This Treehouse Must Go



This old moldy reminder of someone else's kids is coming down. Eventually. My poor weed whacker and its ancestors will appreciate it.

One of the bigger projects on our plate this summer is the total, definitive destruction of this treehouse in our backyard.

Yeah, yeah, I know that you're thinking. With three kids growing into the stay-outside-until-dark-and-rescue-lightning-bugs-from-no-real-imminent-danger stage, you should leave the thing up and let the kids hide out in it, share secrets in it, and hold a decade-long coming-of-age party in it. Instead, you'll just get them another imagination-sapping video game or electronic, beeping, lighty-up machine. Kids should be playing outside from dawn until dusk, not coming in to even go to the bathroom or to get a Band Aid or report a stalker. The way we did, back in the good ol' days. Your kids are going to get fat and lazy. Childhood obesity is right around the corner, even though your daughter could walk out of a jail cell without turning sideways and your son only eats 3 meals a week.

Stop thinking that. This treehouse - which isn't really a treehouse anyway, there are no trees to build it on- came as part of the property we bought in the summer of 2004. We didn't really do anything with it at that time since we had no kids, and then in the fall of that year, some 10-year-olds visiting our neighbors came over and broke all the windows in it while we were away. Beautful. That's just conjecture, but it's pretty good conjecture. Our neighbors have an annual bonfire, visible from space, on the night we turn the clocks back (extra hour to party!!) and play classic rock and argue about parking until everyone passes out. It's a real hoot. I'm sure keeping track of their kids was out of the question that night.

Though you can't tell from the photo, the land that the playhouse sits on is named (unofficially) Nature's Ghetto - it's a swampy, marshy, snake-infested glob of mud and still water that has killed three lawnmowers and four weed-whackers in nine years and offers no practical use other than to foul Dad's mood every time he tries to jam a lawnmower through that quagmire (very likely) and to potentially give us all malaria (not really likely but it sounds harrowing). And I'll mention snakes again. One day we did save a washed-up, pregnant turtle from back there and put her back into the tiny stream behind all that green. But one neat nature moment in nine years isn't going to cut it...the rest of the time it's just weeds and mud and piles of dead leaves, with a few snakes mixed in. A perfect place to build a playhouse!... so thought our house's previous owners, who must have known they would move and some other sucker would have to deal with it.

If the name Nature's Ghetto isn't doing it for you, maybe Sisyphea is better. At some point we fell into disfavor with the real estate Gods, and they sentenced me to endlessly push a lawnmower over that crap, only to have the grass grow back faster and thicker than the time before. Every winter I pray for temperatures to dip into the minus-280s, hoping maybe stuff will die, but if anything winters are getting warmer, so no luck there.

Fear not, though, parents who think I'm robbing my kids of playful experiences. A few years ago we got this playset for our kids that sits away from the dangers of Sisyphea and, since neither my wife nor I has the patience or mental wherewithal to Do It Ourselves, we just got somebody else to build the thing. It took two experts an entire morning and half an afternoon to construct it, so had we attempted a DIO venture, it would still sit today, three years later, as dangerous abstract art.  The only maintenance here is some sealing each fall and knocking down the screen-door sized cobwebs that grow there overnight. More my speed.

But I've been informed by our Secretary of the Interior (my wife) that I no longer have to maintain the Sisyphean Badlands if I just get rid of the playhouse. That's why this is such an important project. Knock down that thing and I am able to "give back to nature" by letting nature do whatever the hell it can with earth that even my kids are afraid to go near. (And I can spend more time at my desk job!) If I were smart, I'd turn this destruction project into a fund-raiser, and give people one whack with a real-live hatchet for a dollar donation, which would go to pay for the hatchet I'll need to buy to get started. I have also considered burning the playhouse down, but I'm not an expert with fire, so I'm afraid I'll lead the Today Show some day with "Breaking News: Delaware, Engulfed in Flames, our Al Roker is on the scene."

