Category: Family

Categories
Animals Childhood Family

Hook, pain and Parker.

My son loves to go fishing. We have ponds near our house, and he spends countless hours with a line in the water.

Oftentimes, he goes by himself, which is an awesome thing for a 14-year-old boy to go do. Just set off on your own, fishing pole in hand, and chill by the water.

But this night, he wanted his mom to come with him. I was cooking dinner, and he asked her if she would come and see his new lure in action. “Sure,” she said.

img_1002
Parker, about 20 seconds before it all went south.

Fast forward about 10 minutes. I’m in the kitchen, happily watching Jeopardy! and getting our dinner prepped, thinking about how lovely it was that my wife was with our son, sitting on the bank of a serene pond, watching the bass tease the lure, just enjoying a lovely spring evening.

And then my phone rang. It was my wife. “GET DOWN TO THE POND NOW! PARKER HAS A HOOK IN HIS HAND!”

Now, first know this — my wife is the ace when it comes to first aid. She has tended to kids with a magnolia branch in the eyeball, stitch-requiring head wounds, and countless numbers of fluid expulsions from goodness knows where. She does not flinch at things like that. She goes into uber-cool robo-Docmom mode.

However, the one thing none of the previous medical emergencies had in common with this one – this one had a large bass attached to the medical problem. Even after more than 20 years in my family, she will admit to not being the biggest up close and personal fan of animals. She likes them at a distance, but certainly not inches away when she tries to perform first aid on her son.

I put dinner aside and grabbed a hook remover out of my son’s tackle box. It’s basically a pair of clamps on a long shaft that helps you remove a hook without getting yourself snarled in the hook when a fish thrashes. In retrospect, he probably should have taken it with him.

I arrived on the scene and my son was down at the base of the water. My wife was pointing to him, but that was really not necessary, as anyone within about 500 yards could hear my son. “THIS HURTS! THIS HURTS! THIS HURTS! DAD LOOK AT THE SIZE OF THIS BASS! THIS HURTS!”

I got to my son and assessed the situation. The lure had a total of four treble hooks. Two were in the fish. Two were in Parker. Using the hook remover, I quickly backed the first one out of Parker. I went to get the other one, and Parker let out an unholy yowl that you do not want to be responsible for causing in your child.

“OK,” I said. “Let’s get the fish free.”

The fish apparently heard me, as it decided that would be a good time to thrash wildly. At that point, a neighbor came over, having heard the commotion. The neighbor held the fish steady, and offered words of encouragement to Parker. I was able to free the fish, and he pitched it in the water. It swam off, no doubt laughing at the vengeance it had extracted.

There was one last hook stuck in Parker. Unfortunately, it has one of those reverse barbs in it, so backing the hook out was not going to be an option, unless I wanted to tear Parker’s skin to do it. Parker made it very clear he was not on board with that.

The neighbor got a wire snip, and I was able to clip the hook and slide it out where the barb didn’t catch. Free at last.

We got him home and cleaned up the wound. He’ll be fine, and no doubt back fishing probably by tomorrow. Just a hunch if anyone goes with him, it won’t be my wife.

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

 

Categories
Family Food

PEE-can, PICK-ahn – the debate continues.

Here are some things that take about 30 minutes:

  • Viewing a network sitcom
  • Cooking some chicken
  • Watching about 1/10 of “Gone With the Wind”

Here is something that should NOT take 30 minutes:

  • Ordering fast food at a drive-through

My wife, son and I recently got to experience this unnecessary delay, and we would have been far more angry had it not been a comically amazing display of ineptitude.

It started at the speaker, where we placed our order. I ordered a few fairly standard items — cheeseburger, Coke, chicken nugget meal, vanilla milk shake, apple pecan chicken salad, and an unsweetened tea.

The voice from the speaker came back, “Sir, we don’t have that salad.”

I said, “It’s right there on the menu. Apple pecan chicken salad.”

