Peanut Butter and Mustard

GoodSearch...for your cause

2009-01-23T22:47:00.002-05:00

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Here's the web site — http://www.goodsearch.com. You can also read about GoodSearch in the NY Times, Oprah Magazine, CNN, ABC News and the Wall Street Journal.

We Found a Wounded Owl...we're told not to feed him anything (not even Tootsie Pops)

2009-01-17T23:12:00.006-05:00

When we were driving to Lori's parent's house tonight, we saw in the middle of the road what looked like a big cat. It was dark and hard to tell, so we turned around, because it didn't seem like it was moving. When we got back to where it was, it had hobbled onto the edge of the road. Come to find out, it was an Owl!

Someone had probably hit it, because both wings look to be broken and one of it's talons is also caught in the shoulder part of a wing. We had a horse blanket in the back of the car, so we carefully wrapped it up, and put it in the back of the warm car. We called the state police who said they'd call the game warden.

We didn't hear back after about 20 minutes, so we called the troopers again and the desk sergeant said he left messages for folks, but took my cell number and said they'd call me. We carefully drove with the owl in the car, and called a vet clinic for advice. They told us about keeping it in a box with towels, keeping the bird warm and the room dark and quiet. They also said we should contact our nearby natural science institute, the Vermont Institute of Natural Science (VINS), so we left a message.

The bird is sleeping right now; it's night and they're nocturnal, but I think he's sore and whipped. So we'll wait for the call from VINS in the morning. For now we'll let him sleep and hope he'll be fine.

~ JON

I've Been Busy...Same Child, Different Day

2009-01-11T09:04:00.005-05:00

I haven't posted in a while for several reasons, but mostly because I've been working on a blog to promote my booklet. Please click here to check it out when you get a chance.

Thanks,

Jon

We're Planning Our Supper Table...who would you invite?

2008-11-21T23:37:00.005-05:00

Okay, I've been thinking about this for a little while; maybe this can be interesting. If you could invite anyone to supper, have anybody you want sit at your diningroom table, who would it be? And of course, why? Would they be somone who is pretty to look at? Controversial? An image-maker? Somone you just want to unload on or is worthy of your praise and adoration?

I have probably 10 or 15 people I would invite for one reason or another. Some are famous, others not so much. Here's my short list of three I would invite. These are not all of my picks, or even the ones who take the top three positions necessarily. They are just three I can think of right now. Oh, and I would be careful who sits next to whom:

1) Michael J. Fox ~ To be honset, I don't know why I have always wanted to break bread with MJF. He just seems like a real, likeable soul and would be someone interesting to share stories with.

2) Marie Osmond ~ She wouldn't have to even talk to be a compliment to my table and a welcome vision. Every 50-plus-year-old woman should be so fortunate to have Marie's genes (and personal trainer).

3) Mahmoud Ahmadinejad ~ He wouldn't exactly be someone to invite to a dinner party, but for a one-on-one supper I think I'd like to hear what he has to say about us. I'm curious to know why he really hates Americans (personally, I think he lost a substantial Super Bowl bet). I think I could offer him a few suggestions, too, 'cause I'd be more than happy to take a shot at that Nobel Peace Prize thing.

I have more I can add...I'm curious though who you would invite to your table. Do you have three that stand out, good or bad? Be serious, give examples and have some fun. We'd all like to know, so comment below.

~Jon

Sorry I Don't Call More

2008-11-21T22:28:00.005-05:00

I don't call my family enough. Mom, Guy, Phil; sorry I don't call more. I was thinking about it today and realized, if I could call more, I so definitely would. I feel bad when I can't call you guys, but sometimes the kiddos don't even calm down until 9:00.

I know you aren't complaining --- you naver have. I just wanted you to know that we're always thinking about you, even when we can't make a call.

~Jon

Sorry...I goofed

2008-11-17T00:15:00.003-05:00

Okay, I messed up...if you were subscribed to this blog before, would you please do it again? I thought the subscription site had discombobulated all your email addresses. But come to find out, when I changed the title, I was the one who mucked everything up! D'Oh!

~Jon

Kids...my absolute favorite toys

2008-11-10T22:26:00.009-05:00

I would never pick on my kids...I mean, that would just be wrong. They are younger, tend to be defenseless, and are way to easy to get a rise out of. Wait, did I say never? Okay --- I admit, there was this one time...

Kaleigh was in the shower, which I though was a fine place for an unexpected prank. But she was apparently getting too old, wise and (frankly) less fun about the whole "dumping cold water on the head" thing. She'd scolded and warned me more than once that I had better not do it again. I guess I had subconsciously given in to her wishes, as I hadn't dowsed her with the gift of chill in what I would say was a couple years. But it had also been that long since she had been the object of a prank (OK, maybe I had picked on her a couple of times before).

Anyhow, here's what happened from her perspective: She got out of the shower, had dried off and put on her long night gown, but didn't have everything she had gone into the bathroom with. When she called out to us asking where the rest of her belongings were, I was nice enough to tell her she had probably left them in her room.

Wet and chilly, she bolted from the bathroom, through the kitchen and living room, then down the hall to her bedroom. As she made the right turn into her boudoir, she was abruptly stopped by some inhumane, unexpected and downright clever force-field that bounced her back into our room across the hall. Honestly, from somewhere that was NOT her point of view, it was downright hilarious.

However, the young girl (who stopped acknowledging that I was her Dad for the better part of a week) didn't find the plastic wrap-barrier nearly as comical as I did. I have to say that it really was quite funny, though I pretty much find comedy at someone else's expense to be more entertaining than if I were the brunt.

Anyhow, she asked that I not share this story with anyone else. So please, be kind and respect her wishes. Kaleigh doesn't want the whole world to know, and would appreciate your understanding.

I love you, kiddo!

~Jon

Same Child, Different Day...on Autism Speaks

2008-11-03T22:58:00.005-05:00

Well, how do you like that? The booklet has actually "gone" somewhere! There's now a mention on the Autism Speaks website about Same Child, Different Day in their resources section! I hope this means good things! I guess we'll see.

Thanks to everyone!

~Jon

Cry Myself a River; then Build a Bridge...and get over it

2008-10-27T15:42:00.006-04:00

Thin skinned? Maybe a little. I mean, usually I can take a joke. I pretty much have to, as much as I dish them out all the time. So why then would a puny, minor, INSIGNIFICANT one have gotten past me? Heck if I know. All I do know is that by taking the joke seriously, I embarrassed myself worse than the accusation itself had warranted.

I try to visit Kaleigh for lunch once a week. My office is about three blocks from her school, so I can walk there in pretty short order, get a cheap lunch, watch my favorite 11-year-old show off a little bit, and take a leisurely stroll back to work --- all within an hour. What I never expected was to run into a 26-year-veteran of the school system with a sense of humor.

I was enjoying my school-grade cheese burger (I love school burgers, by the way --- honestly!), sitting with KM (Kaleigh) and her friends; listening to who’s going out with whom, why Wayne (Punky) is mad at my daughter, Tanya complaining that she didn’t want Charlie sitting with us and the fact that Megan is the meanest bully in school because she pushed Natasha into a door 6 years ago. Tanya --- who by Vermont rules is actually a direct relation, because she and KM both have 60-year-old third cousins who are married to each other --- decided it would be cute to tell one of the teachers (the 26-year-veteran) that I’d hit her.

Now, I never saw her smirk, and I didn’t know this lady’s sense of humor. So, when she said she had written up a teacher a while ago, that I’d be forgiven this one time and that it might be my last time to visit my daughter for lunch (all with a strangely serious look about her), I was somewhat concerned. This is 2008 after all, and there are undercover mandatory reporters lurking everywhere. No longer able to discipline our own kids because they’re encouraged to tattle on parents for the slightest infractions, and that a kid had now accused me of hitting, I was prepared to be sitting outside the principal’s office, as if posing for some twisted Norman Rockwell “30 Years Later” painting. I really was now worried that our gossip-filled lunches were on the endangered species list.

It bugged me so much that I waited for the teacher on the playground. No, not with doubled fists or my gang surrounding me. I just wanted to talk to her. Jeez.

To my comfort but more so to my extreme embarrassment, she told me I was seriously overreacting. She assured that she’s known for her teasing and that she did in fact write up a teacher. But it would seem that it was because he was picking on her about the spookiness of Halloween and she accused him of harassment (oh, how we laughed). It was only done in high-spirited, though somewhat strange fun. Ah, the Holidays.

So anyhow, this one of the few times I let my skin become more transparent than the joke I was the brunt of. It happens.

~Jon

It's Always the Same Question..asked so many times over and over again

2008-10-22T12:12:00.006-04:00

Anyone who has kids, or who has ever been one, knows that the same questions can be asked over and over and over again. And parents, tired of repeating the same, monotonous answer (and not usually armed with the tape recorder they are always threatening to use), may in turn conjure up creative (née obnoxious) responses.

Scenario #1
Kid (anticipating arrival at the amusement park): "Are we there yet?"
Dad: "Does it look like we're there yet?"
Kid (not many minutes later): "Are we there yet?"
Dad (not amused): "I'll tell you when we're there."
Kid (determined to get a straight answer): "Are we there yet?"
Dad: "I never knew you were so excited about getting your school shots!"
Kid: "That's not funny."

Scenario #B
Kid (watching mom brushing her teeth): "Are you brushing your teeth, Mom?"
Mom (with a mouth full of toothbrush): "Dush it loox lyge I bruffn my teef?"
Kid: "Why are you brushing your teeth?"
Mom: "Why?"
Kid: "Why?"
Mom: "Z."

So, every morning that Lori heads out the door to exercise or I head for work or go ANYWHERE without the kids, Madison never fails to ask, "Where are you going?"

Our response has become, "Crazy. Do you want to drive?"

Well, twice, she's used that against us. One night Lori and I were having a Big People Night, and Madison asked the sitter, "Where did Mommy and Daddy go?"

Jenn replied, "They're went out for a little while."

Madison asked her, "Did they go crazy?" That got quite a laugh.

Then just this morning as Lori was heading out the door to Curves, Madison asked her, "Are you going crazy, Mommy?"

Lori just laughed. Especially when Mad followed it up with, "Can I go crazy, too?"

Aw, honey. That's sweet. You're already driving!

~Jon

Taken Out of Context...and slapped on a shirt

2008-10-19T22:22:00.012-04:00

I've recently been on a kick and can't seem to shake it. Not drugs, alcohol, smoking or Soaps --- I either don't believe in, can't afford or don't like the effects of any one or another of those anyhow. No, this is simpler, less expensive and more legal (though somewhat more obnoxious) than any cliche addiction, anyhow.

When someone utters a comment that's a little bit "off color", people have been known to follow it up with something like "that's what she said". And with fortune cookies, you may be familiar with the somewhat naughty little follow-up phrase that can be added to any of the observations you read from the ribbon inside.

Well lately I've been obsessed with thinking how some out-of-context phrases would look on t-shirts. I admit, it sounds slightly "commitable" (not a real word), but if you'll let me explain, I think it's actually pretty funny (though that's subjective, because I can often find humor in misery as well ---as long as it's someone else's, of course).

For instance, today someone asked the question,

"Did you see what I did to the monkey?"

I thought that random phrase printed on a t-shirt would be hilarious. Imagine the looks you'd get --- or the weirdos who'd have to know what it is the wearer did to the unfortunate simian.

What about:

"Get your tongue off the air conditioner"?

That one's from a list I'm creating: The 101 Weirdest Things I've Said/Heard Said to Kids. And on a t-shirt, that would make for some interestingly contorted faces on the part of the readers.

But there's one I overheard that I can't even qualify. To try to explain it would actually make the statement worse. Pulling it out of context is more fun than explaining the circumstances surrounding the comment. Simply said, I think this tag line on a t-shirt would be priceless (though you'd be hard-pressed to sell it on the open market):

"Good news; I just found out I'm not infected."

Have you (honest and truly) ever heard anything that, if taken out of context, would make for a funny, naughty or unusual t-shirt? As truth is stranger than fiction, please only comment if the observation was actually spoken in a regular conversation ("making up" funny isn't as funny as truly funny). Post your ideas here for others to read.

~Jon

Careless and Negligent Parenting...revisited

2008-10-13T00:34:00.026-04:00

Anyone who knows us knows that our children are our lives. We do everything for and with them and would never harm nor let harm come to them. But you would also know that we have to make modifications daily in our lives where our kids are concerned, as well.

For instance, when Nolan is napping in the car, we let him nap --- it doesn't matter if we have to drive around for an hour; otherwise we just might face a melt down that would make Krakatoa proud. And it isn't always practical to run all the errands for the entire day during the four short hours they are at school. Sometimes the kids come along.

When they are with Lori, or even with us as a team, dragging them along through the entire chore is a Mission: Not the best idea. Take for instance doing laundry: Right now we're at the mercy of laundromats, so a once-a-week shot is the most practical. But dragging four baskets of laundry along with our two high-maintenance waifs, then keeping an eye on them while we load washers can turn that piece from a five minute visit into a sweat-breaking event.