I don't wish to meet Al Roker any more than I wish to catch Delaware on fire, so I'll start with a hatchet. Maybe upgrade to a chainsaw. Stop by if you want take a few swings; I'll waive the initial cover charge.

A Big Hallmark Book of Christmas Ornaments Has Arrived!

Since hers is "Limited Edition" I hope my daughter picked out an ornament slightly more original than this.

Of course it has. Because Independence Day is practically over, and now that 2013 is officially half over, it's time to start ordering limited edition Christmas stuff in case it goes out of stock so you can hide it somewhere that you'll never look when you actually need it, which is to say the season when the jolly, fat elf gets all the credit for your foresight and preparation and awesome parenting.

Considering all the junk mail that falls harmlessly into our recycling bin daily, I was suspicious how this piece caught my daughter's eye and not the repeated attempts to get me to slash my mortgage payments in half. Wait a minute, this wasn't junk mail! My wife actually picked it up at the mall yesterday and has already pre-ordered my daughter's ornament for Xmas 2013. That blows my mind. Look, I know dads like me tend to think we can do most things just as well as moms, but this is something I am wholly not wired for, planning for Christmas while I sweat profusely and beg for my third shower of the day after cutting the grass. Something seems inherently wrong about the whole concept.

My daughter, then, has her ornament already lined up for Xmas 2013, a full 174 days before Christmas but only around 56 before the tree goes up. (Another good reason we pre-pre-pre-ordered.) It's a Wizard of Oz-themed number large enough to eat off of.  Actually, I have no idea what she's getting, but anything Wizard of Oz themed is always a good guess, whether it's Christmas ornaments, clothing, DVDs co-starring Tom and Jerry (?? We own it and I still don't get it) or the style of rain gutters to put on the house.

The amazing part is, if we hadn't ordered it by July 13 or some such meaningless date in the middle of baseball-only season, the entire line would have been sold out and Christmas ruined. Ruined, I tell you, 160 days before it even happens. Not cool. This never happens on the other holidays. Unless you tell me you've seen roadside stands just across state borders open on Christmas Eve selling bottle rockets and Roman candles? Is that not just as important?

Tonight, my daughter opened the (90-page!) catalog to the sports section and plopped it down in front of me and flatly asked, "Need anything?" I didn't know what she was showing me and what she had just said, so when I asked her to repeat, the response was an even flatter "Need anything," as if she's on her way to WalMart. But now that she has ordered her ornament, everyone else in the family has to get theirs. Wait, can't I just live through July first?

I'm sorry, but when presented with choices of who will represent my distinguished tastes on our family Christmas tree this year, I'm going to need more time. Unfortunately, the 2013 class of ornamental athletes is limited, ranging from Hall of Famers to the merely above average. We have:

Drew Brees - future Hall of Famer, holds record for most consecutive games with a TD pass. Most girls think he's cute.

Marcus Allen - Hall of Fame running back who somehow managed to lose a fumble in almost every playoff game he played in. Both the Kansas City Chief and LA Raider versions available. Most non-football fans have no idea who he is.

Shannon Sharpe - Hall of Fame tight end. Both the Bronco and Raven versions available. Has a very loud mouth.

James Harrison - Not going to the Hall of Fame. After the Pittsburgh Steelers won the Super Bowl and were invited to the White House, he accused the Prez of front-running: "He never would have invited us if we had lost." Well, DUH. Despite being a linebacker, he is shown carrying the football, which can mean only one thing.

Joe Theismann - Of course this happened.

Nolan Ryan - Hall of Fame pitcher. Struck out more hitters in baseball than anyone ever.

Bobby Orr - Hall of fame defenseman and only 3rd or 4th best hockey player ever.

How those last two got in there with a wider array of football players is a question best left for the suits at Hallmark. I'm leaning toward bagging all the athletes and just going with the standard "Second Christmas with Three Kids" ornament, perhaps made by the same people who make the people who have no faces.