A slight pause. “Um, we have a PEE-can chicken salad.” I know there are some distinct camps on the the pronunciation of “pecan.” I fall into the “pick-AHN” camp, and I don’t begrudge those who don’t. But I acknowledge they exist.

I looked at my wife. She was laughing too hard to help. I turned back to the speaker. “Yes, I meant the PEE-can salad.”

We pulled up. There was one car ahead of us. It took them about 15 minutes to get their order, and most everything that was passed to their car window was quickly sent back. This wasn’t going to end well.

So here’s a summary of the calamity that we then endured:

  • Handed an unsweetened tea. My wife tastes it. It’s sweet. Hand it back. Get a second. Also sweet. I hand it back. Dude at the window says, “Oh, that’s just how our unsweetened tea tastes.” No. No it does not. Third time an unsweetened charm.
  • Handed my Coke. Take a sip. Clearly Diet Coke. Hand it back. “Oh, that’s just how our Coke tastes.” No. No it does not. He says, “Look, that’s what came out of the Coke button.” Perhaps your Coke button is broken. He hands me another drink, and it is, miraculously, Coke.
  • Dude opens the window. “And you had a chocolate milkshake?” No, I told him. I am sure that, had he given me a chocolate milkshake, he would have said, “Oh, that’s just how our vanilla milkshakes are.”

After about five more minutes, I am growing increasingly, um, let’s just say, not happy. But still being nice. As is my way.

I leaned out my car window and motioned back to the car behind me and gave what I can only describe as the universal sign for, “I’m sorry I’m delaying everything but it’s not my fault because there is nothing but chaos inside.”

A manager saw me motioning and opened the window. “Everything OK?” he asked.

No, I told him. I said that we had been in line for, at that point, 26 minutes, and nothing we had gotten had been right on the first try. And occasionally the second try.

“But you have your food, right?”

That’s a big negative there, boss.

The manager said, “Hey, I apologize for the wait and everything. He’s new and learning.”

I responded, “He’s not ready, and you need to get him some help.” The manager give me the look of a gifted painter who knows what paints he has at his disposal to create his masterpiece. And he has a child’s dried up water color set.

A few minutes later, the manager returned and began handing us our food. I said, “I know the drive-through is backed up, but I’m going to check and make sure everything is right, since nothing has been right so far, OK?”

First bag. Salad – check. Second bag – nuggets – check. Third bag – Cheeseburger, some more nuggets, and some fries. I stared into the bag for a second.

“I threw some extra nuggets and fries into the last bag. I apologize for the wait.”

So at least the manager tried to make right by throwing us some nuggets and fries. I feel bad for the new employee, as he was clearly in over his head. Hey, maybe we were somehow to blame for setting everything off the rails. Maybe it all could have been avoided had I ordered a PEE-can salad from the start.

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

 

Categories
Childhood Family

The internet: Not always awful.

I think we can agree that, oftentimes, the internet is really just an awful place. If you are in doubt of that, just visit any YouTube comment section. I was going to give you an example of some, but pretty much every popular nice, sweet and innocent video I went to had comments so vile and hateful that I felt dirty after kicking around for about two minutes.

That said, the internet does have its redeeming qualities. For example, in the fall, when we are traveling on a Sunday, my son can give be a play-by-play commentary for football games, watching live feeds of NFL games. Or, you can use it to find virtually any recipe you want, which is fantastic, but I would like it known that no one — no one — wants to read an essay before you get to the recipe. Gimme the measurements and the oven settings.

Or, it can be when good folks come together to help out a 10-year-old on a school project.

My nephew Sam has to do a state project, and he chose Washington, as his teacher is from there. He sent a letter to the governor’s office to request information.

Now, I remember being his age and having a similar project. I chose Massachusetts, as my aunt and uncle lived there at the time. I wrote a similar letter (with no doubt awful handwriting), and a few weeks later received an awesome package in the mail with gobs of brochures and maps and such. It. Was. Awesome. I don’t remember what I got on my project, but I assume it was an A++++.

