Keep your creepy nightmares in your own wing of the castle

I was sleeping so good at 5 o’clock this morning. The thing about sleeping so good is you only know you were sleeping so good after something wakes you up. Sleeping so good is the perfect example of something you didn’t realize you had until it’s gone.

The thing that made me realize I had, up until then, been sleeping so good was a hand that shook me awake. “Daddy, I had a nightmare,” the seven-year-old owner of that damned hand said to me.

“Go back to bed,” I replied. This is my standard response to all young people at 5 a.m.

“I can’t. It was too creepy.”

“Oh, in that case, go back to bed.”

“I can’t. I’ll have it again. I need to sleep with you.” He tried to strong-arm his way onto my bed. Mommy leaves me about a quarter of the bed as my portion, so there’s no room at the inn. Mommy’s not giving up any of her three-quarters; the boy knows this and it is why he came to my side.

I don’t even ask him to relate his bad dreams anymore. There’s no point. They are about as scary as an episode of Peppa Pig. You want to know about a really scary nightmare? I’ll tell you a scary nightmare.

Not this night, because I was sleeping so good, but last night, I dreamt we had to leave our house and move into a single bedroom apartment in California. After all the time I spend fantasizing about living in a castle where the parents have their own wing, imagine my terror at having to share a tiny apartment with these kids. Now that’s a nightmare. And did I go running into his room to tell him about it? Hell no. In a perfect world, his wing of the castle would be too far for me to travel before daylight.

The boys' room

The view of the kids’ wing from my bedroom. (It’s the farthest away part.)

I resisted his efforts to usurp my allotment of sleeping area. “Go back to bed!” I said in the voice of someone who now fully realized just how good he had been sleeping.

“You have to come with me.”

Well, this was a victory of sorts. I got up and walked him back to his room. I tucked him into bed and was back in my room in less than a minute. I guess there’s a hidden benefit in not having my own wing.

I still had some time before work to get more sleep. And that is exactly what I would have done, had not I been reminded of the nightmare of living in a single bedroom apartment in California.  I thought I had put that horror behind me.

By now, my son was surely comfy in his bed, nightmare free, sleeping so good. Anyhow, it would be time to wake him up for school soon, and then we’d let him know just how good he had been sleeping.

 

Make yourself comfortable, you little freak

I sometimes forget what little weirdos my kids are. Once they outgrow some creepy habit, I tend to forget about it. It slips to the dark recesses of my mind until the next kid does the same nutty thing and reminds me that the last one was just as odd.

Now a veteran potty-goer, Buster has become comfortable enough with the routine to want to customize the experience to his own bizarre preferences. One day, at his request, I took him into the bathroom to have a sit-down meeting with the potty. After he pulled down his pants, I lifted him onto his child potty seat.

I was about to leave him alone for a minute when he called me back. He extended his legs and asked me to take his pants completely off him. Taking them off meant eventually putting them back on, which was more work than I wanted, but okay. His potty seat has a pee guard sticking up between his legs, and maybe he needed to spread out to avoid scraping his thighs on it. Fair enough.

I pulled off his pants.

He pointed to his underpants. Those too.

Whatever. If the underwear are holding back progress, we can take those too. I tossed his underwear on top of his empty pants and turned to leave.

Wait. He wanted his shirt off too.

Really? His shirt was hindering  the process? Oh well, it was a long shirt; maybe he was worried about it hanging down in the way. All right. He lifted his hands and I pulled the shirt over his head. Done.

Undershirt too.

Come on now! That little muscle shirt couldn’t get in the way if it wanted to.

in the zone

Kick off your shoes (and every other stitch of clothing you have), sit back, relax, and let the magic happen.

Yes. Undershirt too.

Well, at least that would be a snap to put back on.

I pulled of his undershirt.

Now there was nothing that could possibly be in the way of him performing his business. I could leave.

Socks.

Oh, what the hell? Might as well. Wouldn’t want to impose any unnecessary constraints on his ability to poop.

I slipped his socks off and put them on top of the pile of his clothes.

Anything else, I asked the now completely naked boy. You want a quick hair cut to keep that out of the way?

Get out and close the door. Hurry up.

My apologies for lingering so long. I don’t know what got into me.

As I made my final escape I found leisure to let some buried memories assail me. This scene was familiar. Just four short years ago, when Big Brother was three, we went through the same routine. I’d forgotten all about it. Well, at least the weirdos are consistent.

