Again from 1997, our Vacation continues!

On the fateful day, the car is loaded and every space is jammed with the materials required for a long stay on a desert island.  Packing light for this crowd means that you won’t use a U-Haul trailer.  As the kids “mount up” you feel a small tug at your stomach.  Then, the trip begins.  At the end of the driveway, you begin to receive the first questions:

The youngest inquires, “Are we there yet?”

The middle son inquires, “Where are the mountains?”

The oldest son inquires, “Why is he looking at me??”  

And you?  You inquire, “What in the hell was I thinking????”

This type of banter is going strong as you clear the city limits heading “Nawth”, and continues for the first hour.  Then you notice a strange banging.  Great that’s all I need, for the car to break down.  You are now really nervous, so you stop at the first rest area, and let the kids run while you look under the car for what, based on the noise, must surely be a broken axle.  Nothing is wrong, so you mount up again, and the trek continues.  Approaching Charlotte, N.C., on I-77, you notice that the knock is steady, rhythmic, and continuous.  The kids are fairly quiet for once, as they look around the city in awe.  They point out buildings and passing cars.  Excited at their enjoyment, you begin to feel that it wasn’t such a bad idea.  Fool!!  

As the trip continues, you are still befuddled about the noise.  Over the bridge at Lake Norman, up the road, and all the way to Statesville, the knock is steady.  Stopping to eat, you again examine the car from top to bottom.  Has something come loose??  You can’t eat because this thing has got you spooked.  After lunch you move on, and while the noise isn’t as loud, it persists with a vengeance.

Out ahead of the car, the foothills are beginning to rise, and the kids are getting more excited.  Growing up in the midlands of South Carolina, they have never seen a good hill, much less a mountain.  Their activity in the back seat approaches frenzy as they try to comply with my requirement to stay buckled up, while still being able to see what is looming ahead.  With each mile their excitement grows, and so does that damn knock.  Stopping several more times as we move up the mountains, I am still unable to determine just what that knock could be.  Still fielding the bizarre questions, my Wife looks at me with worry, as I strain to hear the pattern of the knock.

I am working on several theories about the noise, since it was steady in its repetition, and because I was a maintenance test pilot of helicopters, I was convinced that it must be a rotational knock.  What could be rotating at that speed???  Further into the mountains, the kids are beyond frenzied in their new discoveries.  Not wanting to stifle this, we only passed one simple rule.  NO MORE QUESTIONS ABOUT WHEN OR HOW FAR!  Somewhat quieter now, we are passing through the first of two tunnels, where the real ooooh’s and aaaaaah’s begin.  Having never seen one of these, the kids were truly impressed.  Noting that these are the same kids who aren’t impressed with much unless it explodes, I felt really good about the trip.  (Grab and relish these moments, since they usually don’t last long....).

On the approach end of the second tunnel, my bride announces that she too had never been in a tunnel.  Now I was really impressed, I was able to accomplish a bunch of firsts for this crowd, and boy did I feel good.  Then as we exit the other side and start looking for our motel, the knock returns and is louder than ever.  Terror strikes my heart, but we pull in to our motel and prepare to set up our base camp for the evening.  Now this also happened to be my old hometown from my boyhood, so there was a desire to see a place I hadn’t been in years.  After checking in and unloading the car, we set back out to see the sights.  I showed them my old childhood home, my high-school, the place where I worked as a policeman in an earlier life, and finally my old college.  With a dogged determination the knock continued, as did my burning desire to revisit my old haunts.  Finally, exasperated at the thing which was clearly busted, but didn’t inhibit the function of the car, I took the mob back to the motel.

