Know the Signs of a Distressed Swimmer

Today I read an article that made me think about the coming summer, and begin to worry. I’ll link to the article below. But first, some context:

Twice in the past five years I’ve been in close proximity to a child who would have drowned if someone hadn’t intervened. One was a stranger. One was my own.

When our 7 year old was about 2, we were up at my grandmother’s house at Montario Point on Lake Ontario. We often go to the beach there in the summer, to play in the shallow water and swim in the waves. Around the corner from the beach is an inlet channel that leads to a pond and large marshland. Taking a break from the waves, my brother Pat and I, and our kids, went to the channel to cast Pat’s rod a few times. 

On one back cast, Pat’s line got caught in a tree. I turned my back for a second to help release the line just as 2-year-old Chloe stepped into the murky waters of the channel. She thought it was shallow like the beach, but instead was immediately under water without a sound. Maisie, 5 at the time, screamed her name: “Chloe!”  I turned to see her completely submerged. Pat, who was within feet of her, reached under water and plucked her out. She gasped, coughed and cried, but was okay. Thoughts of what would have happened if Maisie hadn’t screamed for her sister keep me up some nights.

The stranger incident was a bit more recent. At Hilton Head last year, my wife, our two oldest, and I were playing in about 4 feet of water. The beach there gets deep a bit quicker than Montario, making the waves even more fun. Our kids were swimming safely, or were on the beach with their grandparents.

Just a few feet out from us, was a young girl about 8 years old next to a boogie board. There were people all around, but no parent in sight. The girl looked like she was trying to get onto the board, but couldn’t. The water was over her head. She was trying to take breaths each time she bobbed up, reaching for the board each time without success. She wasn’t saying help or flailing her arms, but she was in trouble -- her head was tilted back to try to get air with each bob, and she was not in control.

From a few feet away, my wife asked if she was okay. The girl turned her eyes to us and gave us a look of desperation, slipping back under for a second, but not saying a word. My wife reached out and helped her onto the board. Then we directed her to shallower water.

Below, I’m posting the link to the article that made me remember these events, because it’s that important. As we begin another swimming season, everyone should know the signs of someone struggling in water. Unlike on Baywatch, they almost never scream for help. 

Here are a few things from the article to know:

1.        “Except in rare circumstances, drowning people are physiologically unable to call out for help. The respiratory system was designed for breathing. Speech is the secondary or overlaid function. Breathing must be fulfilled before speech occurs.

2.       Drowning people’s mouths alternately sink below and reappear above the surface of the water. The mouths of drowning people are not above the surface of the water long enough for them to exhale, inhale, and call out for help. When the drowning people’s mouths are above the surface, they exhale and inhale quickly as their mouths start to sink below the surface of the water.

3.       Drowning people cannot wave for help. Nature instinctively forces them to extend their arms laterally and press down on the water’s surface. Pressing down on the surface of the water permits drowning people to leverage their bodies so they can lift their mouths out of the water to breathe.

4.       Throughout the Instinctive Drowning Response, drowning people cannot voluntarily control their arm movements. Physiologically, drowning people who are struggling on the surface of the water cannot stop drowning and perform voluntary movements such as waving for help, moving toward a rescuer, or reaching out for a piece of rescue equipment.

5.       From beginning to end of the Instinctive Drowning Response people’s bodies remain upright in the water, with no evidence of a supporting kick. Unless rescued by a trained lifeguard, these drowning people can only struggle on the surface of the water from 20 to 60 seconds before submersion occurs.”

This doesn’t mean that a person that is yelling for help and thrashing isn’t in real trouble—they are experiencing aquatic distress. Not always present before the Instinctive Drowning Response, aquatic distress doesn’t last long—but unlike true drowning, these victims can still assist in their own rescue. They can grab lifelines, throw rings, etc.

Look for these other signs of drowning when persons are in the water:

·         Head low in the water, mouth at water level

·         Head tilted back with mouth open

·         Eyes glassy and empty, unable to focus

·         Eyes closed

·         Hair over forehead or eyes

·         Not using legs—vertical

·         Hyperventilating or gasping

·         Trying to swim in a particular direction but not making headway

·         Trying to roll over on the back

·         Appear to be climbing an invisible ladder

Please read the whole article by clicking here: Drowning Doesn't Look Like Drowning

The odds are 50-50 -- but only a 10% chance of that.