One person unaffected and undistracted by all this Christmas talk is the soon-to-be four-year-old, who has a birthday 15 excruciatingly long days away. He's been looking forward to his birthday since his sister dominated the month of March with hers, so he's keeping his eyes on the July prize, which includes his request (demand) of a cake featuring Caillou dressed as a hockey player. We'll see what we can do, kid, but in the meantime don't start worrying about Christmas ornaments, there's still a little 2013 left, right?

These Are Our Dream Cars

No use trying to clean this, she'll just keep kicking me

Kids, as you probably are aware by now, are an inquisitive bunch. But if you ever feel like your kids aren't asking you enough questions on a given day, just take them to drop the car off at the shop with your spouse. Then be prepared to answer the following, at a minimum:

Where are we going?
Well then where is Mom going?
Why is Mom driving a different car?
How is Mom getting home?
How will the other car get home?
When will the other car get home?
Will Mom be there when we get there?
Are we going to beat Mom there?
Why can't Mom go in the same car as us?
Why is the car sick?
Will Mom stay all night with the sick car?
Will Mom fix the car?
Can I have a juice box?
Are they going to fix the radio?

Repeat the above list once for each speaking child in the household.

The last question may be a bit specific to our gang, since we have one car with satellite radio and one without. Every time we take the latter to get an oil change or tune-up, it is assumed among the younger set that the [terrestrial] radio will be "fixed" because "it sounds like the radio is blowing its nose." That's before we even travel through the barren radio wasteland of the Pennsylvania Turnpike between Harrisburg and Pittsburgh, when it sounds like the radio has incurable sleep apnea.

The cars in question at our house are a crossover (healthy, with satellite radio) and minivan (sick, though not "sick" in a twenty-something good way, with terrestrial radio, creaky brakes, and one remote-controlled automatic sliding door that doesn't automatically slide anymore.)

Yes, we own a minivan. The great necessary evil in families of five or more. I have nothing to add to the whole van discourse other than my Liechtensteinian neutrality. We have one minivan, and it is absolutely vital to carrying three kids and all their stuff while keeping them at arms length from each other. We don't pretend it's cool, but we do recognize that without it, we'd have needed to give one of our kids away by now. Those who go out of their way to remind me they'd never be seen alive in a minivan, it's been noted. More than once. You're welcome to sit in the back; the windows are tinted so dark, nobody can see you anyway.

That said, when child number three arrived, I had every opportunity to turn us into a two-van household, and I shied away from it. There's no need for two minivans in this family any more than there is for two rotary telephones. (The fact that we bought our first van three months before our first child was born in retrospect seems steeped in paranoid over-preparation. We had a minivan before we had a bassinette. So we could transport baby home uber-safely, then make her sleep on the couch.)
 
Instead, we got a "crossover," a vehicle that reinforces the feeling you're still really cool but without all the uncool things now associated with an SUV, like tipping over on highways and embarrassingly low gas mileage. The primary downsides to a crossover are the dirty seat factor from when your daughter tramps through her fairy garden right before entering (see above) and the too-much-togetherness factor, especially when we put the two boys next to each other, and even more now that the 1-year-old is nuanced enough to pester the bejeezus out of his older brother by kicking his arm gently while he tries to maneuver his LeapPad. Therefore, we use the crossover for local trips only, and we usually keep the youngest home on those trips, just to keep tempers under control.

Neither of these would be what most consider a "dream car," but when you grow up like I did not knowing a crankshaft from...uhhh...any other important car part, you don't really care what you end up driving, as long as your kids are safe and you can get to Point B without too much worry, especially when Point B is home. You don't need to go from 0 to 60 in any specific amount of time. Even the backs of our cars are pretty mundane...no expensive logos, no stick family lined up neatly in height order, no destination ovals, no tributes to dead relatives, no precocious boy urinating on a rival's insignia. None of that makes a car a dream car. Just satellite radio, so the radio can breathe a little, that's all anybody's asking for.

