Michael has made me proud once again.

I’ve mentioned his audio-abilities in times past, and he’s once again proven himself a chip off the old block.

One of the things I like to bore my poor family with is the game “Where Have We Heard That Voice Before?” For example, pointing out the fact that the character “Charles Muntz” in the Pixar movie “Up” is voiced by Christopher Plummer, whom we’ve seen in “The Sound Of Music.” Or that the voice of “SpongeBob Squarepants” is the same guy who narrates “The PowerPuff Girls.”

Okay, so I apparently have a lot of  spare time.

But that aside… Michael  scooped me tonight on a voice.

While watching one of the typical Disney channel tripe shows “Wizards of Waverly Place,” Michael suddenly blurted out: “It’s him! It’s the voice of the wrench on Handy Manny!”

I listened to the character, a fellow named Dexter. Yes, he does indeed sound like that wrench.

“I think you’re right, Michael! Let me look it up.” I quickly dashed to IMDB to check out the character actor and find out if it’s really him. “What’s the wrench’s name?”

“Uh… Rusty! It’s Rusty!”

“Good job, Michael. It is Rusty.”

A quick look at Handy Manny under the cast list revealed the name of the voice actor responsible for doing Rusty the Wrench. Cross-referencing the actor’s other work revealed that, indeed, he DOES play Dexter on Wizards.

I grabbed Michael and hugged him. “Michael! You have made me so proud! You’ve done it! You picked out a voice!”

He practically beamed with delight.

It could be nothing… and it could be the first steps down a career path. The kid has a great ear, and I’m so proud he’s working on honing it.

Last weekend I completed a task that was years in the making. Something I dreaded doing, something that I may very well have lost some sleep over.

I’m talking about hanging up Christmas lights.

“Oh, come now!” you scoff. “What could be so dreadful about stringing up a few lights?”

For the most part, nothing. I enjoy it. It makes the house look nice, and lends to the festive atmosphere of the neighborhood during the holiday season. Not all houses are lit up, so we feel that in some way we owe it to our street to make up the difference.

But it has to be done right. I don’t like skimping, and I don’t like odd ends. You know what I’m talking about: those houses where they’ve hung up a string or two along the gutters, but don’t quite have enough to make it the whole distance, leaving a big empty spot. Lame. Or maybe they have too much, and either make an “X” on the window they’ve encircled, or just let the ends trail into the bushes nearby. Very lame. You can find all sorts of examples of these kinds of efforts at Ugly Christmas Lights.

Thus, I make sure I have enough lights to cover the area I’m targeting, so there are no gaps or sudden stops. And in the cases where I have excess lighting, I find a way to tastefully hide it.

The problem has always been an inaccessible spot on the second story, just above the garage. I give you exhibit A:

For years, I’ve tried reaching that spot. I have an extension ladder that is plenty long. I can reach the highest gutters on all sides of the house, except for that spot and its twin on the other side of the garage. Standing on the little peak of garage roof allows me to reach the center of that stretch, but not more than six or eight feet of it. Thus, any light strings I hang off the eaves either end there, or are hung with a great swooping drop right at those two angled sections.

One year, I managed to put lights there by climbing on the top of the second story roof and perching precariously on the very edge, leaning over and clipping lights to the shingles. Despite my bravado, I was a nervous wreck doing it. I’d make the joking comment “Hey, I can see our house from here!” several times out loud to whomever might be down on the lawn with the phone ready to dial 911, but inside I was simply repeating the Lord’s Prayer over and over, and selecting a choice landing spot.

That was a few years ago. I’m older now, and the moss on the roof has made it a lot less stable a surface for walking around. I am definitely NEVER going to go up there again.

But we have the neatest icicle lights now, and they HAD to be strung up there. For a few years we’ve had them strung all along the lower level. That I can get to with the 8 foot ladder. No sweat.

What I needed for the upper section was cup hooks all along the fascia. If I could get cup hooks on there, just once, from then on I could use a pole to hang the icicle light strings every year after.

The trouble is, how to reach. The ladders won’t help, because of the weird roof line. There’s really no safe way to get at it from above. What I’d need is some sort of scaffold on the lower roof to give me the extra height I need. Something that would fit on the roof without requiring nails or screws, but would be rock solid and stable.