Based on a limited knowledge of odds-making, you’d think a kid learning to put on his or her own shoes would have about a 50-50 chance of getting it right. For some reason, my two younger kids get it wrong way more than they get it right. Saying they have 10 percent chance of getting the correct foot into the matching shoe would be generous.

No.  Wrong feet, Buddy

I could literally tape-record my answer to the question, “Is this the right foot, dad?” The recording would say, “No.” 

 

Of course, I could also add an instructional part too, which goes: “Just match the curvy part of your foot up with the curvy part of the shoe,” or “Your short toes go into the shorter side of the shoe,” or “The flower always goes on the outside,” or “You tell me if that flip-flop hanging off your foot half-cocked and sideways, with the divider forced between your pinky toes, looks right to you? Does it? Does it?!” 

At this point, you're likely asking, do people still use tape recorders? That's not important right now.

I figured I'd do some online investigating to see what other people had to say about the right-foot, wrong-shoe issue. There's actually been quite a bit of scientific research into this. I found lots of articles online, with blogs and whole books dedicated to the subject. I decided not to read any of it.

 

I know my younger two will figure out the foot-shoe thing eventually. Both of my older kids wear their shoes on their right feet every day of the week. They stopped asking our help figuring it out years ago. I know, they are so gifted.   


Sorry, Dear. Try again.

It'd be nice if someone would invent toddler shoes that go on either foot. Ones with Velcro, of course. That way the kids could "tie" the shoes all by themselves, too. That would make parenting a bit easier. But then, they would probably never figure out the right feet from the wrong. And that could be embarrassing for years to come.

For now, I guess the two younger ones will just keep asking and keep getting it wrong most of the time, and we'll keep showing them the right way.

You can be sure, though, we won’t be rushing off to to Vegas with them any time soon.

"Daddy, are these the right feet?"

Now which one is the play button.

Clean up, aisle 3... and 4, and 5. Just follow that guy.

Warning: The following blog post is not meant for the faint of heart, the weak stomached, or anyone who may be repulsed by the mere thought of contact with tinkle, poop or vomit. In other words, most parents should be able to handle it. 

As any parent of young children knows, you eventually grow accustomed to contact with excrement and the like. It starts in the first days of parenthood.  Babies spit up, creating the first callous on whatever pre-existing aversion you may have had to a child’s bodily fluid. It builds from there.  

Explosive newborn poops that soak their cute little onesies; late-night tinkle leaks that signify the need for larger diapers; and the occasional stomach virus that causes projectile vomiting that would make the director of the Exorcist proud – it all becomes commonplace, to the point where it transforms into the mundane.

As the father of four, I thought I had seen it all. I remember days when a bug would work its way through our family, causing the wee ones to take their turns vomiting incessantly; in every room, on every piece of furniture, on me.  

The rule in our house: never vomit on the living room rug. If you are going to vomit, try to make it to the toilet. If not there, a bucket. If no bucket, the hardwoods. But, please do not vomit on the living room rug. We got it at Marshalls for a steal, and it perfectly matches the curtains. So just don’t. And, for the most part, everyone has obliged this rule. There is also a rule not to vomit directly on the couches, that’s why you’ll notice all the towels underneath you when sick and watching television. But everyone has broken that rule. It’s okay, they are Scotch Guarded.

As an aside, I love the word vomit. There are few words in English with a sound more suited to their meaning. Just saying vomit can almost make you gag.  

Like I said, as a veteran parent, I’ve seen a lot. I’ve gotten poop on my hands, had undiapered kids tinkle on my shirt and been thrown-up on quite a few times while holding sick children on said couch, careful not to let any of it drip onto said rug. Most instances have happened within the confines of our home, away from the gawking eyes of the public. This week, that changed.

I was returning home from a work-related engagement on a Sunday when the phone rang. It was my wife calling from the parking lot at Wegmans in Dewitt.   For those unfamiliar, Wegmans is simply the finest grocery store chain in the world and the Dewitt location is its crown jewel, with a massive prepared food section and everything you can imagine. To give a sense, when Syracuse University hosts Parents Weekend, all the students drag their out of town guests to the Dewitt Wegmans to see the bewildering sites. 

