Skip to content


Hey, Joe Biden?

7 comments

Here’s a couple of 10-year-old girls with one of those scary AR15 rifles that are too complex for women to operate:

20130407-181907.jpg

For a weapon too complex for women to operate, they were certainly having fun perforating Coke* cans with it, and doing so safely.

I’d have given them a double-barreled shotgun to learn with, but it kicks too much for the one with cerebral palsy, and the one with ADHD just thought the AR15 was way cooler.

*Actually, it was a 12-pack of Dr. Thunder, but in the South everything’s a Coke.

Tin Can Assassin*

22 comments

The child had grown a bit disenchanted with shooting the past couple years. Between her attempts to compensate for her weak eye and the lucky fin, it was difficult to hit the target without a lot of help.

And she's smart enough to know when Daddy is doing most of the work, and proud enough to be insulted by it.

Solution: shooting sticks, reactive targets, and a holographic sight.

God kills one of Sarah Brady's kittens every time someone posts a picture like this.

 

She had a lot of difficulty finding the proper eye relief with her scope, and as a result the poor child's sight picture was pitch black most of the time.

So I replaced the scope with a cheap holographic sight, and bought her a shooting stick that will allow her to shoot essentially one-handed.

Huge improvement.

Her form still needs a lot of work, and the phrase "consistent cheek weld" is still a distant fantasy, and she takes a while to line up her shot…

… but when the child pulls the trigger, she hits the target. Kid has a sniper's sensibility: one shot, one kill. Old NFO would be proud.

As you can see, it was a good day.

 

 

 

 

*Why yes, that is a 10-year-old girl with cerebral palsy holding an AR15. Because that's just how we roll down here in Bitter Clingerville.

Overheard On The Way To School

3 comments

Me: "If you don't cheer up, I'm going to get out of the truck when we get to school, and do Gangnam Style right there in the parking lot, in my pajamas, in front of all your friends."

KatyBeth (giggling): "You would not!"

Me: "Don't think so? Just try me."

KatyBeth: "Okay, okay, I'm smiling. Just please don't embarass me in front of my friends."

Me: "Okay, then. I'll save that one for your wedding reception."

KatyBeth: "No you won't, because I'm never getting married. I'm going to be a crazy cat lady with, like, twelve cats."

Me: "But what if you meet the boy of your dreams?"

KatyBeth: "Not gonna happen. Boys are pigs."

Me: "Child, have I told you this morning how much I love you?"

It May Be Black Friday To The Rest Of You…

23 comments

… but to me it's a day to rejoice.

On this day, 10 years ago, fear gnawed at my heart. My wife was being prepped for emergency surgery, while I knelt at an altar in a chapel three floors below, begging for the life of my child. My Valentine's Day baby was being taken before Thanksgiving, for the doctors felt her best chance of survival was not in my wife's womb, but in an incubator.

An hour later, KatyBeth was delivered.

Bare seconds after being pulled from the womb, my prayers were answered. She cried. And when they dried her off and stimulated her, she really cried.

She wasn't even supposed to be able to breathe, much less cry. But nobody told KatyBeth that.

 

And that has been her life ever since – defying expectations.

We were told she'd suffer from blindness. Profound developmental delays. Seizures. Learning disabilities. She'd never walk.

Well, she walks. She doesn't run well, but she walks.

She's an honor student. And this year, she's doing it without the help of a dedicated aide.

She's reached every milestone. Maybe not when the child development books said she should, but she met them nonetheless.

She wears glasses, but she's not blind. She has problems seeing through a rifle scope, so she shoots her AR15 with a red dot sight.

She's just like every little girl her age, Barbies and kittens and Justin Bieber and chattering non-stop and being embarassed to kiss her father in public.

Oh, but she's so much more.

She's not vain or petty. She has an open and giving heart.

She's no coward. She has her fears, but she faces them.

And she conquers them.

She is delicate, but she is not frail. She falls, quite often. But she gets up by herself, and if she cries it's only briefly.

Quit isn't in her vocabulary. She doesn't spit in the face of adversity. She just faces it with an unconquerable smile, and eventually Adversity realizes it's wasting its time and just gives up.

