Category Archives: stress

Friday Fragments

Posted on June 5, 2009 | 9 Comments

A few random, short things worth mentioning, since other topics I have in the works are not ready for prime time:

Medication
Michael’s getting weaned off of his anti-seizure medication. Just recently I posted that his EEG came back normal and that the doctor would be letting us know whether or not we could start easing back on his daily medication. A few days ago Michael’s Mommy met with the doctor and came back with a weaning plan.

He has been taking Depakote in the form of “sprinkles,” which basically means you take apart a capsule of the medication and dump the contents on something he can eat in a spoon, like yogurt or ice cream. The plan we have now calls for 1/2 doses. Meaning, we take apart a capsule and then halve the contents. Over other, more unscrupulous methods, I’ve chosen to do this on paper using a paring knife, and dump half the contents on the spoon and the other half back in the capsule. No rolled-up $100 bills needed, not that we have any.

The other really fun part of this weaning process is coping with the possibility of Michael having a Grand Mal seizure, which is French for “Really Bad Seizure”. While remote, it may occur at any time during and for some time after weaning. And if this does in fact happen, we have some additional anti-seizure medication. It’s a suppository. I think the drug companies do this to us just to test our level of dedication to our children. Or maybe they just need a laugh. Every time I picture cramming a waxy wad up my child’s butt while he’s in the midst of flopping around maniacally and potentially swallowing his tongue, I get a little anxious.

I’m really not too worried about it though.

Storm
During the last few minutes of my work day yesterday, one of my co-workers started loudly announcing over the cubicle walls that they’re predicting penny-sized hail. I popped up like a prairie dog, as did so many others, and listened more closely. A big storm was headed our way, 60 mile-per-hour winds, lightning, hail. I looked out the window at an ominous dark cloud moving slowly toward us from the southeast. I shut my system down and headed out immediately.

As I quickly walked into the stair well, I looked out the side windows at the scene toward the north. I wasn’t sure what I was looking at, but the horizon was a greyish-brown haze. In the ten years I’ve lived here, it’s never looked like that.

Coming out the front of the building I was greeted with a hot wind and a cloud of dust. The trees in the parking lot were bent over at various angles, and various sorts of litter were being blown high into the air. My eyes watered over instantly as the dust blew in at high speed.

I got in my car and hurried home as quickly as I could, dodging flying tree limbs and debris. I called my wife to let her know that she should stay put. She reported that the rain just started. Then suddenly a tree fell over onto the road about two cars ahead of me, and we all jammed on our brakes. Almost instantaneously, fifteen people piled out of their cars and ran to the tree and heaved it off to the side.

By the time I got home, the rain was coming down in earnest. I pulled my car into the garage, then hurriedly brought my wife’s car in as well. It was parked right next to a birch tree that is famous for tossing large branches even in the slightest breeze. I figured in this gale it would detonate like a bomb.

Then the lightning and thunder came, over and over. We hunkered in our little home watching the news intently. Reports from all over showed downed trees and power outages, floods and injuries from lightning strikes.

Then, as quickly as it came, it was over. The power of God’s creation in a very small way displayed, as a reminder of who is sovereign.

Owies and Bedtime
The other day Michael tore up the bottom of his foot. Not even sure how, but he got some good scrapes. Required band-aids, of course.

But for some reason, Michael is heartbroken that these wounds are healing. A few nights ago he could be heard up in his room bawling over the fact that his owies were going away.

“Make new ones, daddy!”

As tempting as that sounded, I had to refuse. “Michael, owies are bad. We want them to go away. God made us to heal to keep us healthy and safe.”

“No! I want my owies! I don’t want to be healthy!”

So for nearly a week now, we’ve been going round and round about his owies. And we’ve been fighting the bedtime routine as though it were a new thing.

Thursday one of my daughters informed me that she had a choir concert that night, which completely rebooted my plans for the evening. On my way home I had to scramble to come up with a new game plan, since my wife was working until midnight and I had to take care of three teenagers and a preschooler by myself. One of them would be going off to her daily tutoring session, one I had to take to her concert, which left one teenager available to be babysitter to Michael. She agreed readily, and Michael was just as excited.

As the concert was nearing its conclusion, my eldest daughter called me to plead with me to hurry home because Michael wouldn’t stay in bed.

Sigh.

So once the concert let out, we beat feet home. By that time, daughter number 2 had come home from tutoring, which meant she could stay with Michael while I ran her sisters across town to their mom’s house.

Michael was in bed and quiet by this point, but I knew it wouldn’t last.

“If Michael gives you any trouble, just let him get up. Don’t fight with him,” I advised.

“Okay,” she said.

Sure enough, when I had finished my taxi errand and returned for the night, I found Michael sitting squarely in front of the television.

“Off to bed,” I said. He quickly obeyed and ran upstairs. I put him to bed and admonished him to go to sleep.

After a few bouts of crying and giving random reasons for it (including his sorrow over his healing injuries), at around 10:30 he finally stayed quiet and went to sleep for the night.

So far, five is proving to be a very interesting age. Not that he has been dull up to now… but it’s a different sort of interesting.

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Posted in life, michael, stress

Random Chunks

Posted on May 22, 2009 | 6 Comments

Michael shnookered his mom into letting him stay home with her yesterday. This almost always happens when I have to go into work early and leave her in his clutches. He’ll work up a sniffle or a cough and whine to a degree sufficient to tug at her hearstrings and bend her to his will. Fortunately he was a good boy yesterday and I did not come home to a beaten-down wife. I came home instead to a peaceful house and barbecue chicken and ribs already on the grill. So I can’t complain, can I? Quite the contrary.