This Wegmans also happens to be our local grocery store. My wife said they were just coming back from a trip to the mall, and she needed to run in to get a few things. The problem: our two-year old was saying his tummy hurt. She needed me to run over to Wegmans and pick him up, while she and the three girls ran into the store. So, I obliged.

When I got to Wegmans, the parking lot was packed. It was Sunday after all. I found the family van and pulled up in the nearest spot possible, as the kids all hung out the sliding van door waiving at me. The news was good. Drew was suddenly feeling better – must’ve been car sick we thought – and everyone was excited about having dinner at Wegmans. Not my favorite thing to do because of the expense, but I didn’t have a better dinner plan.

So, as a family, the six of us went into the finest Wegmans in the world to get ourselves some grub. We did this every once and a while, and the kids always loved it. Drew and the two younger girls always got pizza slices. My wife usually got a sushi. Our oldest daughter and I would opt for the Asian bar. She’d get an assortment of Chinese foods and I’d get Indian or Thai, depending on what looked good. Wegmans isn’t the best place to get any of these, but the only place to get all of these things.

On this day, as we cased the many options from the salad bar to the array of soups, little Drew asked if I could pick him up. It was crowded, so I figured he just wanted to get away from all the legs. I continued to work my way around the various food stations, searching for something better than normal. That’s when he told me he was feeling sick again. I asked if he was going to throw-up.  He said, no.  I should’ve left right then. But hunger blinded my judgment. I kept looking. Maybe the carving station had something I’d want today. 

That’s when I heard the unmistakable sound of a child vomiting. It started with a deep-gurgling, like a burping geyser, then a loud liquid splat, followed immediately by a low-pitched moan. I looked at the tiny little boy in my arms, and he was covered in vomit, from his chin to his toes. I looked down at my fleece vest and my shorts, and these too were covered in vomit. My free hand, which I had instinctively used to cup what I could, held a bit of vomit. And my sandles, too, were surrounded by a small pool of vomit. I’m not going to describe the vomit -- that would be gross. Suffice it to say that he had a strawberry smoothie and part of a soft pretzel at the mall, and it looked like he also had some chocolate milk and a cheese stick at some point in the day.

I looked back at the boy’s face, and he gave me a there’s-more-where-that-came-from look. I didn’t know how it was physically possible. He’d already vomited three times his own body weight. But I didn’t doubt him either. 

Instead, I froze. 


World-famous Dewitt Wegmans on a much happier day.

They say when things like this happen time slows down in your mind. It’s true. Time actually stopped in mine. I looked around to see if anyone saw us.  The carving station guy definitely had. I gave him a shrug, and mouthed, “Sorry.”  His facial expression never changed, and I saw him subtly push a button under the counter like a bank teller witnessing a heist. Clearly, not his first rodeo.

I started calculating what to do. Was there a trash can nearby I could put him over for round 2.  Becuase, as everyone knows, vomits come in threes. Nope.  All the trash cans had secure lids, and I couldn’t stick his face inside one. That would garner more attention. How about the bathroom? It sat a solid 30 yards away, past the coffee and sushi station. No way I’d make it. So I just stood there, frozen.  

Luckily my wife tapped her inner Harvey Keitel and suddenly became the Wolf from Pulp Fiction.  

She pointed at me, “To the parking lot, now!” She turned to the carving guy and let him know about the mess. We’re on it, he nodded. Then she wrangled the girls. “Let’s go, everyone out.  Move!”

I booked for the main door, beyond the bathroom. It was the right decision.  No reason to sully even more of Wegmans. If only we could make it. I held the boy close to me, with our vomit-saturated shirts pressed against each other and his head tucked into my chest. I was trying to protect the world from the next wave, and shield their view of us. As I passed several moms entering the store, each had the same expression: First a smile at the image of a father and son in embrace walking briskly toward them, followed by the change to a look of horror as each realized of what they were beholding. Oh, the humanity. 

Luckily, I hadn’t recognized any of the moms.  … And then, I did:  the wife of the elementary school’s physical education teacher. She was heading out the door with a few bags of groceries. And she hadn’t noticed us. I tucked in behind her, hoping she didn’t turn around.  

We were almost out. Then the doors slid open and we were home free. Well, we were sort of home free. I was still standing in the crowded parking lot of Wegmans, holding my son, with vomit covering 80 percent our bodies.