I'm 44 years old, and my 10-year-old daughter has taught me more about courage than anyone. One day, I hope to be half the man my daughter is.

And today, she's ten years old, and I couldn't be prouder.

Happy birthday, little girl.

Reason #8,675 My Kid Kicks Nine Kinds of Ass

7 comments

My mind never really ran to numbers. In math class, I understood the concepts readily enough. I'd just get bored easily, and make careless errors. I was that weird kid in class who actually liked the word problems. Those always made more sense to me. I made A's in organic chemistry in college, yet struggled to pull a B in freshman chemistry, simply because of the math. Calculus and physics were two big reasons the name of this blog isn't A Day In The Life Of An Emergency Physician.

Likewise, KatyBeth has never been great at math. She's been good, but like her dad, she lacks the discipline to really excel.

Or I should say, lacked the discipline.

A few weeks back, one of her teachers approached me, concerned about KatyBeth's behavior over the previous couple of weeks. Seems Katy had been a bit churlish with her teachers on several occasions, even to the point of snapping at them and raising her voice a couple of times, even telling her personal aide, "Shut up."

And because her aide loves KatyBeth dearly, she had kept it quiet, chalking it up to frustration rather than bad manners. But the teacher witnessed it, and combined with the other episodes, felt it worthy of my attention.

In almost the same breath as telling me about my child's misbehavior, she was quick to remind me that KatyBeth was one of her star pupils, and not a disciplinary problem at all. She simply felt that these episodes were not in character for KatyBeth, and wanted to bring them to her parents' attention.

Well, it got my attention, all right. My kid just does not do misbehavior. Yeah, she's a bit spoiled, and I say yes to her more readily than I should sometimes, but she knows that when Mom or Dad say the negotiation is over, it is O-V-E-R. She's one of the politest kids you'll ever meet, and a great student, and kindhearted to the point that I worry about her ever being able to defend herself.

And she got that way because her mother and I have made it clear all her life that we will not tolerate otherwise.

So naturally, when I asked her about it, she dissolved into a blubbering, remorseful tub of sobbing goo for a solid hour, unable to even talk. I can count the spankings Katy has had one hand, and she'll be 10 in a couple of weeks*. For her, my disapproval is far more crushing than corporal punishment could ever be.

For my part, I was less angry than concerned. Katy's been through some major adjustments as of late. In the last two months, her mother has moved to a new house, I've been traveling incessantly and missing time with her, and her IEP at school was changed to remove her personal classroom aide. She's been through a lot, and I was concerned that the disruption in her routine was the culprit behind this change in her behavior.

Well, the removal of her aide wasn't the problem. Her teachers report Katy's independence and personal initiative has grown by leaps and bounds, now that her aide is gone. The aide is still available to help her with certain physical tasks, but the things Katy used to have to be reminded and prodded to do in the classroom, she now does on her own. She even asks for help far less often.

It was the "asking for help" part that was the root of the matter.

One thing you have to know about my kid is that, despite her physical limitations and softhearted demeanor, she hates failure. She cannot stand trying, and failing, at a task she sets for herself. And if she's convinced she can do it, she resents any suggestions or assistance, to the point of even telling a woman who would fight a bear with a switch to defend my daughter, to "Shut up."

We saw the same thing when she was an infant and toddler. Her therapists would painstakingly, methodically put her through physical exercises, and they constantly pushed Katy to her limits. And when she failed to master the new task, she'd arch her back and kick her legs spasmodically and scream in frustration, thus negating an hour's worth of therapy to get her to that point.

And so, her therapists taught her a more productive outlet for her anger. When she felt frustrated or overwhelmed, she was simply to say, "I'm mad," and she'd get a break. It worked like a charm.

It also created a master manipulator, because nothing makes Daddy want to buy her a pony more than a quavering, breathy, "I'm sad," delivered with a quivering lower lip and tear-filled eyes.

So, with that in mind, I extracted a promise from KatyBeth. Whenever she became frustrated in class, she was to push the paper away, announce, "I'm frustrated," and count slowly to 10, eyes closed. And when she opened her eyes, she was to pick up where she left off, and go slowly and methodically this time around.

