I'm sure I wasn't bipolar BEFORE I had kids.

Father's day todo list.

1. Wake up 10 minutes too late and find that the 4 year old attempted to soak up the fish's water with fish food - Check

2. Perform emergency bowl transfer, cleaning, refilling, and returning of fish to original bowl - Check

3. Wear a paper tie that my daughter made, then forget to take it off when shopping at Wal-Mart - Check

4. Get drive through McDonalds for the family, only to arrive home and find out that one little darling changes her mind while I was out - Check

5. Get tired of children watching me play "Civilization" and hand the game over to the 7 year old, who actually does well at the game - Check

6. Purchase foam swords to fight the children with instead of pvc pipe, broom and wooden decorative katana - Check

7. Draw stares from strangers as I stab and parry with my 4 year old in Zellers before arriving at the checkout - Check

8. Have outdoor battle - Check

9. Overreact to 4 year old drawing on the IKEA coffee table we inexplicably drove halfway across the country last summer - Check

10. Stoke 4 year old on sugar high with "Fuzzy Peaches" and "Passion Flakes" - Check

11. Get frustrated with children hogging popcorn during movie and get them their own bowl to fight over - Check

12. Underreact to 4 year old drawing on her bedroom wall - Check

13. Defer going to sushi restaurant because older daughter still has the pox making her look like a looser in paintball - Check

14. Double over in laughter when older daughter responds to "We can only read a portion of this book." with "That's ok, I read portions all the time. I read a portion of this book over here, my teacher only reads portions, I like to read portions." - Check

15. Say prayers with children - Check

16. Tuck children in once - Check

17. Tuck children in second time - Check

18. Let wife tuck children in third time - Check

So there you have it. I have covered all of the areas of the checklist I'm going to let YOU see. Happy Father's day Dad. Don't worry, you won't have to tuck me in, but I'll be getting into the Scotch you left here.

A fishy weekend.

Yesterday was a red letter day. I didn't say SCARLET letter, in that case, no it wasn't. By red letter I mean it was a notable day in a good way.

For as long as I can remember our family has not been good at fishing. We catch fish, but if we were reduced to hunter/gatherers we would be gathering hunters and begging from them. I have more trouble than I like admitting when trying to move the pet fish out of her bowl with a net.

This may have helped my Ichthyophobia, it may have been the cause. Either way, there are no trophy fish in our house, which is fine with me. Taxidermy has always been a little odd to me.

Who was the first to decide that they didn't want to try to use the whole animal, but instead scoop out it's insides, dry it out, and then rig it up as a morbid mummy/animal icon? I worry enough about the ghosts of the things I kill (flocks of partridges chase me in my dreams) than to have them prepared to kill me with a coronary on a dark night when I've been reading Stephen King novels. I could see it as a passive home security system. Have enough trophies to cover the major phobias and you're good. Just have the police carry away the prospective thief away while he's still in the fetal position.

So my older daughter has been fishing about 10 times now, no fish yet. This is especially pathetic considering people travel great distances to fish around where we live because of the abundance of fish.

My fishing trips with my daughters are near religious experiences. We tend to go Sunday mornings, we go through hell and back, and there are a lot of calls for God, especially when I get hit with rods, hooks, the kids step on rods, the boat hits submerged logs, and the kids whine after 5 minutes of being in the water after 20 minutes of putting the boat together.

So in desperation I made a phone call to a friend yesterday asking for advice, and I received a good tip. I then dragged my father, older daughter, my Dad's uninflated zodiac and fishing tackle 40 km away. We were brutally attacked by black flies to the degree that my daughter looked like she had a re-currence of the pox. We trolled out for about an hour in the fading light, only to loose 2 lures and almost run aground a few times.

Finally, on the turning point, the last cast before returning home defeated, my daughter got her fish. It was a nice speckled trout. It was about 3 lbs, 18 inches. (I think I know more details of that fish than the second kid at birth). It was too short to keep, and for some silly reason we forgot to bring a camera.

Still, she got to have the chance to reel in a fish, see her grandfather and father fumble around the boat trying to hold the fish, and then see her hard work tossed back into the water. It's kind of the feeling I get in a usual day of work. She was stoic though, and quickly remembered that I had bribed the fishing troupe with "passion flakies" if we caught a fish.

So the dearth of fishing has been broken. I hope she can keep her expectations at a suitably low level. By my estimations she won't get another fish until she's about 10.

A pox on my family

There are times as a parent that I am proud of myself. I had a chance last week to be the great dad when my kids asked me to inflate their pool and fill it up for them.

I eventually convinced them it wasn't worth the work and filled a rubbermaid tub full of water instead.

Part of being a fun dad was giving my children useless jobs where their failure is inconsequential. It's part of empowering them. So I gave my 4 year old daughter the hose to fill the tub full of water.

Now those who know this little girl of mine know that this would not be a recommended action as to give her unfettered access to controlling a 20 foot stream of water. The practical joke force runs strong in my family. My father has it, I have it, and my younger daughter has it. I came around the corner just in time for her to turn around, take aim, and attempt to soak me.

I was the only one outside NOT in a swimsuit. I had the choice to
A) Get mad and yell at them for inconsiterately soaking me.
B) Join them in the water play like it's a corny "Latter Day Saints" commercial.

I chose B. It was fun. I used deflection shields, buckets, and the two girls and I emptied that tub on each other, used the exercise trampoline to jump in, and we all had a blast. My wife strangely chose not to indulge. Oh well, it was a great time.

Today was not an example of my greatness as a father.

I went to pick up my older daughter from school. I walked so to enjoy the unseasonably cold weather and annoy her that I didn't bring the car to drive the >2km. We held hands and walked down the sidewalk as I squeezed her for information on her day.

