The Chaos Coefficient

We’re trying to relax in our hotel room after being rained out at Disney.  We have a nice suite with separate bedrooms for the kids.  But right now, Emily and Beth are jumping on their beds.

I storm into their room.  Stuffed animals litter the beds.  Covers and pillows have been strewn across the floor.  The kids freeze when they see my “knock it off this instance” face.

“Sit down and be quiet.” I order. They obey, but only for a few minutes.

It’s not that I object to a little fun.  But experience tells me that either one of the kids will fall off the bed and start screaming.  Or someone will accidentally (on purpose) hit someone else and there will be screaming.  Screaming in a hotel room is not a good thing. 

When traveling with three children under the age of eight, you have to expect a certain amount of turmoil.  There’s spilled drinks in the back of the minivan, an endless chorus of “are we there yet” and hours of “he’s looking at me again.”  It can get a bit overwhelming.  

I chalk all of this pandemonium up to the “chaos coefficient.”  You never heard of it?  Let me explain.  From a mathematical standpoint, a coefficient  is a value used to modify a mathematical expression or define a relationship between variables.  In other words, it’s a multiplier.

The chaos coefficient is similar.  It represents that amount of chaos brought to any situation and it is directly proportional to the number of children that are entered into the equation.

For example, take the act of going out to a restaurant for dinner.  If you are a couple without children, you can get out the door in a few simple steps.  Step one, get showered and dressed.  Step two, shoes on.  Step three, out the door.  Total prep time, about thirty minutes.  Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Now add two year old into the same formula.  The problem becomes considerably more complicated.  It might look something like this.  

Step one, bathe the child.  Step two, scream “Stop running around the house naked” as you chase a wet child through the house.  Step three, dress the child.  Step four, play hide and seek looking for the child’s shoes.  Step four, discover your child had undressed herself.  Repeat step two.  Step five, find one shoe under the couch.  Step six, find you child playing with the other shoe in the cat’s litter box.  Step seven, repeat steps one through three.  Step eight, stop at Walmart to buy new shoes before going to the restaurant.  Total prep time, about two hours.

Yes, that’s the chaos coefficient.  But it doesn’t stop there.  The chaos coefficient is exponential.  The more kids, the more chaos.  Two kids mean ten times more bedlam than one.  Three kids create a hundred times more disorder.  And so on.  That's why it takes a normal family twenty minutes eat breakfast but it takes our family three days.

Walking through Disney World with three kids strung out on pixie dust creates a logarithmic effect to the chaos coefficient.  There’s the flashing lights, the spinning rides, the bright balloons, the Princesses and giant mice. The ultimate effect is off the scale. 

But lucky for me, the impact of the chaos coefficient is easy to negate.  You just add in a little of the “I Love You” factor and it’s all good again.

You Do the Math

Ken and I had been awake since three o’clock in the morning. .  The kids were napping quietly in the car.  We were on our way to Disney World.  We only had eight more hours of driving before we reached our first night’s stop.

“We stayed here once.”  Ken said as we passed through Nashville.  “Remember that first year that we drove to North Carolina from Illinois.”

How could I forget “The Tornado Trip.”

It was June and Ken and I had lived in Illinois for lest than a year.   The spring had been mild and we hadn’t yet experienced the severe weather that is characteristic of a Midwest spring.  

When we first moved out west, I was scared of a lot of things.  I was afraid to leave my family.  I was afraid I wouldn’t make any new friends.  I was afraid I wouldn’t like my new job.  But after settling into our new house in Illinois, Ken and I found some great friends.  I discovered the joys of my new job.  And we received visits from our families.

Now only one of my Midwest nightmares remained.  And it was a big one.  It was my fear of tornadoes. 

In Pennsylvania, where I grew up, tornadoes were a very rare occurrence.  So it’s a bit odd for me to confess that I’ve had a recurring nightmare about tornadoes.  After all, I had never actually experienced one.  But the spinning black clouds and howling winds of my dreams were so vivid I almost backed out of my relocation plans because of it.

It was a Friday afternoon and I was waiting for Ken outside the front doors to my office.  The car had been packed the night before.  We planned to leave Illinois right after work and drive six hours to Tennessee where we would spend the night.

While I waited for Ken, I noticed a hot wind blustering around the building.  Piles of smoky, black clouds were rolling across the sky.  I could hear low rumbles of thunder in the distance.  The air smelled like rain.

When Ken finally pulled around the corner, I hopped in the car and turned on the radio to the local news station.  I was immediately struck by the sound of a long, high-pitched “Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep.” It was the sound of the emergency management warning that most radio stations use.  And this was not a test.