One other note about yesterday is that Michael was ravenous all day. My wife said he spent the day grazing, and probably ate his weight in various items: blueberries, strawberries, ice cream, chicken soup, carrots, chocolate milk, and pretty much anything and everything in the kitchen. He was giving his sisters a good run for their money in the locust department. We figure he’s heading for a growth spurt. Given the amount he ate yesterday and this morning, he should grow another fourteen inches in the next week.

I had a restless night, spending most of my dreams chasing Michael around. I devote quite a bit of dream time to this sport. It’s like I don’t get enough time during the day extracting him from danger and bad behavior, I have to get a few more hours in while I’m snoozing. In last night’s dream theater, he somehow took our car for a joyride and managed to get pulled over by the police seven times before crashing into a lamp post and wandering off. While I was explaining this to his mom, he took my keys again and tried to park the car in a handicapped spot, scraping the side of another car in the process. I think I woke up at that point.

This morning, on the way to Ms K’s, I happened to fall in line behind a sheriff’s car. Ho, boy. I made sure I kept my speed at 30 miles per hour and drove with exceeding care. The cop rounded the corner ahead of me and disappeared. I maintained my speed until I rounded the same corner, and came upon him stopped in the middle of the road, his yellow lights flashing. I slowed down, and then he turned off his lights and continued on. Was he just baiting me? I would not have been surprised. I, however, was not going to get on that hook. We continued on for another quarter mile, and then he stopped again and turned on his yellow flashers. I stopped behind him, and waited. And waited. And waited. What exactly am I supposed to do now, officer? The signal is unclear. Do I go around you? Are we waiting for something? Finally a line of cars piles up behind me, and some guy in a big truck whose scant underwear were obviously in a bunch decided he’d had enough and started to pull around the both of us. Then the cop waved me around, finally. But I couldn’t pull out because Mr. Shortcomings had me boxed in. He pulled back a bit and I was able to get around. Thanks again for the memorable morning, officer. My driving time would be so boring were it not for Washington County’s finest.

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Posted in inscrutable, michael, morning, stress

Just A Simple Cleaning

Posted on March 13, 2009 | 8 Comments

Wednesday was going to be a big day for me: firing on all cylinders at work to prepare for an early morning presentation the next day, a quick trip home in the afternoon for a dentist appointment and then to start on pizza dough for the evening’s dinner, finishing up at work, racing home to pick up the girls and a visiting Japanese student who was really eager to try pizza, and then a trip to the mall after dinner so said Japanese student could get a good taste of American shopping.

Now, let it be known clearly that I don’t like pain. This dentist appointment I had was a simple semi-annual checkup and cleaning. No big deal. I’ve been going to this particular dentist for a number of years now, and his crew is always really good. Not much pain to be had there, and that’s how I like it.

So when I arrived and was directed into the exam room, I saw that they had a new dental hygienist. ‘Ruh-roh,’ I thought. ‘Hope she’s gentle.’

Not two minutes after getting settled in the chair, I realized that she must be fresh out of dentistry school. For one thing, she didn’t know how to run the suction hose. She handled it like an imposter. She bent it into a “J” and tried to hang it on my cheek; first on one side, then on the other, then back to the first. It sucked itself on to my tongue and stayed there. I tried to help by biting down on it and pressing my tongue against my palate to pry it off the end of the tube. Meanwhile, I started to detect a critical buildup of spit in the back of my throat. Mr. Slurpy was not doing his job there, and I was not heartened by the hygienist’s inability to notice this fact.

She began her tour of my mouth by employing the sharp pokey prod of doom. She said this was to check my gums for gaps and bone loss, but I’m convinced she was looking for treasure. She used this spear to dig clean through the base of my skull. And while poking and jabbing, she continually called out numbers to her assistant: “2, 3, 3, 2, 4…” Evidently these have to do with the severity of gum recession. In one place she found a really good opening (a “7” she said), and she started trying to pry it wide; apparently enough to plunge her entire head through to get a better look. I wonder if she realizes that I’m capable of feeling pain.

She calls out to the assistant: “There’s some bleeding on 12.” Imagine that! Say, you don’t suppose that jagged pike you’re clawing around with has anything to do with it, do you? Because I wasn’t bleeding before I sat down.

The phone rang, and her assistant said she had to answer it. The hygienist tells me I can relax for a minute. As if I could. I am suddenly aware that my body is as rigid as a board laid across the chair. Relax? I won’t even come close to relaxed for at least five more hours.

The assistant returns, and the prodding continues. I still won’t talk. Can’t – I’m busy choking on my own saliva. Mr Slurpy is still not positioned correctly.

“How are you doing?” The hygienist asks.

“I could use a couple of shots of Jack Daniels, since you ask,” I tell her. She is not amused. I wonder if she might have a bullet I can bite down on.

She asked me to close my mouth a little. I wasn’t given time to explain that it was only open to let out a silent scream.

Eventually, she concludes her excavations. My gums feel like I’ve just swallowed a grenade.

I’m glad that the worst is over; the only things left after this are the scraping, polishing and flossing.

But I was wrong.

Because at this point, she deployed a dental tool the likes of which I’d not yet encountered.

“Okay, I need to get under your gums a little bit,” she says.

What was it she was doing before? Lightly massaging the outsides?

“This has water and vibration. You might feel a little irritation, so let me know if you can’t handle it.”

This can’t be good. She didn’t warn me about the scythe she carved my gums out with, but she’s warning me about this?

“Okay…” I said, hesitantly.