We use a laundromat which fortunately has a close parking lot that hugs the building, and also has lots of large, sunny windows pointing at the cars. And we're also fortunate to own a van equipped with a factory-installed DVD player, which has proven itself useful dozens of times. So for the brief stint the parent has to be filling the washers, our kids can sit in locked, seat belted, air-conditioned, SpongeBob comfort while never being out of our sight for a minute.

And on a day like today, when the kids add the extra layer of falling asleep while we were on our way to the washing machines, Lori and I decided to tackle the task as a team. It was only a 62-degree day and you don't wake Nolan up from a two-minute nap. You just don't.

Well who knows how it happened? But before we could say Tide with Bleach Alternative, we were briefly introduced to the life of Ellen "Treffly" Coyne (EarthTimes: March, 2008). A marked, white and blue Crown Victoria was pulling in along side our van, and from the look on his face, it was clear the officer wasn't there to Woolite his unmentionables. I was at the policeman's door before he could finish standing, and he greeted me with a "They yours?".

Apparently some concerned, well-meaning (and I'm sure, better) parent called the local police to report that we were neglecting our sleeping toddlers. Contrary to the encounter suffered by Mrs. Coyne though, I was lucky to have met with an understanding, forgiving officer who reminded me that sleeping kids still can drive off in locked, keyless minivans. I swore we'd be more careful.

Believe me, I'm not stupid about the things that can happen to kids in cars: succumbing to oppressive heat; bad people who steal kids and sell them on eBay; being taken on joyrides by thieving teenagers who just can't be trusted. Seriously, I know there are bad people out there. We warn our 11-year-old about them all the time. I guess having special needs kids, I see things differently.

Maybe, because our senses are on such high alert, we think we're always being diligent. But at the same time, things don't happen for all families the same way; and an outsider looking in might think they see something that isn't really there. They just don't have the full story.

I don't know. While I can see why someone would report unattended kids sleeping in a car to the police, I can assure you that these are not neglected children. Just the opposite: they were in the car because we love them.

Think what you will.

~Jon

Have Some Consideration...'cause you aren't that important

2008-10-12T00:57:00.012-04:00

I was seriously contemplating whether or not to even write this post. The subject seemed so petty in the light of such pertinent current events: a hemorrhaging economy; an election battle the likes of which we may never see again in our lifetime; Angelina’s controversial magazine cover (pleeeze!). With such spine-shaking news as that, it’s a wonder I could consider something as trivial as this post. But then I realized: It’s my blog; I can do what I want!

Besides, this has been bugging me for --- one could easily say --- much longer than it really should. And it’s your fault I’m writing this anyhow. Sorry, not you per se. I mean, I like you. I’m talking about the other “you” out there who’s not you --- I’m talking about the “other guy” (or “girl” --- there’s not gender specificity, here.) Okay, okay; you’re getting me off track. Keeping me from getting to the nitty-gritty, the heart of the matter, from making my point.

Here it is: Park between the lines, people! (What? What did he say?)

That’s right; this post is all about spacing your sheet metal ego evenly between the painted parking lot markers. It’s as simple as that. For some reason though, you (and now you know who you are) can’t seem to absorb the theory or grasp the rationale behind “one-space-per-car”. That or you just can’t freaking drive; and in that case, your one-ton missile should be parked in a secure-clearance area to which you have zero access.

But honestly, this is about so much more than spatial perception. Few of us are forced to negotiate vehicles larger than the standard 9 x 16 foot stalls found in most parking lots. Unless the label on your selected mode of transportation heralds a manufacturer like Peterbuilt, General Dynamics Corporation, or Boeing, chances are you can get that bugger pretty much square between the white marks.

My guess is that the only thing keeping you from doing it is any combination of your over-inflated sense of self-worth, your over-inflated impression of your car’s true value, your over-all laziness and/or your over-all lack of concern for everyone else who has to park there, too. Wait a minute. It all comes back around to that, doesn’t it? You care too much about yourself to worry about whether or not someone else might need some place to park. “Let ‘em find somewhere else; screw ‘em if they can’t take a joke,” right? You are such a special little princess.

The only ones worse than you are the people who park in handicap spaces, with no license plates or tags giving them said permission. Honestly Sparky, when were you besowed the privilege over the person who really needs that spot? Oh, you’re just running in for a minute. We’ll then, take your time. No, no; really. I’ll just wait right here behind your car for the space my kid needs but you don’t. I don’t have anywhere else to be.

Oh, wait, I almost forgot. Here’s a news flash too, genius: That hash-marked area next to the handicap space? [Leans close and whispers] That’s part of the handicap space. You know; for vans that have ramps for --- wait for it --- wheelchairs!

But this goes waaay beyond the parking spaces. Really, it does. Think about it. If you would be that inconsiderate about typical parking and handicap spaces, how are you when it comes to someone accidentally stepping off the curb in front of you? Do you just cuss them out, or do you think, Hey, it’s all right, guy. Accidents happen? Do you clean up your dogs poopie after she deposits it on someone else's lawn, or do you consider you're providing them free fertilizer? You more than likely are the mental midget who throws a lit cigarette out the window of a moving car, too. Out of sight, out of mind (Whoa, a forest fire? I was just driving down that stretch of road today. That's where I flicked my...OH! Never mind).

What about when that Crackberry or ear-hangy-cell-phone-receiver-thingy rings while you’re in a restaurant? Do you take it outside, or do I have to listen to your conversation about your boss’ bad breath, too?

And while were on the topic of inconsiderate [wipes feet on soapbox], let’s talk about that deep bass music. Oh that thumping bass! Now listen, I’m not opposed to you enjoying your music; I’ve been known to crank a song or two, much to the unhappiness of my kids, who think a pumping rendition of Aerosmith/Run DMC’s Walk This Way is less enjoyable than I Wanna be a Puppy Dog. As if. But at the same time, when from five cars back your pounding über-subwoofer is rattling my van’s mirrors and making my CD skip, what’s the point? Really, I’ll subscribe to your car’s sound system directly if I want to hear your music.

I’ll call you when I'm ready. You can talk to me from your Civic that’s double-parked in the handicapped spaces. If you can hear the phone ring.

Really. Just park between the spaces, ‘k?

~Jon

Careless and Negligent Parenting of a Child

2008-09-20T23:57:00.012-04:00

I was thinking about a news report I heard recently, and realized what bad parents we must really be. A mom named Treffly was busted a little while ago for leaving her young, sleeping child alone in a locked, alarmed car while she dropped about nine bucks of change into a Salvation Army pail less than thirty feet away. She was in view of the car the entire time, but was gone long enough for the cops to arrest her for putting her youngster in such treacherous danger. Just think of all the ways a sleeping, seat belted toddler can get into mischief in less than 2 minutes.

Then it dawned on me that over the summer we repeatedly, deliberately and neglectfully placed our own children in harms way, and left them to roam out of our immediate control. I'd suggest that someone call the authorities on us before we spiral out of control. How careless we have been to not see the danger sooner; our poor kids are lucky to be alive. You see, at least twice a week this past summer, we sat in a shady park on a bench that was placed almost 50 feet away from the playground equipment our wide-awake, unsecured children were climbing for hours!

Based on the accusation of the police in the linked article above, we were even more neglectful than the Chicago mother. At least she was only gone for two minutes, the mother was twenty feet closer and the kid was seat belted and locked in an alarmed car. There were times we even took our eyes off our active children for a minute or two while we read pages in a book. Alas, the things that could have happened to those poor kids while we were recklessly attending to our own selfish pursuits.

And, it might be a good idea to set up surveillance, a sting operation or just bring out the paddy wagon on any given sunny Saturday; because the parks and playgrounds are rife with law breakers just like us. It will be a wonder if any of these children live into their teens, what with parents who just don't care.

Oh, and there have even been those times that I have gotten out of my running car and left my sleeping children inside and parked next to the door, while I ran into the video store to return a DVD or two. From now on I will wake my sleeping, 50-pound, autistic three-year-old and his wiry, hyperactive sister, slide open the doors on either side of our mini-van, unbuckle and pull each of them out of their seats so that we can march to just-inside the swinging door for the less-than-ten-second deposit of our movies, then reverse the order and hope they drift off again.

Granted the dislodging of the kids will take several-times as long as the errand itself. But at least they won't be able to jump into the driver seat and race off to California in the meantime. And for the playground: If you don't turn us in, I promise we'll never let the kids play so carelessly ever again.

~Jon

What's in a Name?...I guess I'm never happy

2008-09-20T23:38:00.006-04:00

So, I wasn't happy with the previous name of this blog; it's as simple as that. I like this new one much better and it really describes better what's going on here. The contradiction of the two is delicious.

If you're interested in the reference, I'd be happy to share. Otherwise, please let me be the first to introduce to you: Peanut Butter and Mustard: The Blog.

~Jon

Walk Now for Autism...until next year

2008-09-15T23:37:00.008-04:00

Well, the Walk Now for Autism in Westfield, MA was a great time. We met a lot of new people and I got to hand out a few booklets. All told I think we collectively earned around $65,000, and our team (For the Love of Nolan) gathered about $400. That was about $600 shy of our $1000 goal, but still what you can call respectable.

The parking was a little far, but after dropping Lori and the kids off, there was a shuttle back; so it wasn't too bad. Lori and I got t-shirts for our fund-raising efforts, though the t's my brother and sister-in-law made are better and we wore them instead. Finding the walk start wasn't real clear, but we just followed the crowd and found where we needed to be.

I have to say that Stanley Park in Westfield is a beautiful place to hold any event, let alone a fundraising walk. The gardens and bell tower are absolutely gorgeous and there are fountains, flowers, pavilions, playgrounds and cook pits galore. Every city should be so lucky.

We were led by Geoffrey the Giraffe to the starting line, and we stood for less than five minutes; fortunately we had met some very nice folks and made conversation while we waited. Then there were were a few introductions and speeches by some local celebrities and members of Autism Speaks, and it wasn't long before we were on our way.

The walk itself was smooth and easy-paced. Along with our own team members, we had people to talk to along the way and when we got to the sidewalk along the main road, cars honked their support. All-in-all the walk portion of the gathering didn't last much more than a half hour; but we didn't realize the number of participants until we were almost back to the starting area. It was then that we saw the end of the procession just rounding one of the corners as the front of our parade was heading to the start/finish line. A mile of walkers was impressive!

Back at the staging area, lunch was provided by Subway. I felt guilty when we took four grinders for the five of us. The organizers let us know that there would be more than enough food for everyone. We were told to fill our plates and pockets with all the beef jerky, Slim Jims, Bachman Puzzle Pretzels (in honor of Autism Speaks), Corn Nuts, apples, bananas, Now and Laters, Combos, and various other candies and snacks we could handle. We were even asked to please take a box of grinders, snacks and fruits home, but with a three-hour drive ahead of us, we only took some bananas and apples.

Anyhow, after lunch, we bought a few autism awareness trinkets and socialized a little more. But the function started to take a toll on all the kids, so after four hours (a pretty good stretch for our gang), we were back on the road, headed for Vermont.

To be honest, while we had a great time, met some good people and raised some money, I think we could have done better. Next year, we'll have a pre-fundraiser fundraiser. Who knows? Maybe we'll be able to devote more time, if things keep going well. No matter, until next year!

~Jon

About that Project...Same Child, Different Day

2008-08-30T08:17:00.008-04:00

Wow, that was something! My project is done and now I'll be able to get back to this for a while, that is until the next endeavor rolls up on me.

