Month: January 2016

Cleaning with kids

My kids and I have a different philosophy on cleaning the house. My philosophy is that it should be done. Their philosophy is, “Huh? It is clean!”

OK, I know I am making my kids sound like little Veruca Salt monsters. Truth is, they are actually OK on occasion at chipping in and doing their part. It’s just that they see the world differently. I suppose when I was that age, the world I saw as “clean” may very well been a world my parents saw as “teetering on the verge of an anarchistic wasteland.”

My wife and I have tried over the years to implement various chore schedules, and they have usually lasted about four days until they just degrade into the realities of what it’s like trying to keep a house clean with a 12-year-old and a 15-year-old.

If you are one of those houses that is impeccably clean at all times, and your kids are contributing members of said cleaning efforts, good on you. But I have a sneaking suspicion that we are more the norm of most houses.

To give you an idea of some of our differing philosophies, let’s look at a few facets of housekeeping and how we differ on our views:

Dishes:

ME: Once they have run through a cycle in the dishwasher and been put back in the cabinets, the dishes are done.

THEM: I was going to put it in the sink at some point. Maybe.

Clothes:

ME: Folded and put up in dressers.

THEM: We prefer to live life as hobos with clean and dirty clothes mixed in a harmonious pile of chaos that will be a huge help getting ready for school in the morning. Also, matching pairs of socks should never, ever come within four rooms of each other.

Shoes:

ME: Return them every evening to that magical room known as a closet, and you can find them in the morning, right where you left them.

THEM: Let’s leave one shoe in the car and the other in the kitchen cabinet.

Sweeping:

ME: Thoroughly gather all debris of the floor and then sweep into a dustpan. Empty dustpan into the trash.

THEM: What is this sweeping you speak of?

Emptying trash:

ME: Trash is full. Time to take it out.

THEM: Trash is full? Nah, we can put more in it.

Cleaning off the back deck with a leaf blower:

ME: A necessary evil.

THEM: OK, this is fun.

Returning pillows to the couch:

ME: Ah, order has returned.

THEM: But the dogs are napping.

Replacing toilet paper roll:

ME: Well, that would be the decent thing to do.

THEM: Pretty sure we have elves who do that.

Taking personal effects upstairs:

ME: Take it to your room.

THEM: But I was going to use it down here. Besides, don’t our elves take it up for us?

Now, lest you have this idea that our house is some filthy hoarder house, it’s not. It’s a house and a home. A family of four lives here. And thus there is a backpack here, a sock there, an empty Gatorade bottle there. It’s just .. life. And if I really want to get the house to the level of clean that I think is necessary, I guess I just need to accept that they are kinda horrible at it. My wife and I will continue to suck it up and do a little extra on our part, and know that at the end of the day, it’s actually not that much work. Especially when the elves chip in.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Charleston. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

Childhood Family

I Spy a dad who needs to step it up

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date January 28, 2016
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I know that parenting can be hard sometimes. But there are some things that, let’s be honest here, should not be that difficult.

Playing I Spy is definitely one of those.

I witnessed this the other day when I went to pick up lunch for my wife and me. (Quick side diversion: It was cold and rainy, and so a grilled cheese and soup sounded like a good combo. Apparently, that sentiment was felt by roughly everyone else on the planet, which resulted in a long line at the soup place. Two different people in line took turns complaining about how long the line was. Yes, how dare all of these people have the same reaction to cold and rain that you did. Anyways, back to the story.)

As I waited my turn in line, I heard a little girl behind me. “Dad. Let’s play I Spy. Dad. Dad. Daddy. Daaad. Dad. I Spy. Let’s play I Spy.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Dad was not responding. Dad was on his phone. Dude, I’ve been there. Probably in the last 24 hours. I get it. But there are a few things you need to accept in life when you are a parent, and one of those is certainly that you are not only obligated to play I Spy, but to play it correctly.

I considered playing I Spy with her, but then I reminded myself that I am some random dude in a restaurant. Eventually, the dad heard her and he looked up from his phone.

“Yeah, um, fine, I Spy something yellow.”

“Banana,” she said, pointing at the enormous banana picture on the wall, and the only yellow thing in sight.

“I Spy something blue,” he said.

“Ummm.”

“We did it last time we were here,” he said, which we all clearly can see is a violation of internationally agreed upon I Spy protocol.

“Blueberry,” she said, pointing at another painting on the wall.

She decided it was her turn. “I Spy something yellow!” She said proudly.

“Yeah, banana.”

Fortunately the line progressed and it was my turn to order, and I stopped eavesdropping. And I could stop twitching a little bit at the dad’s horrible grasp of how to properly play I Spy with a kid.

