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.    

FITspiration

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.

Feetures! I love you! (making a heart symbol with my feet)

I wear socks.  And occasionally underwear.  But never both at the same time.  Can you guess which one I am not wearing right now?

This morning, pre-run, I discovered a hole, possibly from overuse, in one of the aforementioned items of clothing.  Overuse?  The hole definitely wasn't in my underwear. 

The hole was in a one of my many pairs of Feetures! socks.  Yes!  The exclamation point is theirs!  For emphasis!  To let you know that their socks are that exciting!

But despite their grammatical over exuberance, I really do like their socks.  I own a drawer full of their black and white no-show (just like my underwear) socks.  And today, a pair that was just shy of its first birthday, sprung a hole in one of the middle toes.

In Feetures! defense, I have some wickedly disgusting toes.  Nails that have fallen off and regrown into what appears to be a mollusk-like form, alternatingly crusting and oozing blisters, a stink that causes our cats to try to bury my shoes, athlete's foot trying to make a northbound run, and interdigital hair that would make even a chimpanzee stare.  There is a better than average chance that the sock was dissolved by an acidic chemical process occuring inside my running shoes: heat + microorganisms = unknown corrosive byproduct.

Whatever fate befell the sock, Feetures! has a lifetime guarantee.  Pretty incredible to consider, since if something goes wrong on our television past our 91st day of ownership, I guess I'll just carry it out to the garbage can (after cannibalizing it for rare earths, of course).   

Like any other product warranty, I figured that I would have to send in the socks at my expense (presumably so that a guy dressed in a biohazard suit could incinerate them), pay a processing fee, and then pay shipping back for a new pair.  This morning, I swallowed my pride and called their customer service number to ask for a "warranty claim for my socks."  No immediate snickering or discernible condescension, so I continued.  A nice lady took my name and address, asked me what happened to the sock, and said she would send me a new pair.  Seriously?  No need to produce long-since-trashed receipt or mail my putrid laundry back to the factory?  You just won me over for life, Feetures!  The way to my heart is apparently through my feet.  My foul, noxious feet. 

I may go commando, but never a shod step shall I take without my Feetures! (does that need a period or can I just end with their exclamation point?)

Slow down, Tubby!

I love to eat.  And fast.  I've always been good at consuming a large amount of food in a very, very short time.  Call it nutritional efficiency.  No time for conversation, breathing, chewing, or looking around.  Just stab, bite, swallow, repeat.

For my caloric maintenance, a big component is slowing the physical act of moving food from plate to mouth.  Sounds simple, but for me it takes work, patience, and practice.

Today I had some assistance in the way of major dental surgery.  That isn't my mouth, but it looks just like mine.  I had a crown lengthening on one of my top front teeth.  Luckily, I can still eat regular foods and not just hamburger smoothies.

Since I can only chew with my back teeth, I spent at least 30 minutes eating two bowls of homemade turkey chili and cornbread.  The protein and fiber in the chili is naturally filling and I was well past the 20 minute mark when the brain and digestive system coordinate a sensation of fullness.

How to eat slower without resulting to oral surgery?  Here's nine good ways.

Or you could could buy this $99 fork.  It's a fork!  Which costs $99.  And tells you that you are eating too fast.  Do not attempt to bring this fork to a restaurant in your pocket.  Because it's a fork.  Which costs $99.  But if you decide to risk fork-transport and are seen in a restaurant, toting your very own ridiculously colored $99 vibrating fork, you may be mocked by other patrons while eating, which would definitely slow you down.  So it probably does work.

Image courtesy The Simpsons and educational filmstrip The Moon of Earth.

Kill the 'If'

There are a million great reasons to workout or eat right.  But sometimes the persuasive power of a the million great reasons is not enough motivation to overcome one tiny little rationalization: if.

"If I didn't get shin splints when I ran..."
"If I knew how to cook..."
"If I had more time..."
"If it wasn't so hot outside..."

Kill the if.

The if is convenient.  Short and sweet, if lets everyone know that you could be tough and disciplined, if being tough and disciplined weren't so difficult.

The if relieves you of real accountability.  Relying on if shifts the burden of responsibility for your performance to the ether.  No if places your failure (and success!) squarely at your feet.

The if delays pain/challenge/discomfort, thereby delaying triumph/victory/improvement.  The if is insecurity and weakness hoping for legitimacy. 

The if is a boundary, a limit, that you cannot cross.  Do you like living with shackles of constraint?  Neither do I.

The if is a euphemism for resigned.  Resigned is a euphemism for quit.

Kill the if and destroy its lifeforce of cop outs.

Without if, anything is possible: no conditions, no stipulations, no negotiations.  Without if there is only action.  Kill your if and be the action.     

We tell our children that they can do anything and be anything they want.  Or parents told us they same thing.  When did we stop believing that?

An Open Letter

Dear Female Runner in the Town of Paradise Valley,

My sincerest congratulations on outrunning me today.  When I spotted you 200 yards ahead of me, I had no idea that you were running at a 7ish minute mile pace.  I was slowly closing in on you (in a purely uncreepy non-stalkerish sort of way) but then my route took me in another direction. 


I would like to think that you were just out for a three-mile jaunt which would have warranted your extra-quick step.  Unfortunately (for both me and my ego) when we crossed paths again three miles later, you were still hammering at your frenetic speed.

I couldn't catch up to you, but I do have some plausible excuses.

First, when we met I was on mile six of a twelve mile run.  Then again, you could have been on mile ten of a twenty-miler.  Excuse retracted.

Second, I ate a mountain of sugary garbage yesterday.  I spent Sunday shoveling bite sized Snickers into my mouth like firemen shoveling coal into Titanic's furnace.  Ergo, I was slow.  And constipated.

Third, I was scared.  Scared that I would use up too much trying to run down the un-run-down-able.  With little reserves and just beyond my halfway point, I would have had to limp five miles back to the house.  Of my excuses, this is the most embarrassing.

You won this time.  And just to clarify, you knew we were racing, right?