Then the announcer on the radio said the words that made my stomach sink.  “There are deadly storms approaching.  They are moving at forty miles an hour and should hit the area within twenty minutes.  Take cover immediately.  I repeat.  These are deadly storms.  Take cover immediately.”

The color drained out of my face.  My heart beat fast.  My hands trembled.  My biggest nightmare was bearing down on us.  Even worse, it was going to ruin my vacation. 

“We can’t leave on vacation tonight.” I said to Ken.  “We have to go home and hide in the basement until these storms passed.”

Ken scoffed.  “Did you hear what the announcer said?” He asked.

I bobbed my head.  “Uh Huh.  He said DEADLY storms.”

“No.” Ken said.  “He said the storms are approaching at forty miles an hour.  When we hit the highway, I’ll be doing eighty.  You do the math.”

Gulp.  Ken planned to do the one thing they warn you never to do in a tornado.  He planned to outrun it.  And for some unexplained reason, I planned to be right there with him when he did. I buckled my seat belt tight, took a deep breath and gripped my armrests.  “Let’s do it.”

For the next six hours, Ken and I raced through four states.  The storms chased us the whole way.  Whenever we entered a new county, we were greeted by the sounds of tornado sirens just going off – indicating that rotation had been spotted.  For each county that we exited, I could hear the radio weatherman warning everyone in the listening area to take immediate cover.  I looked over at Ken with pleading eyes but he just kept driving.

As we raced from state to state, I stole frequent glances out the back window.  I could see the black clouds behind us in the distance.  How far away were they?  I wondered.  Twenty miles?  Thirty?

“Ken, how fast are you driving?” I asked.

“I’m doing seventy five.”  He muttered. 

I suppose Ken thought I was going to give him heck for going fifteen over the speed limit.  After all, back seat driving was my specialty.  Instead, I clinched my jaw and commanded, “Go faster dammit!”

Ken smiled.  Permission to speed.  This was the best trip ever.

At one point, we passed a fast food restaurant.  “Let’s pull over.” I begged.  “We can go in there and be safe.”

“No way.”  Ken refused.  “That place is all windows.  If a twister hits us there we’ll be killed by all the flying glass.  Best to keep moving.”

That sounded logical.  I guess.  I was too terrified to think straight.

“Fine.” I said.  “But can’t this thing go any faster!”

“Awesome” Ken shouted as he hit the gas again.  Great, I just released his inner Speed Race.  If only we were driving the Mach 5 instead of a 96 Saturn SL four door sedan.

The storm, it turns out, never came close to us.  It was always a few football fields in our rear view window.  In fact, Ken did such a good job of keeping ahead of the clouds that our car barely got wet from the rain.  When we got to our pit stop in Tennessee, the storm veered further south leaving us safe and dry.

After we carried our bags into our hotel room, I was ready to lie down and release all of my pent up tension.  Ken, on the other hand, was ready to gloat.

“I told you we’d be fine.” He said with a smug smile. “I wasn’t a math major for nothin.”

"Really." I said.  "Well there's one bed and two of us. You do the math." I replied as I tossed my body across the middle of the bed and started to snore.

Celebrating My Inner Geek

A few weeks ago my mentor at work suggested I be a bit more personable around the office.  “Stop focusing so much on the task at hand.”  M. suggested.  “Take some time and get to know the people around you.”  I resisted the urge to ask M. his thoughts on the recent Attorney General opinion on confidentiality out of Kansas and asked how his kids were doing instead. 

Being personable sounded like a lot of work to me.  In the first place, it meant I'd have to deal with actual people.  I wondered if I couldn't just send an e-mail instead.  I guess M. was right, connectiong with coworkers was a problem for an introvert like me.

But since M. never steered me wrong, I agreed to try it his way and get to know the people around me. Luckily, my first opportunity came later that week at a meeting.  We were there to discuss the details of business plan.  Even though I was itching to get to work, I took a few moments before the meeting and smiled over at my coworker J.

J. and I had worked together for several years but, truth be told, I barely knew anything about him.  I think he once told me that he moved here from California.  Or was it Canada? Did it really matter?

So, in my most pleasant voice I tried to act interested in J.'s life and said, “Hey  J., did you do anything fun over the weekend?”

J. was caught off guard by my sudden attempt at congeniality.  “Uh.  Not really.” He said.  Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “I was in Indianapolis.”

As I was on a continuing mission to prove I actually have a personality, I refused to let J. off the hook.  “That sounds like fun.” I said.  “Were you visiting friends or sightseeing?”

