It's Raining Kotex

I thought that at age 59 I’d be pretty much over this but I guess not. You see, three weeks ago my 21 year old step-daughter moved in with us. That’s no big deal. She works full-time and goes to college part-time. We’ve got a smallish 2 bedroom apartment and Carolyn has always kept her bedroom made up and she’s always spent at least one night a week here—usually on a night when she knows that I’m home and will be cooking.

But anyway, some things change just a bit when you’ve got another female in the house. Especially in the bathroom. Here’s an example:


Now, please notice that there are 11 bottles of “stuff” sitting on the tub plus a razor, puffy thing, jar of stuff, brush and 2 bars of soap—a white one and a green one. The green bar of Irish Spring is the only thing of mine in the whole damn tub! I use that to shower. I use it to wash my hair and, yep to clean my “rungi schmelli”.

That’s OK. It’s the price of being the only male in a 3 person household.

But, one thing I noticed the other day is that the already copious consumption of toilet paper has increased exponentially (even though Meg is gone most of the time). I mean, geesh, we bought a package of a dozen rolls 2 weeks ago and another dozen pack last week because it was on special. Now, that would have been enough to last me maybe a month or more.

But I had to break out a new roll the other day right in the middle of taking care of my “business” and it was the last roll in the vanity. So when I got done in the bathroom—making sure to put the new roll on in just exactly the position of paper over the top that my wife insists on rather than the more manly under the bottom—I first made a stop in the hallway linen closet to grab a few more rolls (no man wants to endure the ire of a spouse who has run out of toilet paper with no replacement rolls readily available—i.e. able to be grabbed without having to rise from the “throne”).

So, I made a “pit stop” at the linen closet. And 2 things happened. The first was that immediately upon opening the door, a package of Kotex high up in the closet shifted and rained about a dozen of the plastic wrapped packs of sanitary napkins on my head. Upon looking, I noticed that these were a different brand than that usually purchased by Carolyn at Costco. No, her’s were pushed on a different shelf.

The second thing I noticed was that what was 2 dozen rolls of toilet paper 2 weeks ago was now down to about a half dozen rolls. Geez, are these 2 going out tee-peeing while I’m at work or something?

So I loaded a few rolls in my hands and stacked them in the bottom of the vanity for the next time I have to go in and do a little “reading”. And then I picked up the dozen or so Kotex which had rained on my head when I opened the linen closet the first time.

I think we’ll get by, but it reminded me of the famous quote from Robert Frost in “The Death of the Hired Man”: “Home is that place where when you have to go there, they have to take you in...”

…Just as long as no one finds my stash of Irish Spring.

Small Town Vasectomy, Where Everybody Knows Your Pain

Shortly after my daughter Susan was born, I decided that with 2 kids in 2 years it was time for me to get “fixed”. I figured, magnanimously, that seeing as how my wife was the one who had given birth, and it was my “equipment” that caused it, that maybe I was the one who should get “taken care of”.

Anyway, the surgery was outpatient, at the Kossuth County Hospital and only took about a half hour. It was scheduled for a Friday afternoon so that I could rest up over the weekend and be “back to normal” on Monday.

Kossuth County Hospital

At the appointed time, I checked in and was shown where the surgery would take place, changed into a gown and climbed onto the table. An orderly came in (male) and gave me a bit of a rundown on what was going to happen. Basically, 2 tiny incisions, snipping, stretching and tying. Didn’t sound too bad. Then he shaved me “down there”. Still no big problem.

A few minutes later the surgeon came in. I knew him pretty well from around town and my job running the local chamber of commerce. He was smoking a cigarette (that was when you could still do stuff like that). “Hey,” I exclaimed, “If you can have a cigarette why can’t I have one?”

So he gave me one of his, I lit up and we smoked. I think that he was just making sure that I was relaxed. Then, he had me lay down again, put on a mask, picked up a syringe and pulled the gown up to my waist, asking “are you ready for this?” To make this long story a bit shorter, it only took about 20 minutes and he was done. But I did discover that LaMaze breathing techniques help when you’ve got something going on that gets you a bit nervous and threatens hyperventilation.

Not quite the way it's done, but....

So I headed home, walking just a bit gingerly because the local anesthetic was starting to wear off. Everything went OK that evening although I mainly just sat in my recliner taking it easy. My wife helped out making sure that 2 year old Mike didn’t hop on my lap.