Then she introduced me to a whole new world of discomfort.

This sinister new device could only have come from the workshop of Vlad the Impaler. Imagine a large, needle-ended probe that fires an aquatic laser beam out the tip, while it simultaneously emits ultrasonic skull-piercing auditory shrapnel. It is Satan’s very own WaterPik.

She was true to her word: she got under my gums. For the next twelve hours ten minutes she brandished that thing in and around my teeth with what I believe to be fiendish glee, stopping occasionally so I could use my tongue to maneuver the watery gore in my mouth toward Mr. Slurpy and avoid drowning.

I would have gladly gone with another round of the prodding instead. I made every effort to go to my happy place.

Eventually, round two was over. Next came the scraping. For this, she has a miniature mattock that she dragged along my teeth, raking tartar off here and there. It is always essential to scrape off a few square inches of living tissue while doing this, so that fresh gumflesh is exposed, and to generate the proper amount of blood loss.

Round four: the polishing. She was merciful here, doing a quick slap-dash of the minty #50 grit, only polishing my tongue twice.

Round five: the diamond-carbide dental floss. I got a lecture on how to floss properly while having this razor wire drawn several inches deep into my still-bleeding gums. Being polite, I refrained from screaming “MOMMY!” during her dissertation.

And with that, she’s done. I’m left broken and bloodied, properly beaten down in preparation for the dentist’s exam. He spends exactly nineteen seconds looking inside my mouth and touching each tooth lightly with a little prod. “Okay, looks good!” he says.

I felt like my chops had gone five rounds with Evander Holyfield. I dragged my wounded self home to work on pizza dough. My wife was there, cleaning the kitchen.

“How was the checkup?” she asked. I didn’t say a word, but just opened my mouth. “You’re bleeding! What did they do?” she asked, incredulous.

“More than I was prepared for,” I said.

Can’t wait for September!

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Posted in life, memories, stress

Oregon Traffic School, Part II

Posted on March 5, 2009 | 14 Comments

Yes, folks, I got me another dose of edumacation in Oregon traffic law this morning!

See, as I might have mentioned yesterday, I’m in a bit of a stress mode lately with this project at work. Last night I had hoped to work from home, but magically the mysterious internet connection juju did not function, so I opted for coming into work especially early today.

Michael’s Mommy graciously offered to get Michael up and ready and off to Ms K’s so I wouldn’t have to, and to make sure I was able to get out the door at the crack o’ dawn.

So around six o’clock this morning, I blasted out of the driveway and was on my way to work.

I was nearly there, when those old familiar sparkly blue and red lights stabbed my retinas.

“You gotta be kidding,” I said to no one.

I found a safe place to pull off, and did so.

I was moving a bit slower than usual so it took me a minute to get the interior lights on, get my window rolled down and fetch my insurance/registration/license. Deputy Dawg was at my window in no time.

“Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?”

“What, don’t you know?”

I didn’t really say that. But it sprung to mind just now. I could really be a smart-a** if I gave it just a little effort.

“No, I don’t.”

“You ran through a yellow light back there,” he said.

At that point I was pretty much done listening to him, opting instead to tune into my own internal dialog.

‘A yellow light? Did he just say I ran a yellow light? Since when is that a crime? I thought it was the red ones we were supposed to stop at. Is he desperate or something? Is this a quota thing? Is he going to cite me for failing to wash the bird poo off the back window too? Maybe write me up for not having a clever license plate? Tell me my registration stickers are on crooked?’

I dialed back into Sheriff Earnest’s speech about obeying traffic control devices (I fought the urge to tell him that around these parts, we call them “stop lights”) and about how I had several options, blah de blah blah blah.

Again, I was being handed a ticket for $242.00

They must really like that amount.

After being dismissed, I continued on to work in silence, deciding against turning on the soothing island music I’d been listening to before, which is now tainted with the memory of being nabbed by the coppers.

I mentally took stock of my driving history, applying sober judgment. I’m a good driver. I don’t run red lights, never have. Okay… well, there was that one time… but that was in southern California and nobody saw, and I was trying to keep my family safe from creeps… Anyway, I do my best to keep under the speed limit, I always use my blinkers, I let people in front of me when merging, and I brake for pedestrians.

It’s not like I’m tearing around town in a chopped ’74 Camaro with headers, a blower and a flame paint job, smoking crack and throwing my empty beer cans at old ladies or anything. I drive a freaking minivan, for crying out loud. Why single me out?

But the rain falls upon the righteous and the unrighteous, and when it comes down to it, I’m no better than anyone else. Just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Turns out, in Oregon, it is a crime to run a yellow.

How about that?

Where I learned to drive, in crazy old California, it’s okay to go through a yellow. As long as you’re past the line and in the intersection when the light turns red, you’re good. In Washington, it’s the same way.

But not here. Here, I’ve been driving around like an drug-crazed lunatic for the last ten years, flagrantly running one yellow after another. Until today, when my reign of terror ended.

Good thing they finally nabbed me. Who knows what horrors I might have wrought upon the poor citizens of this fine state with my yellow-light-running mania. In my light blue minivan.

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Posted in dad, life, stress

Notes from the Road

Posted on February 18, 2009 | 12 Comments

To get the most out of our three-day weekend, my wife and I took the kids to Joseph, Oregon to visit with my wife’s folks and play in the snow. That extra day made it the perfect opportunity to make the six and a half hour trek across the state.

The visit was good, the food was excellent, the sledding was fine, there were tree forts to be made, stars to be seen and various “Mr Fix-it” jobs to do, including assembly of a telescope and photographing of antiques to be put up on Ebay.