J. bristled a bit before answering.  Then he blushed slightly and said, “No, I was at a Star Trek convention.”  I’m not sure why J. was so afraid to tell me about his weekend excursion.  Did he think I would call him a “Trekkie” and try to stuff him into a locker or something?

Social cues are not my strong point.  And to J.'s dismay I kept pushing.  “Was there anyone good there?”  I asked.

J. pointed his nose in the air.  “No one you would know.” He sniffed.

Ah, a Star Trek snob.  So we’re going to play it that way, huh? 

My eyes narrowed and my smile tilted to the side.  “Really?" I said. "Because I heard Wil Wheaton was going to be there.”  J.’s eyes lit up brighter than the instrument panel for the weapons system on a Klingon Bird of Prey getting ready to fire on a Romulan War Ship. Now I had his attention.

For the next ten minutes, J. and I had a complete Geek-a-palooza.  We discussed Wil Wheaton (that’s Wil not Will) and the highlights of the Indy Star Trek Convention.  I asked if he followed Wheaton (child actor who played Ensign Wesley Crusher on Star Trek the Next Generation and is currently an actor-slash-writer-slash-blogger) on Twitter.

J bobbed his head up and down in response.  "Did you know he did a cameo on The Big Bang Theory?" The other meeting attendees stared at us, groaned and rolled their eyes. 

There it was.  The truth was out and everyone knew it.  I had revealed to the world my deep dark secret.  I am a geek.

Yes, I admit it.  I am a geek. I always have been. Unfortunately, when it comes to being a geek, I’m not that high in the geek pecking order.  Like if most geeks are VHS, I'm definately a Beta Max.  

For those who don’t know, the geek hierarchy goes something like this: theoretical physicists, rocket scientists, computer nerds, engineers, chemists, math majors, comic book store owners, dungeon masters, technical support specialists, dot matrix printer repairermen, the guy selling USB cables at Best Buy, and then me. In other words, Stephen Hawking equals geek rock star.  Me equals geek groupie.

Let me see if I can explain better.  When I am at parties, for example, I rarely try to impress anyone with how many decimals of Pi I can recite.  And I’ve never named a pet after my favorite Ewok.  On the other hand, I have been involved in a heated debate over whether Voyager or Deep Space Nine was the better Star Trek spin off series.  (For the record, it's Voyager.)  And, I actually got butterflies in my stomach the day I visited Google’s Chicago office last spring. 

Then there’s my recurring nightmare.  It starts with me on an airplane with Steve Jobs, Bill Gates and Vinton Cerf.  We crash land in the middle of the jungle and none of us can get any bars on our smart phones (mostly because we all have AT&T as our carrier, big mistake).  So we have to hike through the jungle to find help. 

The whole time we’re walking, Gates and Jobs are arguing over whether Microsoft stole Apple’s graphical user interface to create Windows.  Things get pretty heated until Cerf reminds them that they both stole the idea from Xerox’s Palo Alto Research Center.

After a few hours of tramping through the underbrush, we find a small group of mud huts.  When we ask the natives if anyone has internet access, they roll out the only computer within a thousand miles. To our horror, it’s a Radio Shack TRS 80 with dual floppy drives, a black and white CRT monitor and only 4 KB ram.  Don't even get me started on the processor.  Oh, the humanity! Just then, I realize that the external modem won’t connect any faster than 9600 baud.  That’s when I wake up in a cold sweat and screaming "Please don't let it connect to AOL!"

Yep, I’m a geek alright.  It’s taken me (ahem, cough, cough) years.  But I’ve finally come to terms with my inner geek-ness.

Part of accepting my geekdom was realizing that I’m surrounded by geeks.  Geeks, I’ve learned, come in all shapes and sizes.  In fact, I’d go so far as to say most people are geeks in one way or another. 

Ken, for example, is a music and sports geek.  My across the street neighbor is a lawn and home improvement geek.  My friend Nan is a germ geek.  And my older sister is an infectious disease control geek.  I’ve met movie geeks, television geeks and gaming geeks.  But I’ve also run into fitness geeks, race car geeks, and wine and tequila geeks.

Realizing that I’m not the only geek in the office has given me a bit more confidence.  I’m still reluctant to quote Douglas Adams freely with my peers. ("It's no coincidence that in no known language does the phrase 'As pretty as an airport' appear.") But I’m now confident enough to trot out a Monty Python quip now and then.  (Know what I mean? Know what I mean? Nudge nudge. Nudge nudge! Know what I mean? Say no more.)