I've just completed and printed my first official, serious, revenue-generating writing project. Its a 50-some-odd page booklet entitled Same Child, Different Day: One family's experiences during the first year after a child's autism diagnosis. It shares some useful facts as well as some of our first-hand accounts with regards to our son and his condition. I hope it will be helpful to the community-at-large, and look forward to the opportunity to offer our experiences and hope to other families like ours. Here is a short excerpt from the handbook:

"Now that your youngster has been diagnosed and a "label" has been given to the lack of speech, eye contact and social interaction you’ve seen over the last several months, it’s time to prepare yourself for the year ahead. The first thing you need to realize is, there’s one thing that’s the same today as it was last week: this is still the exact same child you’ve held when they were sick, snuggled with when they were tired and adored since they were born.

~~~~~

This is one constant that will never change; not over the next year or into the next decade. Nothing about your child has been altered just because they were diagnosed with this condition. You will however, have to prepare yourself for some diversity in your lifestyle. To help you along, let’s first introduce you to a short list of words, phrases and professionals that you might come in contact with over the next few months."

If you are interested in reading more or know someone who might benefit from this guide, please send an e-mail to: jongilbert@rocketmail.com. Thanks and be good.

~Jon

Sorry...but I really HAVE been working

2008-08-24T08:24:00.001-04:00

I know I've been away. But this project has turned out to be much more time-consuming than I thought it would be. But that isn't a complaint. I think the end result will be fabulous. I will be back soon. E-mail me if you want to know what's going on.

~Jon

Over a week without a post...I must be up to something

2008-07-24T12:59:00.004-04:00

I haven't written or updated for 10 days. I've been working on a project. Thanks for the patience and I'll be back shortly.

Fire Safety...please check this link

2008-07-14T15:12:00.004-04:00

Hey, a friend recently wrote a fantastic post about fire safety. I think it's informative and important enough to post a link here. Please check it out.

A Typical Day...guess I shouldn't complain too much

2008-07-09T13:40:00.006-04:00

Today was an example of how things seem to go for us on a daily basis (not that I'm complaining --- I mean, I am breathing, after all).

We left the house on time...ahead of schedule actually. We wanted to run by the credit union before taking Nolan to school. There was time to get gas before hand, too; well, there should have been. But I live in my world, so I should have known better.

We pulled out of the credit union and figured the convenience store closest to Nolan's school would be the best. Besides, they're usually pretty cheap, all things considered, and today was no different. At $3.99, they were the second-cheapest place in town right after what we call "The Indian Place" - as in the nation, not the true discoverers of North America - (www.gasbuddy.com calls the gas station: "Independent, West Street"). The right side of the pumps were free, too, so I thought: yea for me.

I let Kaleigh help, but found this to be one of the "Pay First" places. Cash in hand, we went inside to prepay, but not before we were cut off by a family buying road snacks. I just wanted to hand the cashier my $40, but she insisted that she couldn't take it, saying that she'd already started the other party's order. No big deal. I know my place. That is, until I heard one of the Road Snack Family kids yell, "MOM, where the heck are you? We're paying!". Sure enough, Mom was at the back of the store still selecting her juice or milk or malt beverage --- whatever it was she needed at 8:55 in the morning.

Well, since Nolan had to be to school by 9, we beat feet and headed to class. Sadly, I am afflicted with Temporary Road Rage --- temporary because it only happens when I get mad in the car. I wasn't real happy, and my tires let the pavement know it. yeah, i could probably use a prescription.

It was fairly uneventful at school, except that Nolan had kicked off his shoes and yanked his socks off. Who doesn't? Once the boy was re-shoed and in class, we were off to get the sought-after "inexpensive" liquid gold (actually, I think gold is trading for less today --- time to change the monetary standard to gasoline........or MILK!).

We headed toward "Independent, West Street", having all but forgotten Road Snack Family. That wasn't to say my TRR was in remission, which soon recurred when we came up to the two detour signs at the next intersection. We wanted to go south west to get to the Indian Place, and wouldn't you know it: the roads going both South and West were closed. Oh, Happy Day!

Well, right it was and we were quickly moving along toward the next intersection --- away from our destination. I don't recall what it was I was saying under my breath, but I can remember my wife's expression out of the corner of my eye. She was gritting her teeth, I'm sure holding back telling me to just get over it. Impossible, woman! Don't you realize the plight we're in???

We somehow made it to the main (read: Four Lane) street, coming out at a point where I wanted to go left, but the damn traffic was insisting I go right some more. No one would let us in to go left, and I didn't want to fight with them. Okay, I did, but I wanted to also be allowed back in the house. I decided: Sure I'll play your game --- "right" it is.

Eventually the cheap gas station was in sight. We had made it. The Holy Grail was within reach. My wife told me later that she was hoping there were no lines or problems at the station; I realize now she jinxed me. You see, sure enough, there was a line on the right side of the pumps, and the lane on the left (of course), was closed; a big orange traffic cone blocking both ends. I'm sure they were in cahoots with the highway people who detoured us earlier.

I didn't say a word; somehow I was able to bite my tongue. I simply turned around and headed toward another station in town. We ended up getting gas after all. And my terrible, awful, unfortunate day was quickly brought into perspective.

There on the counter was a flyer with the face teen girl, a girl I know a little bit and had seen grow up since she was nine. She's been missing since July 5th and her family is worried sick about her --- including her own little thee-year-old girl.

I guess my day's been okay so far.

"Twofer" Monday...now about that walk

2008-06-30T14:49:00.005-04:00

I love it when I can get two posts in one day (it's actually three)!

As I mentioned here, we'll be striking out on a Walk for Autism in September. I had one blog friend already post the announcement on her blog. Since she was good enough to do that, if you would pay her a visit and tell her 'thanks', I'd appreciate it.

Please click here to donate or sign up to walk with us, or email us at kmmvnm3@yahoo.com for more info.

Thanks again.

Tagged...I was tagged by Lauralee

2008-06-30T14:24:00.004-04:00

Okay here are the rules: You link back to the person who tagged you, Post the rules on your blog, Share six unimportant things about yourself & tag six random people at the end of your entry. Enjoy the result!

1. I love to write (I stole this one from Lauralee)

2. I could eat Shepard's Pie almost every day

3. Much to my wife's dismay, I'm a car freak (and can name 90% of them by their headlights/grilles)

4. Jon = Fishing

5. There's a BB gun in my sock drawer

6. I like to "indoor mow" (yes, I know it's called vacuuming)

I tag StacyRenee, Kim, Alicia, Agata, John, Toni

Walk for Autism...or donate

2008-06-23T15:43:00.004-04:00

As I mentioned to everyone in an email May 15th, we have two and a half months until Nolan's Walk for Autism September 13, 2008 in Westfield, MA. We've had two online donations and two cash submissions so far and as of this post we're only $925 from our goal of $1000. Not too bad. At this rate it should only take us (if I've calculated correctly) 62 more weeks to reach our quest, or October of 2009. We'll only have missed our mark by a year and a month! Exciting stuff; pretty exciting stuff.

Seriously friends, we know gas prices are high, and the cost of cigarettes for you smokers are through the roof. But if you could find a way to squeeze out even five more dollars for our walk, we'd be most appreciative. We know the donation page has a minimum of $20, so if you're only able to send a buck or two, we welcome cash and checks as well (the off-line donation form can be found here).

And if you're feeling adventurous, like to walk, don't mind a two hour road-trip and would like to join the team, click here.

We don't see a nickel of this money; it all goes to the folks at http://www.autismspeaks.org/. I won't bore you with the fact that 1 in 150 kids in the US is born with autism, that there's no proven cause or cure, or that autism therapy can have out-of-pocket expenses of more that $50,000/year.

I'll just tell you that we'll take what we can get. Nolan would tell you thanks, if he could.

Happy Father's Day...to me

2008-06-15T23:26:00.003-04:00

Today was one of the better Father's Days I can remember. And we didn't do anything. That's not to say we didn't do anything, just nothing newsworthy. I got up about 7:30 while the rest of the house was snoring peacefully. I started up a game of Rollercoaster Tycoon (my favorite PC game) and played for a half-hour until Madison got up. She sat on my lap and giggled at the wild coasters, wanting to see them all make their loops and twists.

After breakfast, we sat on the floor and built marble towers: tubes, ramps, windmills, and funnels of plastic that you build as high and crazy as possible, then send marbles careening down. The kids stayed entertained for almost two hours as we built and rebuit the creations.

Then, when the kids passed out, I thought what a wonderful idea. So naptime it was, and Lori and I slept for what must have been at least three hours!

We then got up and all slipped out of the house for creemies (soft-serve ice cream cones, if you're not from around here) at the Village Snack Bar. Then it was back to the house for burgers, a movie (Ice Age: The Meltdown) and not much else.

It was a nice, quiet, uneventful day. I hope yours was the same.

That's Not Something You See Every Day...and Madison will be so mad that I told you

2008-06-05T00:50:00.005-04:00

For the most part it had been a pretty good day. My family went to Six Flags in Agawam, Massachusetts a couple weekends ago, along with one of my brothers and his family, and my mom and her friend. By the end of the day we had had enough, which was made more obvious by all the whining and complaining and carrying on. But my mom can get like that after a long day ;-)

Anyhow (before I get scolded and sent to my room), we were at the end of the park and we walked by an area I hadn't seen before. It looked like a miniature petting zoo, except that all the critters inside were smoking. I had never seen animals smoking before, so I figured it was something else.

Yup, you guessed it: the smokers had their own pen. And how much more "on display" could they have been? With a waist-high wall and all huddled together like new born chicks in an incubator at the fair, they were more an exhibit than park guests. All that was missing was a little coin operated dispenser at each end, spilling out a handfull of mini-cigarettes for you to share with the hungry creatures. Careful, open your palm flat, or they might nibble your fingers

So this is where we had our 'incident'. Madison had decided that she, too, had had enough. Unprovoked (in our minds; but for all the right reasons in hers), she started wailing and screaming. For a four-and-a-half year old, no reason is needed to melt down. It was just time.

She was crying hard and we thought she was going to make herself sick. There was no consoling her as I bent closer to the stroller to try my best at being a good father. The audience passing by us was surely casting their own judgement. Go pet the smokers, I thought. And here's a quarter for the dispenser. Watch your fingers.

"What is that," Lori asked, pointing somewhere to Madison's middle.

I turned to look, and it appeared as though Mad had in deed made herself sick, but not by throwing up. Instead, on the front of her shirt was a smear of something that looked like it should have been taken to a rest room.

"Oh my gosh," I said. "She cried so hard, she pooped."

Well, that was my first thought, anyhow. But after we got her to calm a little (and after investigating the most likely 'area of exit'), we realized that there was no way she had gotten 'butt muffin' on her shirt or any other part of her body. So what was the source of what was obviously something that had 'been through the system'?

While cleaning the little kid up, we noticed the substance was whiter than what we were used to, and had an odd consistancy as well. It then hit us (well not us --- it actually hit Madison; but it did occur to us) that it was poop. And it was a sign from above. Well, a bomb from above or something like that; but it had come from above no doubt.

Yes, we realized then and there it was true: our daughter had been pooped on by a bird. Let me say that again more slowly: she...was...pooped on...by...a...bird.

I just thought I'd tell you that.

Singing Soprano...now I know what they mean

2008-06-01T00:38:00.009-04:00

Okay, this one is painful to talk about; mainly because it hurt so bad. I've heard stories about pain like this and can only imagine that its something close to what a woman goes through while giving birth. I can't for sure say that it's the same thing, but it has to rival the discomfort. Let me elaborate.

Nolan was in the back room watching television. I heard him carrying on, whining and moaning that the movie had stopped. When I got into the room to help him out, he was on the floor in a dramatic display of my-world-is-over drama. To rescue him, I slid a Blue's Clues tape into the player, then proceeded to help my 45-pound three-year-old to his feet.

As he was getting up he lost his balance. This is common for Nolan: something stemming both from his autism and the fact that he's a klutzy toddler. Well, as he started to fall back down, his free hand swung out to grab whatever was in front in order to compensate for the temporary vertigo.

Well, hello and anchors away; he found something to steady himself. And as if you couldn't see this coming, that something was attached to me. For anyone unsure of the anatomical arrangement I'm referring to, there's a well guarded and overly-sensitive packet of equipment in the lower reaches of the male machine. This set consists of three distinctly separate pieces, though two parts match each other fairly identically. It was one half of the matching set that was being used as a lever/pulley/crane/handhold.

Simultaneously as my loving son was pulling his miniature hulking self up, I'm told I let out a screech that sounded somewhere between I'm having a heart attack and Oh my gosh, the electrical current from my licking of the power socket is coursing through my limp, controlless body. I don't remember hearing anything as all power had been switched to handle the overload that was coming from my pain receptors.

Lori and my daughter Kaleigh came to the rescue, only to find me curled in the fetal position, tears carving my cheeks and my hands instinctively forming a force field around the lower middle of my body. I still couldn't hear anything, though I could see their mouths moving and I could make out the concern on their faces. Oh, and I don't think I was breathing.

Life soon returned to my body and I was able to limp into the living room. My wife kept asking me if I was okay, and when I realized I was not permanently paralyzed from the waist down, I was able to assure her that I'd be fine.

I did learn something: the human body is amazingly pliable and is probably made out of some type of space age memory-material. Otherwise I would be walking quite differently and I'd be grotesquely misshapen. Oh, and I learned never to do for a child what they can and should probably do for themselves. It was, as they say, a painful lesson.

