Father-Daughter Zobmondo

An email message from the school district dated January 23 laid out the next month's fun-filled school calendar:

Jan 26 -- PTA Meeting - Special guest speaker and NFL quarterback Jay Cutler reveals how he struggles with NFL defenses when he can't manage 2 (two!) kids at the same time without flipping his lid. Just get Mom home stat. AMIRITE ladies? Who am I kidding. I probably sent a few texts like that back in the day.

The silhouettes know what they're doing here.

Feb 4 -- Student Led Conferences. These are not your kids' fathers' parent/teacher conferences, the ones that were not only NOT led by you, but where the teacher and your parent representative made you sit in the hall while they discussed you like a science project. These days the kids LEAD the conference...no more sitting out in the hall, for better or worse.

Feb 12 -- No school. It may snow. We're just calling it now.

Feb 13 -- 100th Day of School/Show and Tell - Bring 100 of your favorite things to show your classmates, and be prepared to share 3 fun facts about each of these 100 things. Given class sizes these days, there will be no fewer than 2,500 things in class that day and 7,500 facts. Bonus points to the kid who brings 100 bouncy balls.

Feb 20 -- Father or Other Significant Male/Daughter Dance

_________________________________________________________________________________

I have met scores of teachers from all grades-- kindergarten through graduate level college-- encompassing well over 1,000 years of classroom experience. I talk to some of these people weekly. One of them, I speak with daily. They have studied behavioral patterns of children of all ages and have taught adults how to recognize these patterns in children. Some have written books on the subject. Nobody has EVER clearly articulated to me why we celebrate the 100th day of school.

If you feel strongly enough about eradicating this pointless day from schools, start a religion, call yourselves the 100th Day Adventists, and 100th Day would be gone from our schools tomorrow. Teachers could still mark the occasion but would have to name it something antiseptic like "Frost Fest," "Random Day in February," or, in keeping with Common Core "(50+20+10+1+1+1+1+1+(115-100)) Then Write a Paragraph About It Day."

But it's the last item on the calendar that has me wondering. I really thought by the time we were old enough for one of these, that the Father/Daughter dance would have slid out of style, yet here we are. These things have proven such successful fundraisers precious moments that dads spend with their best girls, the trend has only picked up momentum, so much so that schools are now trying to double down with mother/son dances with mixed results. This, even though 4 of 5 parents report that their girls run off with their friends the minute they enter the building.

I'm not sure about this. Never mind that if I had thought of this and invited school-age girls to my own house, I'd be labeled a sex offender. How exactly are we dads supposed to act at one of these? Would you rather dance like an idiot in front of your kid's friends and faculty or go sit in a corner and make small talk with strange men? 

Both dancing and small talk are the introvert's kryptonite. So who knows? You're equally likely to see my patented Gangnam-Style Corn Cob Stuck Up My Ass Shuffle as you are seeing me in the corner talking about sports, or cars, or sports cars, as you are seeing me in the corner by myself looking at my watch 8 minutes in. Though I hear there's pizza :-)

This sounds an awful lot like a date. I've forgotten how to date. It's been almost 20 years since that happened, and if form holds, I'll be nervous enough to show up a half hour late with an empty gas tank, then forgetting to put the car in reverse in her driveway, or spill marinara all down the front of me at dinner. I hear there's pizza. :-(

The dress code is semi-formal. Like semi-sweet chocolate chips that are still plenty sweet enough, semi-formal is still PLENTY formal. A tie? Come on. I've worn a tie ten times in the last seven years.

Word on the street is that some dads show up in limos...I had no intention in turning this into the Prom, but if that's the case, I can go find my 1991 Toyota Corolla with no power steering and a back seat that can't accommodate today's standard-code car seats. Or we just show up in a minivan. 

I try to gauge my daughter's interest in the event. She has shown less than zero interest so far in attending Take Your Child to Work Day in April, so maybe this has gone off the radar, too. No. She squeals with glee and performs a series of cheerleader-y jumping scissor kicks. So there's little chance she'll forget. 

The follow-up question, then, is "how do these things work?"

"There are two slow dances and the rest is freestyle." Somehow she knows this even though she's never been to one; she has connected friends. Freestyle reminds me of a swimming pool though, so maybe I can pull off a few hold-your-nose-shimmy-down-to-the-ground-with-one-finger-in-the-air moves. Not sure I can sustain that for two hours without an on-site ambulance. 

"So we need to practice slow dancing." 

That's the least of our worries. I'd go for two hours of slow dancing if it wouldn't lend a funeral's atmosphere to the proceedings. But when I tell her I'm feeling kinda nervous about the whole thing, she plays her trump card:

"You can make new friends."

Sigh. We'll see. The introvert's go-to move is not exactly making friends. All I need to do is make small talk or dance like nobody's watching. Hoping nobody is watching. 

The Chronicles of Skip-Bo, Volume III

The final in a three-part series examining the mental fortitude required to survive a game of Skip-Bo. To get to Part I, go here. For part II, go here.

As the game muscles its way toward a conclusion, interest is waning across the board. You wonder if and when it ever really waxed, but we have entered a tangible decline stage. The piles sit a little messier and muddled together. Players other than me need pokes and reminders on their turn. Sixes start to look like nines. Every turn requires a full recap of which cards will play.

"You need a 2, 4, 6, or 11," my daughter informs me.

Immediately I go back one generation. Two, four, six, and 11 were the channels we got on TV growing up. "4" (ABC) came in clear pretty much all the time. "2" (CBS) was a little staticky but was clear enough. "11" (NBC) came in OK as long as it wasn't snowing, raining, sleeting, foggy, hazy, hot, humid, partly sunny, mostly sunny, partly cloudy, mostly cloudy, or some other "weather event" or weather non-event. "6" (also NBC but from a million miles away) required the rabbit ears to be set to a 34-degree "less than" angle (<) and one family member to dress in tin foil while standing on the roof holding an open umbrella. "13" (PBS) came in as clear as a lark and, if we're being honest, at times it scared the hell out of me, but nobody ever bragged to their friends about getting 13. Nobody under 30 years old understands anything I'm saying right now. But these days I get just enough channels to see Matthew McConaughey douching out in a Lincoln, "dint dewit tuhbee kewl..."

Well-shuffled.

"What do I need again? Two, four..."