Frankly, I was surprised he hadn’t vomited again. Most vomits do come in waves of three.  Maybe his first wave was so voluminous that he was done. Or maybe, in my initial frozen state, I’d missed a quick succession. In any event, we only had to make it to the cars now.  

To avoid being seen by any more people, I decided to cut a zig-zag path through the parking lot. I figured if I kept moving and turning, nobody would have us in their sites long enough to realize what they were seeing. We ducked in an out of rows of parked cars, up one row, across two cars, down one, like the parking lot version of Frogger. Finally we made it to the van. My wife and the gaggle of girls were right behind us.

We stripped the boy to his skivvies, packed his cloths in a plastic bag, and used baby wipes to clean him as best we could. I took off my fleece and snuck into the side door of Wegmans, two steps from a bathroom, to wash the vomit from my hands and arms. Then it was back to the cars.
 
As we’d originally planned, I took the sick boy home in my car as the ladies went back into Wegmans for dinner and some supplies. 

Luckily, Drew and I made it home without further incident. I gave him a bath, cleaned us both up and prepped the couch with towels. Needless to say, he vomited several more times that night -- once or twice on me. But, the rest of it happened within the privacy of our home … and none of it ended up on the rug.


Like the article?  Here's others you may enjoy: Vegas, Baby!, Dog Responds to "Mystery Poo" False Accusations, and Tip of the Hat to Single Parents, and Thanks to My Backup,

Writing Lessons, Revisited

This week I finished the grading for the news and PR writing class I taught this semester at Syracuse University’s Newhouse School. It was an honor and a pleasure to work with a group of such talented young people. And I hope the advice I doled out helps them in their careers and in their lives. 

What I shared with them was the advice I’d been given by past professors at Newhouse and read in my favorite writing book, "On Writing Well." And, while I hope the advice helps them, I know passing it on helped me – as a writer and otherwise. These are the lessons all professional writers need to be reminded of as often as possible.  Yet, we often get so caught up in the daily grind of writing, churning out press releases, speeches and talking points, that we forget the basics.   

First, write simply and clearly. In a world where too many professions create their own complex words and obscure vocabulary to communicate concepts, writers need to remember that the best writing avoids both. As my former professor Charles Salzberg often advised, write like you speak. Do not elevate your language to impress. Break it down to communicate your ideas. If you see a phrase like “best practices for long-term profitability” or “improved healthcare outcomes” dismantle and rebuild. The best professional writers translate complex ideas into words and examples we all understand: simple and clear.  

Follow a logical path. This one always takes me back to grammar school, where the nuns would make us outline our work before we began. It was an exercise in path making. And it worked. While I never made my students write an outline, I told them that good writers guide their readers along the path. It was the lesson most needed among a generation that usually writes in 140 characters or less. I told them to use their words, sentences and paragraphs like steps on a path. Once you master that ability, you can add complexity. But if you don’t follow a path, the readers won’t follow you.  



Everyone who writes professionally
should read this every year. Just saying.

Use strong verbs. This sage advice has been the hallmark of every writing instructor from Strunk and White to Roy Peter Clark. Professor Bill Glavin forced the lesson of strong verbs on my generation of Newhouse students. He made us write a few paragraphs without using any forms of the verb “to be.” It is hard. That’s not to say strong verbs need to be long and complex - far from it. Think of how the verb to breathe evokes a basic emotion. Strong verb convey meaning, motion and emotion. Make them work for you.  

Show, don’t tell. Often stated, but easily forgotten, this lesson separates the strongest writing from the rest. To make the point, I told a story. A few years ago, I went to see former President Clinton speak. He covered a wide range of topics and societal problems in need of fixing. When he spoke on health care, he told the story of a woman who had approached him on the rope-line after a speech in Georgia. She had two jobs and two children – one of whom was quite sick, a pre-existing condition -- and she worried about her family’s healthcare coverage. These years later, I don’t remember any of the policies covered. But I remember the story, and how it stirred the crowd. Stories, quotes, specific images, supporting facts, these are the writer’s best tools. It’s how we show, not tell.  

Thinking about the fundamentals of strong writing again, I revisited lessons I’d too long ago forgotten – or at least forgotten to remember. And I realized that, in my career, I had often strayed from this basic advice. I'd written too many press releases that read like policy briefs, speeches without stories and talking points devoid of facts. Rhetorical marvels all, but crappy examples of writing.   