Well, imagine Sam’s disappointment when his package arrived. It was a single sheet of paper. Among the things in the letter, it said, “Due to budget constraints, we are no longer sending packets of information. However, a wide array of information is available on the Governor’s website and other state websites.”

What followed was a paragraph highlighting these websites, and included hyperlinks to various sites. Not sure when the last time you tried to click on a hyperlink on a printed piece of paper, but, yeah, you can’t. Because it’s on printed paper, and NOT THE INTERNET!

This bothered me. I get that budgets are tight. And I understand that we want our public officials to be good stewards of our money. But it’s a 10-year-old! Wanting to learn about your state! Is there that much demand for the Evergreen State info from elementary school kids? How big does the budget have to be to throw a few pamphlets in the mail?

So, with my sister’s OK, I went to a few Washington-centric message boards and posted a link to the letter he received and a plea to help out a 10-year-old. I said:

“My nephew is 10, and was really excited about his project on Washington, as his teacher is from there. Unfortunately, budget cuts have apparently nixed getting a cool package of Washington-specific stuff. If there is anyone out there who might be able to help him out, that would be awesome. Also, it would further cement my status as Uncle Awesome.”

And this is yet another time when the internet is not awful. About a week later, I had received several packages from folks who had gathered up brochures, guides, maps, etc. all about Washington. Those folks didn’t have to do that at all, but it’s a great reminder that awesome people do exist, and, yes, they exist on the internet.

I gave my nephew is Washington packet the other day, and I can’t wait to img_0887see his project. He’s got plenty of information, and, as I told my sister, the pamphlets that were sent make me want to go visit Washington.

I hope the Washington governor’s office will reconsider their stance on not sending out packets. Maybe they need to have some guidelines that can help keep the budget lean, such as, I don’t know, when it’s a 10-year-old in South Carolina trying to learn about your state, it’s OK to send some stuff.

Even if they don’t change their policy, I’m so glad some folks stepped up and helped out a kid trying to do a project. It’s what makes the internet not so awful.

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

 

Categories
Family

The Gospel of Dalton: Be nice

In what we all agree is one of cinema’s finest moments, bar bouncer Dalton, in the critically acclaimed film “Road House,” instructs his team of bouncers to “Be nice.” If you are unfamiliar with this movie or this scene, you can pretty much turn on cable any time and find it. That and “Shawshank Redemption.”

But Dalton’s point rings true: Be nice. And good readers, I implore you today: Be nice. I have experienced some non niceties recently, and I think we can all be better.

So a few ways you can, like Dalton says, be nice:

  • If you drive a truck or an SUV, you are not, by definition, a compact car. So please, in a parking garage, don’t try and wedge yourself into a spot designated for a compact car. Oftentimes, you take up two spaces, which is not nice. Other times, you park about three inches from my driver’s side door, which means I have to climb through the passenger’s side car to get in. Add to that I was wearing a suit at the time, and while I will grant you the visual is worth a chuckle, it’s not nice.
  • If you are at the grocery store and have an overflowing shopping cart and a guy behind you has just a jug of milk, let him go ahead of you. Especially if he looks remarkably like me.
  • Speaking of the grocery store, you know those plastic bags they put your stuff in? Yeah, you can hang on to those, and then, when you are walking your dog, you can use said bags to pick up your dog’s mess from other people’s yard. Or you can be extra fancy like me and get a little thing that clips to your leash that carries bags just for that purpose. The little container is even shaped like a bone.
  • People are often criticized for failure to use turn signals. However, equally egregious is assuming that a turn signal is an automatic pass to begin merging over into a lane. You know what’s nice? When you make sure the other driver actually sees you and lets you in, rather than just barging into the lane nearly causing a collision.
  • That crying baby in public? No, it’s not pleasant to listen to. But you know who it’s most unpleasant for? The parents trying to soothe it. That said, parents — it’s nice to maybe take said unhappy camper outside for a little jaunt. Goodness knows I have taken plenty of walks out of events in order to soothe a crying baby, and that includes quite a few meals at restaurants, as well as my sister’s wedding.
  • I love sports, especially college football. One aspect of sports I have never loved is the trash talking, in particular to strangers in public. We’re a Bama family, so we have had our share of success over the last few years. That said, hey, awesome job by the Clemson Tigers, and a well deserved national championship win. But you know what’s not nice? Walking up to my son, while he is wearing a Bama shirt, and pointing to your Clemson shirt and saying, “Yeah, we rolled you! HAHAHAHAHA!” That’s not an indictment of Clemson fans. I know there are plenty of obnoxious Bama fans, too. Every fanbase has them. And they should all be nice as well. And really no grown-up should ever talk trash to a kid. You’re a grown man, and I don’t care how many beers you’ve had.
  • I am legally required to include returning shopping carts in this column.