I hold a 3, 5, 7 and 9 with a dreary tableau of 12s in front of me. But I draw a card that leads to an avalanche of card-playing. I empty out my hand, my extra crapload of cards down in front of me, and a fair portion of the vital Skip-Bo pile. An epic run like this earlier in the game would have caused anxiety, dread, tears, and a dented mini-basketball hoop. Now my opponents are rooting me on like a marathon runner on Mile 25, go, go GO, you can do it daddy! But I can't close the deal. Alas.

It's anyone's game now but nobody really wants it. All those 1s and 2s that we couldn't find earlier are sprouting up when we need higher numbers. People are asking out loud, "Can we be done playing Skip-Boo?" No. Because if we're learning from this interminable ennui, it's to finish what we start and not quit because we're bored or losing. And we ARE bored. And losing. We press on.

Wait, is that how this game is pronounced? An ancestor of mine pronounced it "Skee-bo" (rhymes with Tebow) and my wife pronounces it "Skip-Boo," a curious pronunciation that actually involves an inside family joke. (When your jokes center on the game of Skip-Bo, it may be time to re-examine?) A cursory internet search reveals what we all thought..."Skip-Bow" is the proper pronunciation. Let's not complicate things.

With that out of the way, a last push brings finally the game home to my daughter, who led wire-to-wire and held off my furious, one-hand avalanche rally and a few advances by my son who remains the unluckiest Skip-Bo player ever. Agony of defeat gives way to sheer relief, and we can all get back to our lives and our laundry after that Easter Vigil game. Whew.

"Now we'll see who comes in second."

Are YOU kidding me. I came as close as ever to cheating but gritted my teeth, Only a few more turns and I finally got my cards out. The boy then, relegated to third place and not usually one for drama but a veteran Sesame Street watcher, does a full-on Bert Faint and cracks his head off a bookcase. Injury has sufficiently augmented insult. My lame attempts at comfort don't work..."if this were the Olympics you'd have taken home Bronze..."

Soon he's back up on his feet; otherwise I'd make him clean up the game. And that's the biggest contest of them all...get out of the room before Dad can get out of the criss-cross-applesauce position that reduces his joints to a fine powder. "Hey, can somebody help me put this away..."

And they're gone. Probably not to do laundry, but they're gone. They'll be back soon to take another crack at Dad and as I stare at the burgeoning laundry pile, I'll be willing to play a thousand more of these games with them. The laundry can wait.

The Chronicles of Skip-Bo, Volume II

The second in a 3-part series examining the possibility of playing a game of Skip-Bo and still having an enjoyable weekend. Part One is right...about...here.

Once again the obligatory photograph per "blogging" "rules."

Earlier we examined the pain suffered in setting up a game of Skip-Bo and wondered aloud if the cards had been properly shuffled to ensure a fair game devoid of any unnatural runs.

It's apparent early in the game that those fears have been allayed. Like ship wreckage, all of the 1s, 2s, and wild cards that would have opened the game with a flourish have filtered to the bottom of the stack, leaving all three participants with an unplayable morass-- the Skip-Bo equivalent of a Scrabble rack full of vowels. Any hopes of a quick, clean game have thus also sunk to the bottom of the drain. Sigh.

Here we invoke the 33rd Law of Cards: In any non-poker card game, you will at some point hold what would constitute easily your all-time best poker hand. This hand, in tandem with inexorable patience, impeccable timing, steely nerves, sunglasses and the face of an asshat, would win you $800 kajillion dollars on ESPN's World Series of Poker. (You may even get to wear an asshat.)

Instead you're stuck with four 11s with a 12 kicker when only 1s and 2s will play in the middle, and a 9 on your Skip-Bo pile, left to continue wondering how college will get paid for, when ESPN will start televising Skip-Bo tournaments, and where your weekend is going. And if they had Skip-Bo tournaments, would you even play, just out of principle? Pretty sure they would be held in a smoky, dark, joyless room full of Skip-Bo nerd-snobs who look down their noses at you when you make a joke about a bad beat. As you convince yourself no, no you wouldn't play in their stupid tournaments, you feel the room grow quieter and quieter, the activity seemingly waning...

"Oh, my turn?"

"YES, Daddy!"

The next card you draw holds a ray of hope. It plays in the middle, and while it is only one card, maybe it will help break this game open. Then the competitive fire gets you. You see that if you play the card, you will open up your son to play off of his Skip-Bo pile. Conflicted between just moving the game along and not letting your kid win under any circumstances, you hold the card, prolonging the agony but remaining comfortable with the knowledge that you're playing the game as it was meant to be played. Plus if you opened up the game for only one child, the other one will get upset and accuse you of hating her, just like she did that time you accidentally bought the orange juice with the pulp...

"Daddy! Your turn!"

"Sorry, sorry..."

At some point after several turns, when you were wondering why only orange juice has pulp, your daughter has managed to reel off a big run that has sliced her Skip-Bo pile in half. It slipped your notice because your younger child no longer screams in protest at the slightest hint of a sibling's good fortune nor throws his shoes in the fireplace in protest. He just rolls his eyes like a teenager even though he's 5, already learning the art of smug.

Meanwhile, you haven't played a blessed thing off your pile, that 9 still staring you in the face, but now the middle piles accept only 11s, 12s, and 8s. You have a wheelbarrow full of 11s but no tantalizing 8 that will lead you to the Promised Pile. You re-arrange your discards like the deck chairs on the Titanic, not realizing that the 11 opens up your son's 12. You're thankful your daughter doesn't notice, doesn't care, or doesn't mind your letting someone back in the game. She's nice like that. Surely there are there other juices with pulp, no? Let's Google it...

"Daaaad. Quiiit playing on your phone..."

What happens next? Does Dad launch a big comeback and steal the game from his daughter? Does the son launch a medium-sized comeback and secure his first ever win at this wretched game? Does the 3-year-old fly off the coffee table like Superman into the middle of the cards and wreck the game completely? (Spoiler alert...) Stay tuned for the stunning conclusion when we wrap up this Iran-Contra-affair-length game of Skip-Bo.