Me: How was your day?
Her: Good.
Me: You were there 7 hours and I get a one word answer?
Her: It was a good day, thank you daddy.
Me: No, you just completed the sentence. Give me a sentence for each hour you were there.
Her: I don't wanna. I want to wait until we get home.
Me: It will be to crazy there, tell me now. Did you do nothing at school? If so, we could keep you at home and you could do nothing there. Then we could move your room to the basement and you'be practically be a 20 year old college student.
Her: I TOLD you I don't want to.
Me: Mmm, whiny. Somwone's a gwumpy gus.

And so it continued on home. I told her she needed a nap because her bad attitude would be a damper on her Mother's birthday.

Then we get home and discover that as prophesized by a friend, whose child had just developed chicken pox, that we would suffer the same fate. Indeed my lovely older daughter now has pustules over her poor little body, and is running a low temperature.

Now when I look at that conversation on the way home I realize I am an awful Dad. I just can't tell with the kids, they give me the same attitude so often, the one time in a hundred they actually have a good reason I seem like a monster.

So todays lesson is that as a parent I'm as inconsitent as a child learning to use the bathroom. Good most of the time, but when I'm off I have to sit in a load of it.

The show

Today we took our two daughters to see Madagascar 2, Return to Africa. This idea is continuing along the idea of "if you practice taking them out they'll learn to behave." Sometimes it feels like we're trying to float rocks through trial and error.

We have high standards for our kids. Although this could be construed to mean that I won't let children of lesser stock mate with mine, I also mean that we expect them to behave well.

I'll catch a lot of flak for that comment, so let me make it worse. I used to believe that true love is more important that income, and appearance has no reflection on the depth of one's soul. Then I had daughters. I'm sure some day I'll be the one saying "I know you love him, but can you learn to love someone who doesn't need your money to pay his debts and could perhaps out dress a hobo?" In short I don't want them to make the same mistake their mother made.

Behavior standards are important. If the little urchins realize that we expect them to be good we have at least a 1 in 10 chance they will luck out on it.

In the theater they are to sit still, quiet, and allow everyone around them to enjoy the movie providing there is a plot to enjoy. Having a little Ebert sitting behind you is not as much fun as it sounds.

Still and quiet. I'm certain that if we can find a way to harness the motion and sound waves of a child we'll have an infinite supply of energy. We already have the infrastructure in place: Schools, Churches, Restaurants, Theaters.

The kids were fairly good. It was rewarding to see other people letting their kids wander to other aisles and then have trouble reining them in. I know it makes me a small man to enjoy others problems so much, but a small gleeful man am I (without all that nastiness of name guessing). The alternative is to help them parent better, but there is NO way to do that.

People without children, pay attention: If you want to make rational people act like primitive idiots, just casually say "Oh my mother would never let us get away with that" or "I don't think you're doing that right" to a parent. For your safety I would suggest only doing this with lots of witnesses around so the parent can be later identified in a police lineup.

So part way through the movie a character is in peril. This is my younger daughter's nicknamesake and her favourite in the movie. Being small and in a big, dark place with lots of noise and people added to the issue. She first was moved to sit beside her mother. Then my wife leaned over and said "She has to go pee, you take her."

Yes I could have argued that I can't go in with her and she couldn't come into my washroom, but since she had made two trips already I was wise enough not to. I started down the stairs with the younger one. When we reached the bottom she continued towards the screen instead of making the turn to the exit.

It was then I realized that she was using a potty run to hide her panic attack. I tried to call her back but she was in her own little bubble, wandering closer to the front. I thankfully managed to get her attention before she made a silhouette of a peeing child in front of the screen.

At the end the kids did well, and we feel pretty good about the experience. The only things I'll change are to put a diaper on the younger child and my wife, and to affix a feedbag apparatus to the popcorn so the little one doesn't have to keep telling me how to hold the bag in the best position for her to get another two handfuls.

The balanced family.

I love my family. It has a nice arrangement that seems to really work.

My wife is the organized, consistent, loving one. She can really understand where a child is coming from, unless they interrupt her while she is on her Disney boards. Then she seems to connect with Fagin rather well.

This really meshes with the gaps I have. Not the ones in my head or my jeans which so recently could be worn in public, but in my approach to parenting.

I have the crazy notion that someday these imps will grow up to be, well, grownups. And I imagine what they would be like if they at 30 behave as they do today. And since I don't want them to be film actresses, singers, or politicians I try to fix that discrepancy.

Today was clean up day at our house. I like the idea of a sabbath, one day a week where you respite and recreate from a busy week. In order to feel like that is earned I push the lazy lot of us to clean the house on Saturday.

Last week the kids learned how to sort the laundry. This is harder than it sounds, especially with clothes that border white and not, like patterned shirts or old underwear. It also helps that my wife and I contradict each other on how to do the job.

This week it was vacuuming. I know it sounds like an old fashioned approach, circa 1600, except that they have a vacuum and aren't sweeping a dirt floor. It is useful though because someday they will need to clean for themselves. I'm just helping the 5 year old ahead in life.

It seems contrary to some people to encourage a child to be independent. After all, you only have a few precious years to enjoy their youth. The trick for them must be enjoying short people who are rude, sloppy, ignorant and selfish.

Since I don't want to change to enjoy my kids more, I encourage them to. It enables them to live a full, complete life without the need for basement rooms. It also allows them to take care of themselves when they want/need to.

The other morning our precocious 7 year old woke up early and proceeded to the kitchen. In my sleep induced stupor a vaguely remember hearing the words "appetizer", "sweet potatoes" and "olives".

Sure enough, the little wonder had made a breakfast fit for the second trimester. I'm glad to know that she can make healthy, if not freakishly odd, food choices for herself.