As much as I wanted to, I did not do my civic duty and tell the guy how I Spy is supposed to work with little kids. So, in case you are wondering, the rules are:

When you are the dad, the first color you pick needs to be one of the most common colors that is in your current field of vision. That keeps the kid occupied for a long time. The only way his banana choice was an acceptable option is if there was a painting of multiple bananas, a sun, Spongebob and lemons. That way, you can draw the game out, as it is designed. “Is it a banana?” “No!” “Is it that banana?” “No!” Is it a lemon?” “No!” Is it Spongebob?” “It IS Spongebob.”
When you are a dad, never guess the right answer first. This is not a race. This is distraction action. If your competitive nature leads you to the point where you need to win quickly, you need to recalibrate your life.
Never go back to old answers. Kids have amazing memories. And again, the point of I Spy is to kill time. If you picked the blueberry last time, find a different blue. Trust me. There’s something blue. The sky will work.

OK, in fairness, I don’t know that dad was going through. I am sure the dad was plenty harried and was at his wit’s end, as every parent is pretty much all the time. But I just believe that there is a certain baseline of parenting that needs to be adhered to, and that starts with the basics of I Spy. It just makes sense. Kinda like a grill cheese and soup order on a cold and rainy day.

Uncategorized

It’s not easy being crimson

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date January 16, 2016
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So we have had a few days to process The Game. Bama’s fourth national title in seven years. That’s eight in my lifetime (although I readily admit to not being aware of the first three; I was 1, 6 and 7, respectively).

This game was one the cleanest I’ve seen – only six penalties, hardly any chippiness, and no Public Enemy No. 1 from either team. It was a heavyweight slugfest, start to finish. Clemson played as good of if not a better game. But Alabama had just a smidge more, and thus ended up with the trophy at the end.

The crowd, on TV at least, was a decidedly Clemson crowd. Those I know who were at the game confirmed that. They were going nuts with excitement. Bama fans, while certainly cheering, were not in a Mardi Gras mindset, even after the final whistle blew. One friend of mine noted that the Bama fans weren’t even smiling on the way out of the game.

It’s true. We probably weren’t. The feeling after the game was just … relief. And it’s hard to explain this, and most people will roll their eyes and hold very insincere pity parties for me when I say this – but it’s hard to be a Bama fan.

Yes, I know. Poor me.

But when you have had this level of sustained excellence, you really do become defined by championship or bust. The day after the championship game, I was taking my kids to school. There in car line was an SUV with Ole Miss flags flying high. And it made me mad. The trophy hadn’t even left Arizona, and all I could think of was how this season was flawed, and we have a two-game losing streak against the Rebels.

I am sure many of you feel as if you would gladly trade your team’s last seven years for mine. If you asked me if I would switch, say, Bama basketball for, well, most any program, my answer would probably be yes.

But beware of your cursed blessings. When you have become integrated into The Process, failure is losing in the playoffs. Failure is a 10-win season. Failure is certainly that Kick Six that just will never go away. Failure is anything short of a title. And it doesn’t even feel like a total success when you have that one blemish from way back in September.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Woe is me and the rest of Bama Nation. Poor us. But when next year starts, and you are full of hope and excitement for a new year of possibilities, the Crimson and White head back to work. There are no moral victories. We know we’ve got a long haul ahead of us, with only one acceptable destination. And a stop in Oxford, Miss. on Sept 17 is a key part of that journey. And should we leave that game 3-0, we probably won’t smile leaving the stadium. We’ll just leave relieved.

Adventures Family

20 years and counting

I just realized that I have been writing this column for more than 20 years. My first stab at this was published Dec. 13, 1995. Going back and reading it, I have to say — I cringed a little. I was a 23-year-old reporter with mile-wide idealism and ambition and the deep philosophical insight that only a worldly 23-year-old such as myself can make.

The column was about moving back to my parents’ house, one year after having graduated college. Now, I will say — I had some points, even if I presented them in a way that makes me twitch a smidge now. The column talked about how so many people my age had earned the “Boomerang Generation” title by circling back home after college.

When I left college, I took a job in Orlando as a college textbook editor. Note to those searching for jobs after college: Getting paid to read college textbooks does not make you want to read college textbooks any more than when you were in college.

After a year, I had had enough of that job, and I just wanted to go home. And so I went. I got a job at the newspaper and started on Adult 2.0.

And so here we are, 20 years of Mike’s Life columns later. More than 1,000. There are columns I am very proud of. There are columns that make me want to figure out time travel so I can go and find me writing said column and smash the keyboard over my head.

I have received some very nice comments from folks over the years. I have received some very not nice comments, including one from a gentleman who hated everything about me and my stupid column. That one was delivered in person, and included an invitation to step outside at a bar. I declined. A week later, at the same establishment, a beer I had not ordered arrived at my table. The waitress said, “It’s from that guy over there. He said he’s sorry about last week.” We made eye contact. He gave a quick nod. All good, sir.

