It’s hard for me to pin-point exactly where it all went wrong. But if I were to take an educated guess, my money would be on the moment Cathy said her company Christmas party was an “open bar.” Fourteen hours later I find myself cradling the toilet and looking up at a very curious three-year-old.
“Daddy, you don’t look so good.” Her shrill voice pierces my brain and sends my eyeballs into my socks. I do all I can to create some semblance of a smile, but I’m afraid that if I open my mouth to far, a bourbon laced demon will fly out and cover the floor. A second later Lu is joined by her little sister, whose loaded diaper nearly renders me unconscious, but I held it together. Even though the pungent odor was enough to burn the wings off baby angels and melt the tires of a speeding eighteen-wheeler, I refuse to throw-up. A sequence of deep controlled breaths (in through the nose, out through the mouth) and the calming thoughts of soft purple pandas feeding rainbows to Chuck Norris easily settles my stomach.
As I lay there drifting in and out of worlds James Cameron would be proud of, I find a bit of solace knowing its Saturday, or maybe it’s Friday? To be quite honest I’m not sure what day it is, but whatever the case, Cathy is home and she gently swoops in and shoos the girls away…
“Come on girls, let’s leave daddy alone, he’s not feeling well.”
“Why?” Lu curiously exclaims. As a parent I’m hoping the visual of my shaky, sweaty and unusually flammable skin turns this into a public service announcement of sorts. That’s right Lu, take it all in. Let the image of the pathetic man at the base of the toilet be a symbol of bad judgment for years to come.
“Well…,” an explanation was forthcoming and deservedly so, but how do you tell an impressionable little girl that your father drank like an immature sailor and acted like a woman who has just had her first dribble of alcohol since she stopped regularly breast feeding her newborn child?
“Daddy had one too many last night, and that’s why he doesn’t feel good.” Perfect. It says it all, without really saying anything.
Just as the girls begin to remove themselves from my presence, Cathy bends down and places a glass of water next to my head and whispers, “You just can’t hold your liquor like you used to. This is what happens when you get old.” Later that day when the carnage was over, Cathy informed me that not only had I drank my weight in wine, I somehow managed to smuggle a full glass of beer out of the bar, in the front pocket of my coat (Awesome). A feat she was both embarrassed and amazed at, when I suddenly revealed it and began to drink my frothy wonder in a cab, three miles from our house (Double Awesome). A full glass! In my coat pocket! She would then go on to give me a lecture that began and ended with, “I am much too old to be supplementing our ‘barware’ with stolen glasses from a place that claims to have the city’s oldest pickled egg” (Yeah, not so classy).
As the day continued to pass S-L-O-W-L-Y… by, I noticed two things. First, as bad as this hangover is, I can’t even imagine what it would have been like before the invention of porcelain toilets. Everything from their cool-to-the-touch neutral colored exteriors, to way it perfectly anchors a slumbering body over its oversized waste hole, they’re basically begging to be caressed by the inebriated. They’re really a feat of modern ingenuity. The second thing I noticed was a strange array of methodically placed items that began showing up between my “naps.”
At first I thought nothing of the tiny Lego castle that appeared on the top of the toilet, but soon other odd tidbits began to appear: a small blanket, a stuffed frog, a bowl of Cheerios and a tiara. Although I have yet to see an actual being anywhere near my throne, I had the feeling I was being watched. Perhaps it was my guardian angel, a tiny cherub of hope or the ghost of hangovers past, and then it happened, I died. Well at least I thought I did. I felt a glow and a warmth come over me. Honestly, I didn’t think I drank that much, but whatever. I could see the light! It was bright, unusually bright. In fact, it was way-way brighter than I ever thought it’d be. However, rather than running toward, or giving in to this “light” that so many people have found comfort in, I find myself cringing and my ultrasensitive eyelids burning. Maybe this was the wrong light, wait, where exactly am I going?
I slowly open my eyes to discover I haven’t exactly left this world, not even close. My assumption that I was riding my very own light-highway to Cloud City was nothing more than Lucy shining an impossibly bright Maglite directly into my peeps, and it was making me sick.
“Daddy,” she said with a whisper, “How are you feeling?”
“Where’s your Ma and Ruby?” I said holding up a hand to block the light.
“Changing the laundry, Rubers is sleeping. I’ll take care of you.” She was sweet, but behind those usually sympathetic eyes of hers, a storm was brewing. It was as if someone had given her (maybe as a joke, revenge or moral lesson, CATHY!) a very specific list of things to say that would ensure that this very hangover would end in a spectacularly gross and somewhat cataclysmic finale. She wasted no time and got right down to business.