Obviously, this story isn’t quite told. Saturday was grocery store day. I had taken some ibuprofen and felt good. So, I took off for the local HyVee grocery store with Mikey, my 2 year old. I figured I’d only have to lift him up once to get in the cart and once to get back out and that there’d be no problem. Yeah, right!

Hy Vee, the main grocery chain in Iowa

We’re in the store, picking up the things on our list. Mike and I are carrying on a conversation like we always do in the store. I’m not moving really fast but I’m moving.

Have you ever noticed where a 2 year old’s feet hang when they’re sitting in a grocery cart? And have you ever noticed how they kind of like to swing their feet back and forth? Oh, yeah. He got me. Right where I was sore and tender. I saw it coming too. You know, in slow motion like in movie action scenes. I was like Jean Claude Van Damme when he’s fighting in slow motion and saying “Yeeee-Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh”.

And all of a sudden, I’m doubled over right in the middle of the aisle in HyVee. It was the freezer section. The kind where the freezers are waist high and open. I ended up boosting myself up and hanging my butt over it into the freezer just to try to cool off the pain. People were walking by me looking at me like I’m some kind of weirdo. Mikey thought it was funny and was laughing. All I could do is scrunch up my face and groan.

Please note the relative position of the kid's feet to the Dad's "groin"

Someone helped me out of the freezer. I stood with my hands on my knees panting like someone who’s just finished running a 440. Mikey reached out to me offering to share a well gummed, half eaten cookie. I smile and croaked out, “no thanks”.

I slowly, slowly like an octogenarian finished the last little bit of shopping pushing the cart with my arms extended as far in front of myself as possible to stay clear of the little guy's deadly feet.

We checked out, the bagger helped load the car and I drove home.

As soon as I pulled into the driveway, my wife came out of the house. “Are you all right,” she asked? “Sure, why?” was my response as we let Mike out of the car and went inside, groceries temporarily ignored. (They walked inside, I shuffled).

“Well, I’ve had 3 phone calls in the last 10 minutes from people asking me if you’re all right and saying that you had some kind of accident at HyVee.” (Bear in mind that this was before cell phones).

Looking up, I said, “Well, Mikey got me.”

“What do you mean he got you?”

“He accidentally kicked me and I ended up hanging my balls over the edge of a freezer,” was my response.

By now she’s trying not to laugh. The phone rang. She picked it up listened for a few seconds and said, “Here, it’s for you”.

“Walt, this is Al.” was what greeted me. Al was the general manager of HyVee in Algona. “Heard you had a problem in the store today, are you OK?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “I just got kicked by my son while he was in the cart.”

“Oh, that’s right. You had your vasectomy yesterday. Doc told me about it…..”

So, I spent the rest of the weekend resting up my “parts”. Skipped church the next morning and got ready to hear about my “incident” at HyVee incessantly on Monday. The only thing I could do was laugh!

And that’s life in a small town. Everybody knows you. Everybody knows your business. You know, if I had to choose, I guess I’d choose that rather than the impersonal anonymity that seems to be the norm today where no one knows you, or cares to know you.

Jack In the Box takes on Costco--So Does Cheap Bastid

You’ve just got to love Costco. They seem to have taken over a great big chunk of retail business. I’m a member and have been for about 10 years now.

We typically hit Costco once a week for some of our basics and like to take a look around while we’re there. Costco is this huge repository of merchandise. You can get “mass quantities” (with apologies to the Cone Heads of SNL fame) of just about anything.Our buying as slowed way down because of my employment situation but it’s all about saving money which we can do on some things at Costco.

If I time it right I can go to Costco and get enough "free samples" of food for a pretty good lunch. It really helps if you go there when your blood sugar is low. It took me a while to convince my wife that there can be an advantage for me to make a mad dash back to the grocery & meat department to get some blood sugar from the samples of pulled tri-tip and gorgonzola cheese. (She'll indulge it now as an antidote to Cheap Bastid crankiness).

Jack in the Box just took a trip to “Costco” for it’s newest commercial. If you haven’t seen it, take a peek. It’s a hoot:



Not that I’m anal retentive or anything (I’d say no, but my wife would definitely disagree with that—rightfully so) but I check stuff out. A few months ago, while the weather was still cool, I was thinking about buying a new pair of jeans. Now, Cheap Bastid that I am, I was checking out the Kirkland brand jeans at Costco for $12.99. I can do that math and I don’t need high fashion, expensive denim to cover my fanny.

