I do declare … a kindergartner. That’s what my daughter is now. She graduated from Memorial Presbyterian Day School, a wonderful place where she learned amazing things, including how to turn washable paints into permanent ink stains. It was a terrific little ceremony the other night, filled with merriment, songs by children (some whose voices could carve names into glass) and diplomas for little tikes in blue caps and flowing gowns. Precious.
Now for some “tips” on surviving a vacation to Orlando
I have met mayhem, and it is called Orlando over Memorial Day weekend. That’s when all the people come out. When the heat turns up. When even ice cream is hot. When the only way to move about a theme park is to body surf atop the crowds. When the roads are lined with people from Wisconsin and Kansas who have forgotten their cars came pre-installed with gas pedals. (They just stop in the middle of four-lane highways!) I took the family to Orlando where we stayed in a resort, visited the Magic Kingdom and drank so much chlorinated pool water that our insides are bleached white. As with all my trips, I learned a lot. So I figured I would share some tips on how to make it back alive. Heed my advice:
Answering the call of the ice cream truck
There I sat, desperately trying to write a column — forcing myself to sit at the desk so I could work my way through some half-baked idea.
But tinkling through the air came a sound — music. A cacophony of bleeps and whistles, frenetic and super-charged.
A merry-go-round on speed.
As one curtain falls, another one starts to rise
“Dad, am I going to get gonorrhea?” asked the attentive — too attentive! — girl at intermission. It’s not a question a father expects to hear from his 5-year-old daughter. I choked on a gulp of air as I considered “appropriate” answers. Because, “You’ll never be around boys! NEVER! NEVER! NEVER!!!” is not an appropriate answer. Thanks, Broadway!
The wiggle of the little kid tooth
The “wiggle” has arrived at my house. You know … the wiggle. The toothquake. The shimmy-shimmy in the mouth. The flapping, shaking, waving dance of the first tooth about to sprout wings and fly. My daughter, 5 years old, has her first loose tooth. It’s flapping about like a little rocking chair, and I’m quaking a bit myself. It was quite a discovery. She mentioned it while climbing into bed one night. My wife, dubious, had to investigate. It seemed perfectly outrageous and entirely impossible. Not our child. Not this soon. Not a chance. No way. And then … “AHHHHHH!”
An Illuminating Christmas Tradition
“You know what we’re doing tonight?” I asked the assembled at the dinner table … even an anxious dog. “We’re going to see CHRISTMAS LIGHTS!” And many merry “yees” and “yahoos” were heard all around (even from an anxious dog.) For nothing says Christmas like cruising neighborhoods in search of the spectacular, audacious, gaudy, inspiring, kilowatt-consuming Christmas light displays. It’s a serious and time-honored tradition in my house — one that goes back to my own childhood and similar adventures with my dad. What a joy to now share it with my daughter.
As the Christmas Gift Sharks Circle
The gift sharks are circling. Hungry and anxious, their teeth snapping as they break the surface. Fins ominously cutting through the water, splashing, growing more impatient. Waiting for something to fall so they can snap it up. Their ghost-like cries of, “What does Amelie want for Christmas? Tell me what Amelie wants for Christmas!” Wait a minute … sharks don’t talk! But they do in my family. Do you have any gift sharks in your brood? We all do, especially when there are children around. In my family there is only one child, which means all attention turns to her come Christmas time. And that can be a little much. It’s like chum in the water and a full-on feeding frenzy.
Things you Never … EVER … Do with a Kid in the Room
You can do a lot of things when there’s a 4-year-old in the room: You can juggle knives. You can teach the kid how to breathe fire using kerosene and a lighter. You can commit federal crimes and embezzle billions of dollars from unsuspecting companies. But what you can’t do — what you must NEVER do! — is let a scary scene from a scary movie flash on the TV or computer while that child is watching. Eyeballs will pop out. Hair will curl. And you’ll be explaining (and lying about) that scene for the next 12 or 13 years. Or at least until her lawyers have finished working you over. I learned this lesson the hard way the other night. We were at my brother’s house for a cookout, and my sister-in-law was explaining her Halloween costume. Only, there is no explaining her Halloween costume. It’s an obscure character from that quirky, spooky, goofy 80s flick, “Beetlejuice.” Seen it? Know who Delia Deetz is? Of course you don’t. Nobody does. My wife had never even seen “Beetlejuice,” so my sister-in-law thought she would show on the computer a scene from the flick.
A Dad Working on Emergency Reaction Time
In a brand new hotel in Chapel Hill, N.C., I realized something this summer: My family is woefully un-prepared should disaster strike. In the wee hours of the night, as we slept on virgin pillows and virgin sheets, we were suddenly awoken by the most wretched of noises. It sounded as if a pterodactyl was throwing up in the bathroom. Loud and rancorous, it assaulted the ears — a pulsing, throbbing, piercing noise. BLURT-BLURT-BLURT. My first reaction was anger. How dare some North Carolina pterodactyl disturb my slumber. The nerve! There’s nothing like, and nothing worse, than the disorientating fog of being awoken in the middle of the night. You slowly come to your senses — grab a bit of awareness out of the air — and then remember that pterodactyls are long-since extinct. The blaring noise was really a fire alarm. “How dare the hotel be on fire!” I remember thinking.
A Dad in Need of a Hug
I’ve been told that a daughter needs a father’s affection. That it is essential — vital even — to growing up right and not bringing home guys who look like alien biker thugs with gum disease. I never thought of myself as an entirely affectionate guy, but that all changed when I had a daughter. I became a puddle of mud. A bottle of syrup. A big soft-serve ice cream. A loving, doting, slobbering, hugging, kissing, sweet-mouth talking lump of sappy blubber. But here’s the thing: I might be affectionate — a sad sack of Mr. Snuggles — but getting the little partner to join in ain’t so easy. When it comes to her dear old dad, she’s affection-resistant. She’s the type of girl many dad’s dream about — adorable, sweet and pretty, yet at the same time a rough-and-tumble, high-energy, grade-A tree climber. She’s strong and agile for a 4-1/2-year-old, and can dole out a mean punch.