“Daddy would you like to eat some scrambled eggs?” The thought of eggs made my stomach jump.
“No thank you….”
“How about some chili, that will make your belly feel better?” My stomach flops again. Why is she asking if I want to eat, I can barely pick my head up. And furthermore, when has chili ever been a cure for anything?
“You know sometimes when I have a belly ache I like a glass of creamy milk.” Ding-Ding-Ding, we have a winner! The thought of “creamy milk” was all it took, ‘cause I absolutely lost it. It was as if my stomach had a date with the floor, because it felt like it was trying to physically leave my body. I couldn’t control it. There were no brief pauses in which to catch my breath, just a disgusting non-stop flood of holiday cheer. I began to hear a babies crying, airplanes crashing and monks praying. Convoluted images like Pat Benatar’s “We Belong” video, Olli North and Stormin’ Norman Schwarzkoph baking tarts, and a Rubik’s Cube solving itself all manically flashed before my eyes. Then nothing… silence.
The moral of the story is this: There may be times when your better judgment or common sense slips. There may even be a time when you feel the need to slip a full glass of beer into your coat pocket. But I have learned that it is almost impossible to slip anything pass a three-year-old.
One week later….
“Lucy, you need to finish your peas.” Lucy pushes the bowl aside, puts her hands on her stomach and says, “No thank you. My belly is full, and if I eat any more then that will be “one bite too many,” and I remember what happens after that, and I don’t wanna sleep in the bathroom.”
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Thursday, December 17, 2009
An Artificial Compromise
This has been rewritten and edited for your viewing pleasure. It can be found in the soon to be released book Life Between Naps. Link and info coming November 2015.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Why I Can't Fly
I think Lucy has super-powers. I know-I know, it’s crazy, but she does things… super-crazy, supernatural, super-powery things, that are quite frankly - - unexplainable. Had I been able to recognize her potential as a superhero sooner, we could very well be living in some super swanky underground bunker/fortress/hideout/cave, with aliens, Bigfoot, a slide and Tang… lots and lots of Tang.
As I sit here writing this, Lucy is probably the world’s greatest unmasked superhero and she’s only three. The signs were always there, but at the time, I just didn’t know they were “powers.” There was that time, when she fell out of her crib (head first) and landed on her feet. “Cat like” reflexes? BAM! Superpower. On another occasion she spotted a twenty-dollar bill in the park, from the stroller, a hundred yards away...“Hawk like” vision? POW! Superpower. Last Spring she memorized Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” (words and moves) after watching the video once! Ummm… you ever heard of something called “Photographic Memory?” Well, if you haven’t shame on you ‘cause KABLAMMO! That’s a superpower my friends! A superpower.
Now I’ll admit individually these were all just intriguing instances of circumstance. Maybe it was luck that she landed on her feet and found that money. And yes, I fully realize that the lyrical content of “Single Ladies” is a tad elementary and the dance moves were originally choreographed for a post menopausal workout video from the early 80’s, so of course I was skeptical. Soon months had passed without incident and to be honest, I had completely forgotten all about Lucy’s untapped potential, until last week. That’s when I accidentally ran her over with the stroller.
“What did you run me over for?” She said.
“I didn’t.” Yes I did. “You stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.” I wasn’t paying attention.“Look you scared your sister, she’s crying.” She was laughing.“It’s not funny, I didn’t like that.”
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?” She nods in a forgiving way, brushes the dirt from her pants and merrily continues down the side walk toward the park. I quickly check Ruby for any post traumatic symptoms that may be lingering as a result of this awkward collision. She easily follows my finger from left to right, up and down. I conclude that she has suffered no permanent damage, which is something that I cannot say about the front of the stroller. One of the wheels had been buckled under; the plastic foot tray was cracked and a metal brace was bent. BENT! It looked like it was just thrown off the top of Mt. Everest and then stepped on by Optimus Prime. This was not a cheap stroller, it was German. I believe for an extra $30 we could’ve had it equipped with airbags and On Star…
Operator: “Hello Mr. Jim, this is On Star. Our technology shows that your stroller air bags have been deployed and according to our impact sensors it appears that you’ve hit a tank. We have notified all emergency response teams and they are on their way. I will stay on the line until they reach you.”
Me: “No tank… (Static)… It was (heavy breathing)… A three year old. I was hit by a … (inaudible mumbling something-something Steve Guttenberg)…..three year old.”
O: “I’m sorry; did you say you were hit by Steve Guttenberg?”
Me: “……… (Gasp)……She just walked away…walked away.”