The three car-seat alignment...1-year-old (backwards) on left, where he can kick 3-year-old (middle) while 6-year-old plays with her window control

 



Scholarship Money is Available

We will, from time to time, place items on top of the refrigerator and use them as rewards or incentives for good behavior. Of course, as the kids get older, they have to do something more than just not act like jackasses. They actually have to do something, like make a significant contribution to the cleanliness of the house or save their little brother from drowning on one of those magic wands with the mysterious liquid/glitter combination. There has been a box of unearned Legos up there for over a week now, which certainly disappoints my wife and me.

Today I am upping the ante. While I won't divulge the final figures, I will offer to pay a "handsome amount" toward my daughter's college education on one primary condition. (Sources with knowledge of the situation estimate the amount to be in the $500,000 - $750,000 range, or roughly one semester of 2025 tuition at a state school, according to projections.) To qualify, my daughter does not have to clean the gutters, cut the grass, be left-handed, do well in school, participate in a bunch of extra-curricular activities, or kiss the butts of her trigonometry teachers for recommendations.

She simply has to stop talking like a baby.

That's right, I'll contribute upwards of $750,000 to my 6-year-old daughter's college fund, if she'll JUST STOP talking like a baby.

(Understand that our girl has just recently started talking like a baby every so often just to be cute. We as parents, and especially my wife as a kindergarten teacher, realize that kids develop speech patterns at vastly different rates. We're obviously not frustrated at the speech itself, just the attempt at attention. The only impediment here is her understanding that she's not as cute as she thinks she is.)

Of course, there is some fine print. She must not talk like a baby continuously from now until the day she is accepted to an accredited university, if she chooses to go to college. If she decides not to enroll in a university or trade school, I'll still pay her. Whatever. I'll start the clock and prorate $750,000 over each second between now and 2025. Every time she uses a word from the below list of forbidden baby words, the clock "resets" and the maximum amount she can collect diminishes.

This includes when she speaks to her baby brother. He's nearly 18 months old now, so we can stop treating him like the helpless blob in a baby carriage that he might have been last summer. Besides, when he's busy choking himself with a slinky, the phrase, "Did that widdle swinky-dinky get cot awound youw necky-wecky?" doesn't seem to lend appropriate gravity to the situation.

Herewith are words that she is forbidden to use in order to earn the $750,000. In typical job responsibilities fashion, the list includes but is not limited to:

Awwowed, bwoke, bwoken, cwimb, Dewaware, famiwy, ice queem, pissgetti, pway, pwease, pwobbwy, queen (acceptable in terms of a king's wife but not in the absence of dirt), sweep (i.e. sleep) swide, wast, way (as in way down to sweep), weawwy, weg, wittle, wight, wike, wowwipop, wunning, (and all forms of the verb "wun") wuv, yewwow.

In addition, we must have absolutely no more conversations like this recent one - decisions of the judges will be final:

Me (concerned, to my wife): He seemed to be running a little temperature.
Daughter: He ran a temper? Whaaaat? You said he ran a tem...
Me: Temperature.
Daughter: What's a temper chore?
Me: Tem-per-a-ture
Daughter (mocking): Tem-per-a-chore?
Me: WILL YOU PRESENTLY STOP THIS INSANITY!!

Also, on a related note, it is written into the contract that if she ever attempts to amuse or entertain anyone, including friends, relatives, or business associates with an impersonation of Baby Bear from Sesame Street, Dad has the right to void the contract immediately, without warning and without refund.

The fourth and final condition is that no backtalk is allowed. Assuming at some point she decides to forego the baby talk and the reminding me at every instance when I call her by her brother's name, the backtalk line in the deal virtually assures me a minimal payout, since teens just can't keep their mouths shut. As dads who have come before me might have said, "You gotta get the backtalk clause in there. It's your golden parachute."