In my mind, I began building. It would have to provide a long, flat walking surface and somehow accommodate the angle of the roof, and would need to grip the composite shingles.

After a few virtual failures, my brain finally settled on something simple: a simple support that would rest on the angle of the roof using a carpeted surface to grip the shingles, and a long plank that would stretch from the support over to the extension ladder, about 12 feet away.

Sure. Simplicity itself. It would work just like this:

The plank was easy. I used three fourteen foot 2×4 studs tied together with 12″ blocks to create a 12″ plank. This would fit within the rungs of the ladder. The support took some measurements to match the pitch of the roof. Luckily I had all the lumber I needed in my pile. I grabbed a discarded doormat for a gripping surface and tacked that down on the angled plate.

With all the pieces ready, I hauled the support up to the roof. This is when my wife came out to see what I was doing (she made me promise to NOT get on the roof unless she was out there to observe, phone in hand).

“Look, honey! See? This is the support.” I set it on the roof and nestled it in place, pressing down hard. She gave it a doubtful look. “The rug grips the roof. It’s rock solid!” I gave it a little kick, and it skittered down the roof in a manner that was quite un-rock-solid-like.

“Yeah,” my wife said.

“Shoot. I don’t know what to do,” I said, and climbed down the ladder, defeated.

But I didn’t have any other options. I had to hang those lights, and I had to reach that spot.

An hour or so later, I re-gathered my courage and set out to try it again.

“Can I try it one more time?” I asked my wife. I’ve learned, over the years, not to push my luck beyond what she’s willing to absorb.

“Yes.”

Hurray! Carefully I set the support on the dry section of the roof (no moss, no slipping) and pulled up the plank. “Okay, here we go,” I said. I placed the plank on the support and set the other end through the ladder.With the plank in place, I tentatively put one foot on the plan and put weight on it.

The support and plank held. It didn’t move a bit.

Success!

As quickly as I could I edged out toward the no-longer-inaccessible areas and drilled in a pilot hole, then screwed in a cup hook. I dropped the hook, which clattered down the roof an onto the walkway. “Look out below!” I called, too late.

Another cup hook. I dropped it too. “Watch out!” I called. My wife had wisely moved before I called.

After dropping five or six, I managed to screw one in, and I moved on down the plank.

Dutifully, my loving wife stood below and held the ladder stable while the plank bounced up and down.

Then, while drilling a pilot hole, the drill slipped from my hands.

“LOOK OUT!” I yelled, and she hurriedly ducked under the eaves behind the ladder as the drill tumbled once, struck a rung and embedded itself in the lawn. “Sorry!” I said.

She retrieved the drill and the fallen cup hooks, and then my dear sweet wife, the one who is terrified of heights, climbed eight feet up the ladder to hand them to me. She deserves a medal, I think.

We continued on, one pilot hole and cup hook at a time.

At one point, Uncle T (my step daughter’s dad) dropped by with his wife and daughter for a Christmas picture photo op. He helped hold the ladder while I dropped cup hooks on his head, giving my poor wife a much-needed break.

“What are you doing up there?” Auntie C called out.

“Trying to reach the edge of the roof here to hang up lights,” I said.

“Wow, you’re really brave,” she said.

“No, just really stupid,” I said.

Eventually it came time to move the ladder. At this point my daughter L came out to help.

“What can I do?” she called to me.

“Well, I’ll need to move the ladder,” I said.

“I can do that!” she said.

“You couldn’t. It’s way too heavy.”

“No it’s not.” And with that, she grabbed the ladder. I was amused to see her determination and foolhardiness in hoisting a 24 foot extension ladder that probably weighs more than she does, and moving it around the house (I wonder where she gets that foolhardy streak?).

My amusement turned to concern and a bit of anxiety when I realized that the ladder was my only way down, and if she couldn’t put it back up, I’d be stuck.

Concern gave way to helpless panic when I saw the ladder topple backwards as L struggled to keep it upright. My wife stepped in and steadied it, and together they wrestled it over to the other edge of the roof, where I needed it.

After replacing the plank, I was able to finish the pilot holes and cup hooks on that side, until the whole front part of the house was complete.