Mom gathers the mob and to the indoor pool they scamper.  I am still worried about the car, so I offer to go get dinner and meet them back in the room.  With great trepidation, I start out to go to a local fast food joint which caters to the kind of food most worthy of tired kid travelers, you know, sawdust on cardboard with a side dish of “what the hell is that?”  As I start the car, there is no more knock!  I drive for several miles, and still no knock!  I am really bumfuzzled.  How did it heal itself?  Was the car a secret graduate of an Oral Roberts Repair course?  Yet, here it was, operating as a perfectly functional, quiet, non-knocking car.  Thrilled, but still nervous, I gathered our sawdust burgers and returned to the room.  Little did I know, this would be my last night of sanity for at least a week.......... ~ Michael S. Pauley

The next sequence of the story from 1997, describes our first “road trip” as a family.  It really happened this way, and after all these years, it is one of my more vivid memories of the “old days.”  I plan on spreading it out over a few days, since there is a lot to tell about this one!  Enjoy!

Speaking of Army training, I have had a direct affiliation with the Army for over 20 years.  As an aviator, I flew many hours of medical evacuation missions and amassed a fairly extensive background in the employment of the military air ambulance.  The result of this was that recently I had an opportunity to take my expertise on the road, on behalf of Uncle Sam, and even take the family along (at my own expense).  Like a fool, I leaped on this opportunity because I thought it would help bond the family together, and it would give the kids a chance to see where I grew up.  So, going home I announced to the crowd that they could go, and that it “will be just like a normal family vacation!”  Looking back on it, I now realize just how much those words were the epitome of stupid.  This concept turned into the adult variation of “Hey watch this...”, and would haunt me like a bad check.

  There is much planning involved in moving the horde from point A to point B.  Very akin to moving an entire combat infantry brigade, the planning must include every logistical point imaginable, plus a few extra details that aren’t imaginable.  Reservations must be made, load plans for two tons of stuff must be made, and the identification of those materials required to sustain the crowd for over a week is an exhaustive study of logistical science.  The most difficult of these items to accomplish is without doubt the identification of who can actually go.

Teenagers, who are adverse to family vacations anyway, are very quick to tell you that under no circumstances will they be seen with the family.  They are equally quick to decide that having you gone during spring break gives them the chance to do things they wouldn’t ordinarily be able to do....  Like sell the house and move away.  To preclude such action, Dad is presented with his most unique challenge to date.  How to keep an eye on someone who will not be able to come because of a “work” conflict.  Do you scrap the whole trip?  No, instead you employ the aid of the former spouse and that old nosey neighbor down the street.  Nothing against her Mom, but oddly enough, I probably feel more confident about the nosey neighbor.  Not because she can be trusted or loves your child, but because she will tell you everything and then some.  She sees all, knows all, and has the intelligence network of the CIA at her disposal.  When invited to make observations, she is thrilled, cooperative, and more diligent than a sheep dog at watching the flock in a Looney Toons Cartoon.

Placing my version of the Mossad on alert, you now must see who else may have conflicts.  The 7 year old’s baseball team has a game, but Mom intercedes and this is eliminated from consideration.  No one else has recitals, or other listed conflicts so the manifest is set:  Mom, Larry, Moe, and little Curly.  Shep will stay home and work, while I must lead the rest on an adventure of a lifetime through four states.  Little did I know, when it was over I would be able to write a new guide book about the “Southeast’s most popular rest areas.” (We got so far as establishing the criteria for such things.  There is outdoor ambience, indoor convenience, and softness of toilet tissue, to name but a few of these more basic criteria.) ~ Michael S. Pauley

Have you ever heard the phrase “Hey, Watch This”?  The Southern corollary is “Here, hold my beer.”  Regardless, it is a warning, and if you ever hear it, LOOK OUT!!  The first time I heard this phrase was in the Army when the two guys flying the helicopter said “Hey, Watch This!”  I immediately looked up in time to see us shorten the life span of a pine tree, and hear the follow-up statement of “Gee, that wasn’t supposed to happen, I mean that never happened before..............  (Clearly, Gee was not the actual word, but hey this is a story about kids......).  I had never in my life noticed this rather simple phrase, but clearly it is a form of some ancient childhood ritual.  (Which confirms my other theory about the military aviator..........).  Unfortunately, my brief entry into the lumber business made it an indelible part of my life and now I notice this horrid phrase every time it is uttered.  What is even more unfortunate is that the next time I heard it, the phrase was being spoken by the 7 year old.