But it was the trip back that held a lesson I needed to learn (if you’re really a glutton for punishment, you can read about a similar trip we took last August).

Before I begin regaling you with the travelogue, I must describe one episode that occurred during our stay. On the second night, Michael insisted upon sleeping in the big room with his sisters. When I announced this fact to them, I was met with the expected heavy sighs and groans. I tried to be encouraging. “Come on, give him a chance. He knows that he has to stay still and not make a sound, or he’s out of there. Just do what you normally do, and if he misbehaves bring him to our room.” They relented, begrudgingly.

As I put him to bed, I reiterated the rules. He promised to be good.

After I heard Michael’s sisters go to bed, I laid awake for an hour, waiting for the inevitable knock on the door. It never came.

Michael was as good as his word, sleeping soundly all night and not disturbing them in the least.

I was surprised and delighted, pondering that maybe Michael is maturing enough to be better in control of himself.

The next day, after packing and hugs goodbye, we were on our way.

Mile 1: We’re just pulling out of sight of Grandma & Grandpa K’s house, fresh for our journey home. The kids are goofing around and having a good time.

Mile 39: Things are going smoothly. Looking forward to lunch in La Grande. Kids are entertained and enthralled with the scenery, pointing out cows and deer they see.

Mile 63: Before topping off the gas tank, we grab lunch, make an obligatory trip through Wall Mart and get a little coffee to make the trip home a smidge sweeter. The baristas of the Island City, Oregon Starbucks are awestruck by my ability to place an order, and they let me know it. Now, all I did was fire off a list of drinks for the five of us: a grande latte, decaf grande mocha, tall coffee frappuccino, tall mocha frappuccino and a kid’s hot chocolate. When I pulled around to the window, they stood applauding. “That was the most awesome job of ordering!” While I was rendered slightly embarrassed by their admiration, I thought to myself how much I appreciate the small-town attitude. They were friendly and welcoming, got my order right, were considerate enough to cut short the straw for Michael’s drink, and were grateful for our business. I can’t say the same thing for our hometown stores.

Mile 112: Michael won’t go to sleep. He keeps fighting it tooth and nail. He’s tired and should be napping, but is refusing to allow himself to drop off. He insists upon moaning and complaining about it instead. At the last rest stop his mom put a pull-up on him just in case. Did they put caffeine in his hot chocolate?

Mile 146: Have driven for twenty miles with Michael throwing a blood-curdling scream fest. Why? Because I failed to let him throw away his own paper towel after washing his hands in the restroom at the truck stop we just left. Didn’t want him touching anything there; it was gross. Wife stuffs an Oreo into my mouth, knowing it will soothe my nerves from the audible onslaught.

Mile 150: Finally pull over to calm him down. Promise that I would buy him his own roll of paper towels and five wastebaskets to throw them in to, if he’ll just stop screaming. I wonder to myself whether if I’d just let him throw his own paper away, would he have been satisfied? Would he have been calm enough to drift off into a nap? Next time, I’ll keep this in mind.

Mile 202: Michael found a new reason to throw a tantrum, and does so con brio. I don’t even recall why, other than the fact that he was tired.

Mile 250: Wife notices my knuckles turning white, hears the crunch of the steering wheel under my grip, begins feverishly unwrapping and shoving Andes mints into my mouth, hoping to allay my rising stress level at the sound of Michael’s continual complaint. My wife is the best.

Mile 255: Strongly wishing it was legal and safe to drink while driving, because the cookies and chocolate are no longer providing the medicinal value they were before.

Mile 271: Hurricane Michael has ebbed.

Mile 282: Traffic jam. Lane to right is moving quickly, lane to left is moving quickly. My lane is stalled. Wife suggests I change lanes. In true stubborn fashion, I make excuses as to why I cannot.

Mile 285: Finally decide to change to right lane. Breeze past jam, realize then that the jam was in the lane headed toward Seattle; I could have bypassed it half an hour ago.

Mile 322: “Momma!” Michael cries. “I can’t see!” “What’s the matter, sweetie?” his mom asks. “My eyes keep closing!” He’s so tired he doesn’t even know what’s going on. Frustrated and feeling betrayed by his body for failing to remain awake, he threw another tantrum with as much energy as he had left in his body. I think at this point he was running on pure gall.

Finally home: To settle in, and while Daddy unloaded the car of every last bag, boot, sled, crushed water bottle, wrapper, sack and toy, Michael sits with his mom and watches “The Last Mimzy” once more. This was fine – as long as he was good, out of the way and quiet, I was okay with it. It ended just at 8:00, his bedtime. He wanted to watch Wall*E next. “No, Michael. Mommy and Daddy are tired and we want to go to bed too,” his mom said.

As should be expected by this point, Michael took this news by throwing a fit. He wailed loudly throughout tooth-brushing time, which was actually okay with me; it kept his mouth wide open and made my job much easier. Couldn’t hear after that, though.

All done, he sobbed about how he wanted mom to sleep with him. “No,” I said. “You never let her go without having a meltdown.” “I’ll be good!” he said.

Then I remembered what I’d learned earlier: He demonstrated that he is capable of delivering on his end of the bargain. I’d missed an opportunity for him to be successful on the trip, maybe I can give him one now.

“Okay, Michael. Your mom can come up and be with you for ten minutes, then it’s story time and a kiss night-night, and mommy has to go. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said.

And once again, he was as good as his word, and he didn’t throw a fit when it was time for mommy to go.

So because he was good Monday night, he earned upstairs time with mommy on Tuesday night, and behaved himself then as well.