Not only that, she was to personally apologize to her teachers and her aide, and tell them her strategy for dealing with frustration in the future. I wanted to walk her to class and personally see to it that she delivered the apology I required, but she begged me to allow her to do it on her own. I relented, with the understanding that if the apology was not delivered, or her teachers reported even one more instance of unacceptable behavior, Horrendous Parental Wrath would ensue.

Today I spoke to her teachers, and not only did they give glowing reports on her behavior, but her common assessments (the BIG tests) included the first A's in math she has received all year. Consequently, when she gets her report card tomorrow, it will be straight A's, and not the lonely B in math we've come to expect.

The topper was that Katy herself marveled, "Dad, that count to 10 and slow down stuff really worked!"

And that, my friends, is yet another reason my daughter kicks nine kinds of ass.

I'm so proud of her, I might just go buy her a pony.

*Spare me your editorializing on corporal punishment, please. I don't believe in spanking as a primary form of discipline, but I believe other forms of discipline are more effective if the prospect of spanking is kept on the table. It also has not escaped my notice that, invariably, the parents I have met who are vehemently opposed to spanking their children are raising unruly, disrespectful little monsters I would gladly urge to go play in traffic.

Bragging

7 comments

Got KatyBeth's first report card of the year today:

English: 99

Reading: 100

Science: 98

Math: 85

PE: Satisfactory

Guess which one she was worried I'd be mad about?

According to her teacher, the math score was due to one bad grade on a district-wide common assessment test that couldn't be dropped, and the only reason she failed that one was that she got in a hurry and made careless errors. Otherwise, she'd have an A in math, too.

Have I mentioned that my kid rocks?

Parental Advisory* Lyrics

8 comments

Of all the songs on my iPhone, there's a select few that always make KatyBeth channel Tipper Gore.

Whenever I play Cee Lo Green's "F*ck You," or Pink's "F*ckin' Perfect," she will gasp in horror, blush like a tomato, and clap her hands over her ears until the song is over, whereupon she admonishes me for listening to such trash.

Ooooohh boy, am I gonna have fun reminding her of that in a few years…

 

 

 

*Warning: Contains explicit language. Children, don't let your parents listen to these songs, or surely they will experiment with drugs and post-marital sex, turn to a life of crime and spiral into a vortex of despair. PTA meetings will devolve into drunken, drug-fueled orgies, and the little old ladies who greet you at Wal Mart will have their hair dyed in one blue stripe down the middle, instead of all over. It'll be anarchy, ANARCHY I tell you!

Overheard In the Tactical Tacoma

8 comments

On the way home from KatyBeth's school this afternoon:

 

Ambulance Driver (windows down, stereo cranked up, rocking to Prince): "Puuuurple rain, puuuurrrrrple raaaaai – iaaaaiiinnn, only want to see you underneath the puuuuurrple rain…"

KatyBeth (not as enthusiastic, but still diggin' it): "Honey I know, I know times are changin', it's time we all reach out for something new…"

AD: "THAT MEANS YOU TOO!"

[continued singing, interspersed with steering wheel drumming, one-handed air guitar solo, AD trying to emulate Prince's falsetto, and KatyBeth rolling her eyes]

AD: "Now THAT is music! That guy has more talent in his little finger than your Justin Bieberlake and Hannah Wyoming and all those other kids put together!"

KB (mildly noncommital): "It's a good song."

AD: "Good song? GOOD SONG?? This is CLASSIC! I got LAID to this song!"

KB: "What's 'laid'?"

AD: "Um, nevermind."

KB: "It's kind of weird, though. Must be a metaphor for something."

AD: "And there was this smokin' hot chick named Appolonia in the movie and – what, what did you say?"

KB: "A metaphor, Dad. Rain is transparent, not purple. It must be a metaphor for something else."

AD: "Waitaminnit… what grade are you in again?"

KB: "Still rocks, though."

Overheard This Morning

15 comments

On the way to school this morning:

AD: "Okay, so next spelling word: range."

KatyBeth: "R-A-N-G-E."

AD: "Very good. Can you use it in a sentence?"

