The Hint

This morning Handsome lay there in bed until I asked him if he wanted breakfast.
"Sure," he said, but he didn't sound enthusiastic about the idea.

"Aren't you hungry?"

"Eh."

And that was all he wanted to say on the matter. I was sitting in front of my     computer, and I looked at the emails that had rolled in overnight.

"Tell you what'" I said' "you just tell me when you get hungry and I'll start     making some pancakes, okay?"

He sighed. "Fine."

I got to work on my email. I moved from that to FaceBook. Somewhere in there      Handsome got up and went downstairs in search of a television. "You can make the  pancakes whenever," he said as he exited.

Okay.

I moved from FaceBook back to the email, and then to my Blog. Then back to        FaceBook. My writing project was still open from earlier in the morning, so I     popped that back up the front of my screen and started banging in a few more   words. I was about 200 words into it when I heard Handsome on the stairs. I      swiveled my chair toward the door as he came in.

"Hey, Handsome, what's up?"

He didn't answer me, instead taking hold of my wrist and pulling me to my feet.

"You okay?" I said, but he still did not answer, just tugged me toward the door. I allowed him to lead me through the door and down the stairs, leading me,       without speaking, all the way to the doorway to the kitchen.

"What's going on?" I asked again, but still he made no reply. Instead he made a   sudden move, dropping behind me. I felt his hands on the small of my back and   then a sudden thrust as he launched me into the kitchen with all the force       available to his 120 lb frame.
I stumbled to a halt and turned to see him marching away, still without uttering a word, toward the television once more.

"Oh," I called after him, "I take it you're hungry now? Shall I get started on    those pancakes?"
He (surprise, surprise) made no reply. I, however, can recognize a hint, no      matter how subtle.

I made the pancakes.

Talk to you later!

The Mouse

Since I've moved home with the Parents, I've tried hard to be somewhat invisible, like a mouse. I do my laundry in the middle of the night (usually) to try to keep them from finding the machine in use when they want it. I try to leave no mess in the kitchen, and as often as I can I leave no discernible evidence that I was in there to begin with. I try to be as considerate as I can, and that includes checking with Mom to find out if my nocturnal activity bothers her or keeps her awake. I've tried asking Dad if he hears me too, but since he can't even hear me asking the question, I figure I'm okay.

I asked Mom about my television, which I sometimes turn on at 2:00 am, and play a DVD to fall asleep to.

Nope. She said she doesn't hear a thing.

I asked her about my printer, which is sitting right here beside me, when I've tried running something off between midnight and 1:00 am. It's pretty quiet, but it is a printer in the middle of the night.

Nope. She said she doesn't hear a thing.

I asked her about it when I started recording a few of my published stories into an audio CD for a friend of mine who's blind. I was trying to take advantage of the silence afforded me by dint of being the only one stirring in the house to get a nice clean recording. There I was, speaking full volume into a headset, with emotion, at 2:00 in the morning, with Mom trying to sleep right across the hall.

Nope. She said she didn't hear a thing.

Then I got sick earlier this week. I had stuff in me that moved from my head to my chest and back again, and now seems to have settled down with dual citizenship. I've been hacking up bits of stuff for a few days, and just assuming I was okay in the noise department. But when I got home with Handsome this evening there was a small bottle waiting for me on the foot of my bed. Handsome scooped it up and asked me what it was. As I said, it was a small bottle, and I had to look closely to make out the label.

Assured

Immediate Acting

Mucus Relief

                       expectorant

... so much for my being so quiet. Here I sit. The Mouse that Coughed.

Talk to you later!

The Inspector and The Terror

Next week my mail route is under inspection. Today, however, we did a dry run to get me used to having someone walking behind me and watching me. There was a Postal Inspector with me every step of the route this afternoon.

Like I don't have enough problems?