I had no idea what was being discussed by the boys, but all of a sudden I heard the fateful phrase...  “HEY WATCH THIS!!!”  My response was immediate. . . .  I dove under the couch screaming “INCOMMINGGGG!!”  My bride looked at me like I had completely lost it, until she was struck in the side of her lovely head with a “Bat Something or Other Super Duper Caped” action figure.  While she was unimpressed with the boys learning and studying aerodynamics, she was highly impressed with my apparent ability to know when to duck.  When I explained the ancient language to her, she immediately picked up on the full import of the message.  As fate would have it, she also picked up on the import of my not having prevented the action figure from becoming imbedded in her cheek.  Her opinion was that I should have tried some super-human feat, thereby saving a little wear and tear on her glasses.  My opinion was that instinct and good old fashioned Army Training made me dive for cover.

Still, she was more than impressed with my intuitive response, she appreciated the lesson learned, and she even appreciated my warning that something was about to happen.  Of course, it was hard to explain to my lovely bride that Army training was necessary for child rearing, but after a rather brief discussion I think she was beginning to understand.  Now if I could just get her hand print out of the back of my head................  (For the record, it is still there after all these years, only now we call it a “Gibbs” slap!) ~ Michael S. Pauley

Aside from the feeding of the teenager’s dates, the other major eye opener for a new dad of multiple kids is the food bills.  How can a 3 year old eat four times her body weight in one sitting?  How can the 5 year old eat ten meals a day and put four times his body weight in his mouth at each bite?  Why does the 7 year old eat like he has a shovel for a spoon and a thimble for a mouth?  Why won’t the teenager ever eat around the other kids?

I don’t have answers to the first few questions, but the last one?  It doesn’t take a Phi Beta Kappa to figure that one out.  The most disgusting thing you will ever see at my house is feeding time.  The three little ones have the table manners of Neanderthals wearing boxing gloves.  Whatever you do, don’t get anywhere near the table at mealtime or you may just lose an arm.  Thankfully, these little guys want to eat cheap stuff like fish sticks and tater tots.  Otherwise, I would be broke on food bills within three days.  In my entire life, I have never seen more groceries consumed by fewer folks in such a short period of time, and I was in the Army!! 

After one such feeding frenzy, my wife deposited the remnants of a hotdog into the dog’s dish.  She barely had a chance to turn around before she heard the dog growling and the 3 year old yelling, “NO, IT’S MINE!!!”  Yes, you guessed it, the dog and the 3 year old were about to fight over the leftover hotdog in the poor mutt’s dish.  Do we feed them?  Constantly!!  Did she want the hotdog when it was on her plate?  No!!  Did she want it when there was a chance someone or something else may eat it?  Yes!!  Why?  Who in the hell knows!!!  

The 5 year old constantly runs his mouth, yet for some reason he can’t seem to fill it with food.  His problem is that he will insert all of the food from his plate into his mouth at the same time, and then chew it up.  With him, “see food” has a whole new meaning.  I can only guess it is part of his Godzilla persona, and no amount of training, discussion, threats or cajoling can change it.  We are now considering just letting him eat outdoors.  The 7 year old is the only one with anything resembling manners, but for some reason in spite of his “etiquette” he still wears more food than he eats.  At my house it takes a real strong stomach to sit through a meal.  By the way, the dog has been missing ever since that night confrontation with the 3 year old, you don’t suppose ?................  (Yes, we eventually found the dog, he was cowering a dark corner, afraid that the 3 year old would bite him again!)  ~ Michael S. Pauley

My lovely bride was pointing out some rather interesting web site statistics the other day. It seems that there are a number of web hits to this website from Russian browsers and web pages that end in .ru. Naturally this sparked my interested, so we took a closer look at some of these pages. One in particular jumped out at us, el-zowano.ru, and it contains stories, proverbs, sayings, history, and humor. As we opened the page, there is a great header with women wearing Giraffe hats with corresponding paint on their faces. Face it, there had cute written all over it, but it was written in Russian. Now this is where it gets to be kind of fun. You hit the “translate” button that Google is kind enough to provide, and you get the literal word for word translation. 