But I could never find my size. I’m a 34 x 30. A pretty common size especially in Southern California. You’d think that Costco would be aware of the fact that there’s a lot of guys my size here—old white guys like me plus Hispanic and Asian men who are also a bit on the height challenged side.

So, Costco would get some in. And I’d take a pass. I just wanted to see how long they’d last. They always have every size imaginable—except 34 x 30. There’s 32 x 30, 36 x 30, 38 x 30, 40 x 30, etc. And all other longer inseams. A few weeks ago there were a dozen pairs. The next week none. Last Friday, I stopped for my weekly inventory and they had a whopping 24 pairs of 34 x 30. I bet there aren’t any this week!

And then last week we needed coffee. I drink Kirkland because it’s a richer and finer grind. It used to be cheaper by about a dollar than Folger’s. But Costco raised the price so that it’s now more expensive than Folger’s. I’m drinking Folger’s now.


But our favorite thing of all to do at Costco is check out the cute little kids. Ooh-ing and aah-ing like a couple of frustrated grandparent wannabes.

Maybe what I need to do is either get a life or get a job at Costco.

For It's Money they Have and Peace They Lack (Yep, Baseball)

Major League Baseball announced the National and American League All-Star Teams this morning. Whoopdeedoo. Two Padres made it as “Player’s Picks”. HoHum. Overpaid “stars” who we’re supposed to revere. I can’t get excited about it anymore.

I like Everth Cabrera though. He’s the Padres new shortstop. A rookie. Never played higher than Class A until this year. The Padres have to keep him on their roster all year because of “Rule 5”. Now he’s the starting shortstop. He plays with joy and abandonment; hustle and pluck. That’s the way the game is supposed to be played.

“Field of Dreams” was on the tube last night. I only watched a few minutes of it after my wife went to bed and then changed it. I watched the “people will come speech” by James Earl Jones. It’s a cool speech. I didn’t want to see the scene which makes us 50-plus guys cry when Costner says “Hey Dad, do you want to have a catch.” I wasn’t in the mood for late Sunday melancholy—life’s enough of a bummer right now.

We need more baseball—real baseball. Played for fun. We need more vacant lots too where “sandlot” games can crop up; where kids can gather with gloves and old bats and balls and bases made of pieces of cardboard. Sandlots where the games last all day until Moms holler for dinner, the sun gets low and kids troop off until tomorrow’s game. That doesn’t happen anymore. The world’s not safe enough.

Like James Earl Jones said in the “people will come speech”: “And the memories will be so thick they’ll have to brush them away from their faces.” That’s what I’m doing right now. The 4th of July is over. As a kid and teen, the 4th of July usually meant I was playing baseball somewhere—Little League, Babe Ruth or American Legion. In small town North Dakota, Legion ballgames usually encouraged cars to park around the perimeter of the field, headlights on to supplement the dim lights on the poles. It was tough at times when they would flash high beams at visiting players in the batters box.

I think I was 20 the last time I played catch with my Dad. And, I think I was about 45 the last time I played catch with my daughter. You can’t believe how often I’d just like to go out and throw the ball around.

Loosen up my stiff muscles and joints with the muscle memory of the throwing motion. Hear the smack of a ball in a glove; feel the sting when the ball finds too much of the pocket and not enough of the web. Feel the easy exertion, the slight shoulder twinge and the pressure in my fingertips as the ball leaves on a straight and true flight to my throwing partner. As a kid, when we weren’t playing baseball at a practice or game, we’d be throwing in the back yard. Pitching in our mythical World Series.

But the only time I ever see anything like that anymore is down at the field a block from my house. It’s a baseball field on a school property which is used by the high school JV and by Babe Ruth Leaguers—and which is locked up at all other times. The school is afraid of vandalism. Only occasionally, and rarely, will I see a Dad and kids out there throwing, hitting a bit, having fun and learning the game.

“For it’s money they have, and peace they lack.” I don’t have much money right now and certainly not much peace. And oh but I wish I still had just a little bit of baseball. That would bring just a bit more peace. I bet Everth Cabrera slept like a baby last night dreaming of chasing a grounder into the hole, stabbing it, wheeling and throwing out the batter at first. Lucky guy!