The Inspector was a nice enough guy, and I didn't really mind him being with me at all. Especially when we got to the point in my route where I deliver to some old age housing. The old folks seem to love to come out and hassle whomever is following me, whether it's a Postal Inspector from out of town, like today, or simply one of my supervisors giving me my annual Walk-With. Someone always totters to the door, or to the mailbox with an outgoing letter, and they see the guy walking behind me with the clipboard. Nine times out of ten, they just up and ask “Who are you?”

When they're told that their postal route is under inspection, that their daily carrier is under inspection, the observer, whomever he is, usually gets an earful about how wonderful I am. They hear how I'm out there in the heat, and the rain, how I'm always early (though I'm not) and how they've never had another mailman as terrific as I am.

It's like having 150 grandmothers out there, I swear to God.

Well, today I was being followed by an honest-to-God Postal Inspector, and as I was moving from unit to unit in the old age housing, who should open the door to hand me some mail, but the Terror.

She came out shouting, very loud in the close confines of the hall. She got all the way through her spiel about how much postage she was putting on the envelope and why (she had just gotten off the phone with my Boss with her questions) and where it was going and why before she stopped for a breath. On the inhale she noticed my tag-a-long with his clipboard. Her eyes got squinty. She rotated slowly in place to face him full on, an act that reminded me strangely of a tank bringing its main gun to bear.

“Who are you?”

He jiggled the clipboard her way, as he said “Oh, we're just checking out the route.”

“You are?” Those two words had enough gravel in them to fill a quarry, and I found myself automatically clearing my throat. She leveled a finger at him like a nun with a ruler singling out a naughty child.

“Wait right here,” she said in the bellow that belongs to those who insist that they can hear just fine, it's everyone else who's mumbling all the time. “I have something to show you.”

She turned and bustled into her apartment, and though the door closed behind her we could clearly her her continuing admonishments.

“You wait right there! Don't you go anywhere! Right there! I'll show you what I'm talking about!"

So we waited. 

Eventually, the Terror reemerged from her apartment, but this time dressed for the elements in a large coat and hat. She trundled up to the Inspector and took his forearm in The Grip.

The Grip is a strange phenomenon found in some of the elderly. It frequently takes us younger folk by surprise, especially when it's applied by a little old woman. The Grip seems to be an amazing strengthening of the hands that takes place due to hours of supporting oneself with a cane, or walker. The combination of surprise and The Grip has been known to drive strong young men to their knees, and is somewhat of a danger. When properly applied, The Grip can squeeze a diamond from a lump of coal.

The Terror took the Inspector's forearm in The Grip, and the poor man fell back a step. She followed right along, stepping smartly for someone who can recall a time when dirt was new. The Inspector was writhing in her grip, just trying to free his arm before blood loss caused his hand to become gangrenous, but she just wrangled him one-handed out into the yard in front of her unit. She pointed one finger from her free hand high into the air, and from the expression on her face you would have thought she was about to scold God.

Harshly.

"There's a patch of shingles that have all buckled," she old-lady screamed, "right there in the middle, running to the right. And the ... the... what do you call the thing there that runs along the edge there?"

"The gutter?" I supplied, smiling widely beneath my shades.

"Yes! That's it," she roared, sounding for all the world like an attacking 50 foot crow.  "The gutter! It's all loose on the end there!"

The Inspector, fed up with the futility of prying at her iron fingers with no sign whatsoever that she even noticed, decided to try reasoning with her.

"Ma'am!" he shouted, "I'm not here to inspect the roof! I'm inspecting the route! The Postal Route!"

For a moment there was blessed silence.

"Oh," she said, the volume turned down just a bit. Then she turned back to the roof and continued with her explanation of what was wrong with it as if he had not spoken. She had two more minutes in her prepared presentation, and by God she was going to tell someone! The Grip ensured that she had an audience for her performance, and it was an audience of two for I couldn't tear myself away. 

