Category Archives: Random Toy Box

Posts on the general topic of family.

Don’t call me a hero. I’m just a guy who touched feet so future generations could live fuller lives.

The trouble with major research universities is somebody there is always trying to do research. All this intellectual curiosity can get annoying, but when you live in the shadow of the behemoth you get its shade cast upon you sometimes.

Most people can avoid getting caught in the net of the research study, but most people are not married to my wife. The only thing she likes more than making herself into a guinea pig for the discoveries of tomorrow is making her husband into a guinea pig for whatever human subject experimentation is going on today.

The latest thing she leapt to sign us up for is a study on reflexology. Reflexology, as it applies to us, is the application of pressure to the feet. As explained to us, different areas in the foot correspond to areas within the greater body, and by massaging these foot areas, relief can be applied to the rest of the body. Whether this is true, I don’t know, but I’m just a guinea pig; it’s not my job to draw conclusions.

We are just a couple of weeks into our study, but I have already learned two important things. I learned how to, in my amateurish way, apply reflexology pressure to feet. I also learned, although I probably already had this info tucked somewhere in the back of my mind, that I am in no danger of ever contracting a foot fetish.

Why can’t feet stay this cute and soft, with Piggies who still say “Wee, wee, wee!” all the way home?

It turns out I’m not so high on feet.

My training began with getting reflexology applied to my own feet, which was fine, but I’d just as soon have a back rub. Next, I had to work on the feet of somebody I’d just met. I don’t even really like to hug people I just met, so whipping out the foot lube and going to town all over their little piggies was a tad unsettling.

But I got through it.

You’re welcome, Science.

Now, I just have to manhandle my wife’s feet on a regular basis. Though I dearly love all of her appendages, I have to say, there are other parts of her where I would more enthusiastically plant the flag of scientific enlightenment.

I’m just not into feet. I don’t even care for my own feet. Yes, they are extremely useful to me in my everyday doings, but they are not cute or cuddly, or even gritty handsome in a backwoods kind of way. My feet are homely workhorses, which is why I grew them as far from my eyes as I could.

The only pair of feet I can truly say I love to touch are those soft, pudgy, still babylike ones at the ground end of Big Man. They have yet to develop the harsh gangliness of his older brothers’ feet. For a year or two more, his feet will be a pleasure to touch.

Too bad he’s not signed up for the reflexology study.

 

 

There are presents inside this blog post

Since Christmas is right around the corner, regular readers may be tuning in expecting to find pictures of the boys putting up the tree and otherwise preparing themselves for an onslaught of joy.

Well, no.

Don’t get me wrong; we put up the tree and we are girding our loins for the wave of unbridled glee, and the boys will be getting their fair share of presents on the 25th. But, I’ve decided to make this post include a present for you (well, two of you, anyway.)

Through December 27, I’m running an Amazon Giveaway of my latest book. It’s the first time I’ve ever done an Amazon Giveaway, so bear with me as I learn the process. The bottom line is this: two winners will get a copy of this book shipped to them from Amazon.com absolutely free.

That’s right: FREE! I’ve already paid for the books and shipping from Amazon.

For a chance to win a book, just follow these easy steps:*

  1. Click the book cover or link below to go to the Giveaway.
  2. Sign into your Amazon.com account (if not already signed in).
  3. Click the button that says “Enter.”

That’s it! You’re entered.

Housefly

Blurb:

Anders sacrificed his own promising future to save the life of child. Now he must decide whether to cling to the unlikely hope of regaining his old status, or spend his time making the most of the life fate dealt him. Though difficult to let go of rewards once promised, perhaps the greatest rewards are those earned by building new hope from the bits and pieces of wrecked dreams. A Housefly in Autumn is a historical novel intended for Young Adults and up.

Giveaway link: https://giveaway.amazon.com/p/a357b4fdf7d1b012

After December 27, Amazon will draw two random winners from the pool of entrants and ship the books directly to them.

Here’s the really cool part. I’ve made the Giveaway private, so only people who follow the link can enter. Since I’d like visitors to my blog to have a good chance to win, this is the only place I’m posting the link. You can share the link, or this entire post, or keep it to yourself. That’s up to you.

*The not so really cool part is that according Amazon’s rules, this Giveaway is limited to U.S. entrants. I apologize to my international friends. I would love to be able to include everyone, but apparently Amazon.com doesn’t cover the globe quite like Santa does.

Merry Christmas and good luck.

Now, if you really just wanted to see a picture of us putting up the tree, I’ve got you covered too.

Happy Holidays!

Kindergarten artwork – middle child edition

By the initial Fourth Grade teacher conference you mostly know what you’ve got. In our case, it’s a good student who could be a very good student if he developed discipline or a work ethic. But we who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, and since I don’t want to break my own windows or menace our good student with rocks, I’ll let Big Brother skate until I can show him a better example, or learn to revel in my own hypocrisy. Either way would work.