The Stolen Lawn Gnome...gnome more Mr. Niceguy

2008-05-20T23:53:00.005-04:00

Here's an example of one of those things that define the unexplained nonsense we've experienced throughout time: Somebody stole our lawn gnome. It's one of those things that has made the dysfunction of our lives colorful. I mean, the little ceramic elf was inconsequential. We didn't get him as a wedding gift. He wasn't a hand-me-down from my great grandfather. Kaleigh didn't make him as a school project. Heck, he was even homely.

He just sat at alongside our walkway, under an accent light and hunkered into a pile of red mulch. He didn't do anything. He just sat there looking dazed and forgotten, the last lawn ornament in a line of other decorations that greet the guests to our door. He was always leaning or falling over, like some drunken ceramic doorman who could care less who you were or that he was facing skyward.

What gets me is, he was our lawn gnome. He wasn't even the closest decoration to the sidewalk; someone had to purposely walk onto our pseudo-front lawn to snatch him up. That means some good-for-nothing took the time to case our dilapidated old apartment, waiting for the opportune time to pounce on the little guy. The solar accent lights and the nymphs on rocks were somehow spared, though I'm sure the trauma of watching the gnome-napping has them lying awake at night, just waiting to be the next unfortunate victims.

I'd put out an APB, a BOLO, a BYOB or any other acronym if it weren't for our neighborhood. You see, any one of these so-called neighbors that could have taken this clay-fired trinket are none that I'd confront over such a trivial thing. They're the type that, if I walked on their lawn to take the guy back from them (if I found it), I'd get socked in the jaw. Never mind the fact that they aren't the rightful owners. No sir; consider it my fault for leaving the stupid thing out over night. That obviously shows my lack of care for front yard maintenance and, despite the lack of a "free" or "please take me" sign, I had clearly left it for any and all comers.

These are the same sorts that skateboard down the middle of the street at 11:30 at night or honk car horns at 5 a.m. to get the attention of the person in the house 15 feet from the driver's door. Heck of a walk. I bet you could have gotten out of the car quietly to snatch my lawn gnome, couldn't you though?

It's clearly my fault for wanting a decorated oasis on an otherwise rundown desert of a street. I hope he looks nice on the new owner's lawn and they aren't using him to help pick up chicks. He's not that kind of gnome.

(If you have information concerning the whereabouts of our missing gnome, please email us. And remember, we want your information, not your name)

The Fire Drill...you can't say I didn't listen

2008-05-08T12:39:00.026-04:00

If you can't make fun of yourself, you shouldn't make fun of anyone. So I humbly admit that for as far back as I can remember, I've been a dolt. Oh sure, you can easily point out that children can be, by there very nature, as sharp as a marble. But I think since the dawn of my own existence I have from time to time been, um, hmmm --- how can I keep from hurting my feelings? --- let's just say: the dullest crayon in the lamp.

I'll be happy to elaborate.

The year was 1972. My mom was into hot pants and halter tops (sadly, there are things you just can't "unsee"), my very strict dad owned a successful service station, my brother Guy was almost two and I was in the first grade of Park Street School in Palmer, Massachusetts.

My teacher was Mrs. Fairy and she was, to put it simply, mean. I'm old enough to recognize when somone is just doing their job. This one was looking for some kind of humiliation award. And I remember that she was famous for employing "the corner" as her favorite form of first grade riot control. After you had spent the day pillaging kindergarteners and you were exiled to said corner, the rule was to stand still, hands at your sides ---no leaning --- and do not, under any circumstances, leave that corner unless so-directed by Mrs. Fairy herself. She just was not a nice lady.

Now being a typical boy who was always looking for recognition, I would brag to my friends when I thought I had accomplished anything I found noteworthy. No matter how trivial or simple, I sought approval (okay, so some things never change). The problem was that I would harp and hound, and relentlessly share my achievement with anyone unfortunate enough to pass within radar distance: my classmates, the lunch lady, some poor soul who happened to be getting gas at my dad's shop. And the more approval I feasted on, the more I craved. It wasn't healthy.

So unhealthy was it, that it affected the wonderful relationship I had cultivated with Mrs. Fairy. You see, one day I began the feast slowly; after learning how to write a few letters in cursive, I thought I knew them all. I remember asking anyone who would listen, "Want to see me write my name in cursive?" Or I would tell them, "This is how my name looks in cursive." I showed everyone. Each and every student in Mrs. Fairy's third grade class learned my name in cursive. Even after the teacher had asked me to stop, I whispered it one more time --- want to see me write my name in cursive? Apparently, that was one more time than she could take.

"Mr. Gilbert," --- (Mrs. Fairy was nothing if not polite to all of us --- we were all referred to as Mr. or Miss Whateverthelastname) --- "please find yourself in the corner." That's what we'd have to do --- 'find (ourselves) in the corner'. I would like to think that she was encouraging us to take a life-defining journey while standing on display in the front of the room. She wasn't; she was just being mean.

So I 'found' myself in the corner, standing still, hands at my sides ---not leaning --- and prepared not to leave, under any circumstances, unless so-directed by Mrs. Fairy herself.

That is, until that bell sounded.

It wasn't the recess bell; it wasn't time for recess.

There was only one other bell it could have been, and kids from kindergarten through high school instinctively know and have looked forward to that bell to give them fifteen minutes of unexpected, welcome, fresh air. I don't ever remember thinking about the impending inferno we were supposed to practice dodging. It was just another small burst of chalk-free air. Heck, sometimes --- once the kids get old enough to think of it on their own --- students themselves have been guilty of liberating the masses. Since the consequence for this type of thing in 2008 is much stiffer than "the corner", I wouldn't suggest anyone try it.

Anyhow, there was the bell; and on instinct the entire class lined up like soldiers at the door and filed like ants, past the cardboard flames and teachers pretending to be firemen. Out onto the front lawn and into the welcomed air spilled Mrs. Fairy's first grade class, to be head-counted and critiqued on their evacuation abilities. Then it was back into the classroom for another critique on yet another poorly attempted escape.

What a sight, when the class returned to the room. Though no one spoke aloud, each student giggled to themselves when Mrs. Fairy found herself saying, "Mr. Gilbert, is there some reason you didn't join us for our Fire Drill?"

Tears streaking my face, I whimpered, "You never told me I could leave the corner."

It was her rule, not mine.

This May Sound Crazy, But...I think someone's watching you

2008-05-06T12:44:00.012-04:00

Once I started blogging, I noticed two things right away: 1) that there really was no focus, direction or purpose for writing this blog other than writing for the sake of boring you, & 2) I have an incredibly odd, normal-challenged family. That's not to say that just my wife, my kids and I are candidates for some type of team-based, long term psychological intervention; I also mean that I can see where my extended family could use some time in padded rooms with lots of coloring books.

There's something just not right about the two-dozen or so people I care to include in this circle of not-so-right-in-the-brain-bucket people. They are family and I love them, one and all. I wouldn't include them or care to mention them otherwise. I find no fun in getting a rise out of someone I don't care about; mainly because my gentle, subtle sarcasm toward them would come across as just plain mean. Not that mean can't at the same time be funny; as long as it's at someone else's expense. But this is family and frankly, they know where I live.

So, I still don't know exactly where this is headed, but at least I'm on the road now. I don't need to make up things about my life and the family that's chosen to have me in it. This stuff will write itself, I'm sure. If you are family or a dear friend, be forewarned --- you may actually find your name in print. Unless you can find a way to keep under the radar. But I don't know what good that'll do ya. I've already known you this long; there's probably something I know about you already that I'm working on sharing with the world.

And if I don't know you yet, but we become friends, you can consider yourself safe. That is, if by "safe" you mean you make yourself an open target for blog posting material that I can use at my own whim, discretion and pleasure then yeah, you're definitely safe. And oh, the things I want to share.

To be fair, my first post in this reawakening will be about me. If you can laugh at me, you can laugh at you. God knows, I laugh at you all the time. You don't seem to know, though.

That's the funny part (for me, anyhow).

Please be patient...

2008-04-30T15:03:00.005-04:00

...I've been working to improve things and will be back shortly. As you can see by the updated title, the new blog will be more focused, have a fresher scent and will be crunchier, even in milk. In the meantime, stay tuned, sip slowly and brush in a circular motion.

Finding Time to Write...it takes up so much time

2008-04-22T13:17:00.008-04:00

The first novel I ever started writing was titled “Gone Hunting”. I was a freshman in high school and I couldn’t put my pencil down. It was supposed to be a combination murder-suspense-horror-police procedural thriller about a slew of hunters killed in the same area of Vermont over a period spanning 15 or twenty years. Being a kid and craving recognition, I let my father read the first three chapters of the Vermont-dirt-road-rough first draft. He simply said he liked it, yet to get any kind of positive feedback from my dad was world record book-worthy, so I knew the book signings were only moments away.

That novel, once completed and published was to (somehow) spin off a post-civil war epic. I figured I would have plenty of time to figure a connection between the two, especially considering all the Bill Gates-like residual income from “Gone Hunting” that would allow me to complete high school part-time and forgo the otherwise obligatory summer employment all together. Well, that never happened.

Over the ensuing years I would write, but “seriously” would not be the best adverb to use about my dedication to the craft. The closest I got was a historical fiction/sci-fi series that was inspired by my kids’ curiosity and ability to get into mischief. I got about 40 pages into the work, when I started to find lots of other stories that used many of the same elements I was using and had been for some time. Somehow I seemed to be writing exactly the same thing as everyone else. That was frustrating.

The kids were soon getting bigger and needed more or less maintenance, depending on the season, school activity or illness-Du-Jour. Because of limited time, short stories took a front seat for a while. I submitted works to all the magazines and contests I could find for a while. The closest I ever got to publication was in a now-defunct novice short story writer’s magazine (Beginnings). I have drawers full of completed and half-completed shorts, and an uncountable number of titles and ideas for others.

Oh, I did get one piece published. It was an op/ed article for our local news paper and, at the risk of patting that shoulder too hard, it was pretty good (read about it here). But that one piece did not end up being the door opener I was hoping it would.

It’s not that I don’t want writing to pay the bills; I’d like nothing more than to spend the hours of my day perfecting characters, researching new locations and signing copies of my latest masterpiece. I really would like to be able to use the word “seriously” when I describe my writing style and not be apprehensive when I refer to myself as a writer. I buckle down when I can and where I can, but without fail Life manages to lean in and ask, “what about me?”

“Well,” I tell Life, “if you’d give me the time to polish this young reader’s series, then I’d be able to give you all the attention you need.”

“But I need you now,” whines Life, fluttering its puppy dog eyes.

“I know. I know. You’ve been so good to me, what with that whole ‘letting me be alive’ and all.”

Then Life and I smile at each other, we hug and I turn off the monitor one more time. Next, I’m off to help Lori with the dishes, pick Kaleigh up from Boy’s and Girl’s Club, help Mad find the ‘whale’ puzzle piece and make Noney stop banging the damn bedroom door.

Then I hear Story quietly sob, “what about me?”

I'm Not Really Getting Old...I'm just acting my age

2008-04-14T13:18:00.010-04:00

It's said all over the place now that 40 is the new 20. Well, if that's the case then last May (2007), I finally turned old enough to drink. Funny; it wasn't the big event it was rumored to be --- or that I remember it being. No one took me out to get me plastered. There was no invite to a "gentleman's club". As a matter of fact, when I recently bought a nice bottle of wine, the girl at the register didn't even look at me long enough to ponder whether or not she should ask me to produce an ID card (c'mon young lady; the law says if I look 35 or younger, you have to ask me for ID). The only explanation I can think of is that she wasn't doing her job.

And anyone 22 (even the second time around), might be upset at missing the big party held by co-workers the previous weekend. I was told that there was drinking and dancing and all manner of bumping and grinding. I vaguely remember when something like that sounded like fun or at a minimum, worthy of being on the guest list. Heck, at one time I would have liked to have seen a picture of me tearing it up at a sioree like that --- a picture I didn't even remember anyone taking at a moment I don't remember happening with my arm around someone I've never seen before.

Why is it then that I don't have the slightest itch at all that I missed out on this particular celebration? And what about the part of me that's somewhat glad I missed the drunkenness, the potentially incriminating photos and inevitable hangover? I now find the definition of "party" to be something that includes barbecued chicken, a pick-up softball game and no chance of a visit by the City's Finest. I don't know when that happened or what happened to change it; I certainly don't think of myself as old.

I still go sledding in the winter. I watch cartoons. When I'm in the car, I can be accused of listening to music too loudly (because I want to, not because I need to, smartypants). I even know how to text message. And a couple weekends ago, Lori and I went dancing with my Mom and her companion. She acted 44; she's going on 64. That gives credence to the whole "x is the new y". So it would be hard for you to convince me that I'm any kind of fuddy-duddy, codger or prude.

Why then wasn't I jealous of all those others in my office who found delight in a party fraught with glazed, bloodshot eyes, communal groping and over-strength drinks? I think it's no different than lima beans. At one time I found them unappealing and they made me choke just by taunting me from the plate. Now given enough butter and salt, I actually find them enjoyable. Hard partying was that way for me at one time; enjoyable, given the right conditions. I even met my first wife at just such a gathering (I'm sure that's just a coincidence).