I’m taking this as a good sign. He’s maturing, and learning how to control his own behavior. The clouds are parting.

Maybe by next year he’ll sit still and eat his dinner. With a fork. I can dream.

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Posted in family, stress, travel

Fun With Tires

Posted on November 6, 2008 | 9 Comments

It was a typical Tuesday morning. I kissed my wife as she went off to her job, then herded Michael into the van to head off to Ms K’s. I was going to be on time to work today; I might even redeem myself somewhat for the previous day’s slip-up.

We were only a few blocks from Ms K’s when my cell phone rang. It’s Michael’s Mommy.

“Hi!” she says, and not in a happy, breezy sort of way. It was in a much more anxious tone.

“Hi sweetie,” I said, cautiously. “What’s up?”

“<unintelligible shrieking and wailing>”

“Okay, honey, it’s okay. Where are you?”

“<higher pitched unintelligible shrieking and wailing>”

“It’s okay sweetheart. Calm down. Please, just take a few deep breaths.”

“okay…” she said, still anxious but slightly calmer.

“Okay. Now, calmly, please tell me, where are you?”

“<unintelligible shrieking and wailing>”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t get a word of that.”

“<very loud, emphatic unintelligible shrieking and wailing>”

“Okay, I’m on my way.”

I pulled hard to starboard and diverted course toward the freeway. On the way I finally got out of her that she was on Interstate 5, just outside of Portland and heading north to Vancouver. She’d gotten a flat tire.

This wouldn’t have been such a huge problem, except that she didn’t have a spare. The car was already riding on the spare. Months ago, her left front tire had been punctured by a rogue screw that was on the garage floor, placed there by our dear and delightfully curious little red-headed child. Getting around to fixing the tire was just not in the cards for us. So that tire went on the back, occupying the spot where the spare usually goes. And it stayed there, until now.

After driving for what seemed like an eternity, I spotted her car on the side of the interstate, hazard lights flashing. Still talking with her on the phone, I told her that I’m pulling off just past her. I parked and turned on my emergency flashers.

“Where we going?” Michael asked from the back seat.

“I’ll be right back. I have to help your mommy,” I told him. “Her car is stuck.”

Since it’s 8:45 in the morning and traffic is in full force and at full speeds, stepping out of the van is going to be dicey.

An opening appears, and I dashed out of the car.

Cars, trucks, vans and eighteen-wheelers rush by, mere millimeters away from my side of the car. The roar of traffic is nearly deafening. My mind plays an endless loop of the roadside disasters clips shown on “Worlds Wildest Police Videos”. I’m sure that at any moment I’m going to be sideswiped and ground into a bloody pulp.

I finally got over to the passenger side of my wife’s SUV and explained my plan, then asked her to carefully get out and go sit with Michael in the van so he won’t be scared.

Time for big strong husband-man to get to work.

Plan A: Use “fix-a-flat”. I retrieved a can of the tire sealant from the back of the van, shook it and hooked it up to the valve stem of the very flat tire. I pressed the button to start the flow of sealant. Unfortunately, on the other side of the tire, I could see the white goo splatter ineffectually all over the tarmac. I reached my hand around and felt the hole in the tire. The crater I found in the rubber was large enough to pass a Chihuahua through. This tire was toast.

Plan B: Use the Van’s Spare. My reasoning was sound: they’re both Hondas. They both have five lugs. Simple. Since the jack in the SUV was buried under a metric ton of medical supplies, I retrieved the jack out of the van. Michael’s mommy questioned this move. “It’ll be fine. They’re the same make!” I explained. She’s suspicious, and rightly so.

I jacked up the SUV as far as the van jack would go. It’s just high enough to remove the bad tire. I applied the tire iron to remove the lug nuts, but am shocked to find that the van’s tire iron doesn’t fit the lug nuts on the SUV. So I had to dig out the SUV’s tire iron, which meant I’d have to redistribute my wife’s medical supplies from the cargo area of the SUV to the back seat. Gently but haphazardly, I hefted the supplies over the back seat and away from the cargo area. The interior of the SUV looked like an ambulance that was involved in a roll-over.

With the right tire iron, the tire came off easily. I set it aside.

Then I hoisted the spare up to the hub, and saw that the hub wasn’t high enough to attach the spare. The van’s jack, extended as far as it will go, didn’t raise the SUV up high enough. Ho, boy.

I’ll need to get the SUV’s jack after all. Well, at least it’s accessible now, since I had to uncover the tire iron.

I tried to apply the SUV jack, but it was obvious that I was going to have to remove the van jack in order to get the SUV jack into a stable position. Which meant jacking the car back down, with the old tire on the hub.

Back on goes the old tire. Secure it down. Jack down the SUV. Remove the van jack. Put the SUV jack on, jack up the SUV. Remove tire, grab van spare.

I hoisted the van spare up to the hub, and found to my complete dismay that the lug bolt hole arrangement is not quite in line with the SUV lug bolts. The van spare wouldn’t fit at all.

Ho, boy.

Plan C: Use the Screw-Damaged Tire. By this point I was getting pretty tired. I’d raised and lowered the SUV several times, moved tires several times, crawled around on bits of broken glass, asphalt, rubber and other miscellaneous detritus, in the rain, while seventeen million tons of rolling steel sped by only a few feet away. Not only is it hard to work physically, it’s difficult to think clearly under those conditions. I prayed to God: “Lord, I’m about ready to cave here. If you want to send me a miracle, I’ll take it.”