So there you go, America. A few simple measures you can take to just be nice. Dalton thanks you for your service.

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

 

Categories
Adventures Family

Burn, baby, burn

The last really bad sunburn I got was about five years ago. Well, prior to last week.

The one five years ago was a doozy, and my entire family got scorched at the beach.

Now, you’d think, “Hey, Mike – isn’t sunscreen something that, you know, every single person on the planet knows you should take to the beach, especially if your family is comprised of fair skinned people who will turn the color of a fire hydrant if exposed to direct sunlight for about five minutes?”

The answer is yes. And we did have sunscreen. Lots of it. And applied it frequently throughout the day. And apparently we would have been just as protected had we just rubbed some of the seawater on us.

On that day, we learned that sunscreen goes bad. This was a reliable brand we had used for years, but apparently this bottle was kaput.

So we are pretty diligent about keeping our sunscreen fresh. Every year, we restock our sunscreen supply, and we have been sunburn free since then. Until last week.

Hey, fun fact – it doesn’t matter how effective your sunscreen is if you don’t use it.

This was my fault and my fault alone, and I accept full responsibility. And now I will give you the reasons why it was not my fault and blame other factors, thereby shirking any and all responsibility.

My son and I were going to meet my dad and some folks about three hours away to tromp in the woods looking for critters.

I had set all of our stuff out the night before, as we were going to have to get up early to leave. But I was doing this at night. And it was cold. So sunscreen didn’t come onto my radar. My wife had gone to bed when I was getting stuff ready, so I think we can all agree she shares some blame in this. Yes? Hello? Anyone?

The next morning, we left before the sun came up. And it was still cold. And my wife had not woken up yet, so I think we can all agree she shares more blame in this. Yes? Hello? Anyone?

When the sun began to rise, I realized that I had forgotten something. No, not the sunscreen. My sunglasses. I hate being without sunglasses when I am driving, but we were too far down the road at this point. Power through it, I figured.

We arrived at our destination and I realized I had forgotten another item. No, not sunscreen. Ball caps. When I’m going to be out in the sun, I always try to wear a cap, as does my son. He was half asleep when I put him the car, but I still think we can all agree he shares blame in this. Yes? Hello? Anyone?

I dug through my trunk and found a baseball cap in there for him to wear. I would just try to change my position throughout the day, avoiding too much sun on one spot at a time, which dermatologists will tell you is probably one of the dumber ways to avoid a sunburn.

Around noon, my dad turned to me and said, “You’re getting a little red there. Did you not bring a hat? Or sunscreen?” “No, dad,” I said, suddenly becoming 11 again.

One of the other people in our group had some sunscreen, which I applied liberally, although I knew this was pretty much akin to taping an aspirin to your head after several hours of a headache.

I sprayed my son down as well, although I was pleased that the hat had done him some good. His neck and his right ear had not fared so well. Clearly, he was not rotating himself as well as I was, or his left ear could have bore the brunt of some of it.

So here we are a day after, and my face and neck feel like they’re 8,000 degrees. My son’s neck and right ear are fried, but the aloe seems to be abating that.

I will remember this incident and make sure it doesn’t happen again. And if I do stumble, I think we can all agree others share some blame in this. Yes? Hello? Anyone?