Now that my tastes have changed, I don't find marathon drinking to be the thrill it was back then. I'm not saying I'm opposed to downing a few cold ones. A little alcohol provides a certain camaraderie you can't get from iced tea, water or Shirley Temples. And partying as a group --- the right group --- is more fulfilling than the desolation of drinking alone. I'm just saying that, I don't think I find my coworkers' combat festivals as appealing as I once thought they were.

Now, if you don't mind; please get off my lawn.

Dr. Phil's Writing Advice...I'll take that with a grain of salt, please

2008-04-10T22:59:00.006-04:00

Just a short post today ... I wanted to get this out as soon as I could because it's bugging me just a little.

Dr. Phil (McGraw) was airing a show today featuring "Marriage Dilemmas". One awful sort is a guy who hasn't worked for 10 months. His mom passed away and left him some money, so he decided the smart thing to do would be to quit his already-menial job and start writing his zombie novel. That part's probably a little dramatic...I write every day and haven't found the need to throw in the towel where putting food on the table is concerned. Couple that with the fact that the guy has been writing --- he says --- four to five hours every day. Allowing for weekends, that would be 20 hours per week, on the low side. Writing just one page an hour, that would mean he has written the equivalent of 800 pages...that would be a hefty tome, even if he was at the end of his second draft.

But I think what bothers me more than the admittedly-uneducated lazy bones toiling away at video games and avoiding chores (the other part of his marriage dilemma) is the fact that the beloved Dr. Phil suggested to Mr. Jobless that, for his fiction work, he should not have started typing the first "It was a dark and stormy night..." until he had written his book proposal and sent it out. He shouldn't have put a pencil to paper without sending out the book's 'business plan' first.

Dr. Phil told the would-be author that he and his family have published now on 9 books, and not one of them was penned until someone had accepted the idea for the book. I have to say that I would venture to guess all the selections in the McGraw Family Book Club are non-fiction works. I tried a Google and Yahoo! search and couldn't find one book by any member of the McGraw family that is of the 'story telling' flavor. Several are New York Times best sellers and I think Dr. Phil himself at least (I haven't read anything form Dame Robin or Sire Jay), is a competent author. But I couldn't find anything heart-racing or romantic; comedic or fluff.

As I said, the aspiring author's story is to be of a zombie variety, though I doubt it is a self-help manual for those with sleep disorders. I belong to a few website groups for writers and have many writer friends. I even have been known to write a little, myself. I have met very few in the fiction arena who would submit the proposal before the novel is penned. Why would Stephen King have stifled his muse by consulting with a publisher before writing Carrie (according to his 2000 writing 'guide' On Writing, he did not)?

What I guess I'm pointing out, be it that the guy should get a job or not, is that I think Dr. Phil dispensed some unresearched advice in this particular instance. I'm not talking of the marriage counselor, La Hacienda, nanny cam type. Phil normally gets those right on the button. This is more of a wrong direction type of suggestion. Dr. Phil has some of the facts, but not all of them, this time.

Why does it matter in the Grand Scheme of Things? It probably doesn't. I'm just saying...

Our Independent Kaleigh...I guess it's a good thing

2008-04-08T12:34:00.011-04:00

I don't want my kids scared of their own shadows, but at the same time I wish they could understand that sometimes the rules we make are because we love them; not in spite of it. Kaleigh isn't as religious about hygiene at this point in her life as we would like, so "brush your teeth so we can see you doing it" makes sense to us. She probably can't understand why we are giant freaks who enjoy watching her froth at the mouth, then expectorate her days-worth of tooth fodder into the slimy porcelain. We just want to make sure she keeps her ivories until she's paying her own bills; then she can grow plants in between them, for all we care. And "to bed at eight-thirty" may seem like a gentler version of terrorist torture to her. I just don't want to have to deal with physically propping her up with a broomstick in the morning and the ensuing hell-hath-no-fury-like-a-preteen-with-no-sleep attitude for the rest of the day.

If she has trouble with those two rules (and lo, those are but a selection of the milder ones we "burgermeisters" dictate upon our household citizenry), then you can well imagine her disdain toward our "No walking by yourself through the streets of town" ordinance. She's only ten, for Pete's sake. Granted, when I was ten I was riding my 10-speed hither and yon, through all the towns bordering Palmer, Massachusetts and points beyond. But this is not 1976 and (please prepare yourselves: this is a Double-Standard Alert) she is not a boy.

I don't want feminist slaps in the face and I think Hillary would make a fine president. I'm talking about the fact that she is my little girl. We are truly raising her to be an independent young lady; someone who can change her own oil and open her own jars. But when it comes to protecting her from the proverbial Big Bad Wolf, I'll bring out my ax and start a'swinging! I like to think we've taught her to make good choices. The question comes in when I don't know how well other people were taught.

We've given her a code word and tell her to yell "Fire" if someone gets strange with her. She has her own cell phone, and when she's needed it, it has been handy. She doesn't abuse it, but we bought her a prepaid, just in case. But I'll be honest with you, I don't want her to ever have to use it. If I knowingly let her take a stroll along the shortcut to Grandma's House (or Wal*Mart, in this story), I feel I'd might as well just text the Mr. Badwolf and tell him she's on the way. There is a 50-yard stretch back there that has been the site of vagrants and every manner of drunken teenager. Even I had the unfortunate timing to witness a man get stabbed in that very spot.

I'm not saying that this is New York City by any stretch of the imagination. We live in a generally peaceful little burg called Rutland, Vermont; circa 17,000 townsfolk at the foot of the Green Mountains. Our city still has a couple general stores and manure marinated tractors idle almost daily at the traffic lights. We don't even have a Starbucks as of this post, so we can't be all that civilized.

But there are sickos wherever you go, and that plot of land by the empty Amtrak station is as good a place to avoid as any other you can think of. I don't see any reason why I should serve the lurkers my oldest daughter. I know that the likelihood of that happening are probably in the win-the-lottery/struck-by-lightning/snowball's chance range, but I don't see any reason to play those odds.

That doesn't keep my adolescent debater from arguing the point. Her delusions of invincibility are frightening and her bravery is absolutely uncalled for. But from the day I scolded her some sevenish years ago and she responded by telling me "I'm not scared of you, you know", should have been my cue that people would not be her phobia; not even big, scary, bearded Dads with an uneven temper and the power to vote her off the island.

I guess I shouldn't be too worried though, not nearly as much as I would be for anyone unfortunate enough to get Kaleigh in their clutches. For as innocent and vulnerable as Kaleigh seems, it would be short order before anyone with ill intentions rushed to return the high maintenance, expensive, argumentative princess. The unrelenting barrage of demands for Littlest Petshop figures, dollar store trinkets, and chips and dip would bring any would-be infiltrator to beg for mercy. The continuous pouting and whining to stay up for just thirty more minutes, the stomping and slamming, and "that noise she makes" (a simultaneous combination of clicking the tongue off the palate, a deflating exhale and a muffled "Gaaawwd") causes even us --- her parents --- to completely fill our ears with marshmallows, our winter parkas, and any available sofa cushions.

Maybe I'm the one who's scared; not of boogie men or the aforementioned Big Bad Wolf. Maybe I'm afraid that the independence we gave her is something she might actually want to use some day. Wanting to walk by herself through someplace I think is a little sketchy might be her way of proving to us she can do it; indirectly telling us we did a good job. Maybe she's just exploring and testing her own limits. Maybe she's just an almost-teenage girl.

My parents didn't have nearly this much trouble with me.

True But Funny Things Said to Kids...you'll just have to trust me on this

2008-03-22T16:29:00.011-04:00

Woohoo! A two-post day. I just wanted to share some more "True But Funny Things said to Kids". Here are nine more:

How did you get cat food stuck in your nose? (Yup, it happened. And to Raymond again this time)
Quit smelling each other. (Who knows why boys do what they do?)
No, you can not have gum for breakfast. (This was the sweet little Kaleigh about five or six years ago)
Crayons are not food. (At one time or another, I probably said this to each and every one of my kids --- but I definitely said it to Ethan)
Who put the cordless phone in the refrigerator? (We still don't know)
Did you put the remote in your toy box? (This was not long after the cordless phone in the fridge)
Quit kicking the back of my seat! (In the car --- and it was my dad who said it to ALL of us boys. I got my revenge though; I said it to him many years later when we were taking him and my mom for a ride. Sweet)
Don’t share your toothbrush with the dog! (Heard a friend tell his kid. It wouldn't have been so bad if it went kid first, then dog. It didn't.)
Clean the cupcake out of your backpack. (Raymond & Kaleigh, many years apart. Man, it was disgusting)

For the post of the first nine, please click here

My First Successfully Published Piece...not exactly job security

2008-03-22T12:39:00.016-04:00

I have been writing for now going on, well, um --- I almost put a number in there. In all that time, my fortune with publishing has been limited to one newspaper op/ed piece that I wrote some seven months ago. I'm proud of the article and at the risk of breaking my arm patting my back, I think it's a pretty noble work. The editor of the paper thanked me for "writing a piece that elevated the page." Nice.

In my own egotistical mind however, I took this to mean more than it did. A couple of weeks later, when I coincidentally came across a classified ad seeking a reporter for the same paper, I naturally assumed they meant me. After all, I have been practicing writing for almost "?" years --- nee, decade(s) --- and now had one whole whopping published piece in my portfolio. What more could they want?

Well, I was about to find out.

First I have to lend a hand of thanks to my reporter friend Lauralee Stephenson who was vital in helping me secure that interview. She beat up, tore apart and fine-tuned my cover letter, and I don't think anyone at the paper would have given me the time of day without her editing services. But that merely got me through the door; the rest was up to me.

I learned two things during the interview. First and probably foremost, writing is not reporting. I found that out the moment I told the editor I'm a writer. This clearly was a mistake, showed my inexperience and slapped me right upside that pesky ego. According to Mr. Editor, there is no argument that I write well enough to be allowed to use that title (more arm stretching and blushing). Actually, I feel its safe to say that anyone named "Writer" must be a bit of an egotist. Why else would we think anyone would want to read what we have to say in the first place?

But he made sure I realized that writing is the words on the paper; 5% of the task. The other 95% (and for that reason, the title of the career) is the reporting; the researching, digging, finding the story within the story. My mind floundered, looking for a way to pad this part of my resume. I don't think I was all that convincing.

Which leads me to the second lesson learned. Just because you became 'pen pals' with the editor over one freelance piece, does not mean he'll remain that way during the interview follow-up. Editors are busy people; there's no doubt about that. Even for a small-town newspaper, I would guess that this position offers a 12-ish hour day. I mistakenly led myself to think that the editor and I had become so thick, he had so few interviewees and I had made such an impression, that he would have time to respond to my repeated requests for an interview follow-up. No employer can call back every candidate; that ego of mine thought otherwise.

So for the time being, I guess I'll just keep pounding the keys and continue plain, old writing. I'm no longer trying to ride the coat tails of that one piece; you can see how that has worked out for me thus far. I'll just keep working on children's stories, twisty short stories and that yet-to-be-completed novel. Being a reporter would have gotten in the way of the writing, anyhow.

Access the archived article here, or e-mail me at jonthestoryteller@yahoo.com and I'll be happy to let you read it or any one of my short stories for free.

He ain't misbehavin'...but I'll let you know if you are

2008-03-19T00:25:00.008-04:00

Okay, this is more is an epidemic than I thought. The problem is, I don't see a cure; not considering that the people most infected are those in the health care profession already. If there's no hope for them, I'm afraid all is lost. (For related stories, please click here and here)

I'm talking about the insensitive nature of people and their reactions toward our autistic son, Nolan. People just don't seem to be able to step out of their own worlds to look into the worlds of others; or they are just unwilling. And I'm not talking about taking over our lives by any stretch of the imagination. But would it be so much to ask for folks to avoid jumping to conclusions at the first sign of conflict with a child?

The kids were great today. Things probably would have been a little better had Kaleigh joined us for the trip, but she had school and all the unbreakable social obligations penciled in by any ten-year-old. All-in-all though, the day went off without a hitch. We had to take another trek to Burlington, which is an hour-and-a-half journey for us, usually once a month or so. The ride was uneventful, though Madison did make it the whole way (plus an hour or so) without wetting the Pull-Up. This is a big deal for her, as it was only last weekend that the potty training really clicked.

Anyhow, to make a long story even longer, the drive was good and we got Lori to her appointment with time to spare. Nolan would also be meeting with a doc, but not for several hours. As we waited for Lori, I decided we'd explore what areas of the hospital we weren't afraid to go. That would include, but would not be limited to elevators, stairways, automatic revolving doors and balconies.

The whole time they held my hands and walked with me, never trying to run or stray or leap three stories to the lobby floor below. There were a couple of times that Nolan would grab on to a fire extinguisher door and I'd have to refocus him, but for the most part they were both awesome.

That's the same story for lunch. We visited a nearby Chili's and, even when there was a wait for some grub, Nolan did nothing more than mark up the glass with his greasy palms. Other than making a cut-and-dry evidence scene for a CSI investigator, Nolan's only other 'mischief' --- so called --- was when he screeched a couple of times. But I have to be honest, not a single patron asked to be moved, made a sly comment or offered to pick up our check if we would just head to the car. It was a nice change, but more expensive.

But as I said, Nolan hadn't been to his appointment yet.