I am convinced that the authors of the website did not anticipate that when translated, that being pensive or concerned would turn into some of the sentences that popped up on our screen. For example, I’m pretty sure that “they smacked their willies” is NOT what the author intended. Granted my Russian is more than rusty, okay, it has rusted shut and started to crumble, but I still remember enough to know that smacking your willy isn’t a normal expression. It might be in the UK, at least in certain circles, but not so much in the rest of the world. 

As we are pondering this rather unusual translation, it hit us. If they are doing the same with my recent stories from 1997, I’m sure that the translate button would lead them to believe that we beat our children and made them eat with the dogs. Scary thought, especially since humor and sarcasm rarely translate well to another culture. In fact, I have found that in these days of political correctness, sometimes these things don’t translate well outside of your own state. I’m sure that if I were in California or Massachusetts, I would already be under investigation by the local authorities. I will assure you that we’ve never beaten our children, they’ve never eaten with the dogs, (well there was that one time our youngest tried to arm wrestle the puppy over a hotdog, but that wasn’t our fault), and they have grown up quite normal. (Normal being a relative term.)

The intent of my story was to inject humor into the everyday things that face all parents. What I don’t want is for anyone to hit a translate button and think we’re raising our children to be wolves. (They did that all by themselves). So, as you read the rest of this series, keep in mind it is a lighter look at what all parents face. If you hit the translate button to read the story, I just hope to hell that it translates better into Russian, than the Russian I’ve read translates into English. Thanks, Google! Now I understand why the world has such a real problem communicating. We’re all too busy trying to figure out what “smacking willies” means. ~ Michael S. Pauley

Will they ever get along as a family?  My teenager’s biggest claim to fame, when the mood hits her, is to take over the fashion lives, both wardrobes and haircuts, of the 7 and 3 year olds.  She has already decided that the 5 year old Godzilla clone is hopeless, but then she also says he looks good in green, so maybe she thinks he doesn’t need help.  

Over the last few months, she has gotten a little closer to her step-brothers/sister, but ultimately this will take years.  (I think her plan is to be long gone before this happens.)  Right now I am lucky if I can bribe her to take them places......, now if I could only get her to change the destination from the homeless shelter . . . . . .  One thing my daughter reminds me of constantly is that I let these kids get by with stuff I wouldn’t let her get by with at that age.  What she doesn’t realize is that I don’t have the energy anymore to keep up with them the way I did her. 

The transition to parenting a mob as opposed to a one-person army would not be complete without an understanding of some basics.  For example, the old adage of what happens when a piece of food or the pacifier hits the floor is very illustrative.  I know that with my own daughter, if her pacifier, a/k/a Binky, hit the floor it was a major effort to get it sterilized for her continued use.  I went into mob parenting with the same concept, only to find that my new wife was far more pragmatic about such things.  It seems that the 7 year old’s binky got that kind of sterile treatment, but by the time the 5 year old’s binky was at issue it just got rinsed off.  

When I arrived on the scene in this mob we call a family, the three year old was just getting rid of her binky and I noticed something quite disturbing.  This particular binky had been through the wars, and when it hit the floor she was lucky if it got wiped off.  Often the only time it got wiped off was when the dog licked it.  Naturally I was quite concerned and so was my wife.  The only difference was that I was worried about the kid, Mom on the other hand was more concerned that the dog would catch some rare disease.  In retrospect, I now see that my wife was right.  God only knows where that kid’s mouth has been!!

