Statistics

I donated platelets once. If you've never done so, here's the process: the technicians stick a needle in your arm and start siphoning off blood, but the blood doesn't go into a bag, the blood goes into a large centrifuge. When the centrifuge reaches a certain amount of fluid, it starts spinning, separating out the platelets. The centrifuge keeps the platelets and pumps everything that was taken out of your arm that wasn't platelets back into your arm.

I recall that when I first sat down to donate platelets, the sensation felt a lot like donating blood. After about five minutes or so, I felt the pressure where the needle sat in my arm that was the result of the fluid being returned. It wasn't painful, but it wasn't comfortable. But I had a TV to watch and a friend to talk to, so I could ignore the discomfort, I thought.

Forty-five minutes later, I remember thinking I had had enough. My arm was in a lot of discomfort. Not pain, mind you, but the needle was really beginning to irritate me, like a hair on your tongue you can't remove but can't ignore. Each interval of fluid returning to the arm made the discomfort worse. Moreover, the seat upon which I was sitting had turned uncomfortable about ten minutes prior. Nothing was on TV. The friend was doing her best, but the conversation wasn't distracting me from the feeling that I had that I really, REALLY, wanted this whole process to be over with, already.

Then the tech returned and looked over the machines. "So," I said nonchalantly, not wanting to be a problem customer, "are we done?"

"It looks like you need another ten minutes or so."

"I'd really like this to be over."

"We'll unhook you in about ten minutes."

So I sat. Again, there was never any real pain, so there was no reason to demand the immediate halt to the entire process, or remove the needle from my arm myself. It was just the feeling that I really needed this whole endeavor to be over right away.

This story's been on my mind lately. We're halfway through August and September is approaching, but not fast enough. I sit here, ready for this deployment to be over, but it's not quite done yet.

Medical texts, I've learned, don't really use negative adjectives. If the prognosis for a patient with a given condition is "bad," medical texts don't use the word "bad." The texts tend to fall back on five-year survival projections, letting math tell the story.

It seems like the thing to do (numbers reflect incidences since The Doctor's departure):

Number of viewings of "The Little Mermaid": 5,345,201

Number of viewings of "Sleeping Beauty": 7,356,112

Number of viewings of "Snow White": 118,678,992 (Why is this one so popular? What does Snow White actually do?)

Number of viewings of "Tangled": 33 (It's a recent acquisition, give it time)

Number of viewings of "Ratatouille," Daddy's favorite Pixar film: 0

Number of ear infections: 6 (plus another one coming!)

Number of middle-of-the-night bouts of croup: 1

Number of blisters: 1

Number of boo-boos: 276

Number of vaccinations: 4

Number of bowel movements that required tears and straining: 1

Number of times house has been cleaned on Friday: 30

Number of Saturday mornings where it has been impossible to tell house has been cleaned less than 24 hours prior: 30

Length of nap time on weekdays: 90 minutes

Length of nap time on weekends: 30 minutes, on a good day

Number of times my daughter's favorite bear has been AWOL at bedtime: 5

Number of times my daughter has slept without her favorite bear: 0

I figure I'll come up with some more statistics later. I see the finish line. I can make it to the finish line. I just wish the finish line was closer. Trying to keep morale up is my current goal.

The Bottomless Pit

How can anyone afford more than one son?

The cost to feed this small mammal is more than the GDP of some nations. The only time my son is not pointing at and requesting food is when he is sleeping. He has once requested food in the bathtub.

I took my children to the dancing fountains at the local mall this weekend. My son had eaten lunch as usual, and had a graham cracker when he woke up from his nap. After about thirty minutes playing in the fountain, I broke out the watermelon I had brought along, as a treat.

With the exception of two pieces of the half a watermelon I had brought, eaten by my daughter, my son had the rest. Swallowed each piece whole.

My friend bought him some ice cream. Each spoonful of ice cream went in his mouth. He swallowed and then readied himself for another spoonful by unhinging his jaw and waiting for the next bite. With each passing spoonful, he got the chills, but it didn't even slow him down.

Then he climbed over the chair to get at the diaper bag, where I keep the other food.

There was a stale piece of fruit leather in the diaper bag, from a previous trip a while back. Perfect, I thought, this would at least slow him down, since the dehydrated stale fruit would be tough to eat.

My son shoved the entire piece into his mouth, found he couldn't chew it well, extracted it and spent 30 minutes with a slimy piece of fruit leather in his hand, chewing away a little at a time.

When he finished with that, he searched the diaper bag again and found some old raisins and crasins. He finished those.

Then he started in on the wooden chairs that lined the plaza.