I shouldn’t worry about Buster getting completely naked to poop for the rest of his life. Big Brother outgrew that phase soon enough. Then again, that was just before he started singing Christmas Carols in public rest rooms.

The Weird may change, but the Weirdo remains.

 

 

 

 

El Nino goes on Spring Break

El Nino, that little dude who hangs out in the Pacific Ocean and messes with North America’s winter weather, has been doing a fine job of delivering us a mild winter with an unusual lack of snowstorms. We had one good storm in November, but since then I doubt we’ve had a single snowfall of more than four inches.

Then, just when we think we’re going to scoot right into spring unscathed, this happens.

These branches are supposed to go upward rather than sideways like this.

These branches are supposed to go upward rather than sideways like this.

As a cross-country skiing enthusiast, I don’t mind a little snow, if it’s a nice, powdery, slick kind that’s easy to shovel and fun to ski on. This storm was none of that.

Another tree shrub tackled by heavy snow.

Another tree shrub tackled by heavy snow.

This was a heavy, wet snow – the snow that makes one want spring. For those who live in warm places, like California or South Africa, where winter means brings a light jacket, it may be news to you that all snow is not created equal.

Heavy snow falls when the temperature is near the freezing point. It takes twice as long to shovel your driveway, but in my area that’s no big deal because it takes most of the day for a snowplow to come through. Snowplows are a mixed blessing. On the one hand, they clear the streets so you have a chance to drive out of your neighborhood. But you can’t do that until you shovel again to clear the snow bank the snowplow has created at the end of your driveway. Snowplow banks are the hardest snow of all to shovel.

There's some shrubbery under there somewhere.

There’s some shrubbery under there somewhere.

I haven’t skied all year, and this storm will do nothing to change that. This sticky snow is good for building snowmen and making snowballs, but not for gliding over. What’s more, it will be melted by the weekend because that’s what happens to snow when the days get noticeably longer.

But it did close the schools, so at least the teachers are probably enjoying it.

Well, it is kind of pretty.

Well, it is kind of pretty.

snow6

 

A game nobody wins

The oldest boy is playing basketball this winter. I am happy to report he appears to have a brighter future as a basketball player than he does as a soccer player. For one thing, he’s taller than most of the other kids. Now if he would just learn that he’s allowed to jump for a rebound, he’d be on the road to stardom.

My son’s team is made up of role players. On a team of 1st and 2nd graders, every kid (my boy included) is convinced his role is to shoot the ball as often as possible in each game. If this means picking up his dribble, taking a large hop to one side, then resuming his dribble in the clear, in order to get a better shot, then that’s just the strategy adopted. Passing the ball to a teammate is the last resort, only to be considered when one is in danger of being crushed by five closing defenders.

It occurred to me that if I were the coach of such a team, I would tell the boys, “If you want to win games, you’ve got to work as a team.” Upon thinking this, I realized I would say no such thing, and for one simple reason: Nobody wins games in our league. There are no winners or losers, just a bunch of elementary schoolers running around the gym, each craving the chance to add to the number of baskets he’s scored.

Nobody keeps score. Officially. Some of the parents keep it quietly in their heads. The kids try to keep it, but their tallies vary widely. They are much more precise at counting the number of points they have scored individually, which bodes ill in this team sport.

Your 1920 American Industrial League Champions

You’ll never become Industrial League Champs if you don’t learn to work as a team. Also, you may to keep score in some of the games.

Not keeping score is society’s admission that it no longer trusts parents to teach sportsmanship. There may be good reasons for this lack of trust, but it is a mournful admission just the same. It means society doesn’t trust itself to produce humans that are, on balance, kind people. That’s too bad, because nothing improves that doesn’t trust itself.

In our league, and probably most leagues like it, we have limited the chances of gloating, hurt feelings, and the other disappointing aspects of competition. In doing so, we have limited the opportunity to experience the inspiration of contributing to a team effort, and the ideal of putting the team’s success ahead of one’s own. Is the tradeoff worthwhile? Can they make up for lost teamwork concepts when they’re older? I’ll have a more fully developed opinion on that in a few years.

Meanwhile, there are rumors that the refs are going to crack down on traveling and double dribbles. This has to keep the coaches up at night. I would much rather have to teach these kids good sportsmanship, citizenship, civics, and probably even advanced mathematics than how to resist the urge to shuffle a few feet to the right to get a clear shot at the hoop.