Kindergarten teacher conferences are harder to predict. The little diamonds are still in the rough. It’s too early to know what type of diamond/quartz/shiny shard of glass Buster will turn out to be, but that doesn’t mean it’s too early to critique his Kindergarten artwork.

Let’s not name names.

This piece took my breath away. The sentiment was so sweet. The tear I was about to shed was choked by a revelation. He doesn’t know what “thankful for” means. He thinks it’s an alternate way to say “mad at.” I shook off this terrible notion. Of course he knows what it means. They would have talked about it in class. All the other kids are thankful for appropriate things; so is he. He’s truly thankful for his brother. What a charming boy!

Now there’s only one minor difficulty.

He has two brothers.

Did he mean to make it plural? Probably not. It’s strain enough being thankful for one brother. Being thankful for both is a bridge too far. No child should be held to that standard.

So which one?

We could show it to his brothers separately, like we do when we privately tell each of them, “You’re our favorite. Don’t tell your brothers.”

No. These kids are the worst at keeping secrets when you’re trying to divide and conquer them.

We’ll just pencil in an s at the end of brother before anybody sees it. That way, the only people who will have to wonder are his parents. We won’t puzzle over the mystery of the exalted brother too long. If we had a dog, neither sibling would have made the cut. I’m not sure how they’d fare against a hamster.

Portrait of the artist as a trick-or-treater.

Self-portraits always give good insight into the Kindergartener’s mind. I know this is a self-portrait because the subject is carrying Buster’s Halloween bag. The scabs on the knees offer secondary evidence. The letters may indicate he is covering his knee wounds with International Olympic Committee Toilet Paper and he plans to shav[e] his legs. More likely he is following in the footsteps of Michelangelo, who, as every schoolboy knows, liked to practice making his letters on the peripheries of his paintings.

I wish the top weren’t stuck behind the wall bracket. I like to see how kids depict their own hair. That’s disappointing, but it doesn’t detract from the significance of this masterpiece: whatever this kid’s strengths and weaknesses may turn out to be, he draws a killer jack-o-lantern.

We’ll always have that.

Click here for a flashback to the critique of Big Brother’s Kindergarten artwork.

Of stinkbugs and men

I have three rough and tumble boys. They play sports; they wrestle each other; they leap off furniture; they catch toads; they do stunts on their bikes. They are little men’s men, daredevils spurred on to great feats of bravado by unpredictable rushes of testosterone.

They are rugged, undaunted envelope pushers, at all times and in all situations, provided none of those situations involves insects in the house.

A moth in the house sends them scrambling like they’ve heard air raid sirens. A spider elicits high-pitched wails, like they’ve become air raid sirens.

They run to Daddy, known for his skill as insect trapper and disposer. He produces his most reliable tool: toilet paper. With a little wad of paper, he catches the bug and flushes it, because, as every schoolboy knows, insect Heaven lies beneath the swirling waters of the potty.

Insects are pulling out all the stops when it comes to sneaking into our house.

If Daddy is not home, they make the best of the situation by running to Mommy. Mommy takes a more distant view of insect disposal. Mommy sprays bugs, notwithstanding the fact there is rarely bug spray in the house. Mommy will spray whatever bottle is closest at hand on a bug: Windex, antiperspirant, Pledge, poster adhesive. If she can’t kill them, she’ll certainly make them spotless, confident, lemon fresh, and sticky.

I’m no great fan of insects, but I have learned to take a measured approach to finding one near me. Mommy has been known to challenge Usain Bolt’s 100 meter time when confronted with a bee. Of course, that was before she had children to protect. Now, she throws the troops to the ground and covers them with her body as if shielding them from exploding shrapnel. It’s all very heroic.

I’ll let you decide where the boys inherited their reaction to insects.

This year, our plague is stinkbugs. Five years ago, I’d never heard of stinkbugs. Now, they are everywhere. Despite their name and ubiquitous nature, I’ve never smelled a stink bug. They only stink when you squash them. This should serve you right if you are the type to shoot bug guts all over your walls and countertops. Even odorless bug guts make for poor décor, and squashing them deprives them of their basic right to ride the maelstrom down the pipes to Valhalla.

You stink, and your mama dresses you funny.

Stink bugs are relatively harmless (unless you are fruit), but that still doesn’t mean I want them in my house.  The boys don’t want to imagine big, ugly beetles crawling on them at night. Unfortunately, a stink bug’s second favorite activity, after mowing fruit trees, is to come into our home in autumn, and the boys’ window AC unit is the easiest place for them to do it.

This leads to cries for rescue. Daddy charges in, armed with his lethal toilet paper, and whisks the offender off to the Great Swirling Reward. The unwanted stink bug is gone, the area is secure, and my own three cherished little stink bugs can go to sleep.