Tag Archives: humor

Let’s keep playing Uno until your eyes glaze over!

Our four-year-old likes playing Uno. This is the card game that evolved from the old Crazy Eights we used to play with a traditional deck. Uno has several more specialized cards; it is more sophisticated than our old game and my boy loves it.

The sad part is that he has trouble finding people who want to play it with him. Whenever he asks, “Who wants to play Uno?” everyone looks the other way and pretends they didn’t hear him. It’s not that Uno is such a bad game. I imagine it could be a pleasant pastime, to those who stand any chance of winning. But any game loses its appeal when you know you are bound to be defeated. In our house, no one can beat the four-year-old at Uno.

The boy beats me; he beats his mother, he beats his aunt; he just plain beats everybody. And he doesn’t even seem to try that hard. I don’t know if this phenomena indicates that he is a particularly bright kid or just an average one who routinely takes advantage of the low wattage produced by the dim minds of the rest of his family.

Sometimes it even seems as if he’s trying not to win, which makes me especially proud of the fact that I still can’t beat him. He makes no special effort to hide his cards from his opponents. In fact, he will cycle through his cards right in front of you. It doesn’t matter what you know about his cards; he’s not going to play them in the order his conventional, inside-the-box opponent expects anyway.

card game quarrel

“Quit showing all your cards! How can I have a fair chance of winning when you keep showing me your cards?” (Image: Frederic Remington)

Knowing what he has in his hand at most times, it’s still hard to follow the brilliance in the way he plays his cards. He plays whichever card strikes his fancy, often without considering all the possible plays in his hand. Sometimes he will use a wild card to change the color to one he does not even hold. This diabolical strategy is beyond my ability to fathom. I can’t figure out how it comes around to working out for him, but it always does.

It would be tempting to believe that he is somehow cheating his way to dominance over me in this game, but all the evidence points to him cheating in my favor, if at all. The one thing he does kind of fudge on is not always declaring “Uno” when he is down to his last card. But this oversight is not to blame for his winning streak. When playing against him, one should assume that, if he has not won yet, he is one slim card away from victory.

When he does lay his last card down, he doesn’t gloat over his victory. He merely pays a smiling homage to what was inevitable. Then, as you try to slink away unnoticed, he innocently speaks the words that clutch at you like a garden of nettles: “Let’s play again.”

playing cards on boxcar

“I’ve got a great idea! After I win this game, let’s play again!” (Image: Bain Collection)

Can you crawl to the kitchen and get me some juice?

Some things are more enjoyable when done with one’s children. Being sick is not one of them. You can hardly enjoy being sick at all when your kids are sick too. It just about ruins the whole experience.

Four-year-olds forget their manners altogether when they are sick. They don’t want to sleep in their own beds, and they will make sleeping in yours next to impossible for you if you let them insert themselves there. And you will let them insert themselves, because in your weakened state you are prone to bouts of empathy, and they can sense this.

On our first night of family illness, I let my son sleep in the bed with me. His mother, who was slightly less ill, and exceedingly more wise, than his father, opted to sleep on the couch. She made a speedy recovery.

A sick four-year-old in your bed is a sprinkler system for germs. Even though my son covers his mouth during waking hours, he made no bones about coughing directly into my face in the bed. Rolling over saved my face, but it did nothing to prevent his charming little sneeze droplets from alighting upon the back of my neck. I also discovered that, even in the throes of illness, I can be remarkably nimble when it comes to dodging  puke.

Sick children need their juice. They need it now and they need it where they are. Sick parents might have very wobbly legs, but that is no excuse for not crossing the room to slide a boy’s cup of juice two inches closer to him so that he does not have to roll over to reach it.

Sick children have a great many needs, none of which will wait until Daddy is feeling just a little bit better. I feel fortunate that Mommy was able to tend to the sick infant’s needs without much help from me. This left me free to attempt to keep my legs under me until the preschooler had all of his needs met, or until he realized that I wasn’t trying to cough up a lung just to mock him.

father in bed

In olden times, when the father got sick, the children busied themselves knitting warm garments for him instead of tormenting him with their sundry juice requests.

He got better quicker than I did. This was a relief; all of his sick neediness was replaced by healthy neediness. There were lots of Christmas toys to be opened. Just getting the modern toy out of its box is a half-hour, labor-intensive process, requiring no less than three separate tools. Rescuing toys from their intricate webs of packaging is one of the primary reasons why dads exist. I was happy to help my son liberate his toys, from where I lay on the floor, even at the risk of falling asleep with scissors in my hand.

Both of the boys are well again. I am nearly so. For their sakes, I hope I get back to 100% very soon. It is an unfairness to them, having to jump and climb all over a chronic complainer who is forever whining about not feeling well enough to take a sharp knee in the gut.

What’s in a Christmas stocking?

Christmas is almost upon us and I’m feeling good about it. I’ve got my checklist pretty well marked up:

  • Reroute a couple of paychecks to Amazon.com to take care of the far-flung friends and relatives.
  • Sort through all the millions of toys my four-year-old has told me he wants, paring it down to the few that he will like well enough to make him forget the rest for a few days.
  • Pick out gifts for my wife to the best of my ability as a husband.
  • Practice looking contrite and saying “Sorry, Honey,” when my ability as a husband turns out to be typically husband-like.