KatyBeth: "Ready on the left, ready on the right, ready on the firing line! The range is hot, commence firing!"

Is it any wonder why I love the kid?

Happy Birthday, KatyBeth!

19 comments

Nine years ago on this day, on a night filled with fear and uncertainty, God saw fit to bless me with a perfectly imperfect little girl who would show me what not what kind of father I was, but what father I could be.

I am forever grateful.

Parish Fair Protips For 40+ Dads

5 comments

  1. Ferris Wheels and kilts are a bad combination, especially for the folks standing directly in front of the Ferris Wheel.
  2. Do not get on the Tilt A Whirl with your daughter after eating a corndog and fried shrimp on a stick.
  3. Do not get on the Tilt A Whirl while wearing a kilt.
  4. In fact, just say no to the damned Tilt A Whirl altogether.

Making puke faces at the ride operator does not inspire mercy in said ride operator. In fact, I think he sped up and gave us extra time, just to see if he could make me spew. The unkindest cut of all for a former roller coaster junkie is being told by your eight-year-old daughter, "I wanna ride it again, Daddy. But if you don't think you can handle it, I'll ride by myself and you can watch me."

Hello, 911?

4 comments

"There's a creepy guy at the park just watching the kids and taking pictures… and he's wearing a skirt!"

Of course, it helps to have your own kid at the park as an alibi, in case such a call is ever made, and Kilted to Kick Cancer is the perfect excuse for such unusual attire.

 

Please, donate to Prostate Cancer Foundation or LiveStrong on my behalf. Click the links, and donate whatever your heart tells you. Only $5 from twenty of you would be $100 closer to finding a cure.

Thanks for your support.

You’re a Good Sport, Labrat

11 comments

KatyBeth's mother and I share joint custody. Basically, my kid stays with me every day I have off, and with her mother on the days I work. Sometimes there's some overlap, but The Ex and I are adults about it, and swap days pretty freely when necessary.

While I never counted on being present for only half of my daughter's life, it's a damned sight better than spending every other weekend like some divorced fathers do. That whole every-other-weekend thing was the reason I moved to southwest Louisiana in the first place.

Since every day I'm not working, I have my kid, I tend to drag her along with me when I visit friends or teach classes or speak at conferences. She doesn't go unwillingly, she just likes to tag along with Daddy, and leaving her home means I lose a day with my kid.

Unacceptable.

Luckily for me, she's not a whiny kid. She gets along with anyone, and she's pretty comfortable in adult company. On the rare occasions I liked a date enough to bring her home to meet my daughter, invariably Katy would drag her off to her room to play with Barbies, and grill her on just when she and I were gonna get married and get around to making her a baby brother. I suppose it's a testament to the irresistible charm of my kid that none of them ran screaming from the premises.

Another thing she's really, really good at is gravitating to the one adult in the room who doesn't have or want kids, and deciding that person is going to be her playmate.

And that is a testament to the coolness of my friends that they humor her and play with her graciously.

At the first Blogorado, she was amazed by Miss Breda, the cool lady who shoots guns and has a lucky fin just like she does and everything, and plus she was modular!

Then she toddled over to the World's Most Kid-Averse Scientist, and enlisted Labrat in a few impromptu performances of Backyardigans Dinner Theater.

At Phlegmfest last month, while the rest of us were gathered in the back yard, gnoshing, telling stories and drinking Nerd Beer, I noticed I hadn't seen KatyBeth in quite a while. I wandered through the house to discover whose time she was currently monopolizing, and found her curled on the couch with Phlegm Fatale, watching cartoons and drawing. After being assured for the umpteenth time by our lovely hostess that no, KatyBeth wasn't being a bother, and yes she was behaving herself, and no she didn't have to run outside and play if she didn't want to and really, don't you have something better to do than interrupt us girls when we're busy?…

… I figured she was in good hands, and left her to her own devices.

At some point, KatyBeth also latched onto Labrat and disappeared for another couple of hours, emerging from the house only long enough to show me her glamorous new fake fingernails (which Labrat generously applied), and to ask me if she could get a tattoo.