I think I'll wait before I have them help plan a meal.

Letting go is unnatural.

I have a control complex.

I don't mean the really cool kind like the one on "Skullcrusher Mountain" where I will execute my doomsday plans against the foolish fools living their foolish lives. But I'd be lying to say that wasn't in my 5 year plan. Again.

I mean that I have trouble handing the reins over to someone else. In anything.

It took years to identify that I was the one with the issue. I kept wondering why people kept trying to wrench control away from me in projects, conversations or when they were driving and I would grab the wheel.

It took weeks more to figure out why:

I'm better than the alternative person in too many things.

You see handing control over to a professional is a matter of cognitive presence. Arguing with the cook, or the mom, or the firefighter is evidence that SOMEONE'S forwarding address isn't in this reality. Though I like to have a few of those people as friends so I always have stories to tell at parties.

Handing control over to an amateur is a matter of faith in humanity. I have none of that. I fully expect everyone I meet to be a narcissistic ignoramus and am pleasantly surprised when they aren't. To me the glass isn't half empty, it's half full of ammonia.

I can clearly see what will go wrong when I hand the prospective successor the project plan, keys to my car, or the salt. And so I would rather just hold on to things rather than endure the screaming of the passengers as the new driver thinks that "R" means 'Really fast' and shifts from 4th to Reverse at full speed. I sleep better that way, and by sleep I mean stay up until 3am with the stress of all I try to do.

And of course this isn't true. It turns out projection isn't just a trick to sound louder on stage. Most people can do things better than me. Except for perhaps running. And I've even lost that ability for a few weeks.

Perhaps I'm afraid that once people discover that I'm replaceable they will do so part by part until I'm a crazy cyborg scientist. Or perhaps I should listen to less Jonathan Coulton.

So I have begun to let go of things. And doing so is like intentionally peeing your pants. You know you *can* do it, but trying to do it is a whole new pool party. And I am proud to say that I am getting good at it and don't need to be reminded to do it successfully or often.

I mean letting go. Of things, not my bladder. I hardly even sigh heavily anymore. I just quietly suppress my fears of things going terribly wrong and remind myself that screwing my eyes shut does not convey a vote of confidence unless I'm willing to pass it off as a bowel obstruction.

Money matters and dumb, little criminals

I will start off with: I LOVE my children.

Deeply. I find the song "Yellow" by Coldplay reflects my feelings for them, especially the line "for you I'd bleed myself dry."

But as it turns out, I don't think I'll need to do it myself.

The other day my older daughter wanted to watch Star Wars - Episode V - The Empire Strikes Back with me. That is cool. To me. So we watched the movie through again, I think it's my third time watching it with her, and maybe her fifth viewing overall.

That ought to cure the dating problem in a few years. She'll only have looser nerd suitors who I can impress with my brute strength and if that doesn't work skool them in UT deathmatch.

After watching the movie she was inspired to play the "Lego Star Wars" video game we have (more info here). Why not, I let her. Her little sister soon arrived home and joined her, sitting and watching the game next to her. They sat nicely and played while I joined my wife in the kitchen to make dinner.

That's not a euphemism, I was really helping thaw the meat.

Well while we were at it I heard from the next room "Shoot it. Kill the kangaroo!" What caused me to investigate was it being my younger daughter, only five years old, calling for the untimely death of non-combatant animals.

I should send her on a sealing. She'd be cheering for the clubbers while Greenpeace would have trouble reconciling the cute child yelling for the death of the cute animals.

I came back to the kitchen but continued to listen. Here is a rough transcript of the two of them:

"Kill him"
"I did"
"Look at all the money you got for him. Shoot another."
"Die Die DIE! Ooo, money!"

I was wondering if there was a crack in the game to unlock a Soldier of Fortune mod. I figured I should do SOMETHING before they take this attitude to school and cause a lockdown. So I go in there and ask "So you just kill anything in the game?"

Both said "Yep!"

Ok, not working. From the good old unwritten parenting handbook I turned to the 'raise it to the logical extreme' page. "What about Mommy, would you shoot her?"

The younger one got the point right away, she yelled "NO!". The older said:

"No. She doesn't have any money anyway."

Oh my. Not good.

I did receive a bit of good news tonight though. If my older daughter is the muscle, that would make the younger one the brains.

On my fourth trip upstairs with her tonight I walked into her room with her. She ran to her bed and said "I don't have anything in my bed."

Ok. That was weird. It turns out she's one of those 'dumb criminals' you hear about. Of course I checked out her bed. Of course she was disciplined for lying.

I'm still not sure to make of all this. A friend once remarked that I raise my girls as boys, I countered that I'm raising them as children. We were both wrong. Apparently I'm raising little hitmen. I hope there isn't a "marksmanship" badge in brownies.

Can't type... so... difficulty... candid.

I am an educated man.

Not that the fact gains me any respect from my children. They still presume I'm incapable of investigating UNDER the covers for contraband books at bedtime.

I took 4 years of college. Interestingly enough the course I finished with was a 3 year diploma. At least I managed to get a few good stories out of it.

I learned a few things for my thousands invested. Sadly most I can't apply in my daily life, like:
- Flaring a Cessna 172 at 10 feet produces a loud bang followed by many little bounces.
- A highlighter can make an aggravating squeaking noise if pressed hard enough on a textbook.
- You can tie up a classmates telnet session for 5 minutes by piping large binaries to them.

One lesson I didn't learn was tact. That would be obvious from my demeanor, so let me clarify. I didn't learn Business tact.

This past week I sent a congratulatory email to a colleague. I send these whenever:
1. They did something brilliant worthy of accolade.
2. They did something bonehead worthy of scorn.
3. They were promoted.
4. I need something from them and can't find another way of softening them up.