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

 

Categories
Family Home improvement

Nailing the ‘industrial, rustic, farmhouse, you know’ look

My wife and I have begun decorating our house. The most surprising part of this is not that we have lived in the house for more than two years and haven’t started decorating until now.

That part is explainable. We rented it for the first two years. We didn’t do a whole lot of hard-core decorating, because it was not our house. No sense in putting your stamp on something you may be moving out of.

But then we bought the house from the previous owner. The surprising part is that my wife and I are decorating it. Or, to be more specific, the “I” part. There is really no reason for her to include me in this, as I have the decorating sense of a color blind capuchin monkey.

In fairness to my wife, she is doing the heavy lifting. We’ve already painted, put in new flooring, and changed out numerous light fixtures. My wife asked me for my input on these things much in the way she asked for me for input when we were picking our dishes before we got married. She asked for my opinion, kind of how you ask for a child’s take on dinner. It’s not to find out what the child likes. It’s to find out what they are going to have a temper tantrum over, and you can therefore eliminate that one.

This was the absolute right choice, as I am terrible at picking out these things, and I completely defer to her on what is the best choice in these matters. If she picks out 100 options, I probably can’t tell the difference in 99 of them. She just wants to make sure we don’t end up with the one choice that I am going to harp on for decades.

So on a recent Saturday morning, my wife asked, “So you wanna go look for stuff for the house?” I was a bit taken aback, as I assumed that I would be in my usual (and understandable) role, which would be to have her narrow down the finalists, and I would say, “Hmm. Whatever you like.”

But, hey, why not be a part of the process for a change. We headed to the store and my wife told me what she was looking for. She wants our house to have what she has described as “industrial, rustic, farmhouse, you know…” I’m going to just go with her on this, as everything has turned out great so far.

We strolled the aisles of the store for about two hours. She had a few priorities she wanted to address, the first being a basket of sorts to hang on the wall by our front door where mail could be placed, rather than having it just plopped on our dining room table. Fun fact: big box craft stores carry 43 billion types of rustic baskets that can hold mail.

After we hit the 18th aisle and my wife found her 19th basket that would just be perfect, I decided that I would offer up an opinion. “Hey, see that one in your hand?” I said. “That’s the one. It’s perfect.” Pretty sure that my wife started regretting inviting me at that point.

But she is a smart one. That’s when she assigned me my job. Decorate the backyard. She has known for a while that I had a vision for our backyard, and it involves a rather eclectic vision that includes wanting lots and lots of colorful, tin animals on our backyard fence. Yeah, I know. We’re weird.

I set off on my own, and found three new members of my now-growing fence club. By the time I was done shopping for my colorful critters, I can only assume my wife subbed out the baskets another 25 or so times. She settled on one, and I have to say, it’s a fine addition to our home’s personality.

Over the next many weekends, we will continue to shop for things to keep changing our house into our home. I know my wife will add the little things that give us the “industrial, rustic, farmhouse, you know” vibe we’re looking for. I just hope I can find some more tin animals for my fence.

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

 

Categories
Childhood Family

You’ll be fine. In three-four weeks.

Parker, clearly thrilled with his new cast.
Parker, clearly thrilled with his new cast.

The door flung open, and I heard a cry I heard many times before. It was my son, screaming, “OW! OW! OW! OW!”

This time he was holding his hand close to his chest.

I get these calls from him a lot. Not that he’s a hypochondriac. But rather, because he is a boy, and is prone to put himself in situations to get hurt on a regular basis.

A few of them have required medical attention: A cut knee, a broken thumb, and, my personal favorite, a magnolia branch to the eye, just to name a few.

But normally these wounds heal up in due time. A little ice, maybe some Neosporin and a bandage, and he’s ready to go back out and injure himself again in no time.

He had been playing on his slackline in the front yard. For those of you not familiar with a slackline, it is a thin strip of fabric made out of trampoline material. You attach the line between two trees, and can then bounce along several feet off of the ground. The amount of time you can stay on the slackline is very much dependent on your balance and slackline skill.

Parker has been working on a fancy move in which he stands on the slackline, drops to his bottom, and then bounces back up to his feet. Pretty nifty trick, actually.

