I learned a valuable lesson yesterday-always make the three-year-old pick up her own toys. This is not a noble lesson borne of the need to instill discipline, recognize consequences or teach responsibility. No, this was a lesson in self-preservation. Had I forced the girl to pick up her own mess, the living room would have been clean and I would not be injured.
I wish I could report that I was wounded carrying out some sort of Herculean feat of strength like lifting every single one of her toys with one hand. Or a daredevil move like parking her tricycle in the shed by riding it like a skateboard. Even the cliched stepping on a Lego would have been acceptable. Instead, I was felled by crayons and markers. And felled isn't even accurate because I was actually already on the ground when my old-man body betrayed me.
I was running late for work and the girl was so entranced by Pocoyo that she was ignoring my pleas to clean up. Damn that mischievious little flappy-hat-wearing CGI munchkin. Instead of turning off the tv and playing the enforcer I decided to take the shortcut and pick up the stuff myself. I was on all fours scooping up the mountain of crayons (because, of course, even though she only uses two colors at a time Grace has to dump out the entire box) when I reached to my left and heard what I will, from this day forward, call the "Pop of Doom". A blinding pain shot through my left knee; the kind like when you fall on your butt bone and it hurts so bad you think for a moment that you are going to hurl. I must have let out some kind of whimper as well, because Grace immediately asked me what happened and if I was okay. For a few moments, I can assure you, I was not okay. I had legitimate trouble getting off the floor. Payback, I suppose, for years of ridiculing those silly "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up." commercials. But being that I had neither a Life Alert necklace or anyone to cover my shift I pulled myself up and walked it off. Seriously though, is the start my gradual age-related decay? I have played ice hockey, worked on ladders, played high school football (Nevermind, you usually don't get hurt on the bench.) and handled huge sheets of plate glass daily. And this is how I get injured? By rotating my torso fifteen degrees while kneeling? Welcome to 37, I guess.
I felt okay for the first half of my shift, but halfway through I took a mis-step that brought a fresh stab of pain that almost dropped me to the floor. (Ironically, this occurred while I was monitoring the well-being of a woman in the store who was either so drunk or so narcoleptic that she was basically passed out on her feet and constantly looked like she was about to crash into something.) I spent the rest of my shift hoping for a Marty McFly hoverboard to appear from 2015 because putting any weight on the leg made the knee buckle and bark with pain. Prior to my knee surgery five years ago, I walked around for months with a torn meniscus (Thanks Misdiagnosing Orthopedists and Insurers Who Forced Me To Have Unnecessary Physical Therapy Before Approving An MRI!) and never had the type of pain I experienced last night. Ice and rest helped a little overnight, but the pain, fortunately a little weaker, has returned today. Funny enough, after a morning of running errands, what I really should do is elevate the leg, throw on the ice pack, turn on some Pocoyo and spend some quality time snuggling with the girl. Just no coloring.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
Yellow Rain
As any parent of a three-year-old knows, any venture out of the house requires a constant interrogation-"Do you have to go to the potty?" "Are you sure you don't have to pee-pee?" "Why don't you try going to the bathroom?". Grace is actually very good about telling us when she needs to find a bathroom so when all my pleas, threats and cajoling failed I rolled the dice and accepted the girl's assurances that she would alert me when it was time for a bathroom break. You can see where this story is going. Or flowing.
We breezed through our morning errands unscathed, but then I had the genius idea to enjoy the great weather with a picnic at the playground. Not the playground directly across the street from our house, literally fifty yards from our bathroom. No, that would be smart. Instead, we stopped at a park across town. A park delightfully free of those pesky public restrooms. (I told you I'm a gambler!) The picnic was going swimmingly - tasty food, running and jumping, raucous laughter - until I see that expression cross Grace's face. That expression that wordlessly conveys, "Thanks Dad, you are a wonderful father who has made today so enjoyable that until just this moment I have been too distracted to monitor exactly how full my bladder really is!" I wasn't mad at this turn of events, after all, accidents happen and I pretty much put us in a postion to fail. I instantly started the mental calculations of getting back down the slide and how to keep the car seat dry on the way home.
What's that? Oh, I didn't mention we were at the top of the tallest, curliest kids' slide I've ever been on? Or how fun it was to watch thirteen gallons of urine leak through the top grate, rain down onto the first layer of curves then watch it slowly cascade around and around and around the remaining curves until it covered the entire slide? Thirteen gallons might be an exaggeration, but there was SO MUCH PEE. So much that I'm surprised the National Weather Service didn't immediately issue a flash flood warning. So much that I am thinking about renting her out to the fire department.