Fourth of July--The Alley Cats Picnic

Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin is a terrific place to raise a family. It’s a small city of 9,000 people about 35 miles North East of Green Bay right in the middle of the Door Peninsula.

Green Bay is on one side, Lake Michigan on the other and the city is divided by Sturgeon Bay which because of a ship canal at its south end, connects the 2 bodies of water.

We lived just 3 blocks from downtown in a quiet neighborhood with mature trees, older homes and full of families and kids. This is a story of the “Alley Cats”. I came up with the term Alley Cats because our block featured a paved one-lane alley which ran the length of the block. In our “half” of the block there were 4 families with a total of 8 kids all the same ages.

Four of these plus another “little urchin” who hung out with this bunch all the time were in the same kindergarten class together (something which the school thereafter “banned” because they were such a little group of “hoodlums” who knew how to press one another’s buttons and drive the teacher crazy).

We went from big wheels to training wheels to 2-wheels with this unholy tribe. There’s something about the cacophony of a half dozen big-wheels rumbling down asphalt simultaneously! Our back yard had the biggest open space on it and I could never get grass to grow in major areas of it because of the permanent kick-ball game which seemed to go on pretty much every day.

But I digress. The Fourth of July dawns. A nice, sunny, cool morning. I’m the first up because Michael and Susan sleep in late during summer vacation. It’s a great time for sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. Then it’s time to make sure that everything is ready for the Annual Alley Cats Picnic. This is an annual event where all the families get together in a back yard for a pot-luck cookout on the 4th of July. I’m whistling as I go out the back door through the basement to smell the clean air, listen to the birds and scratch our cat Petey behind the ears.

We’ll have burgers and brats, beans and chips, soda and kool-aid, pie and cake, watermelon. The kids can run around and eat what they want, when they want. The adults will talk and laugh and joke watching the kids.

Earlier in the week, I had coordinated with the Dads—each household chipping in a bit of money. Because this morning the Dads are going shopping. For fireworks! Illegal fireworks. The fireworks that will precede the World Championship of AfterDark Kick the Can.

Three of us hop in one car—Craig Ostrand, Jeff Harding and I—and we head across the bridge to the other side of the bay (about 5 minutes) to Carl’s Baitshop. Now Carl’s has been there a long time. The owner sells minnows and crawlers and leeches along with some fishing tackle and, in the backroom for a couple of weeks every year, illicit fireworks. The good kind that go way up in the air with lots of color and more than enough noise.

Carl won’t just sell fireworks to just anybody. He has to know you and know that you’re responsible. After all, he was the Assistant Chief of the city’s volunteer fire department. You would be amazed at how much you can get with the $80 you’ve collected from the neighbors—including the female couple next door who run a bed and breakfast and Ted and Katie on the other side of us who both work in social services.

We’ve got a gross of bottle rockets, roman candles (big ones), pop-ups, self-contained star shells, a few strings of small firecrackers and sparklers (enough actually for a couple of nights worth). The kids get to stay up late—after 10 which is late for 5 & 7 year olds. And the adults will do all the shooting to make sure the kids are safe. We’re giggling just a bit as we head back to our block—amazed and tickled by the “stash”, by our “haul” of Independence Day goodies.

The day progresses to the time for the Alley Cats to start gathering. We’ve dragged picnic tables to our yard along with 2 extra grills—one for cooking and one to light a wood fire in. The food comes out and the cooking begins.

To fast forward this whole event—it’s now getting dark. Dessert has been devoured and all the detritus from the picnic has been cleaned up. We’ve had a great time talking and joking. The kids are running around having a good time without the usual squabbling. The can gets tossed in the middle of the yard. Dads take off with their kids to hide and the countdown begins as the Dad/kid “it” gets ready.

This after-dark game of family “tag”—Kick the Can--gets off and rolling full of laughing and running around in the dark like a bunch of banshees. And then “kerplunk” someone manages to “kick the can” and the last group in is the new “it”. Another round of this Alley Cats World Kick the Can Championship begins! It lasts until the Dads are tired or someone cries, whichever occurs first. But it’s the laughing and enjoying the end of the day that counts.