So, my final piece of advice to the students was to revisit these simple rules of strong writing as often as possible. I'm sure glad I did.

This Just In: Journalism in Critical Condition

There are many more tragic victims from this week’s horror.  But one certain casualty is our trust in journalism – for those of us who still had it.   I am one who did.

As someone who studied journalism and spent the first part of my career calling myself a journalist, I take the profession and its role in society quite seriously.   And while I am also not foolish enough to lump all journalists together, after this week it’s safe to say the profession as a whole needs a gut check.

The offenses since Monday have been too many to mention.  The first and primary offender was, is and will forever be the New York Post, which entered the week as a quasi-journalistic outlet to start.  The next time anyone has the urge to describe a New York Post front page scoop as news, they should get a second source – and not the National Enquirer.

But this problem goes well beyond the much-begrudged Murdoch tabloid.  Almost every major news-reporting outlet has taken their lumps this week.  CNN and AP reporting a suspect in custody was the second most egregious offense, causing all the other media outlets to scamper for the courthouse.




The Most Trusted Source In News...

The list of “news” that was subsequently revealed to be wrong is much longer:  The unexploded bombs.  The Kennedy Library explosion.  The picture of the man on the building.   The photo of the grocery bags next to the mailbox.  The Lord & Taylor video camera.  The first reports that police had “identified” the bomber, when all they had was a clearer image.  The erroneous reports of a suspect in custody.  The “bag men.”  All of these were reported and spread by more than one outlet.  Not to mention the endless “speculation” from experts about what this tidbit or that rumor could mean. 

The offenses continue, big and small.  And I think I know why.

Just this morning (Friday, April 19th) with one suspect dead and the other on the run, an MSNBC anchor interrupted her guest to read a tweet from the Boston Police Department.

She said, this tweet just in from the Boston Police Department.  Then she paused, as to show some level of journalistic concern about what she was going to read aloud to hundreds of thousands of viewers  -- MSNBC, so maybe thousands --  and she asked her cohost if the twitter handle was definitely the Boston PD.  He said, “Uh-huh.” And she announced, “Confirmed! This just in from the Boston Police Department.”  Then, she read the tweet saying that the Boston PD was going to detonate a device in a certain neighborhood, as a warning to residents.

Confirmed?  Is that how we confirm stuff? 

After she read the tweet, she went back to the expert guest to ask what this could mean.  He said that police were possibly exploding the car the two suspects had been driving.  And I thought to myself, that’s probably wrong. 

This minor scene was emblematic of the ones repeated a hundred times across all the networks, pretty much 24-7 since Monday.

Journalists used to wade through the sea of rumors and report what they knew was accurate for us to consume. They were wrong at times, but more often they were right.   Now it seems many outlets are content to report the sea of rumors first, and let us all wade through it together.

To show the truly sad state of things, internet sources like Gawker.com have taken up the role of debunking reports that are coming from so-called “mainstream” media.   That’s the state of affairs.  (And thank you Gawker for doing so).

Why are things so bad in journalism today?  Some of it is obvious.  For one, the need to scoop has outpaced the desire to be accurate.  And this is certainly not meant to apply to all journalists.  Most I’m sure, and I know quite a few, still want to be accurate above all else and are themselves sickened by the failings of the profession as a whole covering this story.  Yet, there is no doubt that the collective profession failed this week.

Why does it matter? We learned that today.  When it was reported that the City of Boston was ordered to shelter in place,  I didn’t believe it at first.  Last week, I would have.

The answer to the problem may be a simple one.  When I went to journalism school, we were told to double source everything.  Clearly, most offending outlets failed to follow this simple rule.  And all week, rumors led to speculation which led to headlines.  Before the CNN flub, a law enforcement "source" was the standard.  After the flub, that network at least started including the phrase, "sources confirm."  Note the plural.

And the answer may be a little more complex.  Maybe it’s time for an industry-created commission on the state of journalism.  I hate commissions.  But this is a case where one is needed.  The same way the major news outlets come together to figure out Presidential exit polls, maybe there is a need to set up and establish a new (or renewed) set of self-imposed industry rules.