Couldn't Have Said it Better Myself

Forget my pointless, meandering drivel...here's some stuff worth reading when the mood strikes:

Sarah Hartley starts it off with a few fine posts, including a post that my wife and I wholeheartedly agree with concerning the benefits of putting your child in Day Care:
http://www.sarahhartley.net/2014/11/im-glad-my-son-is-in-daycare.html

and one with a little self-doubt (been there)
http://www.sarahhartley.net/2014/12/how-i-survive-parenthood-or-9-ways-im.html

plus one about spit-up (a girl after my own heart)
http://www.sarahhartley.net/2014/06/baby-spit-up-is-new-black.html

Special for the folks in Michigan: 7 people this Michigander (David Stanley) can't stand in winter.
http://dadsroundtable.com/other/2015/01/7-people-cant-stand-michigan-winter/

Lorne Jaffe has a daughter with a fear of owls Here's how he's dealing with that conundrum:
http://www.raisingsienna.com/my-daughter-and-nightmares-garbage-trucks-and-bears-and-owls-oh-my/

Plus, the difference between MILFs and DILFs from Dave Lesser...
http://www.amateuridiotprofessionaldad.com/milfs-and-dilfs/

And finally, shameless! One by me on Sarah's site on the inexplicable phenomenon called Preferred Parent Status:
http://www.sarahhartley.net/2015/01/preferred-parent-status.html

Enjoy, there will be quiz at the end of the week.

Born At the Right Time

Did you know during this week in 1919 the city of Boston suffered a disastrous Molasses Flood? A Boston Molassacre, as some called it?

A molasses flood? Right, and I was mugged by a gang of snails.

Looks like my kids' bedrooms. Too soon?

I had never heard of this awful event until a few days ago. But it truly was awful. Twenty-one people and several horses died. Scores more people were injured. After the poorly constructed tank exploded in the unseasonable January Boston warmth, it sent molasses down the streets of Boston at 35 mph, tugging people down with it, complicating rescue attempts.

It's one more reason to be thankful I live in the era in which I do. I am totally ill-equipped to handle and protect my family from a molasses flood. Aren't we all, really? But I more than most. I'm thankful to live in a time when giant, out-of-code vats of molasses aren't just sitting around, given to spontaneous, rocket-propelled floods that will carry my loved ones to their death, or worse, Philadelphia.

But even if for some reason all that happened, I'm thankful for cars that can travel faster than 35 mph so we can beat the sloppy goop to safety--assuming we're not stuck in downtown Middletown, DE, where traffic flows slower than the traditional molasses, the kind that's not shot out of a drum and wrecking everything in its path.

I'm thankful for media that would alert me right away to this mess if my family were somehow near the affected area--though I'm not thankful for the fact that they'd call it "Molassapocalypse" or "Molassamageddon". "Molassacre" works just fine, thanks.

Mostly I'm thankful for the cars, though.  Any transportation is better than horses. To wit, I also learned through some amateur family genealogy that my great-great-grandfather William died when his horse and buggy got hit by a train. Typical. I can totally see this happening to me, provided I ever learned how to properly mount and direct a horse in the first place.

According to the story, in 1903 William and his friend tried to cross some railroad tracks and got stuck, but rather than bailing on the operation as his companion did, William stayed the course and got destroyed by the oncoming train, his left leg "being mashed into a jelly, apparently without a whole bone remaining." He lived for about 20 minutes after the crash.

I'd rather be washed away by molasses, given a choice.

Still, horses. I've ridden horses two times and both times ended poorly. The first, I was seven or eight years old, riding some old nag that could barely move, and I fell off. Just fell off. No reason to, no explanation, the horse was barely moving. Just fell off onto some gravel. The second time, about 10 years later, I rode another allegedly docile horse in a wooded area, only to have the horse spooked by a car and take off through the woods, dragging my face through some low-hanging branches while I suggested a leafy "whoa" (more like a "Whooooooooaaaa") in vain.

Ultimately I came away from both incidents unscathed, or at least much less scathed than poor William. But I did walk away from the second horse incident swearing off (and at) horses and haven't gotten back on since. However, last summer I took one of my sons to the racetrack and to a place on the grounds where you can pet the horses after they've raced. Like a noob I stood with my son in the worst possible spot, behind the horse...if something had scared the horse, his hind legs probably would have kicked my 5-year-old-son right in the face. Three old men nearly had heart attacks when they saw where I positioned my son, and I started swearing at horses again. Never again with these damned animals!!

So I'm very thankful for living in an era where horses are purely optional. And while I generally try to show my kids enough varied experiences so they have no fear later in life, if they see a horse and immediately run away crying, I won't blame them, they'll just be chasing me.

I've been blessed, I think, with some longevity genes. William was 83 at the time of his accident which translates to about 157 in current years. I've known several people on both sides of my family who lived well into their 90's, even without push notices and alerts about confectionery floods. I have a chance to live a long life and be there for my kids as much as possible. Just gotta steer clear of molasses and horses.

The Chronicles of Skip-Bo, Volume I

Standing in the kitchen drying sippy cups while we wait for a Biblical, rise-from-the dead revival miracle out of our busted dishwasher and I hear some of the best and worst words from a small voice from another room.

"Daddy, wanna play Skip-Bo with us?"

"Well, I have some things I need to do..."

"...I already have it set up."

From the makers of Waterboarding? Too much?

Skip-Bo is a tedious, torturous slogfest of a card game where you try to rid yourself of your pile of cards by playing them in sequential order in the middle along with your opponents. Games typically take 30-45 minutes unless you have my kids and a restless mind. Then they take 16 hours while your mind volleys back and forth between yardwork, paperwork, bills, broken down appliances, projects and other things you need to get done. When will that stuff get done? Who will

"Da-DDDDDYYYYY??!!"

"I'm coming...just, give me..."

"Do you want to play with 30, 20, or..."

"FIFTEEN. Twelve if we can, or ten...I thought you had it set up already?"

Games are more palatable when the piles are 15 cards. More palatable like Kraft Mac & Cheese versus Velveeta. It's still better than folding kids' laundry.

"OK, let's go."

Anal retentive card players get tested when they play with kids. The game has already been set up, and while I totally believe my daughter has not "set the deck" in her favor, I wonder if her small hands and erratic shuffling were enough to sufficiently randomize the cards. In a game where sequences are made, an unshuffled deck could result in too many natural sequences which increases the luck factor and decreases the skill factor. However, if it will make the game go quicker, I'll let it go. But then I see three random cards lying off to the side.

"What are those three cards? No, don't LOOK at them! Just put them on the bottom of the big pile, or in the middle, or put them in different places in the middle..."

Kids take winning and losing seriously. and any kid will tell you that the key to winning is going first. As if the game is the 100-meter dash in the Olympics and someone gets an undeserved head start. Sometimes going first is actually more important than the final result. And yet these kids can't understand the concept of a good, thorough shuffle? Kids, I tells ya...