This pragmatic approach carries over into all aspects of the kids’ lives.  Weekends are prime time for fun outdoors, and with day care having recess outside, the kids are no strangers to the joys of playgrounds, backyards, and the woods.  They get their fair share of scrapes, bangs, open wounds, gunshots, and shrapnel injuries.  So much so, that we are now fairly oblivious to the little injuries.  If nothing is broken, bleeding, or otherwise inhibiting an airway, we seldom get excited.  Mom just says, “Is the bone sticking out? Are you spurting arterial blood?  No? Then you’ll be OK.  Let’s fix you up.  That’s gonna leave a cool scar!” The advantage to this is that the kids don’t seem to be too swayed by the little stuff.  

The other day the 7 year old came in from wiping out on his bike.  There were the requisite scrapes, bangs, and raspberries on his knees and arms, but was he crying?  Nope.  Instead he was very tough and I was proud.  If one of these kids whines over a little bang, it is because they really want attention, which in a house as full as ours is not always that easy to get.  Unless you are trying to get some sleep, ...... with one eye open ....... or worse yet, sitting in the living room at 3 am. ~ Michael S. Pauley

Don’t get me wrong, I am extremely proud of my teenager for a lot of reasons.  As is the case with most Dads, I look at my daughter and feel like the world begins and ends right there.  (Actually, it does to the extent that at some point she is going to give me heart failure!!)  Being a teenager is scary enough to the teenager; it is downright terrifying to her parents.  The idea of some moron with an IQ equal to his shoe size pawing your beloved has all of the appeal of sticking your hand into a blender.  Dads know this because at some point they were all guys with one thing on their minds.  Having a beautiful young daughter is my punishment, since generally as a teenager I was a Dad’s worst nightmare.  

Now as I stare at the ceiling in my bedroom, waiting on the curfew time to elapse and the return of my daughter, I get nostalgic for my teenage years......only long enough to get scared for my daughter and livid at her date!!  If she ever dated a guy like I was, ..... I would ...... I would .... Shoot the little  @$!#@%.  Since I am not allowed to shoot anyone, (my wife is rather strict on this rule), I now just hope that I did my job earlier in life by teaching her the basics.  You know, the choke hold, the Bobbit fold and slice, the Chinese groin toss, and most importantly the 911 call.  Now when I meet her date, I often just find comfort in knowing that sooner or later, my daughter is going to have kids just like her!   Then maybe she can learn to tolerate the guy with the tattoo of a dragon’s butt on his forehead, the ring through the nose, the butch haircut, and a T-shirt that says “Hitler was a candy ass!”

In reality, the latter description has not happened yet.  Most of the young men she brings by the house are clean cut, well behaved, and actually seem to be quite polite.  THIS SCARES THE HELL OUT OF ME!  At least the weirdo is visibly dangerous, the clean cut boys are more likely to be mass ax murderers with chainsaws in the trunks of their Dad’s cars.  There was one boy she brought around the house who became my version of foot fungus.  He was always there, impossible to get rid of, and extremely irritating.  This chump had a laugh from hell.  He would come in the house, eat anything not nailed down, and “wow” us with his great intellect.

On one particular evening, he was being unusually obtuse.  (Hey, meathead, if you are reading this, obtuse means you were being stupid!  Although, the odds of him reading this or anything more complex than a cereal box are probably real slim.)  My daughter made the comment that something was “superfluous”.  He responded with a resounding, “huh?”  She then told him that “superfluous meant extraneous”, to which he again responded with, “HuuuuH??”  Finally after several minutes of explanation, she told him that it was like adding something extra to a pizza that it didn’t need.  To this day, I believe that he now thinks that superfluous means the same thing as an anchovy, you know a small fish, . . . . . . . . . . .  