By the time the afternoon was creeping up on us, the kids had had their fill of action for the day, and we could feel the strings around their behavior loosening. Nothing came unraveled, but any parent, whether of a special needs child or not, can feel the warmth of a meltdown as it rises above your patience; I was getting out the sunblock. I even offered to Lori that I take the boy into the appointment and she could stay in the waiting room with Madison. She declined.

In to the exam room we went, and so did Nolan's control. By this time there were just too many light switches, shiny drawers and cabinets to be ignored. I tried washing his hands; we offered up a cell phone; we even tried to read him a book. It was no use. He had energy to burn and it was going to be burned before he left this office. Oh, if he could only have waited ten more minutes.

The doc was quick and told us that, as we had suspected, Nolan would be needing his ear tubes reinserted. That is to say, he's been having difficulty hearing. To go one step further, being that we were in the office of an Otolaryngologist, and since he has been having trouble hearing, it would only make sense to say that he probably has been having a time trying to understand. Couple this with the fact that, as has been said time and time again, the boy has a neurological disorder known to many as Autism. I have pamphlets.

All of the above facts had apparently snuck past the illiterate nurse at the scheduling desk. As Lori and I were trying to arrange a practical surgery visit, Nolan found another fire extinguisher door. He wasn't playing with the extinguisher inside and we were almost out of the collective hair of the office. But the nurse took it upon herself to wander to the other side of her desk, insert herself behind us and take ahold of Nolan's arm; I'm sure she was gentle.

"Listen to me," she told him. Okay, the first mistake, aside from the 'touching' thing, is the phrase 'Listen to me', even if Nolan could hear just fine. "Stop playing with that. You're going to pinch your fingers." Mistake #2: she obviously never read this.

I'm sure she meant well, but this nurse dealt with Nolan like he was a misbehaving three-year-old who got what she was saying, and that we were oblivious, let-him-run-free-in-a-diaper-and-baby-Birkenstocks parents. We are not. I simply said to her, "He doesn't understand a word you're saying to him."

I don't know if she thought I meant 'he is deaf', 'he speaks Serbo-Croatian' or that she was making tribal clicking sounds only audible to canine and certain desert beetles. Regardless, she stormed off in a huff, never to be seen again; that is, for the brief three minutes we were left at the desk. I would have explained.

We decided when we got back to the car that the occasional passer-by in Hannaford's or Chili's that makes an inane comment can be greeted with silence or a polite comeback. Be forewarned though; from now on, anyone who has decided to join the medical or mental health community needs to have their compassion honed and their radar up and operating. If you think for a minute that from this point forward that you're going to get away with comments about my or other children without first thoroughly researching the subject matter in front of you, you need some remedial training.

And I'm just the guy to give it to you.

Horton Hears A Who...but he doesn't hear the kids

2008-03-15T00:14:00.013-04:00

Lori is with the kids all day long. Except for when I come home for dinner and after work, she's with them all the time, all by herself. I'm with them a lot, too, but at least I get a break by going to work. You know what I mean. So it's a matter of need when we plan a night out, alone; without the kids.

Sure, there are parents out there who'll tell you they can be with their kids 24/7 without a care in the world. They home school them, spend the rest of the night with them, then even co-sleep with them, as I've heard the phrase. Nary is there a time they're without their precious little ones.

My thought is, that's not fair to us. That is to say, to my wife and me or to the kids. We can use a break as much as the kids can use a couple of hours away from the tight-fisted benevolent dictatorship that is my parenting. So tonight --- as is the rare occasion --- we took about three hours to ourselves. It was hardly like we locked them in a running mini-van with the DVD player spilling out SpongeBob SquarePants. We just wanted to see a movie.

Looking forward to the night as I was, I made sure to announce to everyone that we were going to neglectfully go see a kids movie --- dare I say --- without the kids. I even sort of rubbed it in my daughter's face when I picked her up from the Boys and Girls Club. She didn't believe me. I don't know why that was...I've never pulled her leg before. Honest.

We chose to go see Horton Hears a Who over 10,000 B.C. I love the Seuss book, and the animated TV movie from my childhood was decent enough ["Boil that dust speck. Boil that dust speck"]. With Jim Carey, Steve Carell and the ageless Carol Burnett in the key roles, we though what could go wrong. It started to go wrong when I thought I was putting one over on my daughter.

The movie was weak, the characters were one-dimensional and predictable and the comedy wasn't comedic. I heard people laughing; mostly kids, but a few grown-ups. Don't get me wrong; I really like comedies and thought Shrek the Third, Cars and Ice Age: The Melt Down were as good for adults as they were for kids. I think you'd be hard pressed to get your kids interested in this Seuss movie.

Horton seemed to be as lost and out of place as a people living on a dust speck on a clover flower. Jim Carey was not at his finest, though his subdued demeanor was welcome compared to his take on The Grinch, a movie I particularly liked. Comedy is always better when its shared with someone, and that goes for the characters as well. I know that Horton was mostly on his own throughout the storybook, probably to make a point about his plight. His sidekick in this case was 'sort of' the Mayor of Whoville, but I never felt that the Mayor was 'with' Horton, like Kuzco to his Pacha or Donkey to his ogre.

There was a five minute action sequence, but it felt added on. And the bad guy was the typical, bumbling goof famous for really being a coward not following though on eliminating his target as directed. What can you say about a bird that can't get away from a 10-ton elephant? And in the next to the last scene I thought for sure my "boil that dust speck..." chant would break out. Alas.

Well, at least the night finished well. We checked with the sitter and, since the kids were 'being haive' as my Mom would have said, we were off to get some munchies and a drink...not get obliterated, but to have something other than crackers and Kool-Aid or apple juice. Applebee's was too crowded; not a parking space available. So we hit the 99 in the Green Mountain Plaza. We'd come to find out, that was supposed to happen.

I've been looking all over town for a place that can pour a Mojito. No one ever has mint, so the elusive drink has always been just out of reach. If you've had one, you know why I wanted one. If not, 99 is the place to try your first. The sweet lime and mint concoction was perfect, and in a flash I was basking in the sun, a cabana boy named Pedro was rubbing oil on Lori and a steel drum banged out Bob Marley's Three Little Birds.

When we were done with our crab cakes and boneless chicken wings, it was back to reality. We headed for the car, scooted back to the apartment, dropped the sitter at home and before we knew it we were changing diapers, giving meds and fighting for sleeping space. It was dread---er, uh---BEDtime. No matter that the quality of the movie was less than we expected and even if I hadn't found the awesome Mojito, we had just spent three hours without our darling children.

Though when we walked through the door, Madison had greeted us with, "Thanks for coming home." That's one of the benefits of a night out alone, I guess.

Celebrity Authors...It's not who you know, anymore.

2008-03-10T23:16:00.009-04:00

If you're already famous, then this story is for you. Wait, who am I kidding? If you're someone famous, why would you be reading my piddly little blog, anyhow? Nonetheless, I'd like not-yet-publishing-focused celebrities to give me just a minute of their time (maybe two --- I might get on my high-horse).

If you've made your fortune by your thirtieth birthday from the silver screen, dribbling a basketball, wrasslin', your satin vocal cords or any number of other money-flooded, red-carpet-invitation avocations, please keep your day job. And when you have the dying need to branch out and regale the world's children with your thoughtful insights in the form of a picture or story books, please do me just one little favor: don't.

Though you may be a cat-like vixen on the runway who thinks that telling children to hold hands while crossing the street is a good idea, please save the lecture for your nephew. If for some wild-eyed reason you get the inkling to put pen to paper and attempt to craft that story into a meaningful dialogue between a mouse and a teapot, I urge you to take a lap or sing scales. Though I'm sure some profit-minded publisher will be happy to throw another $100,000 your way in the form of an advance, you won't be doing the children of the world any favors.

Oh, Mr. an Mrs. Parent may find a space for you amongst their eclectic library of celebrity magazines and hide-the-veggies cookbooks, but I'll be hard pressed to believe they bought your tome out of love for their kiddos. I'm sure you have a moral to share and want to build a story to suit that moral. That's noble and I applaud that effort --- beats rehab and pictures of you with smeared make-up and missing undergarments. But I'll be wondering if you put years into crafting, deleting, revising and perfecting a tale that puts story in front of a tiresome lecture.

There are those nameless souls who try and fail to get published day after day, year after year; not because they're poor writers. Rather because it's a cutthroat process that favors luck as much as skill. I don't think that's very much unlike your struggle to hit #1 on the Top 40 or finally earn half-a-million dollars an episode. Using celebrity to make celebrity seems more like a sign of desperation than a career change.

There are well noted, award winning, volume selling authors who are never asked to appear on a daytime talk show or garner a six-figure advance. Yet one celebrity author of pointy-bra yore was invited to share her wisdom with the masses. She took the opportunity to, instead of present a well-researched interview, slam the current, highly lucrative children's genre. She told her interviewer that she was taking this time to write because "There's, like, no lessons. There's, like, no books about anything." Not only is this a vacant argument devoid of true thought, but it shows her solid grasp of the English language (not that you need decent grammar to be a writer, anyhow).

It would appear that having a lack of talent for writing has less an affect on rejection than notability and saleability. It would be safe to say then, that publishers share some of the blame. Though I would want to be the last struggling author to punch my potential paycheck in the face, there doesn't seem to be any direct correlation between whether a celebrity can write and whether they get published. I guess that's the same for those awesome writers who still get rejected.

Its not so much who you know anymore; it's who knows you.

(My apologies to John Lithgow, Jamie Lee Curtis and Julie Andrews who, along with scarce others, have vast writing talent)

Get your boots off the windshield...wait; what did I say?

2008-03-04T00:17:00.005-05:00

I've been waiting for something witty, ironic or funny to happen over the last couple of days, but to be honest, it's been kind of quiet. I have a bit of a cold, Lori's right hand is recovering from surgery and the kids have been exceptionally good. I don't have anything fresh or hilarious to give you, so instead I'd like to share #s 1-9 of my list of "Funny Things I Have Said or Have Heard Said to Kids".

The kids have gotten got all the glory for decades with"Kids Say the Darndest Things". Now it's our turn! These are all true --- if I didn't say them, I heard them said. If you have any others, let me know --- if you want to share a story or have a comment, let me know. And if you'd like more, let me know [there are almost 100!].

1. "Get your boots off the windshield."
> They were winter 'moonboots' and it was a Chevy Chevette

2. "Stop licking the cat."
> Yup, said it to Ethan and Pepurr was tasty, I guess.

3. "Get your toes out of your mouth."
> This was for Raymond, and I couldn't get him to eat most foods; but toes...?

4. "Quit eating your boogers."
> To Aaron...though I think I could have said it to any one of them...and I know I've heard it!

5. "Stop writing on yourself."
> Kaleigh hears this from us all the time! And her jeans are done for.

6. "Stop writing on the cat."
> God, I wish I could remember which boy exaclty this was for...but it was poor Pepurr again.

7. "The VCR won’t play candy."
> This was one for Ethan, and it was a Three Musketeers bar.

8. "How did pool ball get up your nose?"
> Poor Ray; but it wasn't a real pool ball...it was a mini game and the ball was the size of a pea. Still...

9. "Get your fingers out of my mouth."
> 'K, said it to more than one kid. And you know you've said it, too.

You think THAT'S bad...you should see the high chair

2008-02-21T23:15:00.008-05:00

Lori has to go in for surgery tomorrow --- carpal tunnel; nothing Earth shaking --- so it goes without saying that something would happen to keep her from getting a good night's sleep. That something would be our daughter Madison. It's not that Mad did anything wrong, but wouldn't you know it, she threw up again!

"Again" means that she's been sick for a couple of days and she graced us with an eruption this morning too, right in the thick of trying to get out the door. Tonight's presentation wasn't anything worse than any other kid has bestowed upon a just-showered parent. But wouldn't you guess that right at midnight, while she was laying with Mommy, she decided it was as good a time as any. It was gross and a pain in the butt --- and stopped me from writing this for about 7 minutes.

That was all it took for our two-person team to strip the kid, wipe her down a little, juggle her into the bathtub, strip the bed, wipe it down, bag the dirty clothes and blankets, redress the bed with fresh, non-puky-smelling linens, dry the kid, brush her hair and teeth, spray the room with some Crisp Linen scent Lysol, and put the kid back in with mom (no lesson learned). We've become pros; what with me having six kids, including the three that Lori and I have together. But we realized tonight that, for us this was low --- very low in fact --- on the Gross-O-Mometer. No, I would have to say that two summers ago on a visit to the Golden Corral in Saratoga, NY we reached Critical Mass, and fortunately had finished our meal.

It was the five of us along with Kaleigh's friend Isabel and my son Raymond, all sharing a long table in the back of the buffet restaurant. Mad was in a high chair and Nolan was still in a baby carrier. Like I said, we were finished eating and it was time to clean everyone up.

Like many parents comfortable with their status as parents, one tends to 'smell' the children before leaving any previous activity --- the park, the zoo, after touring the White House. You've/We've all come to learn that it's far better to smell it and clean it now, than be stuck with it on a long stretch of road in a tight-for-space mini-van. Madison smelled and it was my turn. Lori was nice enough to lift her out of her high chair --- property of said Golden Corral --- and hand her over to me on her other side.

Her lift wasn't enough, and it wouldn't have mattered anyhow. It was painfully obvious that Madison had taken care of the day's business right there in that full-to-capacity restaurant and had polished off a little for the next day to boot. She was covered from shoe to shirt in a brown substance that I was sure the good folks at Golden Corral had not displayed in any one those chafing dishes. I would have liked to have blamed the mess on a diaper malfunction, but I am more inclined to think that Madison was just, well --- let's call it 'thorough'. Lucky me.