Luckily my daughter is a born rules follower. and it was written that the youngest player goes first. So every time we play this game our 5-year-old son goes first. We've erased at least 10-15 minutes of infighting, intense negotiations, deal-making, deal-breaking, bribery, and hurt feelings just by following the rules.

The problem though, is in who goes SECOND. If the youngest goes first, it stands to the reason that the second-youngest goes second, right? Unfortunately, we have sat our butts such that our oldest child is to the right of her younger brother.

"Stop. There is no game in civilization where play runs counter-clockwise."

"What's counter-clockwise mean?"

"Like this," (makes a swirling motion)

??

"Instead of like a clock, which goes this way." (swirls in the other direction)

??

"Like a clock. Except backwards..."

Of course every clock they've encountered has been digital. Microwaves, phones, iPads...

"Here. We'll switch places."

We aren't playing counter-clockwise. And in games of four or more, we are not playing in some ridiculous star pattern. Just gives the kids one more thing to fight about when we all lose track of whose turn it is.

All that said, I think we're ready to play. Stay tuned for Volume II...

Get on the Pot!! A Tale of Perseverance and Poop

The top of the refrigerator is where all the good stuff is. Ceramic pots holding keys that don't open anything. Bills that never go away. Important tax information that we pray doesn't slide off the back. Occasionally, a seasonal elf.

And potty bribes. Always display the potty bribe on top of the refrigerator, for all (kids) to see.

Earlier in the year, our world was jolted when we learned our oldest child had scoliosis, until we then learned she'd handle it way better than we would. Then a different situation involving a kid's backside took over and threatened to divide our house.

After boldly foolishly predicting (jinxing) in August I had exactly 13 diapers left to change in my lifetime, it soon became evident that those of you betting the "over" could redeem your winning, poop-stained tickets at a changing table nearest you. Somebody refused to cooperate, even though our diaper budget had officially run out after 7 consecutive years and more money than we spent on cars.

We tried to sweeten the pot for our 2-year-old to sit on the pot by buying a couple of $6 trucks and setting them--guess where-- on top of the refrigerator. Turns out we could have placed the trucks in the attic, the other dead-end destination for overly curious children, back behind the Apple IIe monitors, bowling balls, and broken humidifiers and dehumidifiers. The little guy had less interest in toy trucks than in sitting in a pile of his own mess. Sounds reasonable, amiright, 2-year-olds?

Kids present challenges at all ages. But there are few more painful times than when you're expected to predict exactly when a toddler in underpants is about to crap himself. More painful than watching them try to butter, add syrup to, and slice a waffle. More painful than when other people's kids introduce yours to pop music.

The scene of many crimes lately.

The kid doesn't know when it's time to go. You used to know. He'd grab hold of the biggest piece of furniture in the house, cross his eyes, and turn his face a magenta you haven't seen since the 64 crayons. Now, he disappears into your shoe closet and as you notice he's is missing, you have to fetch a mask and a shovel and hurry to save your favorite slippers.

"I have to POOP!" he beams. Your closet smells like chemical warfare.

One particularly bad evening saw us unwittingly involved in a game of hide and seek with a cold-blooded menace. As my wife innocently called out, "Where arrrrre you?" he answered back in a sing-songy voice, "behind the couuuuuuch!"

"What are you dooooooing?"

"Poooping my paaaaaants!"

And we both scrambled to our feet, pre-empted the game, moved the couch, located the perpetrator and frowned as he smiled, another lost opportunity to get the kid on the pot.

Our life had turned into the first 20 minutes of a kidnapping movie, except our kid was the bad guy instead of the victim. And instead of refusing to bargain with the bad guy, we offered him anything he wanted. Toy trucks? Yours. Mickey Mouse pancakes every night for two weeks? Fire up the that god-awful Griddle. And instead of slamming the phone down and/or hanging up and laughing maniacally, he'd stay on his Fisher Price and pretend to talk to Grandma, then throw it down the stairs and laugh maniacally.

Our wits usually have no end, but they were appearing in plain view as we almost went Tony Hayward on each other. We got out the potty chart in an attempt to get our lives back. Nothing worked.

One day it clicked. Just as a routine visit to the dentist miraculously coaxed our co-sleeping 4-year-old into his own bed, a routine trip to the barber shop convinced our 2-year-old to stop soiling himself. As he was waiting his turn to sit in the chair, once again our star decided he had to go to the bathroom, except he never told anyone of his intentions, and so...

"Well, you can't get your hair cut with poopy pants," his rankled mother told him as she carried the boy, quite literally kicking and undoubtedly screaming, out of the barber shop, his hair still shaggy and unruly.

Trucks be damned. Pancakes be damned. All the kid wanted was a haircut, and when he didn't get one because of a bad set of underpants, he realized he needed to change course, soon, before his bangs covered his eyes.

So he went home and immediately sat on the toilet. But this is a tale of perseverance; the happy ending does not come quickly. He had just done the deed a few minutes earlier, so he sat and sat and pushed and crossed his eyes and turned that eggplant/deviled egg/magenta we were used to, and...nothing.

Bummer.

But the precedent had been set. The potty chart was out, and after filling up his chart with 10 stickers roughly 10 days later, he had his trucks from the top of the fridge and clean underwear on his bottom. And we had our lives back.

To be sure, sometimes it's still a struggle...when he announces he has to poop, he's moved up the deadline from 5 seconds too late to 5 seconds early. So there's no "hold on, buddy...right after I send out this email/I finish this page/this play/etc." "I need to poop" means "I need to poop. Now." And there have been accidents, but mostly when he's been "helping" with the dishes and forgets what he's doing.

So the top of the fridge is back to old mail and wallets. For us it's on to a new phase of frivolous spending...tell us, oh parents whose kids are out of diapers, what will we spend our money on next?

Bracing Ourselves

A simple well visit to the pediatrician from July 2014 will stick with us for a while. Well visits are supposed to be pretty low-maintenance-- in and out, everything's great, cover your eye and read the 4th line, ok try the 5th line, breathe in, breathe out, breathe deeply, see you in a year, maybe try eating some vegetables for a change.

This time it was different - and not just because all three kids were actually in the Well Room at the same time. The middle child was shown to not have any muscles at all based on some seriously gross gross motor skills, but my daughter also received some significant, routine-altering news at the same visit.