I look back over my shoulder. There she stood innocently assessing the damage she had unwillingly caused to this fine piece of machinery. Now it is possible that most, if not all of the damage to the stroller was done last Saturday when I backed over it with the car, but it still ran her over, and she was still unhurt. I think she may very well be indestructible… She was awesome! It was the final piece of the puzzle. My theory had finally been confirmed. I‘ve produced a superhero.
With our newly mangled stroller we turn around and head for home. It was a quiet walk by most standards; I think we were all trying to figure out the easiest way to discuss what has just happened. It was Ruby who made the first attempt at communication when she started to sing, what I’m almost positive to be a Korean version of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” maybe she did have a concussion?
“Daddy, wanna see me jump?” I watch as she uses every muscle in her body to amass a two inch vertical leap. I can do better than that, way better. Maybe I’m a superhero? “I can jump high, ‘cause I’m a superhero.” Whoa, whoa, whoa… Did she say what I think she said? She knows? No, that can’t be. That shouldn’t be. Not now, she shouldn’t know now! She’s not supposed to find out until high school…during gym class. You know, like when she impales a volleyball into the floor at the feet of the super popular, but uptight and pretentious Prom Queen Courtney Lynn Sinclaire. This happens moments after she finds out it was Courtney who spread a nasty rumor about Lucy and everybody’s All-American Quarterback Jefferson “To the Max” Wellington. That’s when she’s supposed to realize she’s different, not now. She’s too young. She’ll crumble under the pressure. She’ll crumble, find a way to resent me and become evil. Plus she doesn’t have an awesome name yet. Or does she?
“Oh, so you’re a superhero? Well if you’re a superhero, what’s your superhero name?” Please don’t have one, please don’t have one, please don’t….
“I’m Superhero Mommy-Girl Lucy Goose.” Oh come on! That’s horrible! It says nothing about her attributes. How can that awful name even be turned into a logo? She’ll never be taken seriously. I’ve gotta change this, quickly. I take a deep breath and begin the reprogramming process.
“So, if you’re a superhero, what are your superpowers?”
“Well, I can jump really high, and I can run really-really fast. But most of all I can help un-stick people when they get glued to their cars.” Good lord, if unsticking people from their cars is how she plans on utilizing her superpowers, then she’s in worse shape than I thought. Let’s face it, she still young, she has a lot of wiggle room here. Other than the name she’s got all the tools to be the perfect superhero: Strength, size, brain power, vision, she’s extremely polite and more than courteous.
“Dad if you were a superhero, what would be your superpower?”
I thought hard about this question. I thought about invisibility, X-ray vision and the ability to read minds, but at the end of the day, it was the grand-daddy of them all that I craved… I wanted to fly.
“I guess if I had to pick one, I think I’d wanna fly.” If I would’ve chosen to read minds, I probably would have seen this coming.
“Daddy, that’s a little bit crazy. Don’t you think you’re a little too fat to fly?” As if that wasn’t insulting enough, she followed it with, “Maybe you could just, you know, push things.” Seriously? That’s not even a power. And now because of that unprofessional remark, I have to answer the same question every morning.
“Daddy why are you exercising on the bike today?”
“I’m doing it for the same reason I do it every day… I wanna be light enough to fly.”
“Well you’re gonna have to ride for a lot longer, ya know?”
I am officially her nemesis.
As Always you can find me at my second home
Chicago Parent
As I sit here writing this, Lucy is probably the world’s greatest unmasked superhero and she’s only three. The signs were always there, but at the time, I just didn’t know they were “powers.” There was that time, when she fell out of her crib (head first) and landed on her feet. “Cat like” reflexes? BAM! Superpower. On another occasion she spotted a twenty-dollar bill in the park, from the stroller, a hundred yards away...“Hawk like” vision? POW! Superpower. Last Spring she memorized Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” (words and moves) after watching the video once! Ummm… you ever heard of something called “Photographic Memory?” Well, if you haven’t shame on you ‘cause KABLAMMO! That’s a superpower my friends! A superpower.
Now I’ll admit individually these were all just intriguing instances of circumstance. Maybe it was luck that she landed on her feet and found that money. And yes, I fully realize that the lyrical content of “Single Ladies” is a tad elementary and the dance moves were originally choreographed for a post menopausal workout video from the early 80’s, so of course I was skeptical. Soon months had passed without incident and to be honest, I had completely forgotten all about Lucy’s untapped potential, until last week. That’s when I accidentally ran her over with the stroller.
“What did you run me over for?” She said.
“I didn’t.” Yes I did. “You stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.” I wasn’t paying attention.“Look you scared your sister, she’s crying.” She was laughing.“It’s not funny, I didn’t like that.”