So as you go about your day today, don’t forget to celebrate your own inner geek and to recognize the beauty in the geeks around you.  Now if you’ll excuse me, the SyFy Network is doing a twelve-hour marathon of Battlestar Galactica (the original) and I have a thing for Dirk Benedict.

Everything Can Be Blamed on Twenty Four Hour News

It’s long been my opinion that everything wrong with the world today can be blamed on twenty four hour television news.  I’m not calling out any network in particular.  (cough Fox cough). They all share a part of the blame.

Whether its CNN, FoxNews, Bloomberg Television or MSNBC, it’s my belief that twenty four hour news stations are conspiring to ruin life as we know it.  Five thousand years from now, two foot tall archaeologists with bald heads wearing tin foil space suits and speaking by emitting brain waves are going to study the rise and fall of our great society.  They will sift through our rubble and peer at our decaying molecules.  And when they do, I know that they will conclude that our demise was directly caused by an unending stream of cable news.

You don't believe me?  Take elections as an example.  It used to be that we held presidential elections every four years.  Around about August, Walter Cronkite would tell us who was running.  CBS or another alphabet network would host a debate.  Your local newspaper would tell you who to vote for.  The citizens would cast their votes and a winner would be declared. And we would all go on our merry way watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island and the Brady Bunch until the next big election rolled around.

But that was too boring.  And it didn’t garner ratings amongst the all important "35 to 40 Year Old, Pot Smoking Munchy Munching, Still Awake at Four in the Morning Cause I Just Got Home" demographic.  These folks, after all, are a powerful buying group for the station advertisers of important products like Head On and OxyClean.  So now it takes two years to pick a candidate and we are treated to cool tag lines like “Rock the Vote 2010”, "Country in Crisis" and "Presidential Smack Down."

Sports are another good example.  Before ESPN, ESPN2, ESPN Classic, and ESPN to the 10th Power, baseball scores were reported during the fifteen minutes allocated to the handsome sports announcer with the plastic hair and shiny white teeth. He told us exactly what we needed to know - who won the game.  And maybe, if we were lucky, he caught a shot of a player dislocating a shoulder after running into the outfield fence.

But viewers weren’t turning in to get the box scores anymore.  And blooper reels of injured players were lower in the Neilson’s than the Emmy Award Special for Outstanding Computer Graphics in a Reality Television Show.  So now, thanks to the over saturated sports caster market, we get to hear whether Alex Rodriqueze’s second grade teacher thinks he drank performance enhancing Hawaiian Punch when he was equipment manager for his elementary school intramural program.  (For the record, he did.)  Then the network dubs it "Juice Box Gate" and designs a cool graphic to go with the story.  

There is only one group of people more disturbing than the writers who invent outlandish tags lines for serious news.  They are the people who think up names for the color charts at Sherwin Williams. 

Me: I'd like to buy some pink paint.

Paint Store Worker: We don’t have pink.

Me: Have you tried mixing Red and White together?

PSW: We don’t have red or white.

Me: This is a paint store, right?

PSW: We have Princess Fairy Dust or Pixie Hallow Pastel.

Me: Are you sure that’s not pink?

All of this brings me to my point.  (Yes, I do have one.)

Many of you may know that I recently lost a very close and trusted friend.  Before “the disaster”, my friend and I went everywhere together.  One time I snuck my friend into the movies.  Another time, I took him to church and told him to keep his buzz shut.  And, if you promise not to say anything to Ken, I’ll admit that this friend and I slept together on a few occasions.

That friend, of course, was my trusted Blackberry cell phone.

Poor BB gave his life while defending me and my children from almost certain dampness during a recent camping trip.  BB has since been replaced. (Oh Droid, you are the only one for me. Your smooth skin.  Your large…..display.  Sigh. I love you.) But I still find it difficult to explain to friends and family exactly what happened to good old BB. 

So, I thought I needed to come up with a snazzy tag line to describe this important event in history, just like they do on the cable news channels.  Currently, my options are “Terror at Two A.M.”, “Long Night, Short Circuit” or “It’s a Really Long Story.  Do You Really Want to Hear It?”

Looks Like I Picked the Wrong Week To...

"Looks like I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue."  No, I never sniffed glue.  It's a line from the movie Airplane. 

If you don't remember, Airplane was the spoof movie to begin all spoof movies.  Throughout the show, as tough guy Steve McCroskey (Lloyd Bridges) helps to talk an impaired pilot through a landing, he continues to mutter sentences that begin with the phrase "Looks like I picked the wrong week to stop....."  Apparently in one week McCroskey gave up smoking, drinking, popping amphetamines and sniffing glue.  No wonder he was so crabby.