I thought it best we return home so I could make him dinner before he ate the tires off the cars in the parking lot.

Independence Day

I've always loved fireworks. Bright lights, big bangs, what's not to like?

Traffic. Sure, getting home's a pain. That's why living in Manhattan's great - the subway gets you home, no traffic to sit in. Being forced to smell people people who have been standing out in the sun all day while on the subway seems a reasonable trade off to avoid traffic.

Once you have kids, though, it's a whole new ball game. Your discomfort is now meaningless.

Luke AFB makes it about as easy as possible to enjoy the holiday. There's a big cookout, lots of space to run around, a beer truck, cotton candy and a guy making balloon animals. It's fun to sit and enjoy the evening.

But the cookout starts at 6 pm. The children go to bed at 7. They didn't nap at all well today, either.

So we went, and I'm viewing each activity with a strict cost/benefit analysis. Will my son tolerate the activity? Will my daughter enjoy what my son would enjoy? Will they eat? Will they make it past 6:30? Past 7? What time is it now?

No way we are going to make it until dusk tonight. It's doubtful I'm going to make it until dusk. It's been a long four-day weekend.

I'd really like my wife to come home. Holidays are no fun without her.

Happy Fourth, sweetie.

A Discourse on the Afternoon Nap

Just a few words, then, about the afternoon nap.

Sure, if you don't have children of your own, you've heard stories about missing nap time. The kids get ornery. They sleep at odd hours, throwing the routine off. They get cranky. They get difficult.

All of that is true. Those of you with kids don't need me to tell you.

What no one tells new parents, though, is how much nap time is necessary for the parents' psychological well-being.

My children aren't feeling so hot this weekend. The pediatrician (not The Doctor) says that it's a virus "going around." Nothing to do but wait it out.

So this morning, when the kids got ornery, I tried to roll with it, but my disposition soured as theirs did. By lunch time, I was frustrated and the children, particularly my son, were cranky. By cranky, I mean screaming a lot.

Then nap time comes and it's a lemon sorbet in the middle of the day, a palate cleanser. For a change, both kids nod off within ten minutes of each other.

I can eat. I can clean up. I can (gasp) lie down! For more than two minutes!

By the time they awake, I actually want to go do stuff with them again! I didn't even nap, but my disposition improves! It's magic!

Goes away by dinner, though. Easy come, easy go.

Optimism Springs Eternal

Kids get easier to handle as they get older, right? Right??

We had a nice, easy, 105 degree Sunday today, which meant that we spent a lot of time indoors. By dinner time, every toy had found its way onto the living room floor. My house was reminiscent of the opening scene from "Patton."

I asked my daughter to help me clean up.

"No, Daddy, I want to go play with (my son)."

Actually, sweetie, that helps Daddy a lot. Keep up the good work.

Yes, they do get easier to handle.

It Was So Hot I Froze to Death...

It reached 100 degrees here this week. This is a fact you need to know in order to appreciate this story.

Children learn very quickly what kind of excuses get them what they want. At six months, my daughter would cough. Both Mommy and Daddy would turn heads to look. My daughter would smile. Lather, rinse and repeat.

My son walks into the kitchen and points to the counter. He receives a Gerber snack. Lather, rinse and repeat.

My daughter likes to take stuff with her in the car. She would like to take her stuffed bear, her blanket, her water, her artwork, a snack, her hat, her sunglasses, some lip balm (her lips), five other stuffed animals and her pinwheel. I limit her to one item.

"But I'm so COLD, daddy." She completes the effect by shivering.

"It's warm out today, sweetie."

"I don't think so, daddy." This last sentence is sing-songy.

"No, it is warm. It's going to be 100 degrees. My blog post will start out with that fact."

"It's chilly, daddy. I need my blanket."

"You can either take your beloved, can't-sleep-without-it, hope-we-don't-ever-lose-it, best-friend-in-the-whole-world stuffed bear, or your blanket. Which one?"

We went out for ice cream with the blanket.

PDA and Other Crimes

A secret fraternity is a good analogy for the military. Both a fraternity and the military have a cost to join, and in both cases you're expected to undertake the commands of your superiors without question. Once you're in, though, you're family and treated as such.

Which is why this separation from The Doctor isn't as bad as it could be. I'm away from my home town, but I'm in the middle of a community ready to support me should anything start to go seriously wrong. It comforts me, and I'm sure it comforts The Doctor.

However, as like any huge organization, there are rules that the organization wishes you to observe and obey. The base has its own protocol office as the official "rules" keeper. Don't know which is the salad fork? Call protocol. Is it a jacket and tie evening, or can I go "Arizona Casual," that is, shorts and flip-flops? Call protocol. Do I need to pull over during taps and shut off my headlights? Call protocol.

