The How-Not-To Guide to Parenting and Marriage (7 page)

24.
THE DENTIST

It would be an understatement to say that my youngest daughter, Natalie, is not fond of the dentist. When she was younger, my wife and I would have some of the worst fights we’ve had in our marriage, over who would have to take the child to her appointments. I would see one of her checkups written on the calendar, and begin pleading with my boss to come up with something that I “had” to be at work for on that particular day. But in spite of my best efforts, I couldn’t avoid every dance with the Devil, and as luck would have it, or perhaps karma for making up excuses to not be chosen one, I ended up being one who got to take her to her first cavity filling experience.

Having distracted the little person with a sucker, and the promise of a visit to the local fast food play place if she behaved, the arrival at the dentist and getting her back into the chair went surprisingly smooth. . . . . But did not remain so for very long.

When the dentist finally made his way into the room, he looked at Natalie sitting in the chair and froze. It was as if his brain was recalling past experiences with her, and then realizing that this would be her first cavity filling. He looked at me, and with a voice that was shaking noticeably, he said, “Well this should be one for the books.”

He then went over to a counter where all of his implements of torture had been carefully laid out, and then turning back towards Natalie, he held up one of the largest, most evil looking syringes I had ever seen in my life, and said, “Now this won’t hurt toooo bad”.

As the look of horror spread across Natalie’s face, I quickly turned and gave the dentist a soul searing frown for his complete lack of tact with the syringe. Quickly I moved into position for any restraining that might be needed. The dentist leaned forward with the syringe, and began to bring it close to the child’s unopened mouth.

It was at this moment that the room exploded into a flurry of flailing arms, legs, and latex. There were dental instruments flying, teeth gnashing and horrible sounding screams coming from all three of us . . . . . .  and then, the room fell silent.

I had to take a few seconds to inventory what had just taken place. . . . . . . Natalie was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the dentist was now in the chair where she had been, with my foot on his chest. He had both arms around my throat, and he held his eyes tightly shut as he bit down on my thumb, which was in his mouth, for some reason.

“She’s gone”, I said as he slowly opened his eyes and released his
tooth grip on my thumb.

His gaze was fixed on a point somewhere on my forehead instead of the eye to eye contact that I would have expected from someone with which I had just gone through the Natalie tornado with. Looking up and slightly cross-eyed, I could see the syringe sticking out of my forehead. The Novocain had already begun to render the muscles around
my eyes useless, leaving me with what felt like an apathetic, dopey expression on my face, and the inability to frown. I informed the dentist that I was indeed frowning (even though the Novocain may have made it appear that I was pleasantly amused) by his not being able to handle the situation. And then the both of us went to find the child.

After locating Natalie in the back seat of a car in the parking lot next door the dentist’s office, we wrestled her back into the chair for round two.

Once again, the room exploded in violence the minute the syringe was produced. The whole scene was much like a dog-cat-bird fight in a cartoon. All that could be seen other than a whirling cloud of dust, was the occasional dentist arm holding a syringe, flailing child appendage, or my apathetic, dopey expressioned face. Only this time, we were able to somehow get the laughing gas hose onto her nose and the Novocain administered, even in spite of my receiving a bite mark to the left ear, and the dentist getting his own poke from the syringe to his left pinky finger. The child finally lay silent. I again informed him that I was frowning at him.

Once we had finally sedated and numbed the wild animal, it only took the dentist about ten minutes to complete the filling procedure, which he did with his left pinky finger extended like someone drinking a cup of tea, due to the digit’s numbness. But alas, the deed was done.

When I arrived home with Natalie, who still didn’t seem to realize everything that was going on, my wife asked how it went. “It was a breeze” I said, “You just have to know how to handle her”.

“Well good! You can take her from now on” she answered.

I was disgusted that I hadn’t seen that coming when I had decided to lie to her about how it went. I had just shot myself in my own proverbial foot. Being annoyed, I didn’t even bother to tell her that I was frowning at her as I walked away.

25.
I'M NOT A SPORTS DAD

I'm not a sports dad. I guess I wasn't a sports kid either. I just have never had much interest in watching or playing sports. I think that maybe I was born without the normal male sports chromosome. And in America, that makes me less of a man.

It doesn't seem to matter that I've been a tree trimmer, tower climber, and logger. I'm not a true man because I'd rather be fishing or hunting or hiking, than sitting on the couch all weekend with a bag of chips, watching sports.