Fortunately, there were no other kids (or parents, more importantly) in the park. After walking Grace back down the steps and convincing her it would not be more comfortable to ride in the carseat naked than to ride in wet clothes, I set out to clean up the mess. Yes, my first instinct was to toss her in the car and peel rubber so no one would discover what a terrible father I am. My conscience got the better of me, however, so I cleaned up the best I could with limited resources. I was wearing two shirts so the oldest went to soak up the puddle at the top of the slide. I could have used the second shirt as well, I suppose, but I think me walking around a park shirtless is more of a public disservice than leaving behind a piss-covered slide. For the slide itself, I briefly considered sliding down myself to soak up as much pee as possible. Instead comm on sense prevailed and I poured the remainder of a large cup of water down from the top and let it wash down what it could. But I can assure you the urine to clean water ratio was woefully out of balance.
So, to the children who will play in that park today after school, I say- I'm sorry. And you might want to wear a wetsuit.
We breezed through our morning errands unscathed, but then I had the genius idea to enjoy the great weather with a picnic at the playground. Not the playground directly across the street from our house, literally fifty yards from our bathroom. No, that would be smart. Instead, we stopped at a park across town. A park delightfully free of those pesky public restrooms. (I told you I'm a gambler!) The picnic was going swimmingly - tasty food, running and jumping, raucous laughter - until I see that expression cross Grace's face. That expression that wordlessly conveys, "Thanks Dad, you are a wonderful father who has made today so enjoyable that until just this moment I have been too distracted to monitor exactly how full my bladder really is!" I wasn't mad at this turn of events, after all, accidents happen and I pretty much put us in a postion to fail. I instantly started the mental calculations of getting back down the slide and how to keep the car seat dry on the way home.
What's that? Oh, I didn't mention we were at the top of the tallest, curliest kids' slide I've ever been on? Or how fun it was to watch thirteen gallons of urine leak through the top grate, rain down onto the first layer of curves then watch it slowly cascade around and around and around the remaining curves until it covered the entire slide? Thirteen gallons might be an exaggeration, but there was SO MUCH PEE. So much that I'm surprised the National Weather Service didn't immediately issue a flash flood warning. So much that I am thinking about renting her out to the fire department.
Fortunately, there were no other kids (or parents, more importantly) in the park. After walking Grace back down the steps and convincing her it would not be more comfortable to ride in the carseat naked than to ride in wet clothes, I set out to clean up the mess. Yes, my first instinct was to toss her in the car and peel rubber so no one would discover what a terrible father I am. My conscience got the better of me, however, so I cleaned up the best I could with limited resources. I was wearing two shirts so the oldest went to soak up the puddle at the top of the slide. I could have used the second shirt as well, I suppose, but I think me walking around a park shirtless is more of a public disservice than leaving behind a piss-covered slide. For the slide itself, I briefly considered sliding down myself to soak up as much pee as possible. Instead comm on sense prevailed and I poured the remainder of a large cup of water down from the top and let it wash down what it could. But I can assure you the urine to clean water ratio was woefully out of balance.
So, to the children who will play in that park today after school, I say- I'm sorry. And you might want to wear a wetsuit.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
The Meek May Inherit the Earth, But They Won't Win the Cup.
For weeks, my friends and I have spent way too much time attempting to figure out what exactly is wrong with the Washington Capitals. We've studied the forecheck, broken down the power play, speculated on trades and otherwise engaged in the constant (but pointless) analysis only undertaken by diehard stupid fans. Imagine if we'd spend our time and brainpower answering the important questions like "What is the solution in Syria?" or "What are the global ramifications of Snooki becoming a mother (shudder)?".
To prove how culturally out of touch I am, I submit for your consideration the list of rejected questions I thought of before the Snooki joke: "Who shot J.R.?", Where's the beef?", Whatchyu talkin' bout Willis?" and "Who really is the Boss?". Sad, I know.
Unfortunately, our amateur hockey eyes have diagnosed many problems with the Caps-injuries, suspect coaching and the sad realization that unless you possess a flux capacitor and a stash of plutonium you have likely seen the best of Alexander Ovechkin.
The number one problem, however, is that the Caps are, collectively, a bunch of wimps. Of course, I don't mean wimps as far as the real world is concerned. Even the wussiest Capital is a hundred times tougher than I am. These guys block 100-mph slapshots, take sticks to the face, get stitched up and still take their next shift. But I'm not talking real world tough; I'm talking NHL tough. I'm talking stick-up-for-your-linemate tough. I'm talking crush-an-opponent's-spirit tough. I'm talking rising-in-the-face-of-adversity tough. Call it what you will-passion, grit, heart, intestinal fortitude-this team rarely possesses it.