"Sure, honey. Whatever you want is – waitaminnit, did you say tattoo?"

Phlegmmy assured me that the tattoos were tasteful and girly and not at all skanky, and best of all, non-permanent. And so, they retired to the air-conditioned comfort of Chez Phlegmmy and proceeded to give my eight-year-old daughter a… a… a tramp stamp.

Of course, KatyBeth had to come outside to show it off, and I'm sure Phlegmmy, Labrat and Christina all shared a laugh at my abject horror in finding a butterfly tattoo plastered on my daughter's lower back. Later, when Labrat came back outside, I noticed something was… off about her hands.

"Uh, Labrat? Were you drunk when you applied your nail polish? Or riding a mechanical bull, perhaps?"

"Nope," she replied matter-of-factly, "KatyBeth painted them for me."

"Um, you do know she has cerebral palsy, right? And that her coordination ain't the best in the world?"

"I do. And the excess polish will wash off my skin easily enough… I think."

"Um, Labrat, you really didn't have to do that, you know. I appreciate your patience, but – "

"It's fine," she assured me firmly. "After I did her nails, she insisted on doing mine. She said it was the least she could do to return the favor. Who am I to deny her when she's just being polite?"

And with that, she retired back inside to play with my kid some more, while the rest of us teased a visibly uncomfortable Stingray (the World's Second Most Kid-Averse Scientist) about his wife's previously unrecognized maternal skills.

I tell ya, I've got a great kid and wonderful friends.

 

Reason #6587 Why My Kid Rocks

13 comments

 

She finished the second grade with a 3.88 GPA, despite having to work far harder than her classmates, and was still bummed because she didn't get the Most Improved Student award for the second year in a row. I had to explain to her that it's hard to show dramatic academic improvement when your baseline is general ass-kicking excellence.

 

Yo, that's one proud set of parents right there.

Ursula the Sea Witch Can’t Catch a Jet Ski…

8 comments

… unless Ariel makes a radical evasive maneuver without warning King Triton first, and throws him off the back of the jet ski at 45 mph.

I'm gonna have to teach my mermaid to use the throttle a little more judiciously.

Expectations of Perfection

28 comments

My daughter lives in fear of Tuesdays.

Why Tuesdays, you ask? Well, that is the day her teacher sends home her test papers from the previous week for myself and The Ex to read and sign. KatyBeth lives in mortal terror that she's going to get a bad grade, and that her mother and I will somehow be disappointed in her.

Doesn't matter that she's a straight A student. Doesn't matter that she's the only second grader in the entire school on the high honor roll. Doesn't matter that her mother and I have told her ceaselessly, "Less than perfect grades are okay, as long as they didn't result from less than perfect effort." She knows that we love her, and she knows that what we expect of her is to try hard in school, period. As long as she tries, we're satisfied, because we know we've got a good kid, and a smart one. She can do anything she puts her mind do. Maybe some of the physical stuff she doesn't do as well as the other kids her age, but academically, she's head and shoulders above her peers.

None of that matters to KatyBeth, because to her, one bad grade makes her a bad kid. In her mind, a B is a cause for disappointment, and God forbid she get a C or lower, because her parents will drive her into the street to live amongst the wolves. The child worries herself into a sobbing mess every. single. Tuesday.

I just don't get it. I was a straight A student myself, but I never put that much pressure on myself. On the rare occasion I made a bad grade, I got over it quickly. Perhaps she gets it from her mother, who has been known to be a bit of a worrier, but The Ex makes it a point not to project those things onto KatyBeth. It's our job as parents to worry, not our daughter's.

Take yesterday's test packet, for example. KatyBeth's aide handed her off to me after school, smiling and rolling her eyes, and mouthed to me, "She's worried about her test papers. Again."

Turns out the conduct summary on the front of the packet had three "no" checks marked; one for listening in class, one for following directions, and one for finishing her work on time. KatyBeth was mortified, dead certain that I was going to shove bamboo splinters under her fingernails or beat her with a lead pipe or waterboard her, or even worse, express disappointment. And as usual, KatyBeth chose to focus on the three areas where her teacher felt she needed improvement, instead of the conduct grade at the bottom of the sheet that read "A minus."