I removed the damaged tire that’s been stowed on the back of the SUV and hefted it over to the empty wheel hub. The gleaming screw is still embedded in the rubber, taunting me. I secured the wheel onto the hub and jacked the car down.

I went back to the van, grabbed another can of fix-a-flat (I keep two in the van – never can be too prepared) and started filling the tire. Nothing comes shooting out this time. So far, so good.

As I’m about halfway through the can of fix-a-flat, an ODOT Incident Vehicle pulls up behind me, yellow lights flashing. The driver got out and came over to talk to me. Thank you, God!

“Can I help?”

“Yes!”

I explained what my current plan was. He brought over a compressor hose and pumped up the tire with more air, and it held just fine. I asked him where the nearest tire store was, and he said there was one just a couple of exits up. I went back to tell my wife we were going to try for that, and asked her how Michael was doing, and whether he was scared.

“No, he says he’s bored. He wanted to get out and help and see the flashing lights, but I told him he couldn’t. So to appease him we dug through his lunch box. I’ve fed him all the chocolate I could find, including the two pieces you had up in front.”

So much for my secret stash.

The ODOT driver finished filling up the tire, and I thanked him and secured the damaged tire, spare and the equipment. I gave my wife the signal that we were heading out, and got in the SUV. We carefully pulled out into traffic and zipped along at a whopping 40 miles per hour, keeping flashers going all the way.

We were able to make it to the tire store without any problem. Michael even got two bags of popcorn out of the deal. And a Hershey bar. And a couple of cups of water. And a chance to run around a tire store and pester customers. A mere 30 minutes later we were on our way home.

After dropping Michael off at Ms K’s, I finally pulled in to work at 10:45. Well, maybe I wasn’t on time, but I made it in. I’m giving myself points for that.

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Posted in dad, fun, marriage, stress

Monday Morning Amnesia

Posted on November 3, 2008 | 9 Comments

Like a ton of icy, panic-coated bricks, it hit me about halfway between home and work: I had missed my Monday morning meeting again. Accelerating slightly, my stomach twisted itself into a Gordian knot as the dread sunk its claws deep into my gut.

This wasn’t the first time I’d missed the meeting. Just last week, my boss had commented on my consistently missing this meeting.

But can you blame me? I mean, come on. The thing is scheduled at 8:00 AM, on Monday morning. This is, without a doubt, the worst possible choice for a business meeting time.

If it was scheduled for Tuesday, Wednesday or any other day of the work week, I’d be fine: I’d have Monday morning to regroup and be reminded of my obligation. Even if it was Monday afternoon I’d be okay. Or even Monday at 10:00 AM: I’d still have an hour or two to re-acclimate myself to the sea of cubicles and arrive at the point where I remember who I am and what it is I do here.

But to perch an essential meeting snugly up against the leeward side of the weekend is madness.

For by this time, I will have endured two entire days plus one evening of Michael and his sisters systematically erasing my brain cells.

This weekend was particularly heinous, in that I had all of the kids with me, each with their own individual life essence-sucking skills, a major holiday involving transporting and/or keeping track of children, copious amounts of sugar ingested by said children, and no wife to provide backup, as she has to work every other weekend (her weekend tale itself described an entirely new circle of hell). My mom was in town, and she was a big help in distracting Michael and inspiring the girls to rise from the couch for a time to provide a token offering of assistance, but the kids are very skilled at targeting their strength-ebbing beams at the parent on duty. Michael was no slacker in this effort, in his element as a whirling vortex of random acts of destruction and mayhem. By Sunday night I was so thoroughly mind-wiped that I recall neither ascending the stairs nor clambering into bed.

Weekends are very effective at causing me to completely lose any and all thoughts of my bill-paying livelihood. The fact that I can actually drive myself to work and find my office after a weekend is a major miracle. To expect me to perform intelligently is beyond reason. And to expect me to remember something work-ish when I’m not actually at work is nuts.

So naturally, upon reaching my office this morning (fully ten minutes after the meeting had concluded), I booted up my computer to be greeted by this email (click to enlarge):

Yes, my boss noticed my absence. I had to reply with a tail-between-the-legs sort of response stating what actions I’d take to ensure that I would not miss another meeting.

Michael’s mommy called me shortly afterward, and I ashamedly mentioned my little faux pas. She later emailed me a sign she’d created for me that she will be taping to the shower door, the refrigerator door, the computer screen, the milk carton, the TV remote and my cordless drill. “Don’t forget your meeting!”

I dare say I won’t. I might forget my name, but I won’t forget the meeting.

They say that a man shouldn’t bring his work home with him. I don’t think I’ll ever be accused of that. My work doesn’t stand a chance in my house.

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Posted in frustration, kids, stress

Spider-Zilla

Posted on September 18, 2008 | 4 Comments

Last night, Michael’s Mommy, sister S and I are relaxing with a smidge of wind-down TV after having successfully put Michael to bed. Not that it’s usually a struggle or anything — I gotta say if there’s anything I can be happy about with Michael, it’s his willingness to head off to bed when the time arrives – but his energy level keeps us all going until he’s safely snuggled under the covers and I can shut the door. Then it’s Miller Time. Or apple crisp time, in our case.

Anyway.

There we were, relaxed and unawares, watching “Kitchen Nightmares” and finishing up our fruity treat. Michael’s Mommy was in the process of making an observation about something, when she stopped in mid-sentence and made the sound that invariably gives me chills: The Frightened Whimper.

She has a range of sounds that she can make when communicating fear, depending upon the situation. There’s the basic Startled Scream, the Terrified Shout, The Plaintive Moan, and the one she used last night. This particular sound implies that the object of fear has so thoroughly surprised and frightened her that in her mind, it’s too late to do much of anything but curl up into a ball and surrender.