It's a lot like speaking a language - easy to just immerse yourself and become fluent, but if one tries to explain how to conjugate an irregular verb, the wheel can fall off your wheelbarrow very quickly.

The chief protocol officer was addressing a crowd of which I was a part. He opened the floor to questions.

"What's the rule on PDA?" a spouse inquired.

The protocol officer got the look of someone trying to conjugate "to be" in an obscure martian dialect.

"The old guard would have you believe that PDA while in uniform is NEVER acceptable, but social mores are changing in this regard. What was the circumstance you found yourself in?"

I forgave the protocol officer for ending his sentence with a preposition. It's a grammatical error the old guard would NEVER find acceptable.

"I had my arm checked for a TB screening. It came up positive. I had to go to the clinic for further tests. My husband was waiting with me while he was on his lunch break. When they called my name to go into the lab for further testing, he didn't kiss or hug me because he was in uniform..."

I mentally put palm to face. It wouldn't have even occurred to me NOT to give The Doctor this kind of reassurance had I been in this situation. Would I have had been tased by the protocol police?

The answer was no, as the protocol officer explained, "under those circumstances, no one would have faulted your husband for reassuring you as you went to get your tests. As I said, mores are changing on this issue. Reasonable amounts under proper circumstances are allowed..."

Egads. I didn't think I was in the land of reasonable. Good to know.

Muppetophobia Part 2

My daughter arrives home from Preschool and requests to watch Sesame Street.

"Sure, which one do you want to see?" I have quite a few recorded for her pleasure.

"I want to see the one where Elmo is sleeping."

I stop cold. Was this the same girl who was up at night claiming to be so scared of Elmo discussing sleep that she couldn't fall asleep herself?

How do I inquire further without triggering that fear response in her? Should I? Is this a Daddy helping a daughter overcome fears, or is this a Daddy subjecting a daughter to terrifying segments of Sesame Street?

What's the right thing to do?

The right thing to do is not to worry about it too much.

"The one with Elmo and sleeping?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"OK!"

She agreed that it wasn't so scary after all. My research article is now useless. Drat.

Muppetophobia

Quick - name the least threatening muppet.

Big Bird? Sure, Big Bird has the mentality of a five-year-old, but Big Bird is, you know, big. Big Bird can overwhelm you with size. The same analysis applies to Snuffelupugus. (sp?)

Ernie? He's too much of a prankster. Bert? He's too fussy. Telly? Too neurotic. Count? He'll sink his fangs into your neck and feast on your blood, or so I would imagine if Anne Rice wrote for Sesame Street.

Abby? She'll turn you into a pumpkin. Oscar? Too grouchy. Cookie Monster? Don't get caught between him and a cookie...

No, the least threatening muppet, as poll results and scientific research has shown(1) is Elmo.

Elmo made it big after I stopped watching Sesame Street, but it's hard to live in this country and not be aware of cultural icons like Elmo. His segments on Sesame Street are informative and entertaining. He sings and draws and talks to all his anthropomorphized furniture. He investigates skin or violins or pets or anything that might interest the pre-school set. I wonder if he will investigate boogers one day, as I know that preoccupies my children.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing whatsoever, that is confrontational or threatening concerning Elmo's delivery or discussion of the topic of the day. It is the most entertaining, least frightening environment that television could possibly create. Again, scientific research will back me up on this(2).

Which is why I was startled a few nights ago when my daughter couldn't fall asleep because she was scared. Scared of Elmo.

"Elmo?"

"The Elmo and the sleep is very scary, daddy!" My daughter was sitting up in bed, with her fingers in her mouth - a certain sign that she was anxious. Elmo was thinking about sleep on Sesame Street that day.

"Oh, sweetie, Elmo's not scary, though, right? Remember when he talks about skin? That wasn't scary, right?"

"No..."

I realized that in the abstract, Elmo discussing skin actually sounds weird and threatening in a medieval way. Where does Elmo get the skin he discusses and what does he do with it? Is it a Silence of the Lambs thing? Better move on...

"And Mr. Noodle and his brother Mr. Noodle are funny when they dance, right?"

" ... yeah..."

"So we can think of that instead, right?"

"Yes. Thanks Daddy!"

Anytime, sweetie. That's what I'm here for. I'm thinking of publishing my research. Keep an eye out for the article: "Nameless Elmo Anxiety and Redirection to Happier Elmo Paradigms," in the Southwestern Muppetistics Monthly, May 2011.

(1)Journal of Muppetology, June 2002.