A quick perusal of the test packet revealed the source of the bad marks in conduct. Amidst nine 100's, a 94, and a 95, there was one lonely 69 on a math test. Turns out Katybeth added on a few problems when she should have subtracted, wrote the incorrect answer on one and didn't erase it thoroughly before she penciled in the correct one, and in one problem where she was asked to plot a point on a graph, missed it by one point in the Y plane.

So, of five questions marked incorrect, haste and following directions poorly explained four of them. Had she taken her time and listened to the instructions carefully, she'd have only missed one question, and made another A.

Yep, sounds like my daughter all right. The poor kid apparently inherited my math work ethic (or lack thereof). But dammit, she's still a straight A student, even in math, and she's got her mother the calculus queen to help her avoid ending up like her daddy, who had to give up on medical school because he doesn't have the patience for math.

So why the snot works every Tuesday? I'm truly at a loss here.  I tell my daughter I'm proud of her. I tell her at every opportunity that failure is okay, but failure to try is not. I don't punisher her for bad grades, because they truly are aberrencies, and I make sure she corrects her mistakes.

I manage my expectations, so why can't Katybeth manage hers?

I suppose there are far worse things than having a daughter for whom an A minus is not good enough, but the lip trembling, quavering voice, on-the-edge-of-tears thing every week is ripping me up, and I'd like to spare my daughter the angst.

So, parents and teachers, help me out here. What the hell am I doing wrong? What do I need to do differently?

Reason #1367 My Kid Rocks

10 comments

KatyBeth asked Santa for an iPod for Christmas, so she can get a head start on being a sullen, isolated teenager listen to her favorite music. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been gently pumping her for information, presuming that Santa did grant her wish, what sort of music would she like on her iPod?

Because, you know, I might be able to drop the jolly old elf a message through the special Parental Santa Hotline.

Of course, she has the normal 8-year-old’s taste in music, including a distressing fondness for Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieberlake or whatever the hell his name is…

… but she also requested Norah Jones, Natalie Merchant, Zac Brown, Sara Bareilles, Bonnie Raitt, Dobie Gray and the like from my iPod playlist. And the number one song she had to have was this one:

YouTube Preview Image

Not many 8-year-old girls have even heard of Marshall Tucker Band.

Mine can quote the lyrics to Can’t You See.

On Shamans, Charlatans, Snake Oil and Gullible People

44 comments

I’ve always considered myself somewhat of a skeptic. Whenever I hear of a new medical treatment, my first considered action is to review the research, both pro and con. I’m a proponent of evidence-based medicine, and I take my fair share of criticism because I’ll gleefully slaughter a few EMS sacred cows that are poorly supported by current research (see: Spine, immobilization thereof). When it comes to evaluating medical research, I’m no Rogue Medic, but I can occasionally tell my confidence interval from a hole in the ground.

And when people start talking to me about auras and energy fields and purging toxins from the body and chelation and how my misaligned vertebrae are causing my hair loss and erectile dysfunction (hypothetically speaking), I generally tend to run the other direction. If I can’t make a graceful exit, I smile and nod, all while mentally rolling my eyes and singing Karen Carpenter songs in my head.

So how, damn it, am I supposed to react when I see woo and snake oil work before my very eyes, and no logical scientific reason to explain it?

When KatyBeth was teething, she ran a constant low-grade fever, as teething babies will do. Despite removing excess clothing, rotating Tylenol and Motrin, yada yada yada…

… still, she ran a steady 100.2 rectal temp for four days. She was one cranky, miserable baby. And her Pawpaw kept telling us we needed some swamp root to hang around her neck. And I would mentally count to ten and give the Missus the stink eye whenever she even hinted at humoring him.

Finally, he became so insistent that I relented. So, he wades out into his pond, digs out a few handfuls of some aquatic plant that has vine-like, jointed stems. I’m no botanist, so I have no idea what it was, other than the common name of “swamp root.”

So my father-in-law cut a dozen or so joints of this plant, strung them on a length of cotton twine, and went in search of a wheat penny – a regular penny won’t work – to complete his redneck voodoo charm. So he hung this weird little necklace around her neck, and I’ll be damned if her temperature wasn’t 98.4 within an hour.