Now it’s time for fireworks! Dads gather the incendiaries. The kids gather around with their Moms, most sitting on the ground a safe distance back. It starts when a string of firecrackers is tossed—pop, pop, popping making the youngest kids cover their ears. Then on to sparklers! Everybody gets one and starts writing in the air, kids supervised to avoid burns. Burnt out sparklers are dropped in a bucket.

Sizzle, pop—ahhhhhhh. A Roman candle starts to let loose its colored balls up in the sky. The kids watch in awe thoroughly amused at this ritual of the Alley Cats. Then pop-bottle rockets followed by bigger rockets shooting up in the air, trailing sparks to crack out a loud report at their highest point. The kids really like these. Who’s having more fun? The kids watching the fireworks? The dads lighting them off, giggling like kids ourselves? The Moms, relegated to spectator status, supervising both the Dads and kids?

But it’s like one, large extended family. You love all the kids, even the ones who are pains in the butt because we’re all Alley Cats! We live together, wandering up and down the alley, visiting, sharing, helping with various projects.

Living just doesn’t get better than that. And that’s what the Alley Cats are all about!

You Have to Love Your Kids; It's Even Better to Like Them!

You don’t have to like your kids, but you do have to love them. I heard that or read that a while ago (maybe it was from John Rosemond but I’m not sure of the source).

Think about it. There’s a lot of time when you don’t really like the little crapperheads based on something they may have done or some quirk of their personality or behavior. But you absolutely have to love them.

I’ve made several postings lately about my children, things in their childhood and small things in their lives which say something about my feelings or which bring on a smile. Today, I’m going to touch on the best thing. The absolute best time I ever had with my kids.


Mike and Susan at Mike's Wedding Rehearsal Dinner

It was 2004. I had been living in Southern California for 6 years and my kids lived in the Midwest. Mike was 22 and Susan 20. Mike lived with his fiancé in Ames, Iowa and Susan 30 miles away in Des Moines, still at home with her Mom.

I had to travel to Detroit for a weeklong training meeting and decided to take a couple of extra days and stop over in Des Moines to see the kids. I was able to spend some time with each of them individually and on Saturday night have dinner with them, with Mike’s fiancé and with Susan’s boyfriend in Ames.

I cooked steaks on the grill at Mike’s apartment and we had dinner together, talking and chatting, getting to know Susan’s boyfriend and getting better acquainted with Mike’s fiancé, Katie. We played some cards and all in all had a terrific evening.

It didn’t dawn on me until the next day when I was flying on to Detroit and thinking on the airplane about my kids and how much I missed them and loved them. This grand epiphany was that I genuinely liked my children. I really liked them as people, not just my kids. I really enjoyed their company, their personalities, their outlook, the way they thought and conversed and laughed. I LIKED them!

And I admired them. I admired the young adults they had become. Self-confident, articulate, responsible adults who you would be proud to call your friend.

It didn’t make any difference in how much I loved them. But I was proud of my kids. And how they had turned out OK without their Father in their everyday lives (obviously their Mother had done a good job).

We all know what a pain in the butt kids can be—particularly teenagers. It perhaps shouldn’t amaze us when they turn into great adults. But, to me it’s fantastic to really like the person that they’ve become and to know that, no matter what, they’re going to be all right.

And, to quote Forrest Gump: “That’s all I’ve got to say about tha-at.”

"Pajamas" and Nightly Questions

There’s something about a freshly bathed child, dressed in a “onesie” ready for bed. It’s storytime followed by tuck-in time. Or at our house Pajamas time.

Many were the nights that I performed this “duty” when my children were little. My attitude was that I couldn’t nurse my babies but I could bathe them and get them ready for bed allowing my wife a well-deserved respite. (She would have taken care of the kids while I fixed dinner and I would get them ready for bed while she cleaned up from dinner).

I could go on for pages about the number of times that each Dr. Seuss or Berenstain Bear book was read. (Susan was always partial to the Berenstain Bears and Mike preferred Dr. Seuss). I loved the way the kids smelled freshly scrubbed, powdered and diapered with just a hint of formula on their breath.