I don't have as many vices as poor old McCroskey, but I can understand his dilemma.  Giving up vices is really hard. Some people, like McCroskey, prefer the band aid method.  You just give one good yank and you're done with it.  But for me, I've found that going cold turkey is less effective than a gradual weaning.

It's been busy around our burg for the past few weeks.  The camping disaster on Friday kept Ken and I up most of the night.  On Saturday night I didn't sleep well and it didn't help when Emily (4) wandered into our room at three a.m. because she was scared.  On Monday morning, I forced myself out of bed to run before the sun was up.  On Tuesday, I was up at 4:45 to work out. 

That's why this afternoon I found myself muttering "Looks like I picked the wrong week to stop sleeping."

One of my biggest vices is sleeping late in the morning.  Given the option, I'd be in bed until ten a.m. every day.  But I've learned that sleeping late into the morning is bad for my employment.  And it ticks off the cats.  Plus, with three little children at home, I've come to realize that my most opportune time for exercise is first thing in the morning.

The "getting up early in the morning" thing has been something I have been working on for over a year.  It use to be that I would hit the snooze five or six times before finally rushing out of bed at seven o'clock.  In less than an hour I would shower, dress, wake the kids, serve breakfast and get to work.  That was stressful for everyone.

Last August I decided to change that.  But I didn't go all out.  I started slow.  The first morning I woke up 5 minutes earlier than usual.  Then 10.  Then 15.  I kept pushing my alarm back until I was consistently getting up at 6:00. 

Now, a year later, I am out of bed most mornings by six.  Often, I am out of bed even earlier than that. Generally, I feel better starting the day off earlier and getting a bit of exercise before the daily chaos breaks loose in our house. 

Making this change gradually, over time, has enabled me to keep at it.  I think if I had gone all out and jumped from a 7:00 a.m. to a 5:00 a.m. wake up in one step, I would have quit after a couple of weeks. By taking it slow, I was able to make the change a part of my life.

I used the same philosophy with exercise.  I started with a few gradual, small steps and slowly worked my way up to more rigorous programs. What I've learned is that small steps often lead to more lasting success.  At least that was the case for me. 

The next vice I need to conquer is chocolate.  And I can assure you, it is ALWAYS the wrong week to give up eating chocolate.

You Can't Make That Shit Up

Water poured over me, drenching my shirt and sweatpants.  I could feel it dripping off my hair and rolling down the back of my neck.  A few minutes later it stopped and I breathed out.  Maybe the worst is over, I thought. But it wasn't.

"Here is comes again!" Ken shouted. 

I braced myself for another round.  More water, as if someone had opened a fire hose and had pointed it  directly at us, poured into our tent.  I was standing in a puddle up to my ankles.

"This really sucks." I muttered under my breath. 

From behind me I could hear Emily (4) screaming and Beth (2) shrieking.  I pressed Ken's over sized pillow, our only defense against the onslaught, against the tent's air vents in a desperate attempt to block the gush.  But it was no use, the water rushed passed, like a raging river.  (A pillow against gallons of water?  It was the middle of the night and that was the first thing I grabbed, give me a break.)

This was the third year of our annual camping trip.  We had been planning for weeks.  Last year had been a blast.  A cool September evening.  A beautiful grassy spot to set up our tent.  A warm camp fire and the crisp smell of autumn in the air. Hot dogs and beans for dinner.  Smores for dessert.  A peaceful night under the stars listening to the crickets sing us to sleep.  It was safe.  It was easy.  It was the perfect family camping trip.  We couldn't wait to do it again. After all, what could possibly go wrong? 

As the date approached this year, I was apprehensive.  Our family had been fighting a nasty stomach bug for two weeks.  If we weren't all healthy by Friday, I would cancel the trip.

"Rule number one." I told the kids. "No one throws up in the tent."

Then there was the weather. I didn't mind rain.  After all, it was just water.  A little water never hurt anyone.  Right?

But the reports were for a 70% chance of thunderstorms.  The idea of sitting in the middle of an open field while lightening struck around our tent didn't sound tempting.  If the storms arrived as predicted we weren't going.  So said I. 

Fortunately, by Friday things were looking up.  By some miracle, the kids were all healthy.  So was Ken.  The puking in the tent factor was less than 30%.

And, even though the skies were overcast, the thunderstorms were not scheduled to arrive until well into the night.  The chance of being killed by a lightening bolt factor was less than 40%. 

"Let's do it." I said. And so, throwing caution to the wind, we piled our gear into the minivan and trekked out to the park. 