To be fair and accurate, there have been examples of good journalism too.  Whenever I wanted to know what was actually happening, I turned off the television and went to the Boston Globe.  Maybe they had either better sources or better rules, but the Globe got most everything right and avoided most of what was wrong.

Few others devoting 24-7 coverage to this gripping story can say that.  And that should make all of us concerned.

Just One Chicken Finger Can't Hurt

Chicken fingers? Grilled cheese? Or the mac-n-cheese?

It’s the age-old question for kids when eating out.  Sure, there’s usually a hamburger, a cheese quesadilla, or even a personal “pizza” on the list, too.  And at Italian joints you can also get spaghetti (pronounced pis-getty), with red sauce or butter – lots of butter.  But the kids’ menu triumvirate is always there, and one of the three usually gets the nod from the hungry toddler.

As a dad, I prefer when the little ones order the chicken fingers.  It almost goes without saying, but these are by far the most easily snatched without the wife noticing.  Though, a hearty grilled cheese crust can satisfy after a meal as well as any cold chicken finger.

Don't do it.  Look away.  Abort. Abort!  ... Yumm.

For a long time we’ve known that these kids’ menu items – priced between $4.99 and $7.99 – were a total rip-off.  I mean, honestly, you can buy six boxes of Kraft Mac-n-Cheese for that amount.  But the kids rarely complain – at least about this.  So we’re just happy to have options that are less than the adult entrées.  (Is it fair to call it an entrée if it's ordered at Friendly’s?)

But now, a recent study by the Center for Science in the Public Interest shows that these seemingly harmless menu items are also packed with calories.  Like, a lot of calories.  Like, more than 1000 calories for some of the kids meals in the study.  Like, Applebee’s Grilled Cheese on Sourdough with Fries: 1,210 calories. That’s not good.

Sure, the study’s results may be obvious to some.  After all, these meals are made with processed cheese, fried in fat and served with a pile of French Fries.  But these items are on the kids’ menu, surrounded by cute cartoon characters and served on tiny, colorful plates.  So, naturally, that means they can’t be that bad for you.

And while this study certainly has implications for issues like children’s nutrition and childhood obesity, yadda, yadda, yadda, the real news here is for dads.

We can think we’re making smart choices by ordering the southwest salad, which is deliciously smothered in dressing and covered with shredded cheddar-jack cheese; or by drinking the 16-ounce beer rather than the 20 ouncer; or by heroically skipping dessert.  But once we pick food off the munchkins’ plates, you can just forget those two days you spent at the gym last month. They’re gone. As is any hope of moving in a notch on the old belt.  All because of a few lousy, cold chicken fingers, a handful of fries, and one grilled cheese crust.

Just do the math.  Four kids.  Four Kids meals.  Eat just one-third of each kids’ meal, in addition to your own 1000 calorie salad, and you're sitting at 2200 calories.  If you ordered a burger.  Oh, man.  I just hope that was a light beer you drank.

Damn you, chicken fingers! 

If the results of this study hold up under scientific scrutiny, it can mean only one thing.  It’s back to the gym for us … starting next week. Maybe.

Alone on Opening Day

It’s 6:50 a.m. on opening day of trout season in Pennsylvania.  The temperatures, which started below freezing, are rising with each moment.   The sun peeks over the horizon, trying to scare off the morning haze.  

A few hundred yards away, pickup trucks stream into a crowded lot as scores of men in waders hurry about, preparing to partake in their opening day traditions. 

Yet, here I am standing up to my knees in the crystal-clear waters of one of the most renowned trout fisheries in the east, the Little Lehigh.  And I have the whole stretch of water to myself.  There isn’t a soul around.


Fire on the water:  Sunlight hits the mist on the Little Lehigh

It’s a little trick I learned a few years ago, rather by accident.  This stretch of the Little Lehigh, known for big wild trout, is fly fish, catch and release only.   It’s also open year round.  And crowded throughout the year, as well.  But on “opening day,” the local fishermen opt to fish on the water that’s been closed all winter, the stretch above the bridge by the parking lot -- ironically leaving the best fishing around untouched.

It works perfect for me.    

Any other day of the year, this hole would have three fisherman here at sunrise, and more with each hour that passes.  Yet today, I have it all to myself -- just me, the sun and the fish.

When you're alone on a river, like anytime its just you and nature, things happen, remarkable moments no one else would believe: A giant blue heron whoops past flapping its massive wings, a fish leaps chasing a hatching fly, and the morning sun sets the mist afire with a blaze.

