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Me First And The Gimmie Gimmies*

Posted on January 18, 2010 at 12:01 am

by Richard

When dads sit down around the campfire after a long day of herding little dudes and cleaning up after them, there’s a cautionary tale that gets told to the shivers of the listeners. It goes something like this.

There was a family with three little dudes and or dudettes. It doesn’t matter. The family was planning a vacation to somewhere warm, sandy and delightful. As they were doing the final pack up, they heard the news. At the resort, a bird who’s species is on the verge of extinction had flown into the engine of a fully loaded jet as it was coming in for a landing. The jet went down in a ball of flame, killing all on board as well as wiping out the resort and causing a fire that devastated the tiny island.

“Oh, how horrible,” said the mom.

“That’s just terrible,” said the dad as he began to unpack their suitcases.

The middle little dude looked on, aghast. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Wait,” he said. “Why are you unpacking? That doesn’t affect me, does it? Well, find something else.”

And the group around the campfire shivers, knowing the little dude just didn’t get it. All he worried about was whether or not he was going to get something. The dads hoped they were raising their little dudes to be better than that. They picked up their plates of beans and started a fart contest. Whatddya want? They’re dudes.

The problem is that little dude’s reaction wasn’t all that unusual. There’s little dudes all over the world that only care about something if it affects them, or how they want to do stuff. I may, just may, know this from personal experience. Maybe.

I’m not sure why this happens. I’m not sure how a little dude becomes so focused on himself that he sees the entire world through the lens of how it will affect him. I think, though, there are some ways to work with the non-functional-brained little dudes.

One way is the bait and switch. Offer the little dude something he or she really wants, or says he or she does, and then make it contingent on doing something nice for someone more than once. Or tell them they can’t have it. And then give it to them only after they’ve made an unprompted gesture of niceness toward another member of the family.

I think we need to make sure kids like these widen their perspective more than a little bit. Let themselves see the outside world has more to offer and needs more from the people living in it than what happens to them.

*not the band, although they’re awesome.

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Dog Training

Posted on January 11, 2010 at 12:01 am

by Richard

Now that we have a dog, I’m able to do a little compare and contrast and I’ve come to a conclusion. To wit: It is much easier to train a dog than it is to train a little dude. Much, much easier.

In the probably less than five months that we’ve had our Labrador/pit bull mix, Buzz, we’ve been able to teach him not to poop on the floor, how to roll over, sit, not to beg at the table, how to tell which hand has the treat and how to choose that hand.

In the sixteen years we’ve had the little dudes, we’ve managed to teach them how not to poop on the floor. Most times.

Buzz has his own little area and he doesn’t mess in it.

I’m afraid to walk into the bedrooms of m three little dudes for fear the mess will have gained sentience and will attack just on general principles.

Buzz has his own bowl and will eat from it, making sure not to spill on the floor. If he does, he’ll clean it up. (With his tongue, but still the principle stands.)

After a meal with my little dudes, I’m tempted to rent the place out as a rest stop to a horde of migrating cockroaches moving south to escape the growing threat of the arctic boot heel.

Buzz actually likes to get in the shower. True story: we’ve got a shower without a door or curtain (on purpose, I assure you) and, whenever one of us is in the shower, Buzz will wander into the shower, get wet and happily start licking up the water on the ground.

Sometimes the funk surrounding the older little dudes, George of the Jungle and Zippy the Monkey Boy, is so fierce it’s almost a dose of concentrated evil. Eeeeeevvviiilllllll!

The point of all this. Not much. I’m just sitting here watching the dog lie quiet on the floor while Zippy chases Speed Racer around the kitchen and living room and dining room screaming something about death and dismemberment.

You know, there’s something to be said for a household of pets and no kids.

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Going Out On Top: The Sequel

Posted on December 30, 2009 at 12:01 am

by Richard

Seeing as how we’re taking the time for a little self-congratulations, and we all need some of that every once in a while, I thought I’d come clean about the last race I will ever run. Yes, Dad, I have been running races. I know you’re shocked.

Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m shocked as well. For most of my life, I’ve been the sort who thought any run more than the trip from the couch to the fridge was, well, a reason that God invented the automobile. Why walk when you can ride?

Through a convoluted series of circumstances, which I won’t bore you with here (and the crowd goes wild), I found that I had to start getting in shape to run a series of 5k races. Five kilometers equals about 3.1 miles. Anyway, on a couple of those runs, I had the privilege of running with my two oldest little dudes.

On the first 5k with family, George of the Jungle paced me the entire way and then, with the finish line in sight, pulled away laughing while I weezed the final little bit. The second race, Zippy the Monkey Boy took off like a rabbit with it’s cotton tail on fire. And then he seemed to flame out. I passed him around the halfway mark and thought I was doing good. I kept looking for him, but never aw him pass me. About 100 meters from the finish, I thought I had the win and that’s when he passed me like I was going backwards.

Well, since I decided that 2009 marked the last year I’d be running (bad, bad knees), I had one last race in me. I ran it with George of the Jungle. Before the start, he was as cocky as I’d ever seen him.

“You know you don’t have a chance of beating me or my brother, Dad. We’re younger and faster.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but I’ve been training more than you.”

He laughed it off.

We stayed even during the first part of the race, but George of the Jungle dropped down to walking speed a little over halfway. After making sure he was all right, I kept running and told him I’d meet him at the finish line.

You’ve never seen a more paranoid runner. I kept stealing looks over my left shoulder and then my right. I almost ran over a couple dozen of the 12-year-old girls who’d go on to beat me. (Long story) I still didn’t see George of the Jungle, but I finally did see the finish line. I poured what little I had left into moving a bit faster than a pregnant sperm whale beached in California and headed for the end of my last race.

I made it across the finish and almost fainted because I hadn’t been passed by George of the Jungle. He came through about two minutes later. I only had one smug comment for him and then I shut up.

But, secretly, I had completely inappropriate amounts of glee over the win. I know I shouldn’t be this happy, but, well, he did all the bragging beforehand. And, as I said yesterday, take all the good finishes you can get. I know my knees won’t be letting me do many more of those in the future.

But, for now, “VICTORY!!!!!” in best Johnny Drama voice.

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