When I'm with my friends, our conversation always runs through the normal cycle of topics; hot rods, lawn care, new ideas on surviving the zombie apocalypse, and then without fail, ends with a 2 or 3 hour discussion on sports . . . . . . To which, I can contribute nothing. . . . . .NOTHING! This is the point where I say something like, "Wow, that queso really tore me up! I gotta go find the crappe
r" and then excuse myself. I then usually end up spending the rest of the evening sitting and listening to the women talk about Pintrest.

In the past I've made attempts at faking it. I've tried memorizing the names and stats of whatever sport is current, but my memory is not that good, and it was an embarrassing d
isaster. I even tried writing a cheat sheet on my arm like a student cheating on a test, but somehow there was a flaw in my research, and I ended up scrawling the Big Ten stats from 2002 instead of 2012....... The end result was quite humiliating.

I don't even know how to cheer properly when my buddies have the game on. When there
is a play that would have them all yelling, "OHHHH IT'S A BLITZ! HE'S GONNA GET SACKED!" All I can come up with is, "That little guy with the ball better run, because those big dudes seem intent on assaulting him".

My kids suffer from my having been born without a sports chromosome as well. A normal dad is able to teach his kids some of the
sports basics at the very least. All I can do when they want to play a sport, is to find them videos on YouTube that might help them.

Natalie decided that she wanted to try playing basketball a while back, so we signed her up. As I dropped her off for her first ever basketball practice, I felt compelled to give her some sort of advice. In my mind, I had somehow confused basketball with soccer, and I told her, "Remember that no matter what you do, never touch the ball with your hands . . . . Just your feet. I probably should have suspected something wasn't right from her strenuous questioning of my advice, but I insisted I was the dad, and I knew more than her. As she got out of the car and headed into the school, I was mistakenly proud that what little sports knowledge that I did possess, had saved her from the embarrassment of handling the basketball with her hands.

I was informed later that evening from my sobbing daughter, how flawed my advice had been...... I no longer offer sports advice to my kids . . . . For their sake.
Luckily, my daughters have a few uncles who can stand in as surrogate sports dads. Unfortunately, this does nothing to help me when my friends decide to watch the game or talk about sports. In those times, I am doomed to forever be “that guy who doesn’t like sports”.

26.
HAPPY LIGHT

My wife claims that I suffer from that seasonal depression disorder that causes people to get depressed in the winter. My sister in-law recommended a light that supposedly mimics the sun's light, so my wife acquired one. It is now referred to, by my wife and kids, as "Dad's happy light".

I'm not sure if it helps or not, but I have noticed that if my wife and I have any sort of disagreement, she will at some point after the argument, switch the light on and point it at me . . . .
And I think she believes she's being subtle about it. I also think she is over-estimating this light's ability to fix all my supposed faults. I have even noticed that as I sit in the glow of the happy light, she will periodically bring up different points of our argument, as if to see if the light had softened up my brain and made me see things her way yet, much like a baker checking a cake in the oven.

We were the playing a trivia game
, the other night, that required players to have a vast knowledge of current children's TV shows. My ignorance on the subject was causing my wife and I to get beaten quite soundly by our two girls. So in the middle of one of our turns, my wife got up, and moved the happy light over in front of me and switched it on. I think she actually believed that the happy light would somehow unlock a cache of forgotten Kid TV facts in my brain, or that it might transfer the question answers to me through its bright glow.

My daughters are quick to pick up on
the concept of the light, as well. If I were to come home from work, and find them sacrificing and burning small animals in our living room, all I would have to say is, "umm, I'm not sure this is the best idea, girls...." and they both would reply in unison, "JEEZE-O-PEETS, SOMEONE NEEDS TO GO SIT INFRONT OF HIS HAPPY LIGHT!!!"

I'm starting to think this light isn't even suppos
ed to help with the disorder . . . . . If I even have a disorder. I think that maybe it’s just a prop that is used by my family to make me think that depression is the only possible reason that I would ever question their logic and reason!

27.
FRIDAY NIGHT

Well,
it’s official . . . . .  I'm old.

Why?

I'll tell you why.

It's Friday evening, my wife and kids are out of town for the night. Not that long ago, this would have meant that I would have conducted myself much like a rowdy cowboy returning to town after being on the trail for a month (minus the prostitutes).

But what am I thinking about as I drive home from work?

I'm thinking about cooking the pound of bacon that I saw in the refrigerator, and eating it all myself, and then having a Ken Burns documentary marathon without the constant chorus of my girls saying, "can we please watch something else dad? This is soooooo boring!"