We had done it.

A little later I hauled out the icicles and easily hung them up on their hooks using a pole without having to stand on a scaffold of any kind.

It was a risky and perhaps even foolish plan I had concocted. With every scenario I’d envisioned as I played out my scheme in my mind, I’d end up on the ground with multiple fractures, and the plank usually ended up jutting out of the van’s windshield.

But it worked. I think God needs me here a little longer for some reason. But I’m sure He’s getting a little annoyed with how I keep pushing my luck.

Merry Christmas to all! I’m going to go have eggnog now.

Tuesday was an eventful day.

Michael was tested for a higher class level in his swimming lessons. During his normal class, the director (we kindly refer to her as “The Lunch Lady”* in regard to her booming voice, clipboard and constant patrolling around the edge of the pool during lessons) asked Michael’s instructor to let him go into the deep end to see if he can do the basic freestyle stroke (using his side-breathing skills) all the way across the length of the pool.

While the drill instructor shouted commands at him, he pushed himself all the way across, executing every arm stroke and head turn and leg kick with a precision that would rival that of any professional swimmer. It was one of my proudest moments. He reached the far end, and was drilled back again. His mom and I practically glowed with excitement and pride, seeing our little boy perform so amazingly.

After jotting a few notes down on her clipboard, the director came over to us and suggested that we move him up to the level 3 class. After class, while his mom worked out the logistics for getting him into the higher level, I walked Michael to the showers and told him how proud we are of him. He chalked his performance up to the goggles they let him wear (up to now, we’ve avoided them).
“I can see, daddy! I can see everything! Now I know where to go!” He said, excitedly. Evidently it’s been his underwater myopia that’s been holding him back. Well if that’s all it takes for him to get a shot at the Olympic gold, then goggles he shall have.

He opted to ride home with his mom after class. We often take separate cars as his mom drives to swimming lessons straight from her work, while I am driving him there from home. It’s a necessary evil, but it allows us both to be there.

It was dark and rainy. I was hungry; we usually don’t have dinner before we go, since mom isn’t there and there isn’t enough time between when I get home from work and when we have to dash off to the pool.

Halfway home. I was following my wife’s car as best I could, allowing only one car between us. Slowing to a stop now. Boy that roast is going to taste —

WHAM!

Out of nowhere, a hard impact from behind. My car lunges forward as my glasses fly off my face and onto the floor, along with my hands-free phone speaker. After a moment, I gather my wits and turn on my hazard lights. The phone rings. From somewhere on the floor, my wife’s anxious voice cries out: “Honey? Are you okay? What happened?”

“I got hit. I don’t know. I think I’m okay…” I fumble around for the thing in the darkness, feeling the lenses of my glasses at my feet.

“Are you sure? Did you check? I’m pulling around and we’re going to park…”

“Okay. I have to call 911. I gotta go,” I said.

“Okay. Love you!”

I press the numbers into the phone and wait. Nothing happens. Oh yeah, the “talk” button…

“If this is an emergency, say ‘emergency’” the automated voice instructs.

“EMERGENCY!” I say, rather annoyed. Why else would I call? Weather forecast? Potato baking instructions? Maybe they do that to prevent the inadvertent butt-dial from causing havoc at the 911 dispatch. Still, it might prove troublesome if one was calling to report a home invasion or something.

Finally a human comes on the line, and I provide as much detail as I can, while exiting the car and looking around. My van’s back end is pushed in, the bumper torn, the rear quarter panels bulging slightly. The tail light lenses are intact, as is the rear window.

The car behind me is utterly devastated; crumpled like a cheap beer can. Glass, plastic and odd nuts and bolts and brackets are scattered around on the pavement. The hood is pancaked toward the passenger compartment, the engine is sitting on the ground. The front wheels are canted at different angles. His car will not drive again.

There’s no sign of the driver, though his airbag has already inflated and deflated. A passing motorist stops to set out flares. That done, she smiles and leaves. I’m still wrapping my brain around the whole incident.

Then, the other driver walks up. He’d been setting flares further back behind the scene.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I think so. What happened?” I asked him.

“I just looked down for a second. I just didn’t see you there.”