I know this water pretty well.  It’s about ten minutes from my in-laws house in Allentown.   And every trip we make to visit, I spend mornings plying the Little Lehigh, trying to fool its notoriously stingy fish.   But I have rarely had it all to myself.

It stays mine alone for a few hours, as I float near-microscopic midges through the deep hole, pulling out a small Brown and a bigger Rainbow, and promptly putting them back.  When another fisherman finally wanders in and sets up shop across the stream from me, it’s almost time for me to go; time to get back to my wife and kids, who are almost certainly readying for lunch at my in-laws.

So I leave the hole and all its fish to the other fisherman.   Alone.   I sure hope he appreciates it.

Earrings 1, Dad 0

Earrings. Who knew such little things could cause so much trouble. And yet, they have.

In less than one week, my first born, my eldest daughter, my little girl will turn 10 years old. She wants nothing more in the world than to get her ears pierced.

Apparently, this is the age her mother got her own ears pierced, and what the two of them agreed is the allowable age for my daughter’s ears to get punctured and adorned. Here I thought we had agreed to 12, or even 18.  Rather, that’s what I wish we had agreed to.

Call me an oddball, a fashion-ignorant man in a world dominated by women (my world is, anyway). I just don’t get it.

I’m not judging. I know plenty of friends and relatives who got their baby’s ears pierced on the way home from the hospital. That’s their call, and frankly, I don’t even notice them.

But, with my little girls, I wanted them to wait.

Wait for what? Fair question.

I'd like to think my opinion is based on a general resistance to all the ways we tell our young daughters to become obsessed with their own beauty, to care about things like make-up and jewelry, and to succumb to all the pressure to be a real-life princess.

Maybe I had one too many sociology classes as an undergraduate. Maybe that darned liberal arts education made me question all the societal conventions that get forced on us from every direction, dictating our gender-specific roles, setting us on our pre-ordained paths, and molding us until we are American-Idol-watching, new-sneaker-buying, credit-card-using drones. Deep breath.

Maybe now that I’m a dad with three young daughters – and one son – I see it ever more clearly. Sure they come out a bit different – boys and girls. I never saw a 10-month-old throw a ball across a room until our boy did. But how much of the difference do we as a society force on them?

I remember the first bike we bought for our eldest. We had to choose between the black bikes with the Incredible Hulk and Spiderman on them, and the pink bikes with Barbie and Cinderella. Everything, from the moment they come out is divided into pinks and blues. Pink knit hats in the hospitals, blue swaddling clothes on the way home. Try to find green PJs for a baby. It's almost impossible. And that’s just the start. For goodness sake, even Legos are divided into boy Legos and girl Legos these days.

One of many Super Girls in our house.

And it comes at you from all directions. The other day, our younger daughter’s pre-school was having a dress-up day. Kids were told to come as Princesses or Super Heroes. It sounds innocent enough, until you think about it. We were so proud when our daughter decided on her own to go as Super Girl.

It makes sense. My wife comes from a family of strong, accomplished women. (Scottish too, so watch out). We’ve raised our daughters to be strong and confident, to know their worth, and to know they can do anything. We’ve taught them that they are smart, and capable, and so much more than just beautiful. 

Maybe that’s why the earrings are sticking in my craw so bad. Maybe I see it as a setback in our battle against a society that is pushing my girls to be a certain thing, to act a certain way. Maybe.

Or maybe I just don’t want to see my little girl grow up so fast. Maybe there are all these milestones in a kid’s life, from getting on the kindergarten bus for the first time to being dropped off at college, that are going to happen and there’s no way to slow them down. Our kids are going to grow up and get bigger and will even become adults someday. It can't be stopped. 

But this one can be. This one is on us.  

I know there are older parents with older kids who may read this and say, “Dude, really, it’s just earrings.” And they are right. They are just earrings.

Besides, Wonder Woman wears earrings and she's a super hero.

And in a few days, it’s going to happen. I will keep telling myself, it’s just earrings. And hopefully, in a few weeks, I won’t even notice them.



Like the article?  Here's others you may enjoy. Learning Lessons from a Little Boy, Tip of the Hat to Single Parents, and Thanks to My Backup, and New Year, Few Expectations

What's Winter Break Without Smores?