(2)The New England Periodical of Muppetological Research and Discourse, October 2005.

It's Sunday and That Means...

Sleep, mostly. Also a fair amount of missing The Doctor.

The kids are in bed. I had some trouble getting them there on Saturday, but they were in a much more cooperative mood today. This is probably due to the fact that they both napped today.

This means it's time to reflect on another weekend alone. Yet another weekend gone by. Another weekend where I had to fill the time with enough entertaining and educational activities for both children so I don't feel like a negligent parent at this time on a Sunday.

I feel good about this weekend. My daughter was helping today to clean up the house. I think I got my son to say "please." It came out as "SSSSSSS." It was repeated, though, while "requesting" food. I think that counts.

We did familiar activities and new activities. We watched Sesame Street and went to the library. We danced at home and we went to the playground outside.

I feel a little sense of accomplishment. I did manage another weekend alone. With that, though, comes exhaustion. Sleeping kids means I don't have to keep thinking of things to do, constantly. It means I can let go of the tension in my shoulders that I didn't know was there until a moment ago. It means I have the time to wonder what my wife is doing, and then wish she could be here to share this moment before we both collapse from a hard, long weekend.

I'm so tired I can't even think of a good ending for this post.

Clifford the Big Red Marketing Ploy

In addition to my parental responsibilities, I have husbandly responsibilities. Every week I pride myself on getting a care package sent off to The Doctor. Getting some diversity into the packages has become somewhat of a challenge, especially if, like me, you lack any sort of imagination.

She requested dried fruits. I sent her a bunch of dried fruits from the commissary. She has enough of that treat to last her a while, as I wasn't the only one who sent her some. It occurred to me that if she wants healthy stuff, I should go to the health-food grocery down the street. I can bring the kids over the weekend - it'll be something to do, and the kids can pick at the free samples! I can get ideas on what to send to The Doctor! What a great weekend activity!

So my son stays in the cart and gnaws on an apple while my daughter runs in front of the cart to inspect the groceries. We all sample the chocolate pretzels and the dried mango. My daughter helps daddy pick out some microwaveable things to send to Mommy.

We go searching the aisles of the store and my daughter runs to the end and stops dead at a large wall of cereal, marveling and the vastness of it.

"Look at THAT, daddy!"

"That is a lot of cereal, isn't it?"

"CLIFFORD!"

Huh?

"It's Clifford, Daddy!" My daughter has already grabbed a box off the shelf. Indeed, Clifford the Big Red Dog has endorsed a box of Cascadian Farms rice puff thingies.

"Can we bring him home, Daddy?"

Ah, yes. Too late I realized that Clifford was right at my three-year-old's eye level. Curse you, companies that market to children. I blame you for all of society's ills.

Sigh. No time to explain eye-level marketing to my three-year-old now. Let me put the toddler on standby so I can take a minute to decide the best course of action.

Pro: 1) The cereal's organic-ish; 2) the sugar and caloric content and of the cereal isn't so bad; 3) Clifford is a PBS cartoon, and not an icon from a for-profit shop, like a princess; 4) my daughter eats cereal, so the box won't gather dust on the shelf; and 5) I have already nixed a few items that my daughter has requested, and, to my delight, she accepted each verdict.

Con: 1) It's a sugar cereal; 2) I don't want to reward companies that market to kids this way; 3) I don't want to set a precedent of giving in to my daughter's demands to buy things while in stores; 4) my daughter didn't say the "magic word;" and 5) when did she learn about Clifford?

To be fair, Con #5 isn't really a con, more of a bafflement on daddy's part...

Oops, this analysis has taken too long, as the toddler is starting to see the indecision on Daddy's face. Time to bring out the big guns.

"Please, daddy?"

I never really had a chance. This one was over when we entered the store. To her credit, the only other things my daughter requested while were in the store were apples.

In fact, my daughter was more than helpful for the rest of the shopping experience. She entertained my son, picked out and bagged those apples, loaded the groceries on to the checkout conveyor belt, and told the cashier all about the Clifford cereal.

The cereal tastes good. My daughter loves it. She gave me a "Thanks, daddy!" that was worth the trip. I'll explain the evils of marketing to children some other time.

Contradictions

Today, a study in contradictions.

My daughter has always been a can-do, take charge kind of toddler. "Let me do it!" has been her mantra ever since she learned to form the "d" sound. Playground equipment, pouring cereal, driving, conjugating latin, splitting hairs, she wants to try her hand at everything. Sometimes it's very hard to dissuade her that she should let me do some things, like drive the car, for her. I believe she takes after The Doctor in this respect.

