World's Worst Parents

Yesterday was the parent-teacher group fundraising spring fling at Audrey's elementary school.  It was billed as "epic" although it may have been a stretch to call five bounce houses and an inflatable slide "epic".

Robyn sponsored the inflatable slide (pictured) which was supposed to leave vinyl friction burns on the children in the shape of her logo.

Of course it is April in Phoenix and the daily temperatures are engaged in meteorological foreplay.  They're getting there, but still have some time before full mercurial release.  By noon yesterday it was well over 80 degrees.

The school went to great lengths to re-create the full Disneyland experience, right down to half-hour lines in the scorching mid-day sun.  Max and Audrey were determined to get the full economic advantage from the unlimited-ride wristbands, so standing patiently on line was just part of the "fun".

After an hour of vigorous line-waiting and bouncing, we decided to stand in another 30 minute line for a snow cone.  Robyn asked Max what flavor of snow cone he wanted.  He mumbled something and was wandering around near us in the line.  Robyn asked him again what he wanted but he couldn't form a coherent answer.  She scooped Max up and told me that something was wrong with him.

I don't remember how, but I ended up holding Max and hurriedly walking under a shaded area to find a place to sit.  I asked him how he was feeling, but his head was lolling on my shoulder and his eyeballs were rolling back into his head.  He couldn't speak.  He was completely limp in my arms and his face was a ghostly white.  I fumbled for my phone and tried to call 911, but in my panic I couldn't remember how to use an iPhone.  I threw my phone at Robyn and told her to call 911.  If the crowd of parents around me wasn't paying attention to my situation, they were now.

I sat down in the shade and laid Max in my lap.  I discovered that he had puked while I was holding him.  He still couldn't really speak, but was mostly conscious.  By now the crowd of parents and teachers were in emergency mode.  I was handed a couple of blankets, bags of ice, and water.  An ER doctor, nurse, and EMT all offered assistance.

Robyn was still on the phone with the 911 dispatcher.  Apparently 911 needed the exact address of the school where we were.  She was eventually able to convince the dispatcher that the best location she could provide was the cross streets.

After a few minutes of shade, ice, and cold water, Max started showing signs of improvement.  Time compression made the Phoenix Fire Department's response seem like hours, when in reality it couldn't have been more than a few minutes.   The responding station was just over two miles from the school.

The worst of it was over by the time the firefighters arrived.  Max was deemed fine by the paramedics, but got an ambulance ride to Phoenix Children's Hospital anyway.

Diagnosis: terrible parents.  We let our children run around in the almost-summer heat for well over an hour with no water.  Max was a casualty of heat exhaustion and mild dehydration.

Lessons learned:
1.  Pre-hydrate.  By time time the body experiences signs of thirst, it is already dehydrated.  We should have ensured that the kids had adequate water before and during the carnival.
2.  Take breaks.  Make sure you are scheduling rest breaks in a shady, cool area.  Again, we didn't do this.
3.  Wear a hat.  The cloth serves as barrier against solar energy, helping to prevent your brain from fry-o-lating.   We didn't do this either.

Disclaimer:  Please don't notify CPS, DES, the Salvation Army, or any other uniformed agency that could storm our home and take our children.  The dirty looks and passive-aggressive, "See, my kid has his own hat and Camelbak to prevent this" sentiments from the other parents are punishment enough (right?).  We are now officially and publicly terrible parents.    

Getting to the bottom of it

Today my son had a little accident.  He's four, so those things happen.  The weird part is that he had his accident while he was standing in front of the toilet peeing.  Apparently he decided that while he was peeing (with his pants around his ankles), he also needed to poop.  Right then.  So he did.  While he was standing in front of the toilet peeing.

Wait, it gets better.

He also decided not to let anyone know about the hot steaming pile on the floor.  So he covered it up with his step stool (no pun intended).

Wait, it continues to get "better".

Based on crime scene reconstruction, we estimate that 3-5 hours pass.

I go into the kid's bathroom to pee.  I think nothing of the overwhelming stink, because it always stinks in there.  I also think nothing of the pee still in the toilet, because my kids are devout water conservationists.  I pee into the pee already in the bowl and think nothing of the step stool in front of the toilet.

Another 1-2 hours pass.

Robyn goes into their bathroom, notices the powerful stink, and after a cursory search, discovers my son's hidden treasure.  She wins the prize!  Max said he "didn't want to talk about it".