I still wasn’t convinced, but my skepticism eased a bit. Heck, maybe the 16th dose of Tylenol did the trick. Maybe swamp root is full of salicylates, like birch bark and strawberries. Maybe it contains some as-yet-undiscovered fever reducer.

Whatever it was, her fever came down, and right smartly, after four days of conventional treatment had failed.

Just today, I had a second WTF moment when it comes to woo and snake oil. Anyone who has ever met KatyBeth will tell you that she walks with a pronounced limp. Her cerebral palsy manifests itself as spastic diplegia, and she walks with her left arm tucked tightly to her side, and her left foot on tiptoe. We’re forever reminding her, “Put your heel down, and straighten out that chicken wing!” and she will for a minute or so, with limited success. It’s something she simply cannot help, and extensive physical therapy has only lessened the symptoms, not eliminated them.

Yet, for the past fifteen minutes, I’ve been watching her walk around the exhibit hall here at the fair, walking with a more-or-less normal stride, walking with a heel-to-toe stride, and her left arm relaxed and hanging loosely at her side, after The Ex put one of these on her left wrist and ankle? It ain’t placebo effect, either. As far as KatyBeth knows, they’re just cool costume jewelry.

From the product packaging, comes this bit of pseudo-scientific bullshit:

Power Balance Performance Technology is a mylar hologram that is embedded with a range of frequencies found in nature that react positively with your body’s energy field. It has been shown to improve balance, flexibility and strength as well as contributing to an overall sense of well-being among its users.

Shit, I can’t even type that without rolling my eyes.

Yet here I sit, watching it do everything that the package says it does, and no scientific explanation for it.

That just bugs the hell out of me.

Overheard at Casa de Ambulance Driver

6 comments

“Daddy, I don’t get that song. It doesn’t make any sense. Why does he call it a ‘Highway 20 Ride?’ You drive on a highway, not ride.”

“You’re being too literal, KatyBeth,” I tell her. “He’s singing about the trip itself, not the act.”

“I still don’t understand it,” she says in frustration. “Songs should make sense.”

I think for a moment before I answer.

“He’s explaining things to his son,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “He and the little boy’s Mom got a divorce, and he only gets to see his little boy every other weekend. He’s explaining to him why it has to be that way, but that if he had a choice, things would be different. And he hates the ride to bring his little boy back to his Mom, but he looks forward to it, too, because it means he gets to see him again.”

“Oh,” KatyBeth replies softly. “You mean they’re like us.”

“Yeah kiddo, a lot like us. Except that your Mom and me still get along.”

Her eyes cloud over. “I cry sometimes when you take me back to Mama’s,” she confesses.

“Yeah,” I agree, fighting back the tears that spring unbidden to my eyes, “Me, too.”

Most of the time, I’m thankful that her mother and I split early enough in KatyBeth’s life that it didn’t affect her too greatly. And I am profoundly thankful that my daughter is so resilient, that she sees nothing unnatural about having two families, two homes, two sets of everything.

And then there are days like today.

How Do You Spell F-U-N?

4 comments

Plastic Easter eggs packed with binary explosives, that’s how.

YouTube Preview Image

Step 1: Gather both parents, and chaperone daughter’s Easter party at school.

DSCF0551

Yes, that is a camouflage Easter egg. You know you want one.

DSCF0560

Step 2. Assist daughter with consuming all chocolate found in said Easter eggs. Make comments to ex-wife that they may as well plaster the chocolate directly on her ass. Dodge punch from ex-wife.

Step 3. Pack empty plastic Easter eggs with binary explosives, and find someplace to shoot.

Step 4: Convert money into smoke and noise. Giggle fiendishly with every Kaboom!

Takes a man confident in his own masculinity to wear pink earmuffs.

Takes a man confident in his own masculinity to wear pink earmuffs.

DSCF0566

DSCF0569

Brass in the air!

Back into battery, brass in midair.

Back into battery, brass in midair.


Vote for me! Click Here

Polarized sunglasses, Flashlights, and Hiking boots.