In all fairness, it's not like we would be roughing it.  My company owns a big park just outside of town.  It boasts several acres of rolling grass.  There's a lake, a mini golf course, volleyball and basketball courts, several playgrounds and lots of open space.  Each year the company sponsored a family camping event.  For a small fee (to cover the cost of dinner and breakfast) you could set up a tent, play in the park, and have a good time.  We called it "camping light." 

A few days before our trip, Ken and I discussed the best place to pitch the tent.  "How about up near the baseball fields?" I suggested.  "It's flat. There's a playground there for the kids.  And rest rooms nearby.  Plus, most people camp near the pavilion so we'll have a more private space." 

Ken agreed.  Big mistake. (Rule number one of camping. If everyone else is camping near the pavilion, there's probably a really good reason.)

Truth be told, we had a great time for most of the trip.  Our neighbor, Evan (8), joined us.  That meant Eric (7) would have a playmate and would be less inclined to torture his younger sisters.  

After setting camp we marched the kids to the pavilion for dinner.  Then we played miniature golf, licked smores off our fingers and climbed on the monkey bars at the playground.  It was nearly ten o'clock before we donned our jammies and tucked our sleeping bags around our necks.  Ahhh, another perfect night. 

But I was still nervous.  Would the storms arrive?  Or would they break up and pass by? Was that a flash of lightening I just saw or a car passing on the street? I pulled out my cell phone and checked the weather report.  No change.  Just a little rain. It's only water.  Right? 

A few hours later I heard rain pattering against the tent.  It was soft and soothing, like pebbles rolling down a hill.  I pulled out my phone again and checked the weather.  No thunderstorms.  Just regular rain.  I sighed.  We could handle rain.  After all, it's just water. Right? 

Than, a few minutes later I heard a new noise.  A noise that sounded a bit familiar. Water, yes. But it wasn't rain.

Pfffffffffffffttttttttt.

Ken bolted upright in his bed. So did I.  "What was that?" I said."  Ken paused before answering, as if he were afraid to utter the words.  "It's the sprinkler system."

We scrambled out of the tent.  About thirty yards away the automatic sprinklers were dousing the playground to our north.  "They set these things by area." Ken said. "When those shut off, another set will go on." 

We exchanged nervous glances as the sprinklers arced and sputtered.  These weren't normal sprinklers.  The easy, gentle arch that squirts backyards across the burbs.  These were industrial strength sprinklers.  Powerful enough to strip a coat of paint off a 72 Buick. 

Ken shook his head slowly.  "I never checked for sprinkler heads before setting up the tent.  For all I know, we're sitting right on top of one."  (Rule number two of camping.  Don't set up a tent without checking to see if you are on top of an active sprinkler head.)

Ken was close.  Our tent wasn't right on top of one.  But ten minutes later, we discovered that there was one right outside our front door.  (Rule number three of camping.  A sprinkler head outside your front door WILL be angled at the precise trajectory to allow the water to spray under your tent's rain flap and enter the tent through the air vents at the top.  Its inevitable.)

Pfffffffftttttttttt. 

The next fifteen minutes were a blur.  First there was Ken trying to throw his body across the jets to protect us. (At least that's the way he's telling it.) Then there was Evan jumping out of his cot as the water poured in. (I owe his parents about a thousand dollars for future therapy bills.) And Emily screaming.  And Beth crying.  And me trying to calm the litter by saying things like "It's ok, everything is under control.  We can handle this" (Really, did I say that?) And Eric.....well, Eric slept through most of it.

"Get the kids in the car before it comes around again." I shouted.  Ken pulled opened the car door and the kids, barefoot and dripping wet, pattered across the soaked grass and piled into the van.  Then as if it had been playing with us the whole time, the sprinkler head gave one last "Pft" and dropped back into the ground.

Sprinkler system 1.  Our Family 0.  Cell Phones -1.

By two o'clock we were on our way home.  The kids were shivering, but otherwise in good spirits as they chattered about our rude awakening.  Our wet gear had been tossed into the back of the car.  The tent had been left to the gods.

We carried the kids into the house and stripped them out of wet jammies.  Ken frowned at me.  Not wanting to make things worse, I tired to find a bright side.  Finally, I gave him a crooked smile.  "At least no one threw up." I said. (Rule number 4 of camping. There is no bright side.)

The next morning I told the story to my friend Rob.  I thought he was going to pee down both legs.  He was laughing that hard.  "Ya know," he said, "You can't make that shit up."

How I Spent My Holiday Weekend

There is only one thing worse than spending a holiday weekend in the house with a sick kid.  And what would that be, you ask? Spending a holiday weekend in the house with three sick kids.

One of the things you learn as a Mom is how to deal with a sick baby.  It goes something like this. 