“Not a good night for looking down. It’s dark, it’s rainy, it’s hard to see even when you are paying good attention,” I returned.

“Is there anyone else in the van?”

“No, just me.”

“When I saw the stickers on the back of your car, my heart just sunk.”

We have the little happy family stickers on the back window; they’re all wearing mouse ears. We were determined to have Disneyland “bling” for the car after our last trip. He probably assumed that I had my wife and four kids in the car with me.

Pretty soon Michael and his mom showed up on the other side of the street. The fire engines quickly appeared, followed by a police car. I carefully crossed traffic to stand by my wife.

“Are you okay?” she asked again.

“Yeah. Nothing broken I think. I feel all right.”

“Oooh, your head! You got cut!”

I only saw later that I had a nifty cut on my forehead. Evidently during the impact it was my skull that had knocked the Bluetooth device off the visor. There was just a bit of blood; enough to prove that trauma had occurred but not enough to qualify as “gore”.

The firemen checked out the car for leaking fluids and potential explosions, then started cleaning up the road. They suggested I pull my van into a parking lot nearby, which I did. My van was still drivable, and despite the fact that the rear end was pushed in and the bumper torn up, all the lights worked just fine.

They managed to push the other driver’s car into the same parking lot, and the police officer pulled in next to us.

I asked my wife “Are you sure you don’t want to just go? I’ll be okay. You both need to eat dinner.”
“No, I want to stay,” she said. Michael was not complaining. He was mesmerized by all of the flashing lights on the various emergency vehicles.

So the other driver and I stood in the rain. I opened up the van’s battered tail gate and offered the other driver a dry spot to sit.

He thanked me for being so kind.

“It’s okay. I’m sure you weren’t looking to run into any one tonight,” I said.

“True. This isn’t the best night.”

“But statistically speaking, you probably won’t be in any more accidents for a while,” I offered.

The officer took down our info, listened to our stories, and cited the other driver for inattentive driving.

“When there’s a crash – and we always call it a “crash” and not an accident; crashes are preventable – we have to issue a citation. It was clearly caused by your inattentive driving,” she said. “We all do it. But this time it caused a lot of damage. You’re lucky it wasn’t a lot worse,” she said, handing him the ticket.

I felt bad for the poor guy. His car was totaled, he probably will end up paying off a huge deductable while not driving for a while, and he has to appear in court to pay a fine.

It’s a lesson for him. A very hard lesson. How one little careless moment can have such an impact. One that could have a very lasting set of consequences.

Hopefully he’ll learn from it.

Not too long ago, at my place of employment, the powers that be decided that we shall all have new telephones.

VOIP telephones. That is, phones that use the internet for transmission and reception of voice. The idea is that these new phones can do all sorts of things the old technology can’t do.

Personally, I was good with the old technology. There’s a lot to be said for the old technology. It worked. It was solid and reliable. It was made of iron and copper and Bakelite and cloth and it was substantial. I have a few of those old phones at home in my collection; they would have made a great weapon against, say, a would-be home invader. Try clobbering a burglar with a modern portable phone and see which of the two collapse.

And they didn’t require a PIN. A Personal Identification Number. For accessing one’s voice mail or configuring the phone.

These new VOIP phones need a PIN.

Really? Do I really need that much protection? Am I really in danger of some malicious entity sneaking in to my office and checking my voicemail? Or worse, changing the default menu language? Just picture the evil genius at work: “Bwah ha ha! I shall modify his outgoing message! With that, I shall conquer all!”

So I live with a phone that requires a PIN.

Only, I don’t know what the PIN is.

I don’t think I ever did. Since they announced the new phone roll-out, there had been emails. Lots of emails. Warning of the impending phone upgrade. For several weeks.

From previous experience, I know not to delete these emails. I have a special folder for saving corporate emails like this.

So when I got into a situation recently where I actually needed my pin to get into the phone’s highly complex inner workings, I could not find it. I searched these emails, looking for keywords such as “phone” and “voip” and “pin” and “how the heck do I check my voice messages”. I did find emails containing the advance warnings, emails providing the user’s guide, emails providing information about who to contact for further info.

But no PIN.