She will often get herself dressed. That's something I like to encourage, even if it means my daughter goes to school with outfits mixing several different patterns of stripes.

I shouldn't be surprised when she starts talking about subjects that have never been discussed at home. She must be taking initiative at school and learning things outside her home experience. For instance, she correctly identified that the boy across the street was playing "Basketball, Daddy, BASKETBALL!"

"How do you know about basketball?"

"Daddy! That's the basketball. We don't have that at home. We have soccer. Right daddy? BASKETBALL! You can't play, [my son], you're too little!"

My son drooled at her.

Another good example: while in the Base Exchange, she was examining some items. "Care Bears, Daddy, CARE BEARS!!"

I have no idea where she learned about Care Bears. Probably from the same people that taught her about Disney Princesses.

I told you those stories of my daughter's initiative in order to tell you this one.

Weekday mornings can be hectic. If the kids wake up late, I sometimes have to push them to hurry up so they can get to school so Daddy can get to work on time. Issues arise when my daughter wants to take her time getting dressed.

Mind you, it's not because she's deliberating over her sartorial choices, she just gets distracted easily. She'll want to play with her dollhouse, or her pajamas. Maybe she'll try to insist on wearing pajamas to school. Perhaps she's worried about my son entering her room. It could be that she's distracted by all of this, all while I'm trying to get everyone out the door.

So I start suggesting clothing she might like to wear.

"You want to wear this shirt?"

"No."

"OK, how about this one?"

"No."

"You didn't even look at it."

[Looks at shirt] "No."

"OK, you pick a shirt out of your drawer then."

"I want to wear my pajamas! Pajamas, Daddy, PAJAMAS!"

And so forth. I tried a secret parent trick.

"Oh, I think I know what you want."

"What?"

"This one's special."

"What??"

"It's right here!"

"What, Daddy?"

"This shirt! It's the one you want, right?"

"YEAH! That shirt, Daddy! I want to wear that one."

I still got the touch. Time to keep the forward momentum.

"And these pants go with it! Isn't that a nice outfit?"

"Yeah. Thanks Daddy!"

I made that last quote up. She only thanks me for food products that I give to her. I should probably start working on saying "thank you" in other contexts.

"Great! Get dressed so we can go downstairs..."

So she gets dressed. We make it to the car and drive to school. When I pick her up in the afternoon, her teacher pulls me aside.

"Your daughter's wearing a pair of CDC panties today."

"Why, did she have an accident? She's still wearing the clothes from this morning..."

"No, no accident, she didn't wear any panties to school today."

"Huh?"

"When I asked her why not, she said 'Daddy didn't give me any!'"

Ah. Forgot that step.

So much for initiative.

Quietly Driving Myself Nuts

There's a relentlessness to being a single parent. Have you ever braced yourself against a cold wind that wouldn't stop? It's like that. I like that analogy because it's a fancy way of saying there's a difference between responsibility and sole responsibility.

I can't help thinking that my son's ear infection the week after The Doctor departed was my fault, somehow. Did I let him swim in the tub? Did his sister do something while I wasn't looking? Are his toys clean enough? Did I wash behind his ears? Should I buy an otoscope so I can check them myself? How much do those things cost anyway? (I checked - between $100 and $150, possibly less, but I don't know what to look for in a good otoscope.) I know there was something I should have done differently, I'm certain of it.

His ear is mostly fine now. There's some fluid left in one ear, but it's not bothering him. The fluid will probably drain.

My daughter had a tantrum on the way home from day care this week. Was it something I did? Probably. I can't give in to a tantrum, right? I have to wait it out, while all the other parents and children are looking at me. I can feel the weight of their pity. I can also hear them thinking that my daughter's mother wouldn't have let this happen.

Is this a change in behavior I should worry about? Do I need to make a counselor's appointment? Is this an example of "acting out" - misplaced frustration from my daughter missing her mother? Will this scar her for life? Am I solely responsible for this sudden irreparable damage to my daughter's psyche? Will she not be able to maintain adult relationships because of this tantrum? Am I possibly overreacting?

Are the kids getting enough liquid? Too much? Too much salt? Not enough? Is that a new mole? (Not on the kids, on me.) What the hell am I making for dinner tonight, anyway? Was my daughter using words when she was my son's current age? Should I be worried if he isn't? What do the books say? Do I have time to look it up right now? No - my son is eating a rock. How did he find a rock inside the house? Why would he eat a rock in the first place? How strong a "no" should I give him? Doesn't matter, he laughs at the word "no" anyway. How do I fix that? Now my daughter is chiming in, telling her brother "no" for me. Is that good? When is bedtime? Are they sleeping enough? Too much?