This one was not a number 2. Honest praise is easy. Tactful celebration takes thought.

I don't like to lie. There is no indicator for going too far when you do. The odds of sounding like a supercharged hoover are too high for me.

They never taught that in college. How to congratulate without sucking or sucking up. The writing process was as such:

Dear so and so:

- Congrats on being awarded the position of...
- Congratulations on defeating your unworthy adversaries...
- Kudos for seizing opportunity like a viper in an outhouse...
- Congratulations on getting your new job. It must feel good to finally look up a different pair of pants on the corporate ladder...

I was stuck for 20 minutes finding the right words. In the end I was happy with how I managed to phrase it. I think next time I'll let Hallmark do my fibbing for me and send a dang card with "please transfer monies to my department". That or subcontract to the 419'rs for email authoring.

Surprises, discoveries and funny

Parenthood asks a lot of you. It demands you to love something unconditionally despite the fact it has no manners or bowel controls when you meet it.

In return you end up asking a lot of things yourself. Like "Who left the crayon in the car?", "How do you get wax off of upholstery?" and the ever classic "Where did she learn that?"

Kids surprise you. Not in a "Here's a cold beer and a copy of Firefly" way, but in a "I thought that was impossible for such a small body to produce so much in volume (Decibel, liquid or solid, take your pick).

Tonight my younger daughter wandered in to show us something. Not unusual, I'm typically grateful that they can bring it to us, and not require "clean up in aisle 3".

Overreaction in 3,2,1...

She was holding out her finger to her mother. My wife tried to crawl over the back of the couch. She pushed the child's hand away and growled "Get that away from my face!"

The kid was offering the last smell of her garlic mashed potatoes. I didn't ask because it would result in a long anecdote about why my children don't know how to behave for their mother.

My wife calmed down when she realized it was food. As the small person with the gap in her teeth meandered back to the kitchen my wife leaned over to me and whispered

"She has been sticking her finger (whisper whisper) and getting me to smell it all day."

Oh. My. Word.

To reveal the mindset of the geek father I will use the Terminator dialog algorithm interface:

Response:
1. Why did you fall for it all day?
2. I don't smell bleach. Do you know what CLEAN is?
3. Segfault.
4. She takes after you.

Sadly number 4 was the best answer of the lot. I don't know where she learned it, or how to make her stop.

Oh yes, and soon after I heard her sweet little sing-song voice call out, announcing for the families curiosity and entertainment:

"There's a log in the toilet."

My six year old has discovered poop, and it is funny. I'll confront this head on and run away immediately instead of delaying the inevitable surprise. Anyone want to go fishing?

I thought the kids were supposed to make me braver.

So this weekend I took my older daughter fishing again. This time I took her to a favourite spot where we catch a lot of Northern Pike. Actually that is all we catch there. I presume the pike are settled in as cannibals in that lake.

I took her there so she could catch a fish to enter into a fish derby. I was brilliant with the execution up to the point of the first fish being caught.

This was the first time I had ever been the only person capable of removing the hook. Now I openly confess my crippling terror of all things icthus. I do well to deal with this. Heck, I even worked on a Fisheries Patrol Vessel for a summer where, ironically, I spent most of my time fishing.

But never in my life was I required to be the one to remove the hook. I didn't like the idea of putting my fingers that close to something that could only perceive them as food.

I am man enough not to ask my 7 year old daughter to do this more than once. The little chicken refused for some reason.

Pike have the bad combination of narrow mouth, sharp teeth and the ability to swallow hooks. The second cast, a whole 2 minutes after arriving I caught one. I then spent the next 10 minutes failing to remove the hook, succeeding only at bending a barb right off.

I then turned to my lovely, innocent enough child and said "Do you want this fish to live?" Here my little princess, the girl who loves Disney movies and worries about the feelings of the cat, uttered her sister's line "kill it".

What was disturbing at first was realizing this child had the power to sustain or end life and decided the latter with such relish that I now lay awake at work frightened.

What was secondly disturbing was her 30 something father gleefully uttering "yes m'am" as if she had ordered me to exhume bodies for their brains. I'm thinking I may have to rethink this whole "take my kid along to face my greatest fear" plan.

In the end she caught the bigger fish. I'm proud of her, I really am. She even asked to hold it on her lap for the 45 minute drive back. She changed her mind when discovering depite a severe clubbing and 30 minutes out of water that this animal which was half her body length was indeed still alive.

I hope I can get a group rate on counseling.

Superkids

In "The Incredibles" the children develop their super powers young and it helps to define their personalities.

My children are like that too. Except they don't have super powers. That makes them more like the "Mystery Men".

As my kids go through their 'phases' I'm beginning to realize that it's just one aspect of their personality taking over. And when this happens I give them a nickname so my wife and I can know which child is behaving in which way.

My younger daughter has taken a new way to expressing herself. It involves primal rage scream therapy with a twist of Grand Theft Auto IV. I now call her "The Pink Hulk". No it's nothing like what pink kryptonite does to Superman.

Here is what the transformation sounds like:

Me: "Ok honey, time to get out of the bath."
Her: "No it's not."
Me: "Yes it is. You can get out now or I'll help you."
Her: "You're not going to get me out. Stupid head."
Me: "Ok, time to get out"

At this point I try to pick up a wet, slippery 5 year old with an attitude problem. Try holding gravy with chopsticks to get the idea.

Her: "AHHHHH!"
Me: "No, we don't yell at each other. Now you'll need to have a time out."
Her: "GRRRARGH!"

Imagine a cute child whose eyes blaze with hatred, her brows furrowed in anger, her fists clenched and shaking, teeth bared, making a sound that would pass for a wolverine having a root canal.