I asked him what happened. He told me he was working on his trick, and he somehow got his hand in the way of the bouncing slackline, which smacked his hand when it bounced back.

He held his hand out for me to examine. “Ah, you’ll be fine,” I said. I’m a GREAT doctor.

He reiterated to me that it hurt. Bad. I told him we would ice it down. After a good three seconds of having the ice on it, Parker established that ice was cold, and that now his hand was both hurting and cold. I tried to reason with him and explain that ice was necessary. He reminded me that. IT. WAS. COLD. We were at an impasse. “I wanna call Mom,” he said. My wife was out shopping, and I figured I had this under control, so I told him that wasn’t necessary. “Call Mom,” he said. I told him I was not going to call mom, but then realized he was not talking to me, but rather Siri, who was happy to make the call.

My wife was home in short order. Apparently, she is a way better parent than I am.

She came in and examined the hand. She walked over to me in the next room. “Yeah, I think it’s broken.” I was unaware that my wife had X-ray vision, an observation I am sure she appreciated. I told her he was fine, and it would be way better the next day. “Not so sure about that,” she said.

Hey, guess who had a swollen hand and was still in a whole bunch of pain the next morning?

We made our way to the doctor’s office that day. As the nurse was getting his vitals, I asked her if he could get a shot just for fun. “Oh, dad,” the nurse said in a manner that indicated she was used to dad humor.

The doctor checked him out and then sent him for x-rays. A few minutes later, the doctor came back in the room. My son was on his phone playing some game. “I’m impressed you can play on your phone with a broken hand,” he said, breaking the news to us. The doctor said that it was a “greenstick fracture,” and that had the break been in an adult, it would probably require surgery. We are heading to an orthopedist next, and hope that since he is young and still awaiting his final form that will not be necessary.

He is in a brace for now, but will probably be graduating to a cast very soon. Kids heal quickly, so hopefully it won’t be for too terribly long. My hope is that he will be back in action in no time, finding new and exciting ways to injure himself.

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

 

Categories
Adventures Childhood Family

The great ball rescue

Every once in a while, Superman needs a ladder.

My son, ever since he has been old enough to throw a ball, has had an amazing propensity for getting them stuck in trees. Mainly, this is because, for some reason, he enjoys throwing or kicking balls directly into trees. One would think he might eventually determine the cause and effect relationship.

We have been successful every time in retrieving said stuck balls, normally because I have fairly solid aim, and with a few chucks of another ball, I am able to unlodge the stuck object.

Sometimes, however, you have to go to plan B.

The most recent time happened when my son punted a football into the top of a palm tree in our yard.

“Dad, the ball’s stuck, and I don’t think we can get it out,” my son said. Hogwash, I said gathering up two other footballs that were sitting in the yard. I chunked one. And I chunked a second one.

Fun fact: The top of a palm tree has a ball magnet that will capture footballs and hold them with an iron-like grip.

I considered going to get a basketball, Frisbee, golf ball, etc. but figured I would just be adding to the offerings being donated to the tree.

Rather, I said, “Go get the ladder.” The ladder is a six-foot ladder. The ball was about 20 feet up in the air. My son said, “Dad, you can’t reach it from the ladder.”

“And your fishing pole,” I said.

I’ll be the McGyver of ball rescue, I thought.

Once the ladder was in place, I noticed it was sitting on mulch, which is not exactly what OSHA probably recommends you stand your ladder on. So I called in reinforcements. I had my daughter on one side of the ladder and my son on the other, holding it in place for me. I began climbing the ladder, fishing pole in hand. When I got near the top, I raised the pole above my head. I couldn’t quite reach the trio of balls. So you know those top steps on ladders that say, “Not a  step”? Yeah, totally a step.

Once up on the top of the ladder, I braced one hand on the tree and began poking at the balls with the fishing rod. And every time, the top of the pole just bent, and the balls hardly moved.

