an endless parade of trips back downstairs.
(Footsteps coming downstairs)
"I forgot my drink"
"You have exactly three seconds to get your drink and get back in bed!"
(Footsteps coming downstairs)
"Natalie won't lie with her butt flat on the bed because she's afraid that someone might be hiding under the bed with a gun and she doesn't want to get shot in the butt."
"Tell Natalie that she is being ridiculous. There is nobody with a gun hiding under the bed. It would be way too hard to aim a gun in that little of a space, and if there is someone hiding in the room with a gun, they are probably in the closet."
(Footsteps coming downstairs)
(Sobbing)" The cat bit my nose."
"What was dad's rule for kissing the cat goodnight?"
"You said to never give her a kiss goodnight when her eyes are big and her ears are flat, but her eyes weren't big, she just had flat ears!"
"Ok, now we know that we don't kiss the cat goodnight if either her ears are flat OR her eyes are big. Get a band aid and go to bed".
Sometime around midnight, the footsteps stop coming down the stairs. I now have a few precious moments relax, maybe even take a short nap. The girls have to be ready for school at seven o'clock, and in order to make this deadline, we have to begin waking them up at about five o'clock. Just in time to start "The Never Ending Battle" morning shift.
46. MY MUSIC
I sat down at our desktop computer to enjoy some songs from my music library, while my wife watched one of her dumb TV shows. I put my headphones on and began searching and playing my music.
One of the first tunes from my library that came on, was AC/DC's TNT. This song can't be played at low volumes, so I turned it up a bit and began a mild head banging motion. My wife was giving me an odd look.