I'll admit, when I got home from work, and my wife informed me that our daughter may have scoliosis. at first I may have laughed a little. When I was in junior high, every single one of us was diagnosed with scoliosis, or its distant cousin "possible scoliosis."


Our universal sign for "the bathroom is in use."

This came after getting our annual physical which involved having an 85-year-old man grab our scrotum, us turning our heads, coughing, then contorting our bodies into the shape of a lower-case "n." Pretty sure only the last part was used in the "possible scoliosis"diagnosis. But we ALL had possible scoliosis. I knew kids were advanced these days--I didn't learn my multiplication tables nearly as early as my daughter is-- but receiving the "possible scoliosis" treatment six years in front of her Daddy? Unheard of.

Still, in the interest of due diligence, we accompanied our daughter to the children's hospital just to make sure. Sure enough, the x-rays revealed a 33-degree curvature of the spine. Textbook scoliosis. (How could we as parents not see it? Draw an imaginary line from one shoulder blade to another, you get a cliff the Price Is Right yodeler is afraid to scale. How do we NOT see that? What kind of parents are we?)

What does this mean? It means to avoid surgery later in life, my daughter would need to wear a brace for the balance of her growing years. 22 hours a day, every day until she's done growing. Nobody does anything for 22 hours a day, especially 7-year-olds, without a crying fit or a nearly unlawful amount in bribery. This was going to be a challenge. Not sure if we were ready for it.

At first our daughter embraced it. The back brace she'd wear like a giant Band-Aid. Kids love Band-Aids because they bring an disproportionate amount of attention to its bearer, so when you have a plastic Band-aid the size of your torso, you probably get to sit in the queen chair for a week and win Teacher's Pet status indefinitely.



A little before and after.

But then stark reality started to set in. 22 hours with that thing on. A tight piece of plastic, wrapped around your back, while you sleep, while you sit in school, while you live. This thing and its larger versions will grow with you and be a part of you for the rest of your childhood. And you KNOW your parents will nag you about it. You may take it off to shower, to play your violin, to go to gym class. That's it. So, yeah, a little apprehension.

But in yet another example of kids proving more resilient than their parents, she's killing this brace thing. Soon after receiving the brace, my daughter's teacher had her stand up in the front of the class and explain just what was going on (show-and-tell style.) She explained why she got to sit "in the spinny chair" with a pillow when the rest of the kids are sitting on the floor, and why she has to run down to the school nurse every Tuesday before gym class. She explained that her spine was "crooked" and the brace would help keep it from getting worse.


And that's why second-grade kids are awesome-- they get it. Maybe not right away, but eventually they get it. They're curious but innocent. They seek answers but don't judge. They think everything is cool and are so willing and able to adapt. We should all be so smartly naive.

Within weeks, the brace became virtually a non-issue, and now it's part of who she is and who she will be. She may never get to the 22-hour plateau, but close enough. There are so many reasons to be thankful in this situation: To the hospital, for giving my daughter the best attention you can give a girl and for talking us through the options, pros and cons, and for talking us down off the ledge. To our daughter's teacher, who made her feel so comfortable and let her educate her own classmates. And to our pediatrician, who first suspected trouble at a routine well visit...without that heads-up, we may never have known until surgery was the only option. (Go to your well visits folks!)

And most thankful for a brave little girl who understands what she needs to do to get better. This potential game-changer then turns out to be just a bump in the road. Just a part of life. There was, however, a time when my daughter wanted to commemorate the whole thing with a family video to show we were "all about that brace (that brace)." We poiltely declined. Besides, that's been done already I think. Done better than we can.



She can still do this with a brace on. I never could.

The Night Before the Night Before the Night Before the Night Before the Night Before Christmas

Adopt a new family tradition...or else.

In our house this year, Santa Claus came on the night of Saturday, December 21. The celebration thus starts early and doesn’t end until sometime after Christmas, or until the only method of communication between my wife and me is flipping the lower lip repeatedly with the index finger, making constant “blih blih blih” sounds, whichever comes first.

Thus, our meager preparations for Santa’s early arrival are catalogued below, through the voice of a timeless classic:

Twas the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before Christmas, and the house is a mess.
We’re wishing we were less like us, and more like the family Holderness.
Some stockings we’ve hung by the chimney with care
With hopes that they don’t catch fire, since the flames shoot right there.

The children are nestled, all snug in my bed,
Pile of half-eaten Saltine crumbs up by their head.
Idiot parents are we to allow this each night,
We do have a kitchen in this house somewhere, right?

Mamma wears no kerchief; I don no cap.
It ain't 1824 no more. Nobody wears all that crap.
We aim to “settle our brains,” (is that a euphemism for dying?)
But we can’t “settle our brains” til we remember where we hid the gifts, or die trying.

“They’re out in the garage,” Mamma says “or maybe the nursery,
Just remember to disable the alarm. The code is our anniversary.”
“Enough with the impossible riddles; just tell me the code,” I plead with her now.
“We must get these gifts under the tree before the kids wake somehow.”

I disable the alarm with some clutch memory; my wife should be proud
But then trip over a garbage can lid, Jesus LORD those things are loud.
Next thing I hear are tiny footsteps upstairs,
Quickly I drop all the presents of theirs.

“Daddy, is that you?” my daughter whispers down
In the moment of truth, I lie with a frown.
"Ho, ho,…uhh, no. Now off to bed, uhhh, good night!”
A piss poor rendering of Santa, sounded more like Barry White.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
Neighborhood teens beat the mailbox again with a ladder?
Didn’t bother to look, didn’t bother to care.
Little did I know Santa’s sleigh was parked right out there.

“Now Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on Donner and Blitzen!
Lauren, Catherine, Lana too,
Bette Davis… We love you!”

A full dozen reindeer these days Santa employs
Needing more horsepower for all the extra toys
And mixing in some females, Santa thought it best
To keep the long trip from becoming a total reindeer sausage fest.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
Of course they did; I guess that’s what “coursers” do?
How did everyone fit up there, intact and all?
Not like we live in the damned Taj Mahal.

Someone then began the trek down the chimney
Next time just use the wide open doors, buddy.
Or, do whatever, try as you might.
Just whatever you do, don’t put out the pilot light.

He was dressed all in fur, at my in-laws’ he’d not freeze.
For inside their house it’s always 86 degrees.
But inside our abode, where fresh meat can be stored
He’d need every layer and perhaps three layers more.