From the time Mike (2 years older) was an infant until Susan was 7 or 8 tuck-in time was always followed by a song—one of my all time favorite kids songs. It’s off the late 70’s album “In Harmony” which was produced by Sesame Street. This magical album (which I wore out twice on “vinyl” and once on cassette and you can get it now on CD) featured the Doobie Brothers, Bette Midler, James Taylor, Carlie Simon, Al Jarreau, Linda Ronstadt, George Benson plus Ernie and Cookie Monster.




My favorite song though was written and performed by Livingston Taylor and it’s called “Pajamas”.

I sang this song to my kids every night for years. There were times when I had an evening meeting and I would get out of it in time to tuck the kids in and sing to them. Sometimes I left the meeting, went home for my nightly ritual and then returned to the meeting. (Small towns seem to be a bit more tolerant of this element of life).

I still love this delightful little song. Here are the lyrics:

Pajamas
By Livingston Taylor

I've got my pajamas on
Before I go to bed I'm going to run around.
I'm standing on my head
And the world is upside down.

Me and Wilson, my teddy bear
We're going to do a lot of wiggling
Before we go upstairs
Watch out you lions you tigers you bears
I've got my pajamas on

Mommy said put 'em on
I said no
Daddy said let's go
I said all right
I'm clean and I'm warm
and I'm out of sight
I've got my pajamas on

I'm in Daddy's lap, fading fast
Wilson, if you want to mess around
You'll have to do it alone
I love being little
And I'll love being grown
I've got my pajamas on.

Here’s a link to a sample of the song on Artist Direct:
http://www.artistdirect.com/nad/window/media/page/0,,106395-12233316,00.html

There was another part of the nightly ritual. It was called “Questions”. I really wanted my children to know—to absolutely know—as the last thing they heard from me at night that they were loved. No matter what. If they had been naughty during the day or cranky. (Or if I had been either of those things too). They should go to sleep feeling safe and secure and cherished.

I would tuck them each in—for a while they shared a bedroom—and kneel on the floor looking at my children, ready to drift off. I would softly ask the questions as they were snuggling in and drifting off, answers coming back at me more slowly and softly as sleep overtook them.

“Does Mommy love Mikey and Susan?”
“Does Daddy love Mikey and Susan?”
“Does Eric (their brother) love Mikey and Susan?”
“Do Grandma and Grandpa and Grandma and Grandpa love Mikey and Susan?”
“Does puppy dog Shorts love Mikey and Susan?”
“Does everyone love Mikey and Susan?”
“Is it time to go night-night?”
“Are you going to see happy pictures when you sleep?”
“What kind of pictures are you going to see?”

Go to sleep and see your pictures.
Night, night. I love you

They would drift off with the look of innocent children on their faces. I would kiss each of them goodnight, turn off the light and slip out of their rooms. Checking back a little later just to see them again; asleep, at peace, hopefully dreaming “happy pictures”.

I miss doing that. It was always incredibly relaxing for me too. The last time I asked Questions was when my daughter was about 19, lonely and down and she called one night. Because she wanted Questions. I was delighted to oblige. And I still am.

Old Fartdom

I’ve been re-reading some of my posts from the last week or so and it strikes me that I’ve been sounding like a cranky old fart. Sorry about that. Unfortunately, I now identify more with Walt, the dad in the cartoon “Zits” than with his son Jeremy. Or I identify more with Earl Pickles.

But, I just feel like I’ve got to get stuff off my chest when I encounter some of the ludicrous things that are floating around out there.

But, I did want to bring up something a bit more positive. My daughter was all excited yesterday on Facebook because she just became an aunt again (another niece). She’s just tickled to death for her brother and his wife. And that led me to think about some of the singular joys of having a daughter.

Living in the Midwest we’d have a number of thunderstorms each year (that’s a foreign concept here in Southern California). From the time Susan was about 4, everytime it would rain we’d have to go out and re-create one of her favorite scenes from a musical we had watched on TV together.

As it would start raining—the harder the better it would seem—we would have to get jackets and umbrellas and go out into the yard or even better walk along the gutter singing:
I’m singing in the rain,
Just singing in the rain,
What a glorious feeling,
I’m smiling again…
I walk down the lane
With a happy refrain,
Just singin’
Just singin’ in the rain…

We’d sing and dance and stomp in puddles splashing all over and then giggle and laugh until we were all wet and ready to scoot back inside to dry off.