Your first baby is born.  When he is six months old, you notice he has a slight sniffle.  You can't sleep with worry.  You toss and turn all night.  At four in the morning, you rush him to the hospital.  The ER nurse says your baby is fine but expresses doubts about your mental fitness.

Your second baby is born.  When she is a year old she throws up on your bed spread twice in the same day.  You load her up on apple juice and Pedialite.  You call your older sister and ask her what she fed her kids when they were sick.  You resolve to take your baby to the doctor if she's still sick on Friday. 

Your third baby is born.  When she is two years she spews her dinner all over her dress, your shoes and the kitchen floor.  After you clean up the mess and determine that she doesn't have a temperature, you strip her down to her diaper and send her out in the back yard to play on the swings.  You figure that if she throws up again, it's easier if you can wash it away with the garden hose instead of scrubbing it off the floor.

It's not that the youngest child is being neglected.  It's more that the first child was totally over-glected.

When it comes to being ill, the biggest baby in our house isn't Eric (almost 8), Emily (almost 5) or Beth (almost 3).  The biggest baby in our house is........me.

I hate being sick.  And when I am sick I wish for two things.  First, I want to lie in my comfy bed and wrap myself up in my soft quilt and enjoy the quiet of my bedroom.  Second, I want someone to wait on me hand and foot, to treat me like the Queen of England.  I'm talking total royal treatment.  Bring me a box of tissues, serve me some home made chicken soup and fluff my pillows. 

Unfortunately, when I am sick, I only get half of my wish list.  Ken is more than willing to corral the kids and keep them away so I can rest.  He may bring me a glass of water, if I plead and whimper enough.  But he refuses treat me like a queen.  Despite my proclamations, he won't even bow or curtsy or address me as "Your Majesty".

It isn't that Ken is insensitive to my needs.  He just assumes that my needs are the same as his.  This is one of the many ways that Ken and I are very, very different.

When Ken is sick, he doesn't want to be babied.  He doesn't want to be treated like a king, or a queen.  He doesn't want anything.  What he does want is to be left alone.  As in don't bring me soup, don't talk to me, don't even look at me.

When Ken is sick, he isolates himself in the guest bedroom, closes the blinds and sleeps until his ailment passes.  "Honey, I brought you some chicken soup." I'll say cheerfully as I tip toe into his lair. 

But instead of smiling and saying "Thank You", he'll snarl and growl "Get Out."  After sixteen years of marriage, you would think I'd learned my lesson.

This past weekend was a tough one.  Emily was the first to get sick.  Then, before I knew it, the rest of the munchkins were taking a turn.  When Monday finally arrived and everyone was feeling better I breathed a sigh of relief.   

"Looks like we finally got everyone through this stomach bug." I said as I walked into our bed room.

The room was dark and still.  The shades were drawn tight.  Ken was buried under a heap of blankets. 

"Get out." He snarled.

I am the Tortoise

“Come here.” Ken called. “I want to show you something.”

I was upstairs helping Beth (almost 3) and Emily (almost 5) into the tub. I had already trekked downstairs twice.  The first time was to retrieve Emily’s Bubby Bear. Then, as soon as I came back upstairs, Beth realized her Piggy was on the couch and I had to go down again. I was not inclined to make a third trip. Because I am THAT lazy.

“What for?” I yelled down the stairs.
“I want to show you something.”

I rolled my eyes and sighed. What was it this time? Another YouTube video of dancing hamsters? Cat puke under the dining room table? Moldy cheese in the refrigerator?

“Can’t you just tell me instead?” I called back.
“Just come down here.” He shouted.

I groaned and trudged down the stairs. “This better be good.” I muttered.

When I entered the kitchen, Ken was sitting at the computer. I growled internally. “You called me here for an Internet joke?” I thought. “Prepare to die.”

“Look.” He said. He pointed to the computer screen. My stomach turned.

There, on the computer, was an enormous photo of Fat Me. Fat Me was sitting in heap on the floor with Beth standing nearby. Fat Me was wearing a bright orange shirt that strained across the midsection and highlighted a large belly roll. The shirt’s buttons looked like they were ready to pop. Fat Me's jeans looked tight and uncomfortable. Her face was round and puffy. Her eyes were tired. Fat Me looked like a beached whale, without the beach, or the smooth glossy skin.

The picture was taken last October, almost a full year ago. It was Beth’s second birthday. I frowned at the photo of Fat Me. “You called me down here for this?”

Ken smiled, like a proud toddler who just learned a new word. “You look so much better now.” He chirped.