As I was making several attempts, I began getting advice from my son and my daughter. My wife emerged from inside and also began to give me pointers. As if suddenly there were a bunch of experts in the time honored sport of retrieving balls from the top of a ladder with a fishing pole.

“Hey,” I said. “You know what I could use? No advice.” I was still looking up, but you could pretty much hear the collective eyerolls.

Back to the task at hand. Time to improvise the improvisation.

“Parker,” I said to my son. “Go find a the biggest stick you can. Taller than your fishing pole.”

In a few moments, my son returned with about a 10-foot plastic pole. The pole was in our garage when we moved in, and I have no idea what it’s for. At least I didn’t. Now, I know exactly what it’s for.

Back up on the ladder, with my assistants firmly in their places, I maneuvered the pole to the top of the tree. I poked the first ball a few times. And down it came free and clear. My son abandoned his job as ladder assistant to catch the ball. I’ll allow it.

Second ball — same thing. Free and caught. When the third ball was bounced free, it came near my daughter, who opted to keep her grip on the ladder. I will also allow that.

The balls are now free, but I am sure at least some of them will find themselves wedged up in a tree again sooner rather than later. But that’s fine. Because I finally know what the big, long pole is for.

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

 

Categories
Childhood Family

The hollow threat

I went to the grocery store recently, and I apparently went on rowdy toddler day.

Now, lest you assume I am going into a Harumph! rant about these kids today and how those dagblasted parents should bygum do something about those misbehavin’ younguns, I assure you I’m not.

Rather, as I strolled the aisles, basket in hand, picking up items for the evening’s dinner, I thought to myself, “I remember that!”

There were several packs of rowdy shoppers. Mostly there were moms, and they were handling the kids the way my wife would: With patience and that monotone approach that mothers innately have when they say those run-on sentences like, “No, we are not getting whipped cream and stop touching your brother, Sarah, and, Kyle, seriously, get your foot out from under the shopping cart before I run it over and hey, who put the whipped cream in the cart but one of you better put it back in the next five seconds.” Amazingly, the moms can do this while continuing to push the cart and check their grocery list.

Then there was the dad. He was there with his two young daughters. I passed him on one aisle, and he had that exasperated look of someone who could think of roughly 8 billion things he would rather be doing, and that includes getting his hand stuck in a garbage disposal.

His daughters were riding the side of the carts, which is really a dad way to travel. We are fine with that to start, mainly because we have not thought through the implications of having a small child on either side of the cart, both able to reach the items on their respective sides. Most moms, and certainly my wife, would have said no from the get-go, as she is smarter than I am.

A few aisles later, I passed them again. And that’s when Dad unleashed the Fury of the Dad in Public (and Publix) that I have known all too well: The hollow threat.

“Girls, seriously! Stop taking things off the shelf. Or. I. Will. Cancel. The. Vacation.”

Been there, brother. Been there.

I do not know where their vacation was planned for, but I do not believe for a second he was planning on canceling it. Why? Because if I had canceled every vacation I had threatened to, we would have traveled a grand total of zero miles in our life.

I have threatened to cancel Disney, the Keys, Washington, D.C. and many others. Now I know some of you old school hardliners are saying, “Well then why didn’t you cancel? Teach them a lesson!” Because those trips were paid for. And I wanted to go, too.

Truth of the matter is that threats of this nature are our last ditch effort to salvage a simple shopping trip. And you also have the fallback of letting the kids “earn” the trip back. When they’re little, they have no concept of, well, anything. So you sometimes throw a Hail Mary hoping to make them stop grabbing bags of Cheeto’s off the shelf.

I didn’t see the dad for the rest of the shopping trip, but I certainly hope that his daughters took the threat seriously, even if we all know there was no teeth to it. For one thing, I can only imagine what it would be like if he got home and told his wife, “Sorry, honey. Disney trip is canceled. Mallory wouldn’t stop grabbing Little Debbie snack cakes.” Her response would contain the phrases, “Do you know how much we paid for that?” and “Seriously?” and possibly, “The nuclear option was your choice?”