He was everything I’d imagined: big boots, big belt, big beard, big hat.
No need for details of the shaking belly and all that.
I stood there in awe, my thoughts all inverted.
Poor kid who “saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus” – ew, how perverted.

 He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then started to twerk turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose
And blew a giant snot rocket giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

As he struggled to leave the ground, he noticed the wide open door
And decided “the hell with this, this year I’ve got 10 million chimneys more.”
Then he looked back at me and paused, dazed and confused.
When he saw who was atop the toilet, he was not amused.

“Buddy, is that you? Or Jingle, or Snowball, or Mike?
What the hell is your name? You elves all look alike.”
“His name is Holly,” I said with a shrug.
"Look, my daughter named him, I was leaning toward Doug.”

“Holly?” he asked. “Kids these days haven’t a clue.
Anyway, whatever, HOLLY, get off the can, you’re coming with me, too.”
And there went my elf, who sat upon our shelf.
Not gonna lie, I smiled when he left, in spite of myself.

His butt was so thin, too hard to place anywhere.
Would that I had such a compact derriere.
My kids would shout, “Don’t touch him! You’ll take away his magic!”
“Shove your brother in the laundry hamper one more time; the results will be tragic.”

Then Santa sprang to his sleigh, as much as a fat man can.
But before he got in, I wanted a word with the man.
“Where’s Rudolph?” I asked, pointing to the 12. “And what’s up with these guys?”
“Rudolph’s nose was bright, but that one right there, she’s got Bette Davis eyes.”

I assumed the boys all thought her a spy,
With her Greta Garbo standoff sigh,
But just went inside and settled my brain,
Shook my head, and thought “this will probably never happen again.”

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"
As I turned to Momma to give her a kiss,
She said, “That elf…now that is something we will not miss.”

Happy Christmas!






  

Christmas Vacation Countdown, Part 2

We're ready to unveil our family's Top Five lines from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, based on use within the household and extended family. The first half of the Top Ten are here.

Once again, the requisite photo. Because in 2014, adults need stories with pictures.

Once again these aren't necessarily the best or funniest lines, otherwise we would have found a spot for "Last year he was a pixie dust spreader on the Tilt-A-Whirl. He thinks that maybe next year he'll be guessing people's weights or barking for the Yak woman. Did you ever see her, Clark? She's got these horns coming out of her head...ugly as sin, but a sweet gal. And a helluva good cook" or "That ain't the friggin' Christmas star, Griz, that's the light of the sewage treatment plant" or, of course, "Shitter was full," which, given the flush rates in our household, is a phrase to keep an eye on in the future.

But those have no real practical use in the real world. Instead, our #5 and #4 lines have been used in various forms.

#5.  This is a surprise, Clark. This is just a real nice surprise. Just a Real. Nice. Surpriiiiise.

You can hear Clark's back cracking in the bear hug as you read it. Or if you can't, you can hear it here. We've used this set of lines on Christmas presents, in thank you cards, on custom-made T-shirts, and even in wedding proposals. And it's gaining momentum. We get some weird looks from the kids when we say it, but we're used to that. Won't be the last time. Most of the surprises we have as parents aren't of the pleasant variety, so anytime    

#4.  If this isn't the biggest bag over the head, punch in the face I ever got , Goddammit! Accompanied by swift kicking motions to bags of Christmas presents accumulated under the Christmas tree, this versatile phrase can be applied to any sense of wrongdoing perpetrated against a member of the family. It's basically an adult version of the standard temper tantrum my kids throw when they don't get their onw way.

But this one gets used in all seetings...familial, corporate, societal, DMV, sports teams losing, Fantasy Football teams losing (especially Fantasy Football teams losing) you name it.

See also: #7: It's all part of the experience, honey. If you overuse "bag over the head" you're likely to get hit with an "It's all part of the experience, honey." So stop whining, get the bag off your head, buck up, press on, and have the hap-hap-happiest...wait, we're getting them all confused now.

#3: You serious, Clark?
If you're a fan of the movie, you've said it. Over anything. The more mundane the topic, the better. But it's genuine. Just as Eddie stopped to confirm Clark's playful announcement that "an airline pilot spotted Santa's sleigh on its way in from New York," you can confirm any piece of useful information you receive by saying the same thing.

Though I'd keep it playful, and not use it when you hear a family member is having quadruple-bypass surgery or has just lost his job. Jury's still out on whether you can use it if you hear a loved one is "in the clinic, gettin' cured off the Wild Turkey." I say yes. Go ahead.

#2. I don't KNOW, Margo. 
Our daughter has thought on occasion that her name is Margo, as she is usually on the receiving end of this well-worn phrase. We may have called her Margo even when not using this phrase just because.

To be fair, she's usually the one in the house asking the impossible questions that invite eye-rolling and sarcastic answers. Questions such as "Where's my dress?" "Where are my shoes?" or "Where's my hairbrush?" She has yet to ask why the carpet is all wet, though if she does, you can rest assured the answer will be, "Because you forgot to tuck the shower curtain in again, Margo," For all other questions, however, "I don't KNOW, Margo" is the go-to response.

You also have to wonder if the guy who played Todd "gets that" a lot. Does anyone recognize him in the street? Because if so, I can imagine a cadre of less sophisticated people flocking to him saying, "I don't KNOW, Margo," and asking him to sign the backs of their T-shirts. Poor guy.

Before we reveal the most used Christmas Vacation phrase in our family, let's take one more timeout to recognize three characters who came up empty in our countdown despite numerous laughs generated. Art, Bethany, and Uncle Louis all got shut out and that's a shame. Here then is a mini Top 15 of lines just by them that you can break out when the mood strikes or the situation calls for it:

15. "The little lights are not twinkling."
14. "Damn it, Bethany, he guessed it."
13. "I need to eat, so I can take my back pills." (Got my mom with that one once.)
12. "This house is bigger than your old one."
11. "Grace? She passed away 30 years ago."
10. "What are you gonna bawl all over it or ya gonna open it?"
9. "Don't throw me down, Clark."
8. "Hey Griz, you're not doing anything constructive. Run into the living room, get my stogie."
7. "It was an ugly tree anyway."
6. "What is it? A letter confirming your reservation at the nuthouse?"
5. "So what's the matter with you?"
4. "At least it's out of its misery."
3. "Oh dear, did I break wind?"
2. "Da BLES-SING!"
1. " I should say it? I should say it? Hello, everybody!"