I followed her eyes downward to the floor.

There, walking nonchalantly out from under the couch, the one that we were just sitting on, the one that we sit on with great regularity, the one we had only recently turned over and cleaned thoroughly, was the biggest spider I have ever seen.

I’m not counting tarantulas or those camel spiders you see on the internet. Those are far away in other countries that are separated by large distances and bodies of water and stuff.

This spider was right here, live and in person, winding its way around our very own feet.

It was big. Did I mention that? It could have had its own zip code and congressional district. It was bigger than the last one I had to deal with, a month ago to the day.

In specific terms, this spider was easily three inches in diameter. Its body alone was an inch long.

I stood staring, agape. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I couldn’t believe the audacity of this creature. My mind raced. If this thing was here and in plain sight, are there others? Is there some kind of Aracumantula nest beneath the house or perhaps concealed within the bowels of the couch itself?

“Get it, get it!” Michael’s Mommy shouted, bringing me back to my senses.

I had a job to do. I am man. I am vanquisher of spiders.

Quickly, I fetched the Miele vacuum cleaner, and set it to maximum suck.

“Keep your eyes on it!” I shouted, as I hauled the vacuum over to the nearest outlet and plugged it in. I hit the switch and waited impatiently for the motor to wind up to full power.

Eyes narrowed and fixed on my prey, I extended the hose tube to full length. I needed to strike fast and true. I wouldn’t get a second chance. Big as he was, he could move quickly and I knew it.

Wielding the vacuum like a saber, I struck out at the evil monster – and it was no more. Devoured by the heartless maw of the Miele, to meet his doom amongst the dust bunnies trapped inside.

For good measure, as I always do, I hunted for other things to suck up, to act as missles to finish the job. Unfortunately, Michael’s Mommy had done a very thorough vacuuming earlier that day, so my quest was a difficult one. Fortunately I found an errant Kix and a couple of chocolate wrappers, courtesy of Michael. I can always count on him to provide a consistent layer of detritus wherever he goes.

While we all discussed our plans for fumigation, I did some research on this particular spider, the image of it still burned into my retinas.

I had thought it might be an Aggressive House spider, or perhaps a Brown Recluse. But the size charts on these two indicate that whatever kind of spider we had just dealt with was a whole lot bigger than those. And it might have been a Hobo spider, because it looks an awful lot like that. But again, the Hobo is a whole lot smaller.

Further research leads me to the conclusion that this particular creature was a Giant House spider, which, according to my research, is easily mistaken for a Hobo spider.

The biggest relief I got out of this particular page are the words: “…venom is harmless” and “they kill and eat Hobo spiders.”

Dang. I got one of the good guys. Well, I didn’t know! It was menacing my family, what with its walking on the carpet and standing there doing nothing.

They should wear white hats or something so I can tell them apart.

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Posted in dad, moments, night, stress

Terror on the Tram

Posted on September 10, 2008 | 2 Comments

Disclaimer: By now, my memories of the details of our visit to Disneyland are cloaked in a muddled haze. Thus rather than bore you with an unrelenting travelogue, I’ll focus on specific incidents of note for the remainder of my tale.

Southern California in the summer time is hot. Hot and dry. And though it was a mere 88 degrees during most of the time we were there, to us cold, damp, mildew-laden Oregonians, it was like the tandoori oven of the Devil.

We got overheated pretty quickly. In particular, Michael and his mommy suffered. This is why I bought that spray bottle fan I mentioned earlier. It worked great… but it was an insufficient and temporary defense against the sweltering combination of continual walking, scorching heat, direct sun and bare pavement.

There were refuges to be had, fortunately, and we took advantage of all of them. The carousel theater building, now Innoventions, was a cool respite. It showcased the “home of the future,” a Microsoft-inspired version of what a house would be like if everything ran under Windows (“Look at me! I can make the lights bright or dim by touching this computer screen! Amazing!”). The dark rides, inside buildings and out of the sun, were also great for sitting and cooling off.

But the net effect was that by the end of the day, we were wrung out anyway.

Which meant we were bound for trouble when we finally had to come to the tram.

This is the little golf cart-like train that takes crowds from the main entrance to the “Mickey and Friends” parking structure, where approximately nineteen billion cars are parked.

And this being the Happiest Place on Earth, naturally everyone was entirely selfish, busting past old ladies and little children to get their wide rear-ends onto the tram first. Between the crowding, the pushing, the rushing and the waiting around for the next tram, we had ourselves a human Petri dish of pent up ire.

Which brings us to the wrath that was wrought upon us by our own little four-year-old.

You see, not much earlier, Michael had insisted that he “needed” a flashing LED necklace. He needed it. So, in order to keep him from exploding, I bought it.

But we had more exploring to do before we left; just a few more rides and things to squeeze in before time to leave. This gave him enough time to notice something else that he had to have. This new bauble was a flashing colored ball on the end of a stick. It would blink all colors of the rainbow in various patterns. Very cool. I would have given my right arm to have one of those as a kid. But, he’d already gotten the necklace thing. Sorry, kid. Not this time.

Bad strategy, dad.

By the time we got to the tram line, he was whining and crying big time.

“I neeeeed it! But I neeeeeeed it! I waaaaant the baaaaaaaall!” he cried.

Michael was over heated, over stimulated, dehydrated, over tired and not happy to be leaving Disneyland at all, especially without that ball.