I have decided that the girls got their acts together and the rest of the shopping trip was a delight. And their vacation was salvaged. And, if not, I am also hopeful that they “earned” it back with good bedtimes or clean rooms or the like. And I hope Dad was just having one of those bad days where he is doing his level best, but isn’t quite wired for one of those even-handed Mom addresses. At the end of the day, most of us parents are just doing our level best to get through the day with some peace and harmony. And in defense of dads, sometimes we come heavy handed with the threats hoping to put an end to the madness. One day our kids will look back on this and remember that we were just doing our best, and we never did cancel those vacations. They will probably really remember it when they are parents and threaten the exact same thing.

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

 

Categories
Family

Don’t skip a step.

Apparently, I skipped a step.

But I didn’t know that step was there.

Explaining that to a 16-year-old who has lost about 2,000 songs from her playlist did not ease the pain.

It happened the other day when I made the mistake of changing the e-mail associated with our iTunes account. When news came out last week that a billion Yahoo! accounts had been hacked, it occurred to me: “Hey, I still have a Yahoo! Account. And that’s what we use for iTunes. I should change that.”

But I skipped a step.

I found out that the music was gone when I got a very panicked text message from my daughter that read, “Because you switched e-mails all of my music is gone. Everything I downloaded from Apple Music is gone.”

I assured her it was not gone and we would find it. I then made a beeline to the Apple store. Because I was not sure we would find it. I just really, really hoped that we would. I noticed that my music was gone as well, but it was hardly the life-crushing defeat my daughter was suffering through, mainly because I don’t have every Broadway song ever recorded on my phone.

Once I got to the store, I was told it was about a three-hour wait. Another option, they said, was to set up a phone call. Perfect, I thought. That way, we can schedule it for when we were both at home and solve this problem together.

At 5:30, we got the call. I explained the problem to the person on the phone. She asked me about a setting here and a setting there. She was having trouble pinpointing a solution, and said she was going to transfer me to a supervisor. This isn’t good, I thought. “This will be great,” I said to my daughter. “The supervisor will fix everything!” My daughter was not buying my fake optimism.

The supervisor, Tracy, got on the phone and we went through checking more settings. She then asked, “Did you log out of your devices before changing the e-mails?”

“Uh, no…” I confessed to Tracy.

“Oh, no. You skipped a step.”

“But I didn’t know there was a step.”

It was apparently an important step.

I said, “I’m going to be one of those calls you share in the break room, aren’t I?” Tracy kindly said no. I don’t believe her, but it was nice of her to say.

I told Tracy that if she can find a solution to this, we can call Christmas shopping done, as this would be the best gift possible.

A few more trouble-shooting efforts. She had me change this setting and that setting. She told me I would need to restart my phone. I told her, “But I’m on the phone with you.”

“I’ll call you back in two minutes,” she said.

“You promise you’ll call?” I said.

Tracy promised.

Two minutes later, the phone rang. A few more settings adjustments. As my daughter paced nervously behind me, I noticed the pacing stopped and there was now jumping. And waving of arms. And a loud, screechy sound that I believe only a teenaged girl is capable of producing, and it only is produced when she sees all of her music repopulating on her phone.

I informed Tracy that it was working, and that she was now the Gibbons’ family’s favorite person on planet earth. She also helped me get my less extensive playlist back on my phone. As my songs began to appear, I said, “Hey, Tracy, since we’re best friends now, wanna hear the first few songs of the most diverse playlist going?”

“Uh, sure,” she said.

I have a wide range of musical likes. “OK, first five in order: R. Kelly, Lynyrd Skynyrd, AC/DC, Elton John and Adele.”

She asked me what R. Kelly song I had. Naturally, I told her it was Ignition (Remix) and gave her a quick sample in my inimitable singing style. I asked her if I was the first customer to sing R. Kelly to her over the phone. She assured me I was.

We began to say our goodbyes, and I again told Tracy that she was our hero. Songs may not seem like a big deal to some people, but to my daughter, it ranks slightly more important than oxygen. But slightly below not skipping a step.

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