I think I’m like most writers in that I absolutely hate reading my own stuff. All it becomes is an exercise in questioning yourself or, even worse, finding a mistake. It’s just not good for the soul. Once I realized I had been doing this for 20 years, I did go back and read some, and I’m pleased that I really haven’t changed that much. Sure, having a family and changing careers and such tweaks who you are. My hair may have some gray, my pants may be an inch (or two) bigger at the waistline, and my ability to eat two Whoppers in a single sitting may be gone forever. But that’s a natural evolution. I’m glad I didn’t go back and read old columns and think, “My goodness, you were an awful person!” Or worse, read and think, “You were such a nice boy! What have you become, you monster!?!?!”

In reviewing two decades of columns, one fact was driven home: I have the most patient and tolerant wife on the planet. I have written about her getting her hair stuck in a curling iron. I have written about her having to crawl through the trunk of her car when she locked her keys inside. I have written about the time she killed a drifter just for sport. (That last one may be slightly off. Memory’s fuzzy.) But she has been a heckuva good sport over the years, often enduring this question from her friends: “Why do you let him write those things about you?”

So it’s been a good 20 year run, and here’s to the next 20. It’s a treat to be able to visit with you each week and share the silly and pointless observations I have. I realize this column is not exactly the Federalist Papers, but I hope they have brought an occasional moment of levity to your world. If you have read my column for a while, thank you. That means a lot. If you haven’t read my column regularly (or at all), that’s fine. There are plenty of other things you can do with your time. Such as putting up your shopping cart.

Childhood Family

It takes a village (especially when you lose your kid)

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date January 8, 2016
No Comments on It takes a village (especially when you lose your kid)

Most anyone who has been the parent of a small child has experienced this: You are out in public, and you make the mistake of taking your eyes off your child for three-tenths of a second, only to look back and see that your child is nowhere to be seen, at which point your brain says, “Well, I guess this is how you become a made-for-TV movie, so pretty much time to panic.”

It happened to me years ago when my son was about five. I was at the Children’s Museum in Atlanta, and my son pretty much vanished before my eyes. As in any children’s museum, there are eight bajillion places a kid can be, so I didn’t immediately go to panic mode. Of course, I did have one of his grandparents with me, so that certainly put a sense of urgency to locate said grandchild.

Parker had climbed under a table and we found him rather quickly, and thus we were not forced to go to Defcon Level Grandparent.

My kids are older now, and I don’t really need to worry about them wandering off or disappearing. In fact, if I’m at a store with them these days, I’ll often remind them that they are free to go and shop at any other place in the store I am not.

But the other day, I had a flashback to that sense of panic. I was checking out at the grocery store when a woman walked in with a small child, probably two or so. She was old enough to walk fine, but she was still at that age where you know that if you introduce a slight incline, her walk will gradually develop into a run which will without a doubt develop into a roll. Fun fact: Most dads find that roll hilarious when done harmlessly on grass, but never share that with moms.

Fortunately, no incline in the grocery store. But there were cookies. The grocery store keeps a little bin of sugar cookies right by the customer service desk, and clearly the little girl knew there were cookies.

As they entered from the other side of the door, the mother stopped and peered into a shopping cart. It was one of those carts that had a whole bunch of items marked down. As she stopped to consider whether she should get the candy canes for 80 percent off, Cookie Monster took off. She sped up, toddling and wobbling across the grocery store.

The mother looked through the cart for about three seconds, tops. She then looked down to her right. And then to her left. Nothing but grocery store floor. She looked left. Then she looked right, in my direction. I saw the look. Panic. Sheer, abject panic. Her worst fears were coming true. Her baby was … and then she saw me pointing at her daughter. Then she saw the woman in the aisle next to mine pointing. And the older gentleman at customer service. And the grandmother who was blocking the other exit doors with her cart. Don’t worry, mom. The village is here.

The mom nodded a rather embarrassing smile and began a hurried walk/run/shuffle combo over to little Ashley, who now had her cookie. Fortunately, we are not a judgmental village. The grandmother walked past and told the mother what a pretty young girl Ashley was.

The mother smiled and said thank you, taking her daughter’s hand (the one that was cookie-free). The walk back to her starting point was no doubt one of those chats we have all had. “Ashley! You CANNOT walk away from me! You need to stay with Mommy!” And let’s be honest — those conversations are way more for the parent than the child, as more than likely, what Ashley was hearing was, “Eat the cookie” on loop.

So in the end, it was that scary moment for a parent at the time that all of us old seasoned vets knew was no big deal at all. It was just cookie time.