Moral of the story: if there is an unusual stink coming from a bathroom, don't go looking for the source.  Ignore the odor and wait for authorities to assist.  This is especially important if stink is encountered in the restroom at your work.

May the Fourth Be With You

Four years go by fast.  Really fast.  My son is the big four today.  The little monkey man isn't so little anymore.  He is about the size and strength of a juvenile chimpanzee, with the occasional demeanor and smell to match.

We celebrated at his second favorite place on the planet, Peter Piper Pizza. First place goes to Disneyland, but a trip to Disney and back in one day would have required a ship faster than Captain EO's.  Coincidentally, Peter Piper is the same pizza joint where I celebrated many a little league win while attempting the high score on Road Blasters.

Within five minutes of arrival, my son hit the jackpot on a ball game called Raptor Captor.  1000 big ones.  And by big ones I mean paper tickets that can be redeemed for a variety of Chinese manufactured lead-based choking hazards.  With those skills, the boy has a bright future as a professional slot player.

My little man loves presents, and lucky for us, is very easy to please.  From one of his aunties, he got a potato sack race kit.  You know what a sack race is.  Put both feet in a bag.  Begin race.  Jump as fast and as far as possible.  End race.  Repeat.

In case it has been more than a few years (in my case about 30 years) since you last competed in a sack race, here's a warning.  It is really f-ing hard.  Chances are that since you were a child, you have gained some weight, lost some flexibility, and developed nagging hip/leg/knee pain.  This handicap (and I mean that in the sports-betting sense, not the reserved-parking sense) will drastically impact your performance in the sack.

My son and daughter are in peak sack-race condition and barreled around the kitchen in their sacks, while the wife and I could barely muster a few lame jumps without falling over and shrieking with fear.

If you would like to see your children absolutely dominate you on the field, get them some potato sacks.  They'll have to let YOU win.  And don't for a minute think this is an acceptable substitute.

Sack race madness, presents galore, pizza, Star Wars cake, and a surprise visit from our Elf on the Shelf?  Yeah, turning four is pretty awesome.  I love you, dude.

Because "groin" is just a fancy euphemism

There are a few phrases in life that only need to be said once.  No repeating, no need for explanation, no amplifying information required.

"Fire!"  Universal.  Prohibited to be shouted in a crowded movie (or dinner) theater.  Understood by virtually all of the English speaking world.

"Put your hands up."  No one is confused by this command.  Even if the directing law enforcement officer was just trying to get you to raise the roof to accompany a phat house beat, you'd still comply.  And fast.  Because you'd probably be staring down the barrel of his gun.

"Do not punch me in the penis again."  This phrase, although less common in daily vernacular, was growled today by me toward my offending son.  The soon to be four-year old meant no harm (or did he?); he just wanted me to hurry up so we could go ride scooters outside.

Here's the thing about commanding someone not to punch you in the penis: you shouldn't have to say "again".  Seems like that is implicit.  The only time I think you should have to say "again" would be after a second or (yikes) third penis punch.  At that point you could say "again" just to let the penis puncher know that, "Hey, maybe you could punch me in the penis another day, but right now I'm kind of done with that."

Because there is a time and a place for everything.  Except penis punching.  Really there's never a good time for that.  

The long climb

Avid trail runners are a different breed than your typical road runner.  For the trail runner the run is about the journey, the sensory experience, the spontaneity of the adventure.  The pavement pounder enjoys the comfort of the routine, the objectivity of the measured mile, the safety of the improved path.

Life may be a marathon, but it's definitely a trail run.  Twisty, unpredictable, and dangerous.  Soul-crushing climbs yielding to vistas that can refresh burning lungs and wobbly legs.

On the trail my kids love leading, getting out ahead farther, until parental fear overtakes the sense of freedom, and I yell to them to stop and wait.  Someday they won't stop.  On that day, their confidence and bravery will overtake their sense of fear and they will be gone, out of sight.  Beyond protection.  Maybe I'll meet them at the top.  Maybe I'll catch up to them.  But either way, they will need to negotiate the path by themselves.

They will have trained for that day and they'll think themselves ready for this trail marathon.  But there's no map, no route.  The aid stations are few and the crowd support is minimal.  I want to give them the strength and confidence to find a way, or make one.  To lead.  To succeed.  To earn the vista.  If they fall or quit, it will be their mistake, their failure.  But it will be mine too.

Hug 'em if you got 'em.