Did I remember to tell my daughter to put on underwear as she got dressed for school today?

Like a constant wind that one braces against; the internal monologue of a single parent.

When I Was A Young Warthoooog

Whatever you might think you know about the U.S. Military, I learned one thing for certain this weekend. They put on a good show. Trillions of dollars of military hardware is fun to watch, as long as it isn't pointed at you.

This weekend was the biennial Luke Day, where Luke throws open its gates to all comers and puts on an air show for anyone who wants to gawk.

I've seen air shows before. They were pretty cool for a seven-year-old. Would a three-year-old girl and a one-year-old boy like it?

What would I have to lose? It's free and close. Also, it would mean I wouldn't have to plan any other weekend activity all that weekend. Also, for certain deployed spouses, there was free food and a tent available. Who can say no to free food?

So I packed up the kids and walked down to the flight line. We saw many military aircraft flown by expert pilots. It satisfied the seven year old in me. Particularly the A-10 Warthog. This plane is designed to attack ground troops. It's big, but maneuverable. It delivers quite a punch (at the show, it fired only blanks, but they set off some pyrotechnics for show). It was also quiet.

The relative silence of this plane is what impressed me the most. I was expecting a plane that big to sound like a cross between an F-16 and an commercial jet. It didn't. You wouldn't hear the warthog coming at you until it was too late. I suppose that's what you want in a plane designed to attack ground troops. It was most unexpected.

The next act after the A-10 were supersonic jets of some kind. My daughter thought they were too loud. She insisted we go home.

We went home and watched the Lion King. I needed more of a warthog fix.

Floor Food

Parents will often tell you that they are more laid back with respect to the second child. I found that hard to believe, until the second child came along.

The first one's still here. How much harm could the second one really do to him or herself, anyway? The house is remains baby-proofed. The keys to the car are out of reach. What could go wrong? As an example of this new attitude, here's an anecdote:

With The Doctor away, a number of new resources become available here on base to help me through the separation of my family. Once a month, spouses of deployed family members are invited to a dinner with their children.

I wasn't expecting all that much, but it was a night where I didn't have to cook anything. My repertoire of easy meals for kids is running thin, anyway. So I packed up the kids and went.

The meal consisted of pizza, enchiladas and salad. There were plenty of people there ready to support me and my family. Overall, I felt welcome, which, I assume, was the point. I wish my kids were old enough to entertain themselves, so I could enjoy myself, too.

But was not to be. There were no high chairs there for my son, who had to sit on my lap the entire time. He pointed at what he wanted to eat. First, the crust off the pizza. Then pieces of the pizza. Then some salad. Then some more salad. Then he made me go back for even more salad. Then he dumped the new plate of salad all over the floor. Then he didn't want to be held anymore.

It was difficult to talk to other grown ups during this time.

But as he squirmed his way onto the floor, he retained his interest in the salad. He started picking up the leaves of lettuce and eating them off the floor.

I would never have let my daughter do this. But for the second child?

On the one hand, it is food off the floor. We're not at home, we're in a public building on the base. I have no idea how clean the floor might be.

On the other hand, the floor looks fairly clean. There aren't any roaches or mouse droppings that I can see. Furthermore, it's lettuce my son is devouring. I want to encourage him to eat his vegetables, right? The Doctor slathers greens in ranch to get the kids to eat vegetables, is eating them off the floor that much worse?

My son eats salad willingly. I put a check in the "win" column and move on.

One Brief Moment

I was led to believe that The Doctor had left, and that was that until September or October. Apparently I was misinformed.

The Doctor learned a bunch of new skills. She can now claim to know how to ride in a humvee, (an humvee?) how to spot IEDs and how to throw a grenade. She's really bad at that last one, by the way, which is why SHE IS NEVER ALLOWED TO DO THAT IN HER ENTIRE LIFE. I have informed The Doctor that if she would like to retain all of her toes, she should give the grenade to the next person. I believe she agreed. That helps me sleep.

But the training ended and the plane for parts unknown didn't leave for a week. Which gave her a weekend to do with as she pleased, as long as whatever she pleased also pleased the military. Coming home for a visit did not displease the military.

My daughter was thrilled to hear this news, and even seemed to digest that Mommy wasn't going to stay that long. Noah was also very happy, and expressed himself by biting and drooling on his sister.

For one weekend, my family was together again. It was right.

Then it was over. The Doctor was shipping out for parts unknown. Her waypoints on the journey there almost certainly become increasingly distant and inhospitable as she goes. The kids handled her departure quite well, considering. They said goodbye at the gate and that was that.

I'm the sad one.

Wee-Wee Blues

It must be tough to be two years old.