I shot daggers at him and wondered if there really were a hundred a seventeen ways to kill a man in his sleep.  I made a mental note to run a fact check on Wikipedia.   “I’m going to take that as a compliment.” I said.

Ken wasn’t deterred. “I just thought you would appreciate seeing how much your hard work is paying off.”

I stepped in closer and peered at the photo. Ken was right. I did look a lot better now. On Monday, I had worn that same orange shirt to work. Instead of straining around my midsection, it hung loosely from my shoulders.

Unfortunately, the jeans in the photo, which used to be my favorite, couldn’t be worn anymore. They didn’t fit.  Unless I used a belt to hold them up.

It was almost a year ago that I had decided to make some changes. I remember waking up one morning and thinking, “I need to do something. Anything.”

I needed exercise. I knew that was what I needed. But it wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t have the time. Excuse number one. I couldn’t afford it. Excuse number two. I had tried it all before and failed. Excuse number three.

Yet, there had to be something I could do. I decided I would find a way to get exercise, provided it met with certain conditions.

Condition one. It had to work at a time to suit me. Monday Ken had soccer games and I had to watch the kids. Tuesday was Religious Ed for Eric (almost 8 now) and music for the girls. Wednesday was Eric’s soccer practice. Thursday was swim class. Add in homework, dinner, baths and bedtime and our schedule was already busy. Too busy for another after work activity. My only option would be to exercise in the mornings, before the kids woke up.

Condition two. No spending money. For years, I had been feeding my hard-earned dollars into a local gym and had nothing to show for it but a lighter wallet. And I didn’t plan to mortgage the house to buy another expensive piece of exercise equipment. We had just sold our latest “Ex-O-Rama” at a yard sale after discovering it buried under a cloud of dust in the basement. I didn’t need another $500 clothes hanger.

Condition three. Nothing complicated. Most of the programs I tried in the past were time consuming and required a great deal of thought and planning. You had to understand how this machine worked. You had to count steps or measure your pace. You had to watch a thirty minute instructional video before starting.  I knew that wasn’t going to work for me. I could exercise. Or I could use my brain. I didn’t plan to do both at the same time.

That’s why I settled on running. It fit my schedule. It was cheap. And it didn’t require me to think.

And so it began.  Week one, I walked for about a mile. Week two, I walked the same mile but ran one block just after starting out. Week three, I walked a little less and ran a little more.  Day after day I walked less and ran more.  It took two months for me to work my way up to running a complete mile.  Eventually, I could run three miles without quitting.

I continued the running through the fall. I took a few months off in the dead of winter but started again in February. I ran my first 5K race in April (Doesn’t saying 5K make it sound so much longer?) In May, I upped my game and joined Boot Camp.

I wish I could say the weight melted away and was replaced by ripples of muscle.  That didn't happen. My progress has been very slow, yet steady. I have fallen and faltered. I have struggled and stretched. And I still have miles to go before I sleep. 

But now a year has passed. And right there in front of me was proof that my hard work was bringing results.

Ken smiled wide. “I’m proud of you.”
I smiled back. “Thanks.”

P.S. Right, like I am going to post that nasty looking photo on my blog. No way.

Ten years ago, I would have taken it out back and burned it. But it’s the digital age and those nasty bits and bytes are forever emblazoned in our computer’s memory. Unless the computer is accidentally left behind the rear wheel of the minivan as I am backing out of the garage.

P.P.S.  Thanks to everyone who have told me how great I am looking recently.  Especially to Ken who has really been very supportive.

Seven Down, Forever to Go

It was a cool Friday evening in August.  I should have been sitting poolside enjoying a cold beverage.  Or hanging with my kids at the park.  Or weeding the garden.  Or doing ANYTHING other than what I was doing. It was a cool Friday evening in August and I was on mile three of a seven mile run.

I did not want to run seven miles.  I did not want to run five miles. I did not want to run two miles.  Yet there I was, trodding along the trail.

Over the next two weeks, I need to increase my miles.  First to eight.  Then to nine.  In a few weeks, I'll be running a 15 K race (that's 9.3 miles for the metric challenged.)

I've been talking about it for months.  Boasting and bragging.  "Look at me." I say, as I pat myself on the back.  "I'm going to run a loooooong race."

Now, I'm not so sure.  Nine miles.  It seems so far.  So impossible.  So improbable.

Was it just a year ago that running one block was impossible.  I remember huffing from one corner to the next.  I'll never be able to run for a full mile, I thought.  Only real runners did that.

It took two months, but I finally ran that mile.  Then two.  Then three.  Then five.  Now seven.

But nine? I'm really not so sure.