Yep! I'm living large.

28.
SIGNS OF THE END OF THE WORLD (according to my daughter's)

1. We are out of ketchup.

2. We are out of mayonnaise.

3. The dinner that was made for you by people who have been working all day, is not to your liking.

4. Cable and/or internet is out.

5. You don't like any of your 14 pairs of shoes, and neither mom nor dad will run you to the store at 10pm for the ones you REALLY always wanted.

6. A caged rodent or fish (that is otherwise neglected) goes home to be with the Lord.

7. You are unfairly ordered to clean up the mess that you have made.

8. Dad shows up at your school wearing his new skinny jeans.

29.
TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF

"You're not a teenager anymore, you know. You need to make some changes in your lifestyle", she said.

I have always been troubled by conversations that start in that manner. They tend to be filled with logic and common sense, which are my two arch nemeses’ when it comes to lifestyle choices.

Thinking I was going to be lectured about laughing hysterically at the same Bugs Bunny cartoons that I had seen at least a thousand times in my life, I took the bait and asked, "what changes?".

"You need to start paying a little more attention to your health" was the reply.

At this point, I should have followed my first instinct, and departed the living room in favor of the solace of my shed, but foolishly, I chose to engage.

"I'm in good shape! I climb trees for a living." I proclaimed.

"Climbing trees is not aerobic exercise, and while it may strengthen your hang-on-for-dear-life muscles, it's doing little for the health of your heart. Not to mention, if you were in better shape, you might not come home after climbing trees, and lay on the couch yelping like a puppy who had been hit with a rolled up newspaper. You need to exercise."

"I get plenty of exercise", I replied.

"You rarely get off the couch when you're home, and if you do venture outside, you make the kids pull you around in the
ir wagon!"

"That's not true! I get up several times an evening, and walk outside to smoke", I said, realizing instantly that I had just opened a whole new can . . . no, barrel of worms.

To this, she gave me a look that said, "I don't even have to argue that point, do I?”

She then moved on to the issue of my diet. An issue that I did not think was
an issue, but was apparently an issue to her.

"What's wrong with my diet?"

"Your breakfast consists of a whole pot of coffee, and the occasional Vicodin for your back. Your lunch is whichever fast-food kid’s meal that you perceive to have the best toy in it, which is another issue that I don't even want to get into right now. You couldn't even tell me the last time you ate something green, and bacon grease is not a suitable bread spread."

Having lost track of all her points, I simply replied, "Well, French fries are made from potatoes!"

I then began to suspect that I was not winning the argument, so I left immediately for my shed. After sitting down to catch my breath from the walk, I contemplated long and hard on the issue, and decided to make an effort at improving my lifestyle. And I would start the next day.

My first course of action was to prepare for attacking the smoking issue
, and taking care of the breakfast issue at the same time. So, the very next morning, I made myself a heaping bowl of the 'quit smoking' drug that my doctor had given me, and poured milk on it, making it a bit more palatable. Just as I was about to shovel in the first bite, my wife entered the dining room and began shrieking something about proper dosage or something.

Humoring her, I took only one spoonful of
the anti-depressants, and put the rest of the bowl in the fridge for later. I then declared triumphantly, "I have decided to make some changes."

"Oh?" she said in
a tone that suggested concern.

"Yes, I'm goin
g to quit smoking . . . again, and I'm going to start exercising. And I'm also going to eat a vegetable every day."

With that being said, I got up, walked out
the door, and jogged the entire fifty feet to my truck in the driveway.

Upon returning home that day from work, I was delighted to find out that my wonderful wife was putting forth great effort to help me with my lifestyle changes. As I sat down for dinner, she heaped two huge scoops of peas onto my plate.

"WHOA! WHAT THE HECK? You're getting a little carried away aren't you?" I yelled.

"I thought you said you were going to eat a vegetable every day."

"YES, A VEGETABLE! As in, A green bean, or A pea. Not a whole flock of them! With that, I picked up A pea, and swallowed it down with my Coke, like a pill.

She had also begun preparations for my smoking cessation by posting "Dad escape routes" for the kids, and removing the ax from my shed in an attempt to spare the lawn mower from further harm in the event of a nicotine fit.

With all of this, I am beginning to feel minutely confident that the lifestyle changes shall be successful. But it’s far too early to know. I figure if I, and everyone else in the family, can survive this shock to my system for at least a week, then maybe I’ll consider making some of them permanent.