The reason I needed my pin was to get into the voicemail system and hopefully extinguish the phone’s RED WARNING LIGHT. It had been on for several days. I had thought this meant that I had a voicemail I hadn’t listened to, because usually after I get a voicemail and it comes on, then I listen to the voicemail and the light goes off.

You’re probably thinking: “If you don’t have your PIN, how do you get your voicemail?”

Good question, you! Because this new technology provides a cool additional feature, which I actually like: it sends voicemails to my email in a playable audio format, so I can listen to them via my laptop. Awesome! (It also has another feature where it attempts to translate the words into print, something it cannot do with any accuracy. My wife loves to play with this feature, leaving messages in which she recites nursury rhymes, songs from the ’80s or speaks in French. The thing tries to translate into meaningful English but gets off in the weeds in no time, leaving me a “preview” of nothing more than gibberish. Some day I may post about that.)

So for the most part, I haven’t needed my phone’s PIN. Everything I really need phone-wise I can get to without it.

Except for this stupid red light that won’t go away.

For three days this light glared at me, warning me of some unknown but obviously very serious electronic danger. The display on the phone merely said “You have voicemail.”

No, I clearly do NOT have voicemail. I have listened to my voicemail (as I recall, it was my wife and Michael, alternately reciting “eeny meeny miny mo” – which came out in the printed preview as “Hey any info tech” in case you’re interested). So Mr. Phone, you are mistaken. Now please put your light out. The end.

Yesterday I’d had enough. I asked our admin about it. She’s the one who knows about all this stuff. The one I go to when there’s an office issue that I cannot resolve.

“How do I find my PIN?” I asked.

“You got an email when they first came out,” she said calmly.

“Uh… I checked all those emails. I didn’t find one.”

“Well, you did.”

Thank you.

“What can I do?”

“Call the support center.”

So I called the support center.

I’m always hesitant to do this. A few years ago, our company decided that it would outsource our support group. We don’t have a support group here in the building anymore. We don’t have a support group in this city, state or country. I believe the support group is either in Mexico or India. Or somewhere between the two. Mexindia maybe.

After waiting on hold for approximately 30 minutes (but not a bad 30 minutes – they had the most soothing, soul-refreshing music on hold that I have ever listened to), a man came on to ask my issue. I don’t remember what he said his name was, but it did not match his accent in the slightest. He might as well have called himself Peggy.

“Vat keean eh du for yu?”

“I don’t know my PIN.”

“Vat Peen?”

“The one for my phone.”

“Chu min, for accessing voicemel or menu options or vat?”

“Voicemail, I guess. Whatever it’s asking for when I log in. I need to turn off the red light.”

“Oh! De red light ees on! Is probably error messuch.”

“Error message? It says I have voicemail.”

“Nuh, nuh. Eees error messuch. Yu can cleer dees by dihulink vun vun vun.”

“Okay…”

“Chust put me on hold, heng up und dihul vun vun vun. Den get me back on und let me know.”

“Okay.” I press the hold button, start a new call, and dial “1 1 1″

Bink! The light goes out. Hurray! No more spurious alarm!

After pressing a few more buttons, I got the guy back on line.

“Okay, that worked! The red light is off!”

“Gret. Dat cleerd out duh error messuch. Is der enyting else I kun help chu vit?”

“No, that’s all,” I said.

“Okay. Tank chu for callink!”

Click.

And that was it.

The error light is out! I can get on with my day, free from the accusatory red glare.

But I still don’t know my PIN. Probably just as well.

Raising children is not for the timid. I don’t think any parent would dispute that.

It is also not for those who are unwilling to learn and grow in order to be a better parent. As a dad, I know that I have a lot of room for improvement, and Michael is giving me plenty of opportunity for that.

In light of that, I’ve discovered that one annoying tendency I have is removing Michael’s options.

When Michael is faced with a choice and I know he’s going to make a bad one, my usual move is to step in and choose for him to prevent him from making a mistake. For example: I’ll let him know it’s bedtime in five minutes, then one minute, and then now. If he doesn’t come with me, I’ll just go pick him up and haul him off rather than letting him know that he has a choice to make: behave, or not – and each comes with consequences. Or when he’s playing with something that belongs to a sister, rather than ask him to put it down and giving him the space to make a good decision, I’ll just take it away.
While this does save the outcome of the immediate, it is actually not helpful. I would go so far as to say it’s harmful.