And now on to the #1 most used phrase from Christmas Vacation:

#1. "I don't know what to say except it's Christmas and we're all in misery."

This one has picked up a ton of momentum in recent years as we've become adults and discovered that the magic of Christmas is purely man-made. We use it as a funny way to explain away the stress of the holiday season, although at times the phrase "Much truth is said in jest" applies.

This is a phrase I'd like to eradicate from our speech in future years but we'll see. Christmas is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year so why all the misery? What's the cause of the stress? Is it the pursuit of perfection? (If so I blame Lexus and their "cars with bows" ads.) Is it the cookies? Are we trying to do too much?

Of course we're all trying to do too much. It's Christmas! That's what Christmas is all about! This is why New Year's Resolution season comes so soon afterwards...so we can dial ourselves back from the excesses of the most recent holiday season.

We can't do it all. This year we didn't put the toy train around the Christmas Tree, (forgot) didn't build the gingerbread house, (ran out of time) or do the Christmas cookie puzzle (forgot and ran out of time.) And so what? Christmas was still magical. I think? Let me go ask the kids. OK yeah, it was magical. Hopefully not solely because of that damned elf either.

Take a look back at your Christmas. Did you claim to be in misery at any point? Can you do without the thing that you were doing at the time when you said it? Then see if you can not do it next year.

But if you're a parent and your kids still believe in the magic of Christmas, and you connected with all the people who are important to you, then it was a good holiday. No misery required.

And that's the list. We hope it "enhanced your holiday spirit." 

Christmas Vacation Countdown

Not everybody loves National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation as much as we do in this household. So much that we’ve seen it from every angle, noticed every little nuance, basically analyzed the thing to death. And we don’t mind quoting it every now and again. So as a bit of an advent present to those of you who do the Christmas thing…here starts a brief rundown of the 10 most-used Christmas Vacation lines in our house. Note these aren’t necessarily the 10 best lines, just the 10 we use the most when talking to each other and trying to keep sane.

 

First, The Best of the Rest: These didn’t quite make the cut, not because they aren’t outstanding, but because we just use other lines more.
 

The big rant where Clark calls his boss 24 names. Probably deserves to be in the Top Ten but I’ve never been able to memorize it, even though I’ve spent virtually eons memorizing more frivolous items. So I never actually use it but just sit in awe of it.
 

We thank Clark Griswold for at least taking his frustrations out on his boss rather than the lead reindeer on Santa’s cavalcade. Because even though all of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names, we doubt Dasher or Dancer had the gall to refer to the new guy as “Rudolph the Fat-Assed Reindeer,” much less “Rudolph the Fat-Assed, Bug-Eyed, Spotty-Lipped, Worm-Headed Sack of Monkey S**t Reindeer.” Though maybe they did. And even if they did, we wouldn’t repeat that in front of our kids, because, as ever, we’re letting YOUR kids teach our kids all the swear words.
 

Once again I'm required to accompany each post with a picture.

All that said, Clark himself did punch his yard ornament Santa in the face and karate chop all the reindeer’s antlers off, so maybe he would have had some choice words in the heat of the moment for Rudolph, too. Hallelujah, Holy S**t.
 

"I’d like to see if I can fumigate this here chair." Again, not terribly relevant in our house except for when one of us has gas or spills a month’s worth of old milk into it.
 

"Oh here they are, here come the nuts." As the Griswold grandparents are watching the Christmas parade on TV or sleeping through it, the announcer, played by Doug Llewelyn, (yes that Doug Llewelyn from The People’s Court and Nirvana’s “In Bloom” video) notices that the wind is blowing the Nutcracker float off course. We say the line any time there is a bowl of nuts out, because we’re small-minded. And we’ll probably say it if we’re ever fortunate to be home when our kids get off the bus after school.

 

And finishing in last place?
 

Anything anybody says during the sledding scene. Would like to see some of the deleted scenes and see if we can’t replace the sledding scene with something from the archives.
 

On to the countdown:
 

10: "We’re going to press on, and we’re going have the hap-hap-happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny f**king Kaye. And when Santa shoves his fat white ass down that chimney, he’s going to find the jolliest bunch of a-holes this side of the nuthouse."
 

OK, so we don’t really say all that, especially to our kids, but we at least start it when things are going crazy. We stop, breathe, collect ourselves, and press on. If kids are around we may change “since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny f**king Kaye” to “We’ll have the hap-hap-happiest Christmas since Rudolph the Fat-Assed Reindeer went down in history.” No, we won’t do that at all. Unless Burl Ives said it? Who knows?

9. "And I'll give AUDREY a quarter, too, Audrey."

People may look at this list and wonder how this made it, but this one simple, throw-away line is one of my favorites because it so perfectly embodies old people. Sure, senile Aunt Bethany and Uncle Louis have funnier lines that are delivered in sometimes spectacular fashion, but let's dissect these 8 words a little further.

First, in the line before, Nora Griswold is offering Rusty a quarter to rub the painful burr on her heel. And Rusty is stuck in a corner because he's been offered a woefully small award to perform such an awful task for a beloved family member. But to Nora Griswold this is big money, because she's from another era entirely, where that quarter probably gets her a down payment on a car.

It's funny because she then offers Audrey the same amount while expecting nothing in return, which is classic, old person behavior. The same people who preached "an honest day's pay for an honest day's work," and "didn't need no welfare state...everybody PULLED his WEIGHT!!" then turn around and make sure everything is exactly equal within the family, presumably to keep peace. The fact that she calls Audrey's name TWICE, with particular emphasis on the first instance, to draw attention to this act of benevolence just caps this perfect embodiment of old people. I'll do that one day and without shame.

Enough social commentary. I use this line a fair amount of time in the house, usually when I drop a coin on the kitchen floor, and kids come out of the woodwork like Hungry, Hungry Hippos to scoop it up. Strictly for sanity's sake, I'll offer a coin of equal value to the other two kids so they also have something to drop in their piggy bank. I promise you we're not Socialists. But when I give out the other two coins, I channel Nora Griswold and say,"And I'll give AUDREY a nickel, too, Audrey" and change the names. The kids have no idea what I'm doing. They'll know soon enough.

8. "Save the neck for me, Clark."

