Revenge, Montezuma-Style

We had Thai for dinner tonight, and I really need to use the facilities right now. The problem is that each of our two bathroom's bathtubs are currently occupied by little girls playing with various toys and supposedly washing their bodies. So while I sit here and suffer, writing furiously in a vain attempt to take my mind off of the attack storming the sphincter gates, the girls are splish-splashing and having the time of their lives. If they don't hurry up, there'll be a whole 'nother kind of splish-splashing going on.

Then it occurred to me, "Just go...they do it to you ALL THE TIME!"

Yeah, they do, don't they.

It's true. Whenever I'm in the bathroom getting ready, one of the girls will come storming in and, in one fluid motion, the lid goes up, the pants hit the floor, and they plop down on the pot.

"Why don't you go use the other bathroom? You know, the one that I'm not in?"

"But Daaa-aad, I like this bathroom."

"You're not going to poop, are you?"

"No, I don't think so."

Fart noises echo in pot.

"OK, maybe I do need to go poop."

I then let out an exasperated cry and flee for my life. It happens all the time and it doesn't matter which daughter. They are both equally oblivious.

So maybe tonight I'll teach them a little lesson in bathroom etiquette. See how they like it when their old man comes in during bath-time and takes a Thai-laden dump mere inches away from where they're bathing. Perhaps after tonight the other bathroom won't look so bad.

Oops. Gotta go.

Disgusted

Always. Save. Your. Work.

Always.

This morning I downloaded ScribeFire, a blog editing add-on for Firefox, because I wanted to experiment with an editor other than the one here on Blogger. I set it up and linked it to my Blogger account and typed up today's post. I didn't want to publish directly to my blog without looking it over first, so I clicked the "Post as Draft" box, then the "Publish" button. Several seconds passed when a "Publish Successful" box popped up, followed by a prompt asking if I wanted to save or clear my post.

Always. Click. Save.

Always.

Before I knew what I was doing, I clicked on the "Clear" option. That prompt was immediately replaced with a honkin' huge "Error" box. Oh no. What have I done? I cleared the error message, and in a mild panic, called up my blogger account. No draft. I went to my blog. No new post. Insert expletive, no, series of expletives describing the depths of my stupidity and incompetency here. Now in full panic mode, I reopened ScribeFire and furiously searched for an "Undo" button, a "Magically Reappear" button, anything that would bring my post back. But to no avail. It is lost, free falling into cyberspace, where no one can hear you scream. Or is that just "space"?

I started to reconstruct my post, while it was still fresh in my head, but lost heart. I'll work on it later this afternoon and publish it tomorrow, if I can only remember to save it, that is. Frickin' idiot.

Anything You Can Do...

I've been trying to take the training wheels off of Kyra's bike for months, and every time I'd broach the subject, it was met with the same panicked response: "BUT WHAT IF I FALL DOWN!!" This would be quickly followed with the whiny excuse, "Well no one else in my class rides their bike without training wheels."

"Wouldn't you like to be the FIRST person in your class to ride without training wheels?" Kyra can be a little competitive and she really really likes to be FIRST, but her fear of bodily harm seemed to override that competitive streak.

"No," she'd whimper. So the training wheels stayed on.

That is until she saw someone younger than her riding without training wheels. We were hanging out at my brother's house last week while back in Illinois and the girls were playing with my nieces, both of whom are roughly Kailey and Kyra's age. They wanted to ride their bikes, so I went outside to supervise and make sure that no one ended up as a hood ornament. As soon as we got outside, Sydney, my youngest niece who recently turned six, weighs about 20 pounds, and is the cutest little thing you'll ever see, scooped up her bike, sans training wheels, hopped on and zoomed down the driveway. I shot Kyra a look.

Not wanting to be outdone by her younger cousin, Kyra marched over to the remaining bike, a tiny purple Disney-Princessy looking thing, picked it up and walked it to the end of the driveway. "Daddy, will you help me?" she asked, piercing me with her bright blue eyes and batting those long thick lashes.

Gladly.

The bike was about a foot tall, so I was done "helping" after roughly three passes. My legs and back screamed out in pain from hunching over the teeny bike and trotting along behind her. But I could tell in that short period of time that Kyra had good balance as long as she kept pedaling. So I took up a position on the driveway and coached her from the sidelines, and ten minutes later, she was zipping along from driveway to driveway. "I'M DOING IT, DADDY!! I'M RIDING A BIKE!!"

I strolled back to the house to get Diane. "Do you want to see your youngest daughter ride a bike?"

"NO WAY!! That didn't take long!"

Kyra spent the rest of the afternoon perfecting her skills, and when we finally got home from our Illinois trip the first thing she wanted me to do was take the training wheels off of her bike. She's been a bike-riding fool ever since...it's all she wants to do. I think she'd sleep with her bike if I'd let her. And now she wants to start riding her bike to school, all of this sparked from a little family rivalry with her younger cousin. I guess we should've headed home months ago.

Six Years

Last night during dinner, Kailey turned to me and asked, "Dad? After dinner can we go on the computer so you can show us what happened when the planes hit the buildings?" We've had many mini-discussions about 9/11 in the past week since both of the girls' classes at school have been covering it in light of today's anniversary.

I was flooded with conflicting emotions at Kailey's request. As a father, my immediate instinct was to protect my children. I hope they never experience a day like 9/11 in their lifetime: the fear, the grief, the utter sense of loss and helplessness, the anger...it all comes rushing back even six years later. Not enough time has passed. But it's also important for them to know what happened, even when they are probably still too young to comprehend it all.

I decided to focus on some of the positives from that day. We talked about how people came together to help one another; the heroism of the passengers from Flight 93 as well as that of the NYPD and NYFD. As we talked, my heart swelled with pride at the efforts of these people, everyday people who rose to the occasion and made a horrible, horrible day just a little bit brighter. If there's anything I really want the girls to "get" about 9/11, this is it.

After dinner, as the girls took their baths, I watched some of the YouTube entries on 9/11. "You're going to get yourself all depressed again," Diane warned. She was right and I knew it. But this was my way of remembering and paying homage to those whose lives have been eternally altered as a result of those senseless attacks, however sick, twisted, and masochistic it might seem. I do a pretty good job of sheltering myself from the pain 364 days a year. One day of letting it in isn't going to kill me.

I didn't let the girls watch any video last night. Too many of the clips had pictures or video of people falling to their deaths, and I didn't want to open that can of worms right before bedtime. Perhaps I'll let them watch something this afternoon if I can find a clip that focuses more on the indomitable human spirit than the death and destruction of that day. It's the former that makes this nation of ours great and is what will ultimately heal those wounds.

Saving Our Planet

I just had the following conversation with Kyra as we were on our way to school:

"Daddy, yesterday in school we learned we need to save our planet by getting trashed."

Once again I'm questioning our decision to send our girls to public school. "What do you mean by 'getting trashed'?" I laughed.

"We need to pick up our trash and we need to have three different containers: one for paper, one for cans, and one for bottles," she explained.

"Very good, Sweetie, but that's called RECYCLING, not GETTING TRASHED."

Kyra might be on to something though. Getting trashed to save our planet might entice many more people to get with the program.