Me: "Ok, are you going to dry yourself, or you will have me dry you."
Her: "You're never going to dry me! You're stupid!"
Me: "We don't say mean things. You now have a longer time out. I'll dry you now."

Instead of using passive resistance she jumps to "hit your head on the squad car door". I am both holding her away from me as she swings and holding her up so she doesn't hit her head on the toilet.

Her: "No NO NO NO!!!!!"
Me: "Ok, you're being dangerous. I have to take you out of the bathroom now."
Her: "I hate you!"

Now the little fists and legs get going. This has become habitual so now I utilize the "fireman's carry" which gives her only one hand to smack me with.

She also does this to her mother. In her defense she transforms only when very hungry or very tired. It's kind of like having a Mogwai. Cute until you mess up one of the rules, then it destroys the house.

Her sister has taken on a different attitude. Last night she was doing math homework and had to group items by properties; specifically if they had handles or wheels. My little genius at work did the job right, but was too lazy to write "bucket", so instead wrote "pail". She then argued with her mother that since it was a synonym it didn't matter.

So for using her giant brain to get out of the work of writing 2 letters she is now "The Shirker". I give her a lot of credit for that, especially when she wanted to include the phrase "Venn Diagram" in her description of how she did her work. If I had reviewed it first I would have given her double points, but "The Battle Axe" checked before "The Slob" last night.

Restating the obvious

When discussing my parenting strategy with people, I'll use the idea of ballistics. No, not temper tantrums or seeing how far my children can jump off a roof.

I mean that I have MAYBE 10 years to train these hairless ape-like female versions of me to have better behavior than I did at their age. After that point they will follow the trajectory given them with variance given to circumstance. This is similar to artillery where you take into account wind direction, rain, swarms of insects and the distance the moon is from the earth at that given moment.

2 days ago I was enforcing good eating on my 7.5 year old daughter. I was making her eat her bread crusts. I played to her strengths:

"You have a gigantic brain in that skull. Use it to convince yourself that you LIKE crusts, not the other way around. I don't give you bad food to eat. This just has a different texture."

She remarkably took the logic and began to choke back the crusts. I was impressed at the lack of whining she was doing.

I have found that my absolute intolerance of that dreadful noise has caused it to become like the fridge light. They stop whining when I'm around because I say helpful things like "Honey call the ambulance, I think one of the children punctured a lung" or "Crap, the cat has caught her tail in the vacuum!". I expect that whenever I am not home they use that noise as their sole means of communication.

So I left the room to do Daddy business. When I returned drying my hands 2.75 minutes later I found a clean plate being brought to the counter by a little girl. I said "I'm so proud of you honey! See, it wasn't that bad."

Now she put her plate on the counter, turned with a look of a mild appendix attack and came back to the table. She lifted one edge of her place mat and pulled out the bread crust. Then she looked at me and said:

"I was just hiding it there in case someone came along to take it."

I was a bit embarrassed for missing the lumpy place mat. I was ashamed that my older daughter had the opinion that I would go for that line. I couldn't think of a way to discipline her. She looked truly sorry. Still it is important that you follow through, so I said:

"Honey, Doctors tell us that inhaling smoke is bad for you no matter what orifice it is."

I watched her eat the rest of the crust. Entering the next room my wife said "What did you just say to her?!" I'm smart enough to know her rhetorical from her blond voice and replied "She didn't know what I said".

So when my children leave my house they will hopefully be well behaved, considerate, good, healthy people who know how to restate idioms with fantastic vocabulary. If that tactic doesn't work I'll train them to hide things better and lie convincingly.

Work != Thrilling

I have a dull job.

I'm not complaining. There is a proverb: "May you live in uneventful times." This makes me a lottery winner with my career.

I came to the startling conclusion when we saw the article "10 common mistakes when flashing a BIOS"

A BIOS is a chip that tells your computer it's a computer not a toaster (No toasters don't have a BIOS). The computer finds out what parts it has from the BIOS. Think of it as a morning self-affirmation. "I'm a computer with a hard drive and video and memory. I am good. I can do this. I can make Vista work.".

Flashing a BIOS is simply loading a newer program on the chip. If this fails the computer will revert to believing it is a toaster. At this point you throw out said computer after you pull your files from it.

Typical instructions include maybe 3 steps. This is not a difficult job, but it can result in about 300 dollars of replacement cost.

The instructions we found at work included the phrase "not for the faint of heart".

...

Ok. I have done things in my life that were "not for the faint of heart". Serving on a warship in a tropical storm is not for the faint of heart (or stomach). Being beside my wife as they carved out a shriveled albino gnome out of her was not for the faint of heart (or stomach). Inciting an incipient spin in a Cessna 172 was not for the faint of heart (or stomach).

Maybe we should just change the phrase.

The instructions went on to implicate there were 10 COMMON ways to mess up this procedure.

10?

Here are the ones we came up with:
1. Unplugging the power to the computer when the BIOS is updating (despite the clear warnings to the contrary).
2. Removing the disk from the computer when the BIOS is updating (providing the small file was not already loaded to memory, which it certainly would be)
3. Pouring coffee on the computer when the BIOS is updating.
4. Cutting power to your building when the BIOS is updating.
5. Loading the wrong BIOS (despite the fact most programs loading the BIOS won't allow this to happen).

Aside from the power problems (and the coffee) I don't think I COULD mess up flashing a BIOS if I tried. I would let my 7 year old do it. I would let the 5 year old try but she'd pull the power just to be funny and make Daddy's forehead veins show.

Fact is my job is so boring that $300 damages counts in the same league as activities that sideline you for Life Insurance.

In my opinion, running a program on a computer whose worst case scenario includes a visit to the Future Shop is ....