As we finally boarded the tram in a heaving crush of humanity, Michael’s Mommy made it into the seat ahead and I dragged Michael up into the seat with me.

He bucked and kicked and screamed, writhed and wriggled and cried incoherently.

He was at that stage that any parent would recognize: the beyond hope stage. This is the point where a kid can’t calm himself down even if he wanted to; the tantrum has taken a life of its own.

Finally, through the wailing and gnashing of teeth, I heard him say that he wanted to be with his mommy. I figured he’d be too tired at this point to do anything but be soothed by her, so I handed him up and over the seat to her.

Then the tram started moving, off to the parking structure.

And then Michael started in afresh with his tirade.

For his mom, he began kicking and screaming and writhing and bucking.

I watched from behind as she tried to console him at first, and then tried merely to restrain him, and finally tried unsuccessfully just to protect herself from him.

I’ve never witnessed such blind, ferocious fury from such a little person. He threw punches, kicked at her, scratched her and bit.

His little face was contorted with rage. His teeth clenched and lips drawn back in a hideous snarl as he dug his little talons into his mother’s shoulder.

I was too far away to do anything but watch helplessly as we traveled on.

He continued his attack, his mom eventually regaining control as he ran out of steam.

When we got to the parking structure and disembarked the tram, I took him back and held him over my shoulder, letting him release the last of his anger on me.

His mom looked visibly wounded. She had deep scratches on her shoulder and neck, and deep bite marks around the ball of her thumb, which by the next day had developed into a large, angry, purple welt.

He fell asleep in the car on the way back to the hotel, and didn’t wake up when we laid him in bed. The next day, he was right as rain and apologetic toward his battle-scarred mother.

The next day we made sure to keep him hydrated, shaded and fed as much as possible. But that evening he began a tantrum anyway. This time, I held him myself. Hard and fast, so he could not get his arms loose to cause any damage to himself or me. I didn’t hurt him, and I spoke soothing words to let him know that everything was okay and he could be calm if he wanted, but I kept him restrained.

He finally stopped fighting and calmed down, then went to sleep before we even got to the car.

Next time we go, it’s going to be in the late fall or winter. And we’re not taking that tram.

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Posted in disneyland, family, stress

This is love.

Posted on August 18, 2008 | 6 Comments

It’s late. It’s been a long day. You’re tired. You’re very much looking forward to hitting the sack and getting a decent night’s sleep. But when duty calls, you gotta be on your game.

The other night, I’m saying goodnight to the kids, when I heard a shriek from the bedroom that can mean only one thing: Spider.

“Tom! It’s huge! Hairy spider right there!” I ran into the room where Michael’s Mommy was standing, bent over, staring at the wall behind the table. I looked at the wall and just saw the last traces of the hideous creature as it casually sauntered on along the wall, now obscured behind some books.

It was big. Big enough to get angry at me and maybe seek revenge if I didn’t act swiftly and decisively.

So I quickly darted around to the other side of the table, where I expected to see it continue its journey along the wall.

Not there.

Had to get a better view, so I mustered up my strength and in one motion pulled the table out away from the wall. This table holds a television, a box of books, two potted plants and a few assorted items. It’s heavy. But we’re talking big hairy spider, here.

Still, no sign of spider.

I’m handed my flashlight, the one I keep by the side of the bed for the nightly spider patrol. I’m not kidding about that. Every night I have to scan the ceiling for any creepy-crawlies that might be lurking there, ready to pounce.

Searching the area, I see nothing. Nothing behind the curtains. Nothing in the window case. Nothing up above behind nor in the folds of the valance. It vanished.

I pulled out the box of books from the table, and went through every one of them. Nothing.

I checked through the potted plants. Nothing.

Okay then.

Now it’s time to go through the boxes that were on the floor underneath the table. There are four of them: two full of papers and books and things, two full of Michael’s toys. I fully expected the skulking arachnid to shoot up out of one of them at any moment and latch onto my eye or something, so I moved slowly and carefully, keeping my guard up at all times.

After going through every paper, every toy, every knick-knack and paddywack and dog bone there was in those boxes, still nothing. The underside of the table was clear. The floor by the table was clear. The vent was clear. No spider.

Meanwhile, Michael’s Mommy has grown weary of the chase, and has moved on to brushing her teeth.

I’m not quite as calm. See, I don’t like spiders much either. And as I mentioned earlier, this one was big enough to calculate a diabolical scheme. It was no doubt planning to bide its time, keep hidden where I would least suspect, and then it would slowly make its way up along the wall, crawl across the ceiling and then pounce on us in our beds. It would suck us dry in the night. No doubt.

So after an hour of searching, I called it off. But I kept the light on. And I laid there with one eye open and my flashlight handy. Waiting. Watching. Knowing that the spider would attack soon.

He didn’t, and I fell asleep. But it was a restless sleep.

Fast forward to this morning, two days later. Chatting amicably with my wife, planning the day and the logistics of who’d be home when and who’d get Michael… and then she suddenly paused and pointed up on the ceiling.

“What’s that? It’s a big dark spot!”

Sure enough, it was Boris the spider. He was making his way over to our bed as slowly as he could, probably assuming the human visual acuity is based upon movement. Hah. His mistake.

I hurried downstairs and brought up the secret weapon.

I set the Miele canister vacuum to maximum suck, and in a quick flick of the hose, zooped him up.

I then vacuumed up a few dead ficus leaves and errant cheerios and paper wads I found on the floor, just to properly finish the job.

Vanquished, at last. I have fulfilled my loving obligation to my wife.

I’ll sleep well tonight.

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Posted in marriage, moments, night, stress