Another of his finer points was his laugh.  The sound he made when he laughed cannot be found in nature!  At first, but only at first, my wife and I would laugh when we heard him laugh.  He would tell an awful unfunny story, but the minute he laughed we laughed as well.  (Not with him, but at him.  Sorry but you couldn’t help it!)  This went on until we noticed that his laughter was not only infectious (like poison oak), but it also had the quality of fingernails going down a blackboard.  It was like an episode from the twilight zone, this young man almost drove a whole city mad when he laughed .........  Whenever he was around the animals in the zoo would try to escape, and once the airport called us to complain about the noise.  Imagine if you will the sound Bambi would make if you introduced him to a bull moose as a mating partner, or maybe what you would get if you crossed the sound of Woody Woodpecker being shoved into a food processor with a T. Rex eating a bus........  To put it simply, his laugh was just plain horrible. 

Like a VERY bad sci-fi movie, the moment he walked into the house you immediately felt like tossing something............. generally your lunch.  Somehow, I don’t think the space program is lined up to recruit this guy, unless maybe they are using monkeys again???  Who are we kidding, as long as the 17 year old dates, DAD will never sleep again without both eyes open, and his gun collection nearby!!  “Come on honey, let me break the ‘no shooting’ rule, just this once .... please???” ~Michael S. Pauley

The advantage to having the 17 year old around is that she is another pair of eyes, and more importantly, another pair of hands when dealing with the three little children.  My beloved little girl, who could throw a 90 mile an hour fast ball with the cat attached to it, is a dancer, a great baseball player (no kidding, like you couldn’t see that coming), and as quick as the cat she used to bounce down the steps (actually she is a lot faster, as evidenced by who caught whom.)  She is now 17 with a driver’s license and a car.  She is a young woman in all respects, and most importantly she is the largest enigma in the other three kids’ lives, not to mention mine.  She is as ancient as “Ms. Soandso” at day care, and she is a whole lot meaner.  (Of course, this is because she has the same plan as the others: To be an only child, again!)

She assists in the punishment to the extent that if one of the other three does something in her presence, she tightens them up.  No drill sergeant in the world could hold a candle to her ability to let the other three know her displeasure.  She is so skilled at this that I know she will do well as a parent herself, as soon as she learns how to shoot a bazooka.  Subtle??  No way!!  If you commit a transgression, then BOOM, you are in intensive care for at least a week after her shoe is removed from your posterior.  This is not the same child who doesn’t listen to a damn thing I tell her, unless it is the location of my wallet or the keys to my car.  I must admit, under duress, that this beloved cat tosser is irreplaceable assistance in my adjustment to parenting a nation of munchkins.  

I attribute her success to the popularity she holds with her step-siblings.  When she comes in the house, they all run up and hug her and tell her nice things.  They all want to hug and kiss her, and they constantly want to know where she is and what she is doing.  This tells me that secretly they are plotting to kill her.  The 3 year old is especially dangerous, since according to my 17 year old, the little one is trying to steal her boyfriend.  See, even the almost adult ones in my house sleep with one eye open......................

As for punishment, good luck.  It seems that the only people who ever really get punished are the parents.  If you spank, then busted blood vessels in the hand are a problem, not to mention those crying jags that seem to follow every spanking.  (One of these days I hope to get used to those broken blood vessels and then maybe I won’t cry ...... ) If you ground them from TV, or other privileges, then you are stuck with one kid who is now off doing some damage out of your sight while you watch the other two.  The only way this works is to divide and conquer or punish them all and let God sort them out.  I prefer the latter method since divide and conquer cuts both ways, and given half a chance the children will cut you going and coming.  Just remember rule number one, never divide your forces, unless you are on the offensive and seldom are parents ever on the offensive.  In spite of what teenagers think ..........  We too sleep with one eye open.....

Happy Father's Day to ALL fathers, bio-, step-, living and doing their best!  Enjoy the adulation! ~ Michael S. Pauley