Sadly, this line is slowly sliding off the coutdown as the rest of the family catches on and family gatherings diminish in number. In the early days, before folks realized that 1 in 5 of our spoken sentences at family gatherings is a direct quote from the movie, we'd get some strange looks and some grossed-out looks like Ellen gives Eddie. Then we'd explain ourselves.

Now that people are up up to speed, they're offering me or one of my siblings or cousins the bird's neck before we have a chance to formally request it. Looks like this great line will soon have to be tucked away for good or at least put on a long hiatus, at the end of which we will no longer be getting together as an extended family, save for funerals. Long live "Save the neck for me, Clark."

7. "It's all part of the experience, honey."

Another line that doesn't get its due. As the Griswolds traipse through the forest, trudging up a hill in search of the perfect family Christmas tree, an increasingly agitated and cold Audrey's eyes have frozen and she can't talk any more. Her mother Ellen finally tells Clark, "Audrey's frozen from the waist down." To which clark dismissively responds, "It's all part of the experience, honey."

When kids are whining, bitching, moaning, complaining or when I'm doing the same at work, I'll pre-empt the complaining with an "It's all part of the experience." I try to not be as dismissive as Clark without adding fuel to the fire by caring too mcuh about the infraction. Just trying to put an end to all the whining. Especially my own.

Not everything can be simply "part of the experience," however. 'Dad, the kitcken counter is on fire!" Not part of the experience. "Honey, we may have left one of the kids back at the jumpy house place." Not part of the experience. "Daddy, he's standing in the spot I wanted to stand in and now he's looking at me." That's part of the experience. Go find your shoes. Then go find your brother's shoes.

6. "You set standards no family can live up to."

Many would think this is said about me, but I'm actually the one who uses it, to my wife, especially around Christmas, when she claims that nothing Christmas-ish can really happen until the entire house is immaculate.

Which is a joke, because kids. If Jesus is indeed the reason for the season, and the Virgin Mary decided not to have Him until the house was totally clean, we'd still be waiting for Christmas. Part of my role in the relationship is to ensure that the house is barely clean enough for Santa to come in and drop off the presents without waking the kids by tripping over their discarded toys from (literally) yesteryear. But also to try to convince everyone else not to freak out about the dishes.

Can't wait to see #5 through #1? Here they are.           

The Storm Before the Calm

          One of the countless advantages parents of this age hold over the generation before is digital photography. Another one is kid leashes, and a third is not having your kids constantly ask if Air Supply is two women, two men, or a man and a woman. I wondered about that last one a lot. But the digital photography pretty much trumps everything.

Because now we can acquire a mountain of holiday pictures in the hopes that just one makes our kids look cute for the requisite holiday card. Our parents had to pick from six. Hence, awkwardfamilyphotos.com.

This extra probability virtually guarantees at least one altogether not terrible photo, one that belies all the chaos preceding and surrounding it. Still, the holiday picture expedition consistently proves daunting, taxing, frustrating, exhausting. Here, then, are some easy ways to diminish the storm before the calm:

1.    Clothing – it’s always important to pick out the kids’ clothing the night before the scheduled picture day. This will save important time the next morning, time to be spent extracting gum from the kids’ hair. However, if the kids are dressed and haven’t yet brushed their teeth, please do NOT let your kids brush their teeth after they have put on their holiday clothes. Unless you can find another outfit on the fly or can work the dribble into a snow scene on your son’s sartorial Winter Wonderland dreamscape. Maybe smoke coming from the snowman’s pipe? Maybe a mini-blizzard on Rudolph’s nose? Your kids’ teeth are just not that important, 4 out of 5 dentists will concede.

      1a. Shoes – 78% of all families who show up late to anything do so because they were missing a shoe. Everyone knows this. Simple solution: Buy two identical pairs of all shoes and keep the second pair in your safe deposit box and hire a full-time guard. You won’t be disappointed.

      1b. Helmets – There aren’t three greater indignities in the world than banging your head when entering or exiting a car, which results in tantrums and tears by folks of any age. To minimize the impact of a kid losing his or her shit by banging their head, provide them all with helmets to wear when exiting the car. Hockey, football, astronaut, the activity is immaterial. Just wear the headgear. Do NOT mess up the hair, though.

      1c. Pajamas – Leave them at home. Your kids will love you later for it. Especially the one for whom you bought that skin-tight candy cane number. Yikes.

2.    Ventriloquism – Teaching your kids ventriloquism will pay key dividends when you’re stuck with the overzealous photographer who gets too specific with the trigger words. Gone are the days of the simple “say cheese,” in favor of polysyllabic, often gross, bluster like “say chesseburgers” or “say elephant farts!!”

Two-year-olds will try to say exactly what you tell them to, so please, commercial photographers, stop requiring them to possess a degree in linguistics to get a picture. We had the “say cheeseburgers” lady, so we came away with two dozen pictures of kids saying the “ur” part. Go ahead, as you read this, say the syllable “ur” while smiling. Look how stupid you look. We got 72 of those faces. If only we had enrolled them in extracurricular ventriloquism school, we’d have an entire album of kids jamming their top and bottom teeth together into forced smiles. You can practically hear the teeth grinding.

2a. Teach your kids it’s okay to use the word “fart” if you haven’t done so already. This will avoid the 7 or so shots where your kids are all looking to your wife with the “she said it was ok to say farts!” face. Eyebrows raised.

This tree has nothing to do with kids pictures, but I'm required by law to add a picture.

3.    Nourishment – Make sure your kids are well-fed before the photo session. If they are not, you will be forced to bribe them with a trip to a burger joint afterwards, where they will say “cheeseburgers” over and over.

4.    Temper expectations – The probability of failure is very high. Always remember what your second-grade baseball coach taught you: “It only takes one.” Not sure what that meant in terms of baseball, but it’s quite clear in terms of kiddie photography. Just get the one good shot, it’s in there somewhere.

5.    Bonus item: Don’t order the wallet-sized pictures. Hint: Here in the 21^st Century, nobody carries pictures in their wallet. There’s this thing called Facebook. Or Shutterfly. Or Snapfish. 

If you have kids and haven't gone to get your pictures taken yet, maybe some of these hints will prove helpful. If you're in receipt of one of our cards, just consider the above before tossing it in the trash. Or maybe your kids are beyond the age and you're in the "been there done that" phase, and you're jealous of all the advances in photography. Regardless, enjoy the holiday and say "Stinky cheeseburger farts!"