On reconsideration, flashing the BIOS isn't for the faint of heart.

A living example of what?

It's said that children don't come with a manual. They don't come with a "point away from face" warning either, and they need one that first year. After being a parent for 7 and a half years I have observed the 4 major sources of parenting knowledge:

1. What you learned being a kid (aka parenting the way your parents did).
2. Books
3. Friends with kids
4. Your butt

I'm not joking about the fourth item. Sometimes my wife or I will do something so odd as a parenting strategy I hope it is because we're trying to confound the children into obedience and not the early onset of a visit to the fun factory.

We know we grow up to be our parents. I can now mimic my mother's non verbal, facial "shouts", to the degree that if my kids can see my face they will stop and behave. Unfortunately all other children in the vicinity start crying and calling me "scary man" from then on. It's embarrassing at the mall when teenagers do that.

Books are evidence of our cognitive dissonance. How much did you learn in school from books that you recall regularly in real life? Compare that to how much you learned from messing up just like the examples you had just read. As nice as books are, if we don't use it, it was no help. Reading != life change, which is why you don't change religions and political parties 3 times while in traffic.

Friends are good tools to learn from. The good parents show you how to effectively discipline, reward, and encourage your children in a modern cultural setting. The bad parents show you that no matter how nice people are, they can still screw their kids up requiring a schoolyard of bullies to beat the weirdness out of them again.

We had friends over for coffee last night and it was nice. They are expecting their first child, and they got to see our parenting first hand.

The kids nagged the husband to sword fighting (foam pool noodles with a pvc core). They then proceeded to lay a beating on him that would make most L.A. police staff proud. I was actually worried for his health. Then they tried to goad him into fighting me.

They also decided that since these nice people were neighbors, the usual fear induced behavior wasn't required. They presumed that they could flaunt their independence, and caused me to have to show off how a totalitarian regime must look in a microcosm.

So here is this nice couple, knowing that in a year they will have a little wonder of joy in their arms. They got to see me leap from my chair to run to the stairs and utter phrases like "No, you WILL obey me. Get back here and stop crying. No you can't have Mommy, she decided she doesn't like kids who leak from their faces."

They suggested the next time we meet it be at their house, and we can get a sitter.

Children, not just incoherant adults.

My wife and I worked around a potential fight last night. It was great. We communicated what we wanted the other to do, or in this case, stop doing to make us happier.

I wanted her to not use the salad bowl as a helmet before dinner. She wanted me to not tell the kids to "kindly plug their largest head orifice with food" and let them tell her about their day.

I have experienced two of the three known communication styles of children. When they are new you want them to talk, to communicate, and for the love of all that is merciful to show some intelligence. The first words are recorded, wept over and I think there are even "Hallmark" cards for.

During that time you coax the little primate-like imitations of you to relate at a slightly higher level than the family pet. And by the age of 4 they finally do. The next stage begins like an avalanche and things cascade out of control.

The final stage is the "Shut up, I'm not talking to you. Whatever!" stage, which I have only 6 years before it hits. If I'm lucky.

Back to the second stage. Getting young children to just be quiet for less than 5 minutes is a practical impossibility. It would be OK if they were conjecturing on the purpose of existence or the moral criteria for conflict. No, it is normally akin to this conversation I had with my almost 5 year old tonight:

Her: Dad?
Me: Yes hone...
Her: Know what I
Her: What I
Her: What I want
Her: Dad?
Me: Yes h...
Her: Know what I want for
Her: For
Her: Dad, know what I want for dessert?
Me: No honey, what do you...
Her: I want
Her: I want a
Her: I want a princess....
Her: pillow.
Her: And
Me: And?
Her: And a, (yelling) Mom, what do I want?

Yes, most conversations with her are at that level. The 7 year old is probably twice as efficient, but still stammers in high speed like listening to Porky Pig with ADHD. And my children are AHEAD of the curve for all developmental milestones, especially language.

So during dinner this level of discourse had my wife saying:

"Ok kids, just eat now."
"Please eat your dinner."
"Stop talking and eat."
"PLEASE stop talking and eat."
"Just eat."
"No, no more talking. Eat."

The fact my wife was reverting to their style of talking worried me. I stopped the kids (I have more practice) and the rest of the dinner went fine.

I'm still yet to deal with how the near 5 year old responds when addressed, as illustrated here:

Me: Honey?
Her: What?

Me: Care to try that again?
Her: What Daddy?

Me: Please assemble a sentence with as many syllables as you are old.
Her: What?

SIGH. They are very intelligent little people, which is why it is so frustrating to have them false start sentences like a "Chatty Cathy" doll with a stuck gear.

I guess they are still so excited by the ideas they are having that they can't take time to process them into a succinct package. Hearing the concept, first and second drafts, and then being the editor for each thought that comes in their heads is exhausting. I give my wife credit to do this without weeping (most days).

Forget logic, use your computersititon!

I used to believe that technology jobs were best done by logical people. After a decade of experience I laugh at that supposition now.

When a computer breaks there are some general troubleshooting rules:

1. Reboot.
2. Wiggle the cables.
3. Try another account.
4. Reboot again.
5. Google the problem.
6. Read the manual.
7. Throw out the computer.

The main exceptions are:
- Broken Cupholders
- Missing Any keys
- PEOPLE WHO CAN'T FIND THEIR capslock BUTTON

After 10 years of fixing computers, I have added a few items to the list. It now reads:

1. Reboot.
2. Wiggle the cables.
3. Try another account.
4. Shake a stick over the computer.
5. Reboot again.
6. Google the problem.
7. Throw a dog at the computer.
8. Read the manual.
9. Chant the filesystem path backwards.
10. Reboot holding my breath.
11. Throw out the computer.