You don't get to do what you want, and it must seem arbitrary that Dad won't give you ice cream for breakfast. For some reason, crying about it won't help.

You don't get to go where you want, even if it's to "work" after finding your phone and bag and unlocking the front door.

You don't get to say what you want either. My daughter seems to want to express a lot of complicated sentences for which doesn't have the words, because sometimes long sentences tend to trail off into frghihgnnnglatsss.... Daddy!

But there is one advantage to being two. When you have to go potty, the world stops just for you.

A two-year old's ability to plan ahead is about as myopic as Mr. Magoo wearing horse blinders. Most people have an innate understanding that the two year old that says she needs to go potty needs to do so RIGHT AT THIS SECOND. There is NO TIME TO WAIT.

For example, we were all at the Post Office mailing a care package to The Doctor. I was addressing the package, counting my lucky stars at how easy this errand had been to accomplish. Then my daughter spotted a door.

Let me elaborate: this was a door, like any other door. We were in a Post Office. Post Offices have doors. They lead to rooms. This door was like any door you have seen at any Post Office anywhere. It's a door. Thank you for allowing me to paint you a word picture of the door.

My daughter announces that she needs to go potty.

Uh-oh. I look around, no restroom signs. Not good.

"Are you sure? It doesn't look like there's a potty here..."

"Yes there is, Daddy, RIGHT THERE." My daughter points at the door.

Now I understand. The door LOOKS like it MIGHT lead to a potty. That reminded my daughter that she needed to USE the potty. We won't make it home.

I proceed to the first open clerk. "Hi, I have a package to send. Also, my two-year old..."

A note to parents: ALWAYS specify the age of the child for which you are requesting help. The younger, the more likely clerks and bureaucrats might help. They don't have to. Always remember that.

"...says she needs to use the potty. Is there one available?"

"No, I'm sorry."

At least I got some sympathy. I have no other choice, though, so I need to go for broke.

"There's nothing for employees? I'd prefer not to go home in a wet car seat."

"It's against regulations... Lemme check with the manager..."

I wait. The manager comes from somewhere and speaks to the clerk. The clerk opens the door to the secure rear of the Post Office.

I start preparing my daughter. "OK, we're going to go..."

The manager interrupts. "Not you, just her."

Oh. I'm in an immediate bind here. My daughter just started going potty all by herself. I'm not 100% certain that she's going to manage it in a strange environment. Plus, metal images of headlines stating "IDIOT FATHER LETS STRANGER TAKE DAUGHTER" start flashing through my head. But again, I don't have much of a choice. I ask the clerk her name.

"OK, you go with Miss Anne, she'll take you to the potty."

My daughter jumps out of the stroller, froofs up her princess dress once and proceeds with the Post Office clerk to the employees' potty. Miss Anne is not smiling.

I can keep an eye on my daughter while she goes to the potty, if I stand just so, angling my field of vision past the counter. Letting my daughter go off with some stranger makes me nervous, but luckily I can see everything that goes on, up until the moment my daughter goes into the bathroom by herself. My paternal instinct kicking in, I'm ready to leap over the desk and commit several violations of federal regulations if my daughter doesn't come out in two minutes.

Then the manager asks me, "she can do everything herself, right?"

"Oh, sure." I try to take all dubiousness out of my voice, but I don't think I did as good a job as I should have.

Miss Anne returns a moment later with my smiling daughter. By this time, Miss Anne is smiling, too. My daughter can charm anyone. Even postal clerks.

Mental note: Daughter must go potty TWICE before leaving house. Also, daughter must not look at doors ever again.

Actually, The Second Week Was Tougher

All set to start my first week alone with the kids, I was hoping to fall into a routine right away. It would be good for all three of us. So I drop both kids off on Monday, and that's when the wheels came off the wagon.

My son was sent home that day with a high fever. The school won't let him back in for at least twenty-four hours. So I have to keep him home Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday he seems well enough to return, and the school sends my daughter home with a fever.

She had been complaining about "sand in her ears." I thought that possibly she was telling stories, like the rocks up her nose. But no, the doctor (not The Doctor, she's still away) looked inside my daughter's ears. Sure enough, ear infection.

So I had to keep my daughter home Wednesday and Thursday. With my son improving and my daughter on antibiotics for a day, I try to bring them both to school on Friday.

Around lunchtime, the school calls me. My son doesn't have a fever, but he has been irritable and has been pulling at his ears. Great.

So I go to collect him, to get his ears checked. On the way out the door, they stop me.

"We just checked your daughter's temperature..."

Of course. Two sinus infections. Two courses of antibiotics. Two kids that want to be held at the same time. One tired and frustrated daddy, looking forward to a weekend with two sick kids.