He needs to be able to choose. He needs to have the opportunity to choose and to learn from the outcome of his choice. When I take that choice away from him, I also take away the learning. He doesn’t develop the pathways in his brain that help him learn from his mistakes, and thus he can’t grow effectively in that regard.

So what I am having to learn at my advanced age is to stand back and allow some things to proceed, even if I know the outcome will not be pretty. Of course I’ll be sure to prevent injury to life and limb: in those times I’ll step in and guide. This is a tough thing to learn. very tough.

Tuesday, heading home from Michael’s summer “day camp” (read: place where Michael can go play with friends while daddy is at work during the day and thus allow his mother to properly heal from her recent surgery).

We’re driving along the busy street, cars close by in front and behind. Out of nowhere, he piped up with a question: “When is it Sunday?”

“What day is it today?” I asked, seizing the opportunity to turn this into a teachable moment, as I often strive to do.

“Uh….”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Oh, Tuesday. Okay, then let’s see… Tuesday, Wednesday… what comes after Wednesday?”

“Thursday,” I said.

“Uh… how many is that?”

I held up my hand, fingers splayed wide, for him to see.

“Look: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday!” I curled up each finger in succession, starting from my thumb and working toward my pinkie.

“That’s five!” He exclaimed.

“Yes, that’s five!”

Suddenly enlightened as to alternate patterns, he held up his hand and chimed: “or, you could do it this way! Wednesday, Thursday, Friday…” he curled up each finger in the opposite order, starting with his pinkie and working toward his thumb.

“That’s true, you could!”

“What else?” He was noticing that the pattern doesn’t have to be linear, as long as each finger is used.

“Well, you could start from the outside and work inwards. Let’s see: Wednesday, Thursday…” I kept my hand up, fingers uncurled, and began closing them starting with thumb, then pinkie, then pointer, then ring…

It was when I got to Saturday and realized that Sunday was left standing that I realized exactly why that particular order might not have been the best choice while driving.

I was not surprised to see the driver ahead of me scowl into her rear-view mirror.

I quickly recovered, nonchalantly exercising my fingers one by one, demonstrating just how un-offensive my gesture really was.

And I drove real slow the rest of the way.

There comes a time when a man knows it’s time to put on his work boots, roll up his sleeves and get to work.

What’s gotta get done, has gotta get done, pleasant or not.

There’s no real rest until the work is complete.

But after it’s done… then that rest is sweet and good.

Daddy: “Michael, I need you to put your jammies on. It’s almost bedtime.”

Michael: “All right, all right. I’ll listen to your words and do it.”

Daddy: “I’m really glad to hear you say that. That makes me happy to know you’re listening.”

Michael: “…because you’re the boss of me.”

Daddy: “That’s right, I am.”

Michael: “…and Mommy is the boss of you.”

There’s stuff you can write about, and there is stuff you can’t.

Sometimes it seems like the “can’t say” stuff is just too much. You have to deal with them pretty much every day in some way or another; you have to shoulder weighty burdens that have no short-term resolution, if any…

“I got it! I got it! I got it!”

“I ain’t got it.”

…and you really want to write about it.

I’m sure you can all relate to this. Blogging can be very cathartic; it provides a venue for expressing frustrations and hopes and for relating funny family stories or regaling others with details of family adventures. But there are some things you just gotta keep to yourself.

Suffice it to say: I am very thankful for Michael’s Mommy who supports me, and for the Lord who renews my strength.

“Honey? The refrigerator is leaking.”

“What? Where?”

“From the water dispenser.”

“Oh.”

(pause)

“It’s really bad.”

“How bad?”

“Like, a big puddle on the floor.”

“Oh.”

(pause)

“It’s going to ruin the floor.”

“That’s true.”

“Well, aren’t you going to do something about it?”

“Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”

“There, I fixed it.”

(pause)

(glare from wife)

(picks up phone) “Hello, Sears home repair? Can you come out Saturday?”

edited to add: Sears came out promptly Saturday morning, and got it fixed in less than half an hour. Wow. I am impressed.