Two minutes later the Inspector and I were on our way, both with tears in our eyes. His were due to that numb feeling in his lower arm finally giving way to a massive case of pins and needles as circulation was restored. He staggered on, unable to stop and do anything about it for fear that the Terror would set upon him again.

Mine were of laughter, pure and simple.

Talk to you later!

Wrestling Dad

Handsome is getting ready for a wrestling match on Sunday.

I like the way the coaches run his practices. There is no, repeat, no, parent coaching from the sidelines.

"If you feel you know that much about wrestling," they said on the first day of practice, "then you should be out here on the mats assisting the coaches. Talk to us about it. But if you're not out on the mat, you're not coaching."

I, having grown up hearing soccer dads when I was younger, and as an adult having sat next to soccer and football dads at Handsome's games, I've really appreciated this little rule

Tonight, though, was the first time a parent, a dad of course, lost it a little and started shouting encouragement from the sidelines.

He wasn't too loud about it, but there were definitely some audible words coming from the cheap seats. Cries like "Good, good!", and "Punch through! Punch through like the coach told you!" were heard, and they were getting louder. The guy was trying to stifle himself, even physically covering his own mouth, but he couldn't seem to control himself, and he was getting louder.

It didn't seem to bother the coaches; they didn't react at all.  Maybe he didn't get loud enough to bother them, I don't know. What I do know is that some of the parents started shooting the guy dirty looks. He, however, remained undeterred, actually becoming a little louder in his encouragement.

I mean, what the hell, I'm not going to let a bunch of parents tell me what to do!

Oops!

Talk to you later!

Sick Day - Part 2

Yes, today I am worse off than I was yesterday. I think I have a fever, but I'm not sure. I wasn't sure where the thermometer was, and if I did it's low grade - nothing to really worry about, in other words. I couldn't seem to get warm, so I bundled up in a thermal zippered hoodie I have, put the hood up and went back to bed. I watched Stephen King's "The Shining", and dozed off and on all morning.
In the early afternoon I talked to Wife on the phone. She reminded me that Handsome was at his first day back to school after the Christmas break, and he would be bringing home the information about a Social Studies project. He was supposed to have been working on this project all vacation, but that he had forgotten to bring it home. I had told him I'd be there to help him with it, as now he would have only 2 days to complete it.

I had to get my nasty, stinking butt out of bed and take a shower so I could go over there.

I turned on the shower and stepped under the spray, wincing as the water hit my skin. Apparently I do have a low-grade fever, and it was making my skin rather sensitive. Normally when I take a shower I shave my face and head, leaving myself looking rather like the Walmart Rollback Guy, but with a goatee. I felt the gently falling water battering my back like a room full of jackhammers and looked at the razor. I thought about dragging that blade across my skin, cutting and ripping at the stubble I felt there, but that's as far as I got. I washed, gently, toweled myself off, gently, and got dressed.
Gently.
I put on some warm yet soft clothes and capped it all with that hoodie I'd worn all day. I tottered off to the car and made my way to the House. I went in and sat at the table where Handsome was already hard at work on his project. As I was setting up my laptop at the end of the table, right here where I am sitting to blog, I had a bit of a coughing fit. I hacked up some stuff that looked vaguely organic, as well as some stuff that looked like it was supposed to look organic, but wasn't quite making it.
The coughing made my head pulse with pain, and that made my eyes water as I coughed and coughed. I finally looked up, eyes streaming, to see Handsome, the boy I had left my sick-bed to see, regarding me.
As always, he knew just what to say to make me feel 1,000 percent better.

"You're a mess, Dad."
"Wow," I said. "You say the sweetest things."
"Seriously." He shook his head. "With the stubbly face and head, especially the head, and that cough, and your eyes are all red -- you look like a beginner hobo!"

How could I not love a boy as compassionate as this?

There's just no way.

Talk to you later!

Sick Day

He woke this morning with a stuffy head. It was packed, he said. Bigger on the inside than it was on the outside, he said. And he said it again and again. He whined. He complained.