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?” She nods in a forgiving way, brushes the dirt from her pants and merrily continues down the side walk toward the park. I quickly check Ruby for any post traumatic symptoms that may be lingering as a result of this awkward collision. She easily follows my finger from left to right, up and down. I conclude that she has suffered no permanent damage, which is something that I cannot say about the front of the stroller. One of the wheels had been buckled under; the plastic foot tray was cracked and a metal brace was bent. BENT! It looked like it was just thrown off the top of Mt. Everest and then stepped on by Optimus Prime. This was not a cheap stroller, it was German. I believe for an extra $30 we could’ve had it equipped with airbags and On Star…
Operator: “Hello Mr. Jim, this is On Star. Our technology shows that your stroller air bags have been deployed and according to our impact sensors it appears that you’ve hit a tank. We have notified all emergency response teams and they are on their way. I will stay on the line until they reach you.”
Me: “No tank… (Static)… It was (heavy breathing)… A three year old. I was hit by a … (inaudible mumbling something-something Steve Guttenberg)…..three year old.”
O: “I’m sorry; did you say you were hit by Steve Guttenberg?”
Me: “……… (Gasp)……She just walked away…walked away.”
I look back over my shoulder. There she stood innocently assessing the damage she had unwillingly caused to this fine piece of machinery. Now it is possible that most, if not all of the damage to the stroller was done last Saturday when I backed over it with the car, but it still ran her over, and she was still unhurt. I think she may very well be indestructible… She was awesome! It was the final piece of the puzzle. My theory had finally been confirmed. I‘ve produced a superhero.
With our newly mangled stroller we turn around and head for home. It was a quiet walk by most standards; I think we were all trying to figure out the easiest way to discuss what has just happened. It was Ruby who made the first attempt at communication when she started to sing, what I’m almost positive to be a Korean version of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” maybe she did have a concussion?
“Daddy, wanna see me jump?” I watch as she uses every muscle in her body to amass a two inch vertical leap. I can do better than that, way better. Maybe I’m a superhero? “I can jump high, ‘cause I’m a superhero.” Whoa, whoa, whoa… Did she say what I think she said? She knows? No, that can’t be. That shouldn’t be. Not now, she shouldn’t know now! She’s not supposed to find out until high school…during gym class. You know, like when she impales a volleyball into the floor at the feet of the super popular, but uptight and pretentious Prom Queen Courtney Lynn Sinclaire. This happens moments after she finds out it was Courtney who spread a nasty rumor about Lucy and everybody’s All-American Quarterback Jefferson “To the Max” Wellington. That’s when she’s supposed to realize she’s different, not now. She’s too young. She’ll crumble under the pressure. She’ll crumble, find a way to resent me and become evil. Plus she doesn’t have an awesome name yet. Or does she?
“Oh, so you’re a superhero? Well if you’re a superhero, what’s your superhero name?” Please don’t have one, please don’t have one, please don’t….
“I’m Superhero Mommy-Girl Lucy Goose.” Oh come on! That’s horrible! It says nothing about her attributes. How can that awful name even be turned into a logo? She’ll never be taken seriously. I’ve gotta change this, quickly. I take a deep breath and begin the reprogramming process.
“So, if you’re a superhero, what are your superpowers?”
“Well, I can jump really high, and I can run really-really fast. But most of all I can help un-stick people when they get glued to their cars.” Good lord, if unsticking people from their cars is how she plans on utilizing her superpowers, then she’s in worse shape than I thought. Let’s face it, she still young, she has a lot of wiggle room here. Other than the name she’s got all the tools to be the perfect superhero: Strength, size, brain power, vision, she’s extremely polite and more than courteous.
“Dad if you were a superhero, what would be your superpower?”
I thought hard about this question. I thought about invisibility, X-ray vision and the ability to read minds, but at the end of the day, it was the grand-daddy of them all that I craved… I wanted to fly.
“I guess if I had to pick one, I think I’d wanna fly.” If I would’ve chosen to read minds, I probably would have seen this coming.
“Daddy, that’s a little bit crazy. Don’t you think you’re a little too fat to fly?” As if that wasn’t insulting enough, she followed it with, “Maybe you could just, you know, push things.” Seriously? That’s not even a power. And now because of that unprofessional remark, I have to answer the same question every morning.
“Daddy why are you exercising on the bike today?”
“I’m doing it for the same reason I do it every day… I wanna be light enough to fly.”
“Well you’re gonna have to ride for a lot longer, ya know?”
I am officially her nemesis.
As Always you can find me at my second home
Chicago Parent
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