So no backtalk awwowed (ah, now she has me doing it) from now until college; like that will happen. I think my $750,000 is safe, at least until we need to start pricing minivans again.

http://www.collegetocareers.com

People in Houses Shouldn't Throw Golf Balls

The other day I heard a golf ball bouncing on the hardwood floor, followed by the perhaps mistakable sound of the one-year-old blurting out "Ball?!", followed by the very unmistakable sound of my wife declaring, not asking, "What was that," in her "That better not have been something that will break my living room" voice.

The whole sequence was surprising to me. I didn't know my youngest could say "ball." (So proud.) I didn't know someone in this family could innocently toss something without breaking something important. (Who knew?) Most of all I didn't realize we had a real golf ball in the house. (I hate golf.)

Hate, as they say, is such a strong word, and I don't use it lightly. But I really, really hate golf. Not "hate" in the racial sense that makes everyone cringe, not even "hate" in the sense that a guy talks about his on-again, off-again lover as "I hate her," even though he really loves her and enjoys that sort of conquest.

More in the sense that kids hate asparagus. I took one look at golf, saw that you had to wear khakis to play it, and decided I didn't like it. Since then, as I've matured and mellowed and grew to understand new things, I hate it even more. No matter how Big the Bertha I was using, I'd hit nothing but groundballs to short and foul pop files down the right field line. I got more contradicting advice than a Price Is Right contestant, standing there with my body so contorted as I sliced another tee shot onto a different hole's green. And seriously, khakis to do all this?

Watching golf is even worse. The sport's two main characters are a joyless, pompous docuhe-stick (another word I don't use lightly) who screws women and whose only discernible skill after golf is treating the fawning media and fans with scorn and sarcasm, plus an out-of-shape, country-club flake who wears accounting visors and whines that he has to pay taxes. (Though I'd love to find my elementary school gym teacher and remind her that she taught us from an early age that "There's no such thing as a left-handed golfer.") Plus there are guys who have withdrawn from tournaments for toothaches and who have fired their entourage because the golfer himself showed up late for a tournament and was disqualified. Golfers need entourages? Blah.

At any rate, for some reason, my older boy likes it. When he watches the golf highlights, and he sees a beautiful 200-foot approach shot to within 5 feet of the pin, he shouts at the TV, "He missed it!" I had to correct him and let him know that if a golfer gets it so close, you're supposed to clap your hands like you're holding an injured baby bird and shout platitudes such as "You're the man!" and "GET in the HOLE!" Yes, GET in the HOLE! is a platitude. Later, after seeing a poor schlep flub a 6-footer for par, I asked my son rhetorically how the guy could miss that one and he told me, "Yeah but he got it so close!" You're the man, son. Keep practicing your golf clap.

While the presence of a golf ball on the premises was as confounding and unwelcome as that of a Watermelon Oreo, the fact that my younger son can say "ball" is encouraging. Also, he somehow managed, unprovoked, to say "ball" when presented with a Pittsburgh Steeler logo, even though he's lived through just one football boot camp season which ended five months ago. I have no idea how that happened. Everyone tells me that, despite all my parental efforts to the contrary, my three-year-old is "just like" me, including the unhealthy addiction to sports. I worry that I'll forever subconsciously favor him over the other boy, especially if the latter doesn't soon shake this habit of using my toothbrush to clean the toilet. "Ball" is evidence that the younger will force my subconscious to take note.

How awesome would it be to have not one, but two boys who love sports? Even if they play the normal roles that I see in two-boy households. Although it's strictly empirical evidence, I see in most cases where the older boy takes the games so seriously, identifies favorite teams, memorizes all the players' stats and trades the team makes, and then lives and dies with that team each season, while the younger boy understands the game but can't remember any players, knows none of the stats, and maybe openly roots for a rival team just so he can taunt the older brother. I'd take that. Of course with an older sister around who dances and plays the violin, they'll not dodge some of the finer things in life. Both of them have taken an early interest in music, so we won't raise two complete sports-nuts. I don't think.

So go ahead, boys, watch as much golf as you want, but please stop throwing the golf balls in the house, for your mother's sake.