The only things I haven’t quite gotten nailed down yet are stocking stuffers for the baby. Stocking stuffers for everybody else have been easy, but I’m having trouble finding little treats for infants. This probably shouldn’t worry me. After all, the child is not yet aware of a thing called Christmas, let alone that it should feature a stocking filled with goodies. A day of teething upon the packaging of his brother’s toys would be an unexpected windfall to him. He wouldn’t miss his stocking at all.

But I would. Stockings are an important Christmas tradition to me. When I was a kid, the only thing my siblings and I were allowed to open when we got up at, oh, say about 2 a.m., on Christmas morning were our stockings. My mother was an inspired stocking filler. The little delights she put in there got us through the hours until she and my father got up.

Then, there were cows to milk; presents had to wait because the cows’ utters wouldn’t. Then there was church. Those of us with enough foresight to choose to be on the Polish side of family that year might have gone to Christmas Eve Mass the day before. We got to play with the goodies from our stockings while we waited for the Germans to come back from church, because our Lutherans didn’t have a Christmas Eve service. We little ones were up for about eight hours before we got to open presents.

stocking hanging on tree

Baby’s first stocking. No, I don’t know the name of any blue-nosed reindeer, but I think he is soon to become a favorite of ours.

One year, when my older brothers played a practical joke by switching out my stocking stuffers for one raw onion, I retreated to a dark corner in the kitchen and cried like it was the end of the world. That was 40 years ago, but I remember it very well. Santa didn’t love me anymore, and it hurt. Even worse, I knew some boys in the next room who deserved an onion far more than I did, so where was the justice?

Even if my little guy doesn’t know about Christmas, or who Santa is, I want him to have a stocking full of happy things on Christmas morning. They may be little things, soon lost or forgotten, but I want to do my best to tell him that the people in his life, who are symbolized by Santa, love him dearly, and always will.

Letter to Santa

A letter to Santa, dictated by the big boy on behalf of his little brother. Since this note falls under Santa-client privilege, names have been redacted.

Dear Santa, please bring us a gift that really sucks this Christmas

My wife wants a new vacuum for Christmas. Before anyone mounts their “this-is-the-21st-century.-How-could-you-think-of-giving-a-cleaning-appliance-to-your-wife-as-a-Chritmas-gift?” ponies and rides to the sound of the guns, let me explain. She doesn’t normally ask for cleaning equipment for Christmas, and I don’t usually get her such gifts. Cleaning is as non-festive an event in our household as it is in the households of people eons more enlightened than we are.

Vacuuming is different, though. She vacuums every day, if she can manage it. It’s a comfort chore. It’s like certain types of yard work to me. I don’t necessarily look forward to the work, but I can be alone with my thoughts when I’m doing it, and I feel better knowing it gets done on a regular basis.

Our old vacuum has suffered many infirmities. One of the wheels keeps falling off. I tried to fix it with that crazy putty stuff they used to hawk on TV all the time until they convinced my wife to give me some one Christmas. Now, when the wheel comes off, as it does quite often, it leaves crumbs that look like gray, dried Play-Doh.

the wheel keeps coming off

Anyone know if we can extend our Triple-A coverage to our vacuum? We seem to be plagued by “flat” tires.

The hose from the floor unit to the canister leaps free of its connections at random times. This would greatly affect the vacuum’s usefulness, except that it doesn’t really pick up much when the hose is firmly in place. Any lint or crumb that is big enough to be seen with the naked eye has to be carefully hand-fed to the machine. What happens to dirt too small for the naked eye is anybody’s guess. I’d say our vacuum just plain sucks, except it doesn’t, and that’s the problem.

The one thing our vacuum does pick up is cat hair. This is no great accomplishment, considering that anything in the same house with a cat picks up cat hair, regardless of how sincere are its attempts to avoid it.

The hook that the cord wraps around is broken off. We have to wrap the cord around the shoulder and torso of the machine like a bandolier. Add a sombrero and our vacuum might have ridden with Pancho Villa. Whomever it rode with, there can be no doubt that it got shot off its horse a few times.

villa directing battle

“The enemy line is crumbling. Send the vacuums around the flank to mop up. Also, make a note to bring mops to the next battle.” (Image: Wilbur H. Durborough)

 

I would have bought a new vacuum at the asking, but my wife has been too wise to ask for one. She knows I would have picked up another $84.99 model and presented it as if it were the end of her worries for all time. She’s sick of burning through these Fisher Price vacuums, and now she wants a good one. And if you want a good one, you’d better get somebody reliable, like Santa, involved.

vacuum wears his cord like a bandolier

With his bandolier firmly in place, he’s ready to ride. Before he accomplishes any marauding, his horse will throw a shoe and he will limp humbly back to his village to recover.

My wife has been a real trooper, putting up with our shameful vacuum for far too long. I just hope Santa has been watching to see how good she’s been. It’s out of my hands now. All I can do is point out the need and the deservingness. By the way, Santa, if you’re reading this, please consider it a letter to you.