Ah, that was a while ago. You can’t go back and do that again. But it sure does make for a great “re-run” in my mind and imagination of happy times with children. Maybe I’ll be able to do it someday when I finally get to Lincoln and meet my granddaughter. So, enjoy being an auntie again Susan. And Mike, enjoy Raegan being a toddler that you have to hustle to keep with.

So, hopefully that makes up for me being a cantankerous old fart recently.

Michael's Blue Worm

Michael just turned 27. He's a dad now himself and lives in Lincoln, Nebraska. I admire and respect him for the man he’s become.

I remember the little boy though--especially the little boy who taught me to slow down and relax and see the world through his eyes. When Michael was about 2, we lived in a beautiful turn of the century frame house in a small town in Iowa. There were at least 8 or 10 full grown maple trees on our lot which made for some serious leaf raking in the fall. The house was only 3 blocks from the downtown of this bustling small, regional retail center and I would often walk the 5 minutes back and forth to my office if I knew I wasn’t going to be gallivanting around town that day and needed my car.

Each evening when I would get home, I would be met by my irrepressible blond toddler holding onto his “Blue Worm”. The “Blue Worm” was a little plastic toy with a seat and 4 wheels that he would sit on and scoot with his feet. He was waiting for me to take him on a nightly adventure around the block with me walking and him riding his Blue Worm. He’d have a grip on the handle bar of the Worm and a big grin on his face. I’d stop and squat down, still in my suit, and tell him, “Give me a minute Mikey to take off my tie and change jackets, OK?” He’d nod, I’d step through the kitchen door, pull off my tie and suit coat and put on my old college fraternity jacket, say “Hi” to my wife and be ready to go because adventures with a 2 year old never wait.

We’d take off down the driveway with its slight slope. Michael would lift his feet and coast until I stepped up and stopped him from going all the way to the street. He’d giggle because he was testing me, playing a little joke on Dad, seeing if I’d let him get all the way down to the street. Sometimes we’d even take our Springer Spaniel, Shorts, and I’d have the thrill of shepherding both a dog and a 2 year old. The dog would stop and sniff every smell he’d come across and lift his leg at nearly every vertical object. And Michael would stop just as often picking up a rock he’d spotted, examining it, offering it to me for my examination then discarding it just as quickly so as to move on to the next item that caught his attention. He’d pick up fallen maple leaves of the brightest hues and give them to me so that he could present them to his mother when we got home—his latest trophy from his most recent sidewalk safari with Dad.

On these nightly sojourns, I quickly learned to slow down, to leave my office and work behind and enjoy the world from the perspective of a 2 year old boy. Stop. Slow Down. Bend low. Look at the treasures that a 2 year old finds in the simplicity of nature that surrounds a residential sidewalk. Listen to the wind rustling in dry leaves as late summer turns to fall and fall marches towards winter. Stoop low to see the light in a little boy’s eyes as he encounters a magical world from much closer than you or I.

As we stoop low we see the wonder, we feel the joy of loving another human being that is a part of us and we learn patience. Because our world moves more quickly, we’ve seen every bent, broken twig we need to see. We’ve raked more leaves than we could ever count. But that 2 year old shows us 1 leaf. Just one. A leaf which to him is perfection in color, in shape, in texture. A leaf worthy of taking home to Mom. So we force aside the impatience we feel rising in ourselves because this is a far more important mission that we’re on. Much more important than sitting back in a recliner and watching the news and getting irked at the cacophony of children. Far more essential to living than sorting through today’s stack of junk mail.

The light of day would be fading as we turn the final corner of our one-square block safari. The temperature would be dropping. I’d have to stop to wipe the double runners oozing from Mike’s nose. And we’d slowly finish our trip. Sometimes with me carrying Mike in one arm, holding the magical Blue Worm in my hand and hanging onto Shorts’ leash with my other as we walked up the driveway. Then I’d deposit Mike on both feet and open the kitchen door handing him today’s treasure for Mom. He’d scamper up the landing, face red from the brisk outdoors while I put the Blue Worm in the corner under the coat hooks, ready and waiting for tomorrow’s grand adventure.

It’s surprising what you can learn from a 2 year old. They’re an open book, filled with unique insights. We just need to remember that there are many times and many circumstances in our personal and professional lives when we can do more and be more by slowing down and stooping low to find the treasures hidden right out in the open. A 2 year old can spot them in an instant. It takes us older folks a little more work.