I raced her to the rest room conveniently placed on the farthest wall of the restaurant --- again, the full-to-capacity restaurant. Dodging people, plates and poop, I was a fashionably styled broken-field runner; the two-year-old was dangling like a football between my out-stretched hands while the diaper bag hung elegantly over my shoulder. I was never tackled and no one --- I mean no one --- tried to interfere with my journey to that coveted end zone. And I had them clearing the full-to-capacity rest room in short order as well.

Madison was screaming; she wanted to be clean. My blood pressure was skyrocketing; I wanted to be invisible. And the wipe container was disappointing; I wanted it to be full. I tried --- oh how I tried --- to keep from smearing poop on the changing table. I didn't. And I tried to get her clean with what little wipes we thought we'd need for the day. I didn't. And the little boy who was upset that the little girl was being changed in the men's room was no little helper, I might add. This one definitely took longer than seven minutes, and when Ray poked his head in to exclaim, "Dad, you should see the high chair!", I could have crawled under the sink, through the wall and out into the hotel parking lot on the other side. Thanks son.

Madison somehow came clean, was redressed and had stopped crying, but I've repressed that short section of my memory. They say you can do that. I reluctantly strolled back to the table and what was left of my pride hid from the ogling crowd. Lori was cleaning the new, brownish racing stripe from the front of her shirt and I asked her where the high chair had run off to. Yeah, I was curious. She told me that the very gracious and polite waitress had taken it to the back to wash it. I'm sure she meant "burn". I'd end up leaving her an extra $5.

Once we had the kids clean, gathered up and straightened out, we headed back toward the entrance/exit (why do they put these things so far away when you're in a hurry). We piled in the van and made like bandits getting out of that parking lot. But it was not far enough for my liking as Lori insisted we stop at the Wal*Mart directly across the street; now we needed wipes.

Jericho is back, I'm all better now...(watch for little spoilers below)

2008-02-13T00:34:00.011-05:00

Photo Courtesy of CBS
I don't think I have ever written a review for anything before, let alone a television program. But I have to say that I got hooked on Jericho (CBS, Tuesday 10:00 pm Eastern) last summer. Since then we've been waiting for the triumphant return after its untimely demise and subsequent, earth-shaking resurrection. In case you have just returned from an interstellar voyage and didn't have DishNetwork or a subscription to TV Guide beamed to you, allow me to throw you a quick recap:

-----In its first season, Jericho (the best show on television - bar none) was loved by millions
-----Not quite millions enough for CBS
-----CBS let down fans, producers and cast members by pulling the plug
-----Jericho fans ambushed CBS from every angle in a campaign to save the show that was completely NUTS
-----CBS, perhaps in fear of continued 'peanut' recipes in the commissary, relented and gave the fans what they wanted, Season 2 of Jericho (Season 1 is available on DVD)

Well, Tuesday night the cast of Jericho returned for the first of seven episodes, and picked up from the messy situation they had not fought their way out of last season: entangled in a battle with neighboring New Bern, Kansas. This part was somewhat of a downer for me. I had expected and hoped for a little bit more of the battle, a bit more conflict between the two towns and more taunting and posturing between Constantino and Jake (Skeet Ulrich). It was what we loved about the first season and the uneasiness made me want to come back for more every week. So the fact that the battle lasted about five minutes then cut to several months later was a little bit of a disappointment. Fortunately the rest of the episode pulled me through. (Did you catch the snack being eaten in the hospital?)

I won't get into a scene-by-scene dissection of the program; there are plenty of places that will do that. I will say that from this viewing, I get a sneaky suspicion that the producers, et. al. are giving this series the option of a a rap at the end of the seventh (nee 29th) episode. I hope not, but this season's opener, though quite good, sufficiently exciting and decently explained, felt like it was in a hurry to get somewhere. A nice plot element from Season One was the fact that the show took its time, and not in spite of excitement. What kept fans coming back week after week were the unanswered questions, open elements and cliffhangers.

It appears that most of the cast will be returning, which is a welcome feeling. It's nice to see that Stanley (Brad Beyer) and Mimi (Alicia Coppola) will be staying together, even if for just the time being. Even Gail Green's (Pamela Reed) conspicuous absence was explained for the moment, and all the fans know that Johnston (Gerald McRaney) didn't survive New Bern's initial attack.

I don't want to sound like I'm anti-Jericho; please don't think that from the above paragraphs. On the contrary; I love this show and, as long as CBS agrees, I'll be back next week. It was nice to relive the uneasiness when a connection between the new government and the attack's mastermind was exposed. And when Hawkins (Lennie James) ran into an old crony from 'the mission', I found myself yelling cautions at the screen. Just like last season's Jericho, this run has the potential for the same fun, hidden back stories and a uniqueness not found in the weekly procedurals --- as long as it's allowed to take its time getting there.

If you're a fan of Jericho...or even if you've never seen an episode...feel free to comment.

Click here for my commentary about the Jericho Series Finale at www.associatedcontent.com

It's a great condiment...now I know why it smells like that.

2008-02-10T23:40:00.000-05:00

For many years we have lived in a very small apartment, with the two most distant rooms being the bathroom at one end and what we call the 'back room' at the other. We call it that, not necessarily because it's so far back in the house, but more because it has alternately been a shared bedroom for two of my oldest sons, a spare bedroom, our son's room, a playroom, a catch-all room and now Nolan and Madison are in it together; it has never gained a solid, identifiable name like "Kaleigh's Room" or "Messy Porch". And it is still close enough to the bathroom that one is not spared the fumes of another job well done.

I'm trying to give you some sense of the claustrophobia we experience on a daily basis, with meal times suffering more than any other. Our kitchen contains all of our necessities except for a dishwasher and moving space. Never mind trying to cram five people around a four-person tabletop covered with hot dishes and glasses of liquid demanding to be tossed to the floor. So we have given in and chosen to take our meals in the less comfortable but far more spacious (yet carpeted ---which adds another layer to the 'liquid on the floor' challenge) living room.

Years ago we had a coffee table as a part of our furnishings, yet it's usefulness became less apparent as more and larger children roamed the apartment. Back then though, it served its purpose as a dinner table for my older boys.

On an evening of spaghetti and garlic bread, Lori and I left the living room to refill plates. When we came back in, I was amazed by the words I said, and to this day have to tell the whole story just to get anyone to believe me. My oldest son Aaron was sitting back on the sofa and his feet were propped up; only unbuckling his belt would have completed the picture.

But how and where he had his feet propped up gave me the most concern. In my most fatherly voice --- and trying my best not to laugh as hard as I could --- I told him, "Get your feet off the Parmesan cheese."

I don't know that I'll ever string all those words together in that order ever again.

[[For another story about "The Weirdest Things I've Heard Said To Kids", click here.]]

Here's a glass of water...how does the foot taste?

2008-02-09T01:08:00.000-05:00

Please be forewarned that this blog entry is a little longer than it should be, but I'm mad enough to spit nails. I know first hand that people are insensitive creatures who never think beyond their own self-righteous beliefs, and we should all be ashamed for that. Please be patient and try to stay with me through to the end.

I had mentioned earlier about the indirect, insensitive comments that my family receives almost daily regarding our son Nolan. He's an Autistic three-year-old and from time to time, his outbursts and uncontrollable mannerisms can cause people to become annoyed or even upset. And from the average layperson, the remarks are something we've come to expect and even tolerate. (Click here for a related article about insensitive things people say to parents with Autistic kids by Erin Snap)

But yesterday we visited a pediatric eye clinic in Williston, Vermont which I have to assume is staffed with at least minimally-trained health care personnel. It was time for Nolan and our four-year-old Madison to have their exams and the office is a solid two hour drive from our home in Rutland. For even the most patient child, this can be a long trip. So when we unloaded and found our way into the 'play' portion of the waiting room, the little ones were ready to unwind.

Nolan can get rambunctious and loud to say the least and this event was no different. When it came time to bring each of the little ones in for their pre-checks, it quickly became obvious that we should handle the observations one at a time. Lori and I were trying to be courteous to the staff since we know how he can get, so she and our older daughter took Mad in first. The office professional made a quiet comment about Nolan's clamor, but at the time I found it innocent; I don't even recall all that she said.

The doctor drew the straw that would award her Nolan and me, and we followed her into a spacious office. He was rattled and didn't care for the dark, but the Doc was patient and assured me she is familiar with Autistic kids. This was obvious by how quickly and smoothly the first check went, even though we struggled a bit to get the dilating drops in my boy's eyes. The Doc then sent us into the waiting room to let the meds do their job for a half hour or so.

Nolan was back to himself in no time; not out of control, but probably a little intimidating to anyone outside looking in. The staff member who had greeted us even came by to close the door to our section of the room; a bad omen that might explain why the little girl who wanted to come in with us either would not or could not.

After the drops did their job, each of our 'teams' took turns visiting with the Doc and she told us when she'd like to see everyone back.

"I'll need to see Madison in a year, and since his eyes are good, we'll give Nolan a break. We'll see him in two," she told us.

"You mean, you'll be bringing him back to the office?" asked the staff lady. I thought she was joking.

"Yes," I told her. "As a matter of fact, I'll be leaving him in your office." I was grinning; she wasn't any more.

"Well, call ahead," she chirped. "I'll take that day off." Maybe I'm just Mr. Innocent and wouldn't want to think that someone was being cruel on purpose; especially not someone in the medical profession who has seen all kinds. I shrugged it off.

Apparently, she had been serious and was under the impression that we are raising a misbehaving child. As we were donning our jackets, she came up behind me sheepishly and said, "I am sooo soooory. I had no idea he was Autistic."

Not 'was'; 'IS'. It didn't go away since we got to the door. And had someone queued this ignorant woman in, because we did not.

In typical 'Jon' fashion I only said, "Yes, he is." I didn't ream her out; I didn't scold her or call her a name or even imply that she was an ignoramus. I just let it go. Maybe I'm sick of it. Maybe I didn't see the point. Instead, we talked about Autism t-shirts that explain the condition and the dumb things some people can say. I bit my tongue.

Okay, here's the scoop: Nolan is a little boy who deserves to experience everything you do: restaurants, playgrounds, malls, and even doctor appointments --- where you would think the most seasoned, trained and compassionate of all people hang out. I don't think I'm going to get him a t-shirt that labels his autism. Instead, I think there's a market for a better shirt; let's try: I'm insensitive. I have no excuse.

What do think? Please feel free to tell me what's on your mind.

He was a bully...I wish we could go fishing one more time

2008-02-05T22:57:00.000-05:00

I had to change the blog title. I feel I had limited the scope and direction of the site. That is to say, since I have no scope or direction, why not let that be the topic---the headline---the draw? I have too much to say and the previous "A life stranger than fiction" would have had me making things fit the title. I'm much better at rambling. I'm sure my wife will attest to that any time I talk to her about cars; or my daughter, when I climb up on my soapbox to lecture her on timeliness, hygiene or boys.

I'm okay with change; I think I even like it a little bit. There can be something exciting about making things different. A few people in my office have recently announced (or are eager to announce, but haven't for fear of retribution) that they are moving on to another life, bigger and better things, greener pastures. Even I took on a new position this week. Its a bit of a demotion leadership-wise, but where there's more money involved, you can call me 'doorman' if you'd like. We even changed the Personal Care Attendant (PCA) for our son Nolan. And that is a big deal, since one of the toughest things for autistic kids to cope with is change. But there has been a change that I've only recently been having trouble with myself.

In November my father died and to be honest, I was relieved at first. Before you hang me out to dry, let me explain that I'm not relieved to be rid of my Dad. He was a brutish bully with emotional skin made of tissue paper and an agonizing flair for the melodramatic. But he was my Dad; and we'll never get to go brook fishing on the Rake Factory River together ever again. He won't get to have Madison (our 23 pound four-year-old) bound into his lap ever again. And I won't get to hear his boring, embelished, more-fluff-than-fact stories ever again. I'd give up my raise to clean 'brookies' with him one last time.

But he was miserable, and I don't mean to those around him. I think he put everyone else through hell because he was in his own every single day. I never knew what was wrong, I only guessed. Oh, I asked. I asked him all the time. He even once posed to me whether or not I thought he needed mental help. I said, "Yes." It was honest, but I wasn't saying it to be mean. My father was a basket case, through and through. He was sad, angry and, even when my Mom would hold his hand, he was lonely. Funny, my brothers and I had always said we hoped Mom wouldn't go first, because Dad would be lost without her. I think he knew that.

There are parts of me that think he knew his time was near, though he passed peacefully while sitting in Mom's recliner while watching TV. And the coroner said the heart attack was massive and quick. But I think he knew. There were things he said, things he left out in plain sight, things he did, things he set up, that only someone who was at a minimum self-conciously aware of his own end, would have prepared.

And I think that he was ready to go, too. Not in the sense that he brought about his own death; he was too weak for that. I believe he just plain-old didn't want to be here any more. I unwillingly lament that I think he's happy now. So for him, I guess the change will be good. At least I pray it will be. God knows I've been having a time with it. Guess I'll just finish by telling him, "I love you, Pop."

In Loving Memory of Robert John Gilbert

May 28, 1940 - November 8, 2007

