“Are you excited or nervous?” I asked my daughter. Of course it was a dumb question. Dads are legendary for dumb questions. Obvious ones. And no matter how many blank stares we get. No matter how many burning laser beams we get, we keep asking them. It was the first day of school. Second grade. The BIG time! On a whole new hall. In a big kid classroom. The seats are taller. When I sit in them, my back doesn’t creak and my knee caps don’t burst out of my legs. We were walking up the sidewalk to school. Parents all around smiled and said, “Welcome back! Just in time, huh? One more day of summer and I was selling little Johnnie to the gypsies!” You know, good stuff like that.
School’s out: That means no more high-pressure lunch-making
If you’re like me, you’re wondering what to do with this gift. It’s like coming across a crumpled $20 bill on the sidewalk. Think of the possibilities! I’m rich! I can go buy some gold! Only this isn’t money. It’s time. Found time! I’m rich! Mine — and maybe yours — comes courtesy of elementary school letting out for summer. One of my major parental responsibilities — I was removed from math homework when we started getting notes like this: “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, your daughter’s math work has taken a turn for the worse. For instance, 8+8 is not B” — one of my big parental duties was packing my daughter’s lunch each morning.
Goodbye pillow fights, hello concussion
There is absolutely nothing funny about this column. I am legally obligated to state this right up front. In fact, I’m legally obligated to believe it. I’m legally obligated to promote it, preach it, scream it from the hills. I am also legally obligated to say that pillow fights are bad. That they can lead to serious injuries, and should never be performed with actual pillows. Air pillows — the imaginary kind — are the only kind that should be used in a pillow fight. I am legally obligated to say that if you do use real pillows, bad things can happen. Horrible things. Major injuries may ensue. Society might collapse. You will spend the rest of your days starting sentences with, “I am legally obligated to …”
BDE: Getting in touch with my ‘Best Day Ever’
There’s something post-apocalyptic about January. Maybe it’s because Christmas is over. Maybe it’s because a new year is always a little bit scary. It stretches out toward the horizon, long and endless, full of unpredictable twists. Maybe it’s because summer and vacations and swimming pools seem so far away. The weather is miserable. Usually. And when the weather is great — it’s been pretty great! — something still comes along to ruin it. Does any other state get pollen blizzards in January? Not like Florida. Gesundheit!
Last flight of the kindergartner
She had to say it again. Her tone sounded … well, it sounded like she thought I was an imbecile: “Yes! TOMORROW is the last day of kindergarten.” OK, I am sort of an imbecile. We men don’t compute things until they’re laid out in front of us with neon and barbecue sauce slathered all over. We should pay better attention. We should listen once in a while, but that requires more brain cells than we have in the bank.
The tick, tick, tick of the summertime countdown clock
There are countdown clocks in my house. Lots of them. All over the place. They are a constant reminder that for two of the three members of the family, school is quickly coming to a close. My daughter’s first year of elementary school — she’s in kindergarten. My wife’s first year of school — she’s a pre-school assistant teacher. Soon they go into summer-time bliss. Semi-retirement. Partial shutdown. Or whatever it is you do when you have months at a time without school or work or anything imperative to do. Summer camps. Jobs around the house. Counting spider webs.
Injured fingers and trips to the hospital
Put a Band-Aid on it. It’s about as typical an injury response as you’ll ever get from a father. Kid is missing three layers of skin? Put a Band-Aid on it. Bone is protruding at a 90-degree angle? Grab a stick from the yard as a splint and put a Band-Aid on it. Major gastrointestinal problems? Crush up a Band-Aid, add to boiling water with a pinch of lemon and drink it. Soothes the savage beast.
All I want for Christmas? For everyone to stop asking
What do I want for Christmas? Peace on Earth and good will toward men. Now stop asking! It’s that time of year when family starts calling. Starts emailing. Starts prodding. Starts employing ESP on us. All in order to spirit away gift ideas, mainly for the resident 5-year-old.
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.