His nose was runny, and it stayed that way all day, wipe after wipe. A red, raw patch developed beneath his nose, and that gave him another thing to complain about. 

His head hurt. That seemed to come and go, but no matter where it went while it was gone it always came back. That led to more complaining. More whining. 

His stomach was upset, off and on, and when it was on everyone knew.

Everyone. 

Knew.

Trust me.

Spending the day with Handsome like this is not easy. It's trying on everyone involved.

So I owe him an apology.

You see, the 'him' and 'he' mentioned above were ... me.

As I told Handsome when I put him to bed tonight:

"I'm sorry, Handsome, but when Daddy is sick it's awful, just awful! Not for me, so much, but everyone around me is in trouble. You see, when I don't feel good I turn into the biggest, most helplessest (yes, I made up a word) baby you ever did see."

His response? A hug and a pat on the back as he said "Yeah, I know. I really hope you feel better tomorrow."

I love that kid.

So here I go, off to bed, finally, where I've wanted to be all day long. I have my box-o-tissues, my bottle of TussinCF, my nasal spray, my Excedrine, my Pepto Bismol, one stuffed monkey and (just in case of emergency) a binky on the nightstand.

Now all I need is someone to sing a lullabye and rock me to sleep, and I'll be all set.
Wish me luck.

Talk to you later!
(If I make it, I mean, 'cuz my tummy feels yucchy, and my head feels all stuffy, and my eyes...)

Handsome's Little Project

"Dad? Can you bring the pipes?"
"I'll see if Home Depot is open on the way there, okay? If they are, I'll buy the pipes and we can get started."
"Awesome!"
A dinosaur. Handsome had related his plan to make a dinosaur to me just the other day, and it was all he'd been talking about since then. What he wanted to do was fashion a framework out of chicken wire and then cover it with paper mache to form a dinosaur statue. When I asked him just how large a statue he wished to make, he held a hand about four feet above the ground. That seemed a little tall for just shaped chicken wire. I pictured him getting frustrated with it and then me finding a large ball of smooshed chicken wire in the trash some night. I suggested making a kind of skeleton, or framework, with some PVC piping, and then he could shape the wire to that; it would give him a basic shape to work with as well as support for the whole thing. He loved the idea, and all I had to do was get the PVC - this is the 'pipes' he was asking about.
Well, Home Depot was open, and I did pick up his 'pipes'. He seemed quite excited when I got there, I mean, he'd been talking about his plan for two days, right? I took some measurements, wrote them down, and told him we needed to cut the PVC.
"I'll get my shoes," he said, and then disappeared further into the house. I went up to the shed, where the chop-saw is. I cut the first group of pieces.
No Handsome yet.
I made the second set of cuts, for the second set of pieces.
Still no Handsome.
I finished all the cutting and carried the pile of pieces back to the house.
"Handsome?" I stood in the kitchen and called out his name.
"Just a minute," came his reply from up the hall.
I waited a few minutes, then began putting the pieces together.
Still no Handsome.
Eventually I carried the completed PVC frame into the hall and, following my ears, into the TV room. I put it down in the middle of the room, between Handsome and the television.
"Wow, Handsome! This is one sweet dinosaur you made here!"
"Huh?"
"Exactly!"

Talk to you later!


P.S. - I'd like to thank everyone who has supported, enjoyed, or even just read my blog over the past few months. Whether you've left me Comments here on the blog, talked to me through FaceBook, or simply come by to anonymously read my semi-coherent babbling every once in a while (and driven my 'page hits' up in the bargain), I appreciate it. Just the thought that my writing this blog has made someone laugh or smile, and possibly come back for more, has given me a terrific feeling again and again, and I thank all of you for that.

Now, go out there and have the best 2012 you can. I'll stay here and fumble along as best I can, hopefully tossing about smiles in the bargain.

Happy New Year!

                                                            -Rob