It turns out there are certain times that fixing a computer has little to do with logic, and a lot to do with dumb luck.

This happened a few years ago when I fixed a soundcard on a computer. Sound was coming out of the speakers, but so faint you needed to jam your ears against them. I did the above list, including updating drivers, swapping out the soundcard, trying the soundcard in another machine, changing speakers. Nothing worked.

My last thought was to daisy chain amplified speakers to get more volume. I then slowly thought that "I am adding more power to the sound...".

I changed the power supply. It fixed the problem.

This was a coup d'etat. I baffled my geek buddies with this solution. I still don't know why the computer didn't fail outright, it shouldn't have worked at all if underpowered.

This happened the week that changing the watch battery on a computer fixed it's inability to boot at all. I had just recommended buying a new computer when lo and behold, the $10 part fixed it. I still don't know why.

These fixes are great when they happen to me. What is really superstitious luck can be passed of as insightful genius.

Yesterday we were troubleshooting a server at work. It's running slower than it should by a factor of 3. We did testing and determined that the problem was the hard drive read speed.

One co-worker wanted to start pulling the spare hard drives from the server. While it was running. To me this seemed like something I would have suggested 9 years ago. We ignored him all morning because, well, that's just crazy talk. It's in the category of "Rain Man" suggestions.

In the afternoon we were getting frustrated. He then changed his suggestions from pulling the data to turning off the processors.

"RIGHT." (Grin and nod). "How about after that we go get a dog and throw it at the server. But make sure it's not a chihuahua, they only work on Mac's."

My other co-worker had become desperate either to fix the problem or shut the other guy up, so he turned off a processor. With 4 on the server there was a relatively low risk.

No improvement. So another was turned off. Still nothing. They turned off the 3rd. The server ran fine again.

?

So making the server slower at doing things made the hard drives read faster?

!?!

I still can't wrap my head around HOW this is even possible. The now gloating co-worker said that we didn't have a multi-processor machine before, so that must have been what changed. We gently reminded him we DID have a dual-processor server before.

The moral of the story: If your computer doesn't work, try immersing it in yogurt, or taping feathers to the cables, or sing to it in Swahili. Let me know if any of that works, because clearly logic and sensible approach are no longer the way to do my job.

Good cop, Bad cop

We play "Good Cop, Bad Cop" in my house. Not the fun way that gets people killed in embarrassing but fascinating ways on CSI, but in parenting. When we are disciplining, one takes the firmer discipline role, the other comforts the victim, or tries to lure the truth from the small bags of water and lies. Most times my wife is the "Good Cop", like today.

Today my older daughter was arguing with my wife. I know this is a dangerous game. I have the scars and the bad back from the couch to prove it. And the child doesn't use smart arguing techniques like taking the logical extreme or misinterpretation. She simply interrupts her mother and makes her demand, or gives her proof why her mommy is wrong.

I remember I did that once to my Mom. It was the first and last time we had a footrace. I proved I could outrun my Mom, especially upstairs. I also proved my ability to corner myself quite efficiently by erroneously believing that if I made it to my bedroom and called "base" I was safe.

Why does this wonderful, generous, bright child toy with the fragile emotional balance of someone twice her size who has the history of making her life less than fun when she mouths off? She was having an obstinate moment today when I heard this phrase:

"No, you're wrong. Woman."

Should a pin have dropped, it would have been easy to echo locate. My wife, the woman I am desperately in love with, thankfully chose not to end this little person's enrollment in our family at that moment. She gently, but firmly, restated that she was "Mommy", not "Woman". I on the other hand was the emotional one having a combination of giggling and weeping in the kitchen.

I was the "Bad Cop" yesterday. The kids were downstairs "playing" when I heard a thump and my younger daughter begin her "I think I'm hurt" wailing. It's funny when she can't find us in this state. She'll wander room to room and it will sound like the doppler effect of a cat trapped on a ceiling fan.

I, being the sensitive artist father, gently bellowed:

"You'd better be bleeding to cry like that".

Well I was damned, but she turned the corner with blood on her lips. Her big sister had punched her. My wife and I switched roles, she took the "Bad Cop" role of immediately disciplining the older daughter, while I comforted the child I had almost said "AHHH shaddap!" to.

It turns out she attempted to punch her older sister in the face, but missed. I would normally call that natural consequences, but my wife has read better books on parenting than I have. What is funny is both kids have a Clouseau/Kato relationship with me. They take punches at me whenever they can. So of course they had some skill in it. As a fringe benefit I'm set to go a few rounds in the ring with a dwarf.

I'm not sure why we balance the discipline the way we do. Although, considering the behavior the past two days we may be doing some re-evaluation. I'd like to suggest "Good Cop, Interpretive Dance Cop".

Seeing myself at work

I received a vision of what it is like to work with me. It happened while we were watching "Airplane!" the other day. I realized that I am "Johnny, the office boy".

Watch this to get a quick refresher:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pd9oTKwRyIk

I am annoyingly literal to make a good joke, or just a joke. I find creative ways of expressing myself. And a few times it's been good enough to write down.

I work in a medium sized office which is part of a very large business. Great plans are often put in motion with little to no thought of how to execute them. I get some ideas, but they often include guillotines.

One project was a department-wide upgrade of computers. Their solution to a problem was in my humble opinion sdrawkcab-ssa. But I found my voice to express it this way:

"We are trying to solve this problem the same way we would try to have a cat pull a horse drawn carriage. All we need are more cats, more harnesses, smaller whips, better roads and lighter people. We overlook the obvious answer."

Now I was in appoplexic fit of anger at being told to do what would break more things than it fixed. I am a passionate man, and I have these fits too often in this job.