General Manager George McPhee must shoulder much of the blame for this glaring organizational deficiency. Several years ago when McPhee did not re-sign enforcer Donald Brashear he justified the move by stating that the Caps' power play would provide enough deterent to keep other teams from taking liberties against the Caps' star players. This is a suspect theory at best, but when your power play short-circuits to the point you should think about declining penalties, then the theory is exposed as completely flawed. It is not simply about having a goon, however.
McPhee has acquired a roster of softies. Jeff Schultz, a 6'6" creme puff, and alleged grinder Joel Ward symbolize a roster that is overpaid and not at all rugged. Despite having a coach, Dale Hunter, who was "nails" as a player, this team has refused to forecheck, lacks agressiveness and shows no killer instinct.
The latest, most damning evidence was the postgame comment after last week's Caps/Canes contest. A Caps' player, hiding behind an anonymous quote, accused Carolina's Jeff Skinner of committing a dirty slew foot on Dmitri Orlov. Are you kidding me? Man up and stand behind your comments. Do you think any Boston Bruin would have requested anonymity? Hell, any Bruin that retaliated (And they probably would have had to take a number.) would have to go on record to explain exactly when he decided to rip off Jeff Skinner's head and drink the blood from his skull. The B's are beasts in a way the Caps can only dream. The Bruins players have each other's back, don't shy away from anyone and brutally crush opponents under the treads of a relentless forecheck. Unless the Capitals find a way to adapt their game, the only thing they'll be getting their names inscribed on this summer is the starter's log at the country club. At least, my buddies and I will have plenty to talk about all offseason.
To prove how culturally out of touch I am, I submit for your consideration the list of rejected questions I thought of before the Snooki joke: "Who shot J.R.?", Where's the beef?", Whatchyu talkin' bout Willis?" and "Who really is the Boss?". Sad, I know.
Unfortunately, our amateur hockey eyes have diagnosed many problems with the Caps-injuries, suspect coaching and the sad realization that unless you possess a flux capacitor and a stash of plutonium you have likely seen the best of Alexander Ovechkin.
The number one problem, however, is that the Caps are, collectively, a bunch of wimps. Of course, I don't mean wimps as far as the real world is concerned. Even the wussiest Capital is a hundred times tougher than I am. These guys block 100-mph slapshots, take sticks to the face, get stitched up and still take their next shift. But I'm not talking real world tough; I'm talking NHL tough. I'm talking stick-up-for-your-linemate tough. I'm talking crush-an-opponent's-spirit tough. I'm talking rising-in-the-face-of-adversity tough. Call it what you will-passion, grit, heart, intestinal fortitude-this team rarely possesses it.
General Manager George McPhee must shoulder much of the blame for this glaring organizational deficiency. Several years ago when McPhee did not re-sign enforcer Donald Brashear he justified the move by stating that the Caps' power play would provide enough deterent to keep other teams from taking liberties against the Caps' star players. This is a suspect theory at best, but when your power play short-circuits to the point you should think about declining penalties, then the theory is exposed as completely flawed. It is not simply about having a goon, however.
McPhee has acquired a roster of softies. Jeff Schultz, a 6'6" creme puff, and alleged grinder Joel Ward symbolize a roster that is overpaid and not at all rugged. Despite having a coach, Dale Hunter, who was "nails" as a player, this team has refused to forecheck, lacks agressiveness and shows no killer instinct.
The latest, most damning evidence was the postgame comment after last week's Caps/Canes contest. A Caps' player, hiding behind an anonymous quote, accused Carolina's Jeff Skinner of committing a dirty slew foot on Dmitri Orlov. Are you kidding me? Man up and stand behind your comments. Do you think any Boston Bruin would have requested anonymity? Hell, any Bruin that retaliated (And they probably would have had to take a number.) would have to go on record to explain exactly when he decided to rip off Jeff Skinner's head and drink the blood from his skull. The B's are beasts in a way the Caps can only dream. The Bruins players have each other's back, don't shy away from anyone and brutally crush opponents under the treads of a relentless forecheck. Unless the Capitals find a way to adapt their game, the only thing they'll be getting their names inscribed on this summer is the starter's log at the country club. At least, my buddies and I will have plenty to talk about all offseason.