He's Autistic...what's your excuse?

2008-01-31T00:59:00.000-05:00

If you have children, you know that your kids can be a handful when you take them out as errand partners. It’s probably not a reminder you need or even want. When a Parent’s Magazine poll asked moms and dads if they would prefer to change a babies diaper or run errands with the kids, some 68% chose the messier stay-at-home job. While this little tidbit may make the shop-online marketers ecstatic, it's no surprise that where kids are concerned, day trips are seldom boring. Not only can managing your kids be a handful all by itself, but dealing with the stares and unsolicited commentary from onlookers provides its own challenges.

Then there's the unique layer that a special needs child can offer. I'm definitely not saying that a kid with special needs is any type of burden. On the contrary, a child of different ability can be a joyful, loving companion, just as any other kid. But when the challenge is obvious and involuntary, the struggling parent is subjected to many familiar, repetative commentaries. Most stem from the assumption that the child is just misbehaving.

Our son Nolan is one such kid and I assure you he can get loud. The two-year-old boy was diagnosed with autism back in May of '07, and confronting the unwelcome observations has become a part of our every day. One of the worst was when we were at the hospital for one of Nolan’s uncountable appointments. This is the place where he comes all the time for help; where doctors and nurses see children just like him every day. He was crying and screaming either because he is two or he didn’t want to be in his stroller or the lights were humming loudly or something.

When people heard the echoes in the huge atrium, I could see them whispering and one nurse even rolled her eyes, implying that we shouldn’t take him out in public or that he was being bad. She had no idea what we were going through, or how much Lori would have appreciated someone asking, ‘is there anything I can help you with?’ Instead, people often perceive that we the parents, have a rearing deficiency. They don’t know that he’s screeching because he has no other way to communicate. We would give anything to have someone say ask, ‘do you need a hand?’

We're more likely to hear a whispered, ‘if he can’t behave, they shouldn’t take him in public’. I overheard this once when Nolan and Lori were sitting while I was in line at a fast food restaurant. The lady had no way to know that I was Dad and though I was polite --- let’s just say that the lady ended up taking her food 'to go' instead of staying like she planned.

It would also be nice if people wouldn't assume that, just because he won't say 'hi' that he must be tired or he's had a bad day. He can't say 'hi' to us either. And when you leave the store, you won't hear him screeching any more, but that's all we get from him all day. Be happy when you get home and your child says, "I love you, Daddy."

But since Nolan can't, after his Thursday appointment we'll take him out for pizza. And he'll hug us. And when he screams (most likely because he needs a drink), please don't assume. Then we won't make assumptions about you. Enjoy your dinner.

Love is like oxygen...and so is oxygen.

2008-01-29T00:10:00.000-05:00

This past weekend Lori reminded me about an incident that happened some time ago while Madison (our now four-year-old preemie) was still on oxygen. It demonstrates just how little thought people tend to put into what they spew. There's a saying that it's better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you're an idiot, than to open your mouth and prove them right. This was brought to life that day at the laundromat.

The clothes were drying and Madison slept in the stroller while Lori read one more of the stale, year old magazines. Not a single article had changed since the week before. The baby had a tube in her nose and oxygen was providing a light but much needed wisp. Lori barely noticed the man who came in to straighten up the parlor.

"Is that oxygen?" he asked her without any other common greeting. Lori's first thought was to reply with some Bill Engval, Here's Your Sign retort about helium and keeping the baby inflated. She refrained.

"Yes," was her only reply.

The man then proceeded to ask her if she knew what was making the dryers hot.

Heat?

"I think they're gas dryers," was her replacement response.

"Yes." And with all the informed, educated authority he could muster, the man asked my wife, "And you do know that gas uses a flame, right?" This guy should have been teaching classes on this stuff.

"Yes," Lori said, her aggravated flesh tone now matching her hair color.

The man then picked up the oxygen tank, easily situated a safe 25 feet from the rumbling appliances, and slid it back two more feet. Then, with the most deadpan, Bob Newhart expression he said, "Oxygen is flammable. I don't want you guys to blow up." (safety first, I guess)

Thanks for the help, mister, 'cause I was going to toss that puppy right in one of these roundy-round thingys.

Actually, she never replied at all to the man. Instead she assumed that he probably wasn't getting enough of the oxygen to his head that had already leached into this part of Vermont several gazillion years ago; the same oxygen that was already fueling the steady blazes in the hot tumbling machines.

It was a good thing rain hadn't gotten the tank wet, too. Who knows what Lori might have done with it then. The superhero happened by just in the nick of time. I owe him so much for saving the lives of my wife and daughter.

Embrace the Moment...and turn on the fan, kid.

2008-01-26T22:48:00.000-05:00

I was thinking the best way to kick this blog off and keep it related to the title (and without starting on a real downer) would be to share a list I have been compiling for quite some time. I call the project “Get Your Boots off the Windshield.” It’s a collection of the darnedest phrases we adults have said or heard said to kids.

One of my favorites spurred from a question asked by my daughter when she was barely three years old. It was potty training time and she was getting much better about going. She was and still is a very affectionate child, so my wife shouldn’t have been too startled by the kid’s honest, caring, rather squeamish question.

The girl was pushing hard and making odorous, solid progress. In between grunts Mommy would inquire, “Are you okay, kiddo?”, all the while trying to inhale as little as possible.

“Yes, Mommy. I love you Mommy.” What a cute grin.

My wife smiled back, “I love you, too.” Of course, with this little imp she should have known there was more.

The next question (it was more like an invitation) made my wife cringe, if only a little. It was an honest, somewhat ill-timed request. You couldn’t be mad at a cutie pie for such a sincere question, but the rule we try to teach our kids --- be it yelling loudly or running or sticking your finger in your nose --- is that there’s a time and a place for everything. This did not feel like the time or place to fulfill such a routine appeal.

My wife’s decline was gracious and straightforward. With a smile, she plainly told the child, “No. I will not hug you while you poop.”

Come back in a couple days. I have more!

Grandma Got Arrested...that's not funny

2008-01-24T21:34:00.000-05:00

I started out my first blog with a short story without telling you anything about us, but giving big anticipation of things to come. Well, let me take this time to share with you why I even think there should be a blog called "My life is stranger than fiction" and why I think I'm qualified to write it.

You've heard the adage that truth is stranger than fiction and we read about it every day. There's the FedEx employee who got caught stealing lap tops because he had them diverted to his own home address and the grandma who got arrested for parking wrong at a Mickey D's drive-thru. Strange but true.

But we've had our own news headlines and I'd like to share them with you over the next days and months and on into the foreseeable future. I'll share with you the Airport '08 Fiasco, the Wrong-Place-Wrong-Time Connection, and I can regale you with any number of Had The Money But the Car Thought Otherwise tales. It will be fun and I'll look forward to your comments.

I want to share a short story or two every once in a while as well and my thoughts on parenting, politics and pie. All the while, I'll splash the stories with the "stranger than fiction" theme. Whether its a weird connection, a funny thing my kids said or my growing list of Grown-ups Say the Darnedest Things (to Kids). If you have a question, please ask. I'm no Dear Abby, but I don't mind sharing everything I don't know with you. It was a hand-me-down from my dad.

So anyhow, I'm going to go to bed, but I hope to have something clever to say in the next couple of days...something that will be relevant to the day but random enough to be witty. Oh, and I guarantee that it will be odd. It's what I do. Any questions, comments or complaints, please see the 1,500lb gorilla at the door on your way out. Or just leave me a note; that'll be good, too.

My thoughts on kids and the belt...watch your fingers

2008-01-24T00:52:00.000-05:00

Okay, let's try again. I had a post all set and it didn't save. Isn't that the way? Anyhow, I want to share my passion for writing with you. I'm a good writer. At least I think so. And so do a few others. I mean, aside from making kids, its about the only thing I seem to be really, umm---proficient at! I want to share true experiences with you, though I may sneek in the short story or two every once in a while. For now, let me share with you this story that happened last year. It's kind of funny, there's a little bit of a lesson and some see it as just a fun piece. But I swear it's true. So keep your hands inside the shopping cart as away we go...

=======================================================

We must have looked like a circus family. The five of us were shopping at the same time, trying to make it look as if we had the show under control. My wife is always the Ringmaster, just trying to do her job and keep us from hurting ourselves. “Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages, please direct your attention to the amazing way we stay in the check out line, so we can just pay and get in the car!”
My nine-year-old daughter was in her familiar role as the Carnival Barker. “Hurry, Hurry. Step right up. See the toy I wanna buy that I really don’t need. Let me get it while I’m thinkin’ about it. I may never see another opportunity like this in my lifetime again.”
Our tiny three-year-old is that little hyperactive Monkey who seems like she’s had two cups of coffee too many. The Ringmaster is just trying to get the blonde Monkey out of the crowd and back in her cage (that is to say, trapped somewhere between her legs and the shopping cart, ‘so we can just pay and get back in the car’).
I, as if you didn’t see this coming, am the Clown, too goofy to notice the frazzled Ringmaster, the irritating Barker or the over-caffeinated Monkey (“Honey, there she goes again, back into the crowd. Would it help if I offered her some popcorn?”).
While I was unloading the bags from the merry-go-round at the end of the check-out lane, a screech from the shopping cart brought the circus back to reality. It took a fraction of a second to realize that our littlest guy, who was sitting in the shopping cart, wasn’t playing circus and all kidding aside, was trapped in the conveyor belt.
Well okay, I’m kidding a little. He wasn’t actually trapped but, in all the commotion (and after taking our eyes off him for what must have been less than five seconds) he had gotten his fingers pulled into the conveyor at the point where the belt turns around the roller. At this end is a fender that no doubt is supposed to keep your pack of pens and candy bar from falling inside the machinery. But there must have been just enough of a gap for a two-year-old thumb and fore-finger to get gobbled up.
My panic was heightened when I immediately found out that the contraption didn’t have a reverse or some manner of ‘freewheeling’ (not the Orca from the 80’s movie) capability. There was no way, once the cashier had the good sense to turn the machine off, that one could roll it backwards or put it in ‘neutral’. Instead, I had to grab my little boy by the wrist and literally extricate him from the mouth of the appliance (before you call me insensitive, and in order to keep the Letters to the Editor to a minimum, let me assure you now the boy fared fine, he was on the mend a short couple of hours later and the store paid the ER fees).
Though there’s no way I can attest to the intellectual prowess of your little genius, our two-year-old just can’t read yet (I blame his mother’s side of the family). That’s probably why they make, and someone should have taken the courtesy to notice, the wordless, 1¼” x ¾” pictograph on the opposite edge of the conveyor machine. The worn-out sticker long ago had clearly and vividly shown that you should keep your hands away from the moving rubber belt. Now it looked like the picture of an old lady cooking a pork chop. While making me hungry, I’m sure it originally served as a warning that probably should have been common knowledge anyhow. Why my boy wasn’t at the mandatory meeting, I’m still trying to figure out.
You would have thought a large, national chain like the one we were visiting would have carried a “Jaws of Life” in the Sporting Goods department or Housewares, or at least have kept one behind the service desk, namely for when some nimrod managed to get the carts all twisted together. At a minimum, I would have settled for a conveyor with a fender you could have taken off.
I know those machines must get dirty in there anyhow, what with live plants and wet milk jugs and ripped dog food bags rolling across them all day. Never mind the ease it would have made to pull my son’s fingers loose, a removable fender could be a housekeeping miracle. It was suggested to me by a friend who works the same non-rescue equipped service desk at this mega-market, that I should invent this aforementioned ‘removable fender’. I’d love to, but what with donning my clown make-up every day before I trudge to my desk in the living room to continue my (thus-far limited) writing profession, command my own rescue team and squeeze in a nap before doing the dishes, where would I find the time. Not that I’m saying someone shouldn’t pursue this little venture. If you build it, they will be able to get their fingers out, as it were. But while we’re waiting for approval of the patent permits (and if you have kids of your own), try to keep in mind that when there’s no way your kid can get hurt, they’re going to.
It only takes that short five seconds to forget how quick your kids are, but it takes even less to think about how horrible you are as a parent. My sister-in-law doubted her parenting abilities in her own shopping drama. Even though she knows she shouldn’t have done it, she let my niece ride in the back of the shopping cart. Hey, it happens to the best of families. As if you couldn’t see this coming, she turned her back for just an iota to look at paint swatches or something and whoop; the little pumpkin bounced her melon on the floor.
The little girl ended up being fine, I promise. But it was a lesson learned for Mom that those folks down at the shopping cart company weren’t just doodling when they scribbled the “No children in the back of the cart” warning. More than that, it made her think about just how quick her little one really is.

Try to remember that goofing up with your children doesn’t make you a bad parent, just a normal one. I’m glad you have an independent little girl who you think would never swallow the window cleaner or rappel down the side of a shopping cart. My kid has been alive just over 800 days and we’ve taken him shopping about 115 times. In all those visits, he has only gotten his fingers stuck in the check out conveyor belt once.

Welcome

2008-01-23T19:10:00.000-05:00

Wow. Where to begin? To be honest, I'm at work right now and they'd be in a twist if they knew I was blogging from here. Just wanted to get something posted, but I'll be back tonight. Oh, you---are---going to---want---to---RETURN!