Other phrases have made it into a Kenism list, like:

"She's maniacally stupid. It's like she's trying to hurt us with her dumbness."

[Responding to "I have a stupid question"]: "No, you don't have a stupid question. All questions are stupid, not just yours."

"This program is like an alcoholic uncle with a job. You're embarrased by it, it looks awful, no one likes to admit it exists, but at least it works."

"No one makes a good choice in a moment of passion. You don't run away with the sensible but unattractive person, that's a cold calculated decision."

"Hoping to fix the flawed procedure through full implementation is trying to wear down a speedbump by placing it on a freeway."

Yeah, I'm just a hoot to work with. I overreact, mishear people to be funny and I play emotionally crippling practical jokes. You can pity my co-workers, or laugh with me.

The Monkey's Paw punched me in the...

We went camping this weekend. It was fairly fun to spend 2 nights and 3 days in the woods with my family. More fun if I don't dwell on it too closely.

Camping is therapeutic to family development. It puts our 4 somewhat emotionally healthy individuals into a cloth room with no running water or electricity. In these conditions it takes a few hours before the bickering, yelling, and unfortunate human odors to take hold. And that's just my wife and I.

When my wife was asked why we liked camping she was short on answers. I like it because it's fun to legally burn things, see the stars, and not feel the uncontrollable pull of electronics. Oh, and I hate being around people.

We try to keep our campsite clean and kids quiet. I resent it when in campgrounds children scream and shriek at the top of their lungs. I wish it were a reverse of the "kicking scares away sharks" tactic for bears. I get comfort imagining a bear lumbering into their campsite just to scare their kinds into silence.

Yesterday morning I was tending to the breakfast while trying to teach my older daughter about making a campfire. In the midst of describing to my bright 7 year old that tepees were actually somewhat vertical in construction I was interrupted by a cacophony from the tent.

To quote my wife:
"Oh God! Wait! No! Stop! No! NOOOO! Not here! Help!"

I imagine that's the script for someone inadvertently wearing moose musk during a rut and consequently becoming the object of some bull's desire. Gives new meaning to being "caught in a rut", although I would choose "Hunter violated by moose in season" as my newspaper headline.

I was aghast. How could my wife make that much noise in a campground at 8 in the morning? I said:
"I sure hope that she pooped in our tent for you to be making that much noise"

Now let me digress to the "Monkey's Paw" for a moment. The Monkey's Paw is a short story by William Wymark Jacobs about fate and wishes. It is a horror story not too unlike mine, except that mine is only a horror to me. I have wished for my daughter to be hurt if she's making a noise "like that". I have wished for human waste to be deposited in my fabric room. These, unlike the lottery, are wishes that do come true. It's like I have a frikkin sadist Jimminy Cricket.

Sure enough I enter the tent to find my wife hurriedly moving clothes and books upstream from our tent Huang He. My younger daughter has struck a pose from an 80's hair band lead singer, legs spread wide. She is watching with fascination the fact that she has indeed peed in my temporary abode. We cleaned her up, cleaned the tent up, instituted an "emergency log" toilet behind the tents, and went on with the day.

And yes, we will go camping again. Why? I still don't know yet.

Timing

Timing can mean everything. In the case of General John Sedgwick it meant that he would be an example of "famous last words".

This is especially true in marriage. What is funny on one day can be grounds for separate vacations, your vacation being in the car and starting now.

This past weekend I proceeded to insulate the windows of our house with plastic wrap. Come to think of it, I'm not sure why I didn't use the saran-wrap stuff. It's probably cheaper.

For those in warmer pastures or whose buildings do not have vacant gaps in the walls partially filled with glass, the idea is to trap air between the leaky window and the plastic. Comments about practicing 'safe housing' are not appreciated.

The procedure is deceptively short on the packaging. It involves:
A) Clean the frame
B) Put the two sided tape around the frame
C) Cut a piece of plastic to fit the frame
D) Affix plastic to tape
E) Use hair dryer to shrink the plastic so you don't assume you're having a stroke when you look out the window.

Here are my instructions based on experience:
1) Pull out last years plastic and tape. Think you have enough.
2) Clean window sill with water and rag.
3) Knock over pail of water on pile of books..
4) After clean-up of mess, dry window sill
5) Unroll tape and affix to frame.
6) Realize last years tape won't work.
7) Swear, then go to store to buy more tape.
8) Buy plastic that doubled in price from last year because demand of being environmentally sound has increased.
9) Re-affix tape to frame only to find damp spot you missed with the towel.
10) Re-affix tape to frame third time.
11) Measure window.
12) Measure plastic.
13) Inexplicably move 2" when cutting the plastic, making it too small for the window.
14) Conduct 'Cirque du soleil' routine affixing plastic to tape.
15) Burn out hair-dryer on the first window.
16) Accidentally touch overheated hair dryer to the plastic, burning a hole in it.
17) Swear really loud.

This gets twice as long if you want to put the plastic on the inside of the window frame to accommodate the blind. No, not an accessibility thing, the pull down blind so your neighbours don't receive confirmation that you are really that unattractive unclothed.

It was after these steps that my wife walked in and said

"Oh, I JUST finished getting last year's tape off the window sills. Do we even need that stuff?"

That did not help my blood pressure which was already allowing me to see the vein structure of my eyeballs. I'm not sure of how I replied, but suffice to say it was angry gibberish that I apologized for later.

So the trick to preventing those perfectly timed comments is lock yourself in the room where you're doing repairs, or wait until the family is away from home. The downside is that when you fall off the ladder/electrocute yourself/staple yourself to the wall no one can find you for a while. To ensure someone comes looking just say you're making the next meal.

I'm done the job now, and I'm just waiting for the kids to poke holes in the plastic because it's there.