Anything but routine. Guess I didn't ask for the routine week properly.

The Doctor has her routine, though. Now she knows FIVE ways to choke an enemy. Don't say they don't teach you anything at combat training.

A Woman Who Knows What She Wants

My daughter's daycare separates the children into age groups. For almost a year now, my daughter's been in the 2 to 3 year room. Once a child reaches 3, that child is transferred to the "preschool" section of the daycare. My daughter was so impressed by the older kids when she first arrived, she immediately began to copy them. Soon, she was telling The Doctor and me about her friends in daycare, mentioning them by name.

Sadly, all of my daughter's close friends have moved on to preschool. The ones left are much younger and the majority of them remain in diapers.

Every morning now begins with the lament, "Daddy, I don't want to go to school. I want to go to preschool." I can't control when they move her. It's dependent on her age and availability. So I tell her that it's going to be several weeks more, sweetie, but you'll be in preschool very soon.

"Yesterday, I want preschool?" I think she means "tomorrow."

"Soon, sweetie. You'll be with your friends again soon. But not today."

Sometimes I get a demand at this point. Sometimes I get drama. Most often the topic of conversation moves on. Yesterday, I got this:

"Oh, no preschool?"

"Not today, but soon."

"I want to go to the beach! We going to the beach? I want BEACH!"

We drove six hours to Santa Monica. Her friends were waiting there, too.

If Only This Blog Went Mach 1

Needless to say, living on a military base means the military is a constant presence in your life, and that presence is a priority. Reminders that your priorities as a civilian are secondary are both subtle and gross. Whether it's the armed guards at the entrance to the base or the checkout lines at stores that give priority to those in uniform, I know that no one will afford me any unique accommodations during my stay here, because my presence here is only due to The Doctor's presence.

But I hear the planes taking off every night. They rattle the windows. They set off car alarms. They cause the neighborhood dogs to break out into a chorus of howls. Surely living with such inconvenience is worth something, no?

I'm not asking for all that much, really. Sometime, somewhere, if conditions are right and everyone is willing, given that I see them everyday and they occasionally disturb my children, I would like the chance to ride in an F-16.

The military calls this an "incentive flight." If Stephen Colbert can do it, why can't I?

So I asked someone who works on the flight line how I go about getting an incentive flight.

"You want an incentive flight?"

"I sure do. Who do I talk to?"

"Are you famous?"

"Um, no?"

"Then you should forget it."

Drat.

So clearly I need to become famous and therefore important enough to grant an incentive flight. I therefore welcome my eighth follower of this blog, and I hope she can bring many more, as I'm going to need a few more followers if I am to credibly assert that I am an internet celebrity.

I can taste that incentive flight already.

They Say the First Day's the Toughest...

The Doctor left yesterday. She has some training to do and then she will be deployed for six months or so.

So as of yesterday, I'm a single parent.

Sure, that's a scary thing to face but it's not like it wasn't totally unexpected. Such periods of missing spouses are a constant threat in military life.

So we prepare, to the best of our ability, everything that can be prepared prior to departure. The Doctor makes a stop at Costco to buy enough toilet paper for nine months, just in case I forget how to buy it while she's gone. I inform her that the bullets come out of the "dangerous" end of the rifle, just in case she forgets that while she's gone.

We also tell our daughter that Mommy's going far, far away for a trip. I'm lucky that our daughter isn't quite old enough to understand how exactly that will impact her life. She doesn't yet have expectations for that kind of event. It made the separation somewhat easier. It was even easier for my son, who just blew me a raspberry. I'm sure he's fine.

So we prepare, we plan, we conceive of every contingency. Anyone who's ever tried to plan anything important knows what comes next, though.

It was only about 30 hours before I hit my first bump in the road. One situation both The Doctor and I had failed to discuss and plan.

The kids and I were driving to the local farmer's market to shop. From the back seat comes a loud "OH NO!"

Ready to jerk the car to the side of the road, I fire back with "WHAT??"

From my daughter: "I have rocks in my nose!"

My daughter's not crying. But this IS serious. "You have rocks in your nose? Why did you put them up there?"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

"Oh. Well, do you need a tissue because sometimes boogers can be hard..."

"No, listen Daddy, I don't have boogers. I have rocks. Up my nose."

Indeed, I forgot to ask The Doctor what to do in case one child of ours shoves rocks up her own nose. There's still time, though, as my daughter didn't ACTUALLY have rocks up her nose. I'm pretty sure The Doctor reads this. What should I do in the future?

Good luck, dear. We all love you, with rocks or without.