Some lessons in life just have to be learned first-hand.  Like this one: It is never a good idea to use your gas stove top to toast marshmallows.

I know, it makes so much sense when you see it on paper.  But when the request comes out of the mouth of a five-year old -- “Can we toast marshmallows on the stove?” -- it sounds so darn cute and safe, how could anyone resist.

I think this requires a backstory.  So, here goes.

When I forcibly moved my wife from Washington, D.C., to Upstate New York eight years ago to be closer to my family, she agreed upon two conditions.   First, she wanted a new kitchen in the house we chose to buy.  Second, she made me swear that each winter we would take a trip to some place warm.  Florida, possibly. 

Eight years in, I am batting .500.  Wait … that math is wrong.  Yes, we got a new kitchen.  But, in those 8 years we have never been to Florida during the depths of winter.  That means I am really batting 1 for 9, or a lowly .111.

And each February break, my beloved wife reminds me of my winter vacation futility with the simple phrase: “You promised.”

In my defense, the mid-winter trip has yet to happen for good reason.  For the first few years, work just didn’t allow it.  There were also a few pregnant years thrown in, too.  And then, well, we ran out of money.  Now, I mean, who really wants to go on vacation with four screaming kids anyway.

Let’s just say, it just hasn’t worked out like we planned. 


Not our best parenting moment, but a memorable one

And thus, we have spent each February break since we moved to Upstate New York at our home, with our children, counting the days.

This year, to make things more bearable, we decided to liven up our annual staycation with a bit of hijinks.  We decided to pitch a tent in the living room and spend the night under the … well, under the living room ceiling.  And so we did. 

The kids loved it.  They loved it even more than the few times we’ve actually been camping.

It was all fine and good until someone came up with the bright idea of toasting marshmallows on the gas stove.  I mean, nobody got burned.  So, in that sense, it was a success. 

But we had several instances where the fire extinguisher’s trigger was mere seconds from being pulled. Then there were the bits of smoldering, dripping, black marshmallow all over the stove.  And let’s not forget that the final toasted marshmallow creations tasted, in a word, like “gas.”

The consensus is that next February, once the tent is set up, we’ll have to make a small fire in the living room … or we could just go to Florida.

Two-asouraus Rex

When you take a two-year-old boy to church, you fully expect you’ll be forced to take him outside at some point to stop him from disturbing the pious masses. Most dads relish the chance. 

But the opposite is expected when you take that same child to a world-renowned honkytonk, biker bar and barbeque joint. If anything, a better guess is that you’ll have to take said child outside to protect him from the hijinks inside the bar. Clearly, nothing he could do would possibly disturb such a rowdy, boisterous and well-tattooed crowd.

And yet, today, I found myself in the vestibule of the Dinosaur Barbeque pleading with my two-year-old to stop crying so the bikers and biker-wannabes inside could enjoy their well-smoke animal parts in peace. 

He was having none of it. He wanted a chocolate milk and he wanted it yesterday. That the waitress knew of his need and was working diligently to locate and mix the milk and the chocolate didn’t matter. Chocolate Milk! Chocolate Milk! Was all he could think to scream.

Is your two-year-old too rowdy for famed biker bar?
Yes.  Yes he is.

Of course, once the chocolate milk found its way to the table and the straw into his mouth, he stopped crying. And the bulky, leather-clad patrons went back to picking the meat out of their teeth with rib bones and chasing it down with pints.

That is until the boy found a more creative way to disturb all those within smelling distance of his bottom. Who ordered the number 2. Nobody did, that’s who.

And, as planned, his diaper bag was left in the car. So, it was back through the vestibule and out to the van with him, where I did a front seat diaper change. 

I felt worst for the scores of people outside waiting for a table -- our impromptu changing station within plain view of them all. I’m sure each one of them was glad when I got him cleaned up, re-diapered and back inside.

Once our food arrived, it occupied the boy for all of two minutes – which apparently is just enough time for me to scarf down a traditional combo platter.

With the boy’s fries gone, however, he was simply done with the place. He displayed his opinion by throwing gloves and socks at other customers and saying “go home” repeatedly. And, just like at church, I was forced to take him outside again to wait for the rest of the family to finish service. 

Sometimes, it might just be easier to eat at home. Take out, anyone?