Kids + BAND-AIDS = Unbridled Obsession.

I recently posted about kids and elevators highlighting their fascination with pressing buttons, transporting themselves up and down, a complete joke to adults.  But kids freaking love this vertical crap.  What else do kids dig?  BAND-AIDS.  This is totally appropriate considering their propensity for falling down.  Kids often fall in slow motion, too, revealing endless seconds of time before impact.  It’s fairly entertaining.

And what about the sheer number of BAND-AID brands?!  It’s ridiculous.   Kids gravitate to these crazy strips of grafted plastic because they’re seduced by the biblically sized monopoly of childhood representatives. Spongebob, Cinderella, Dora, Spiderman, Elmo, Curious George, the list goes on.  Hello Kitty, too.

Considering their massive appeal these badges of courage demand an in-depth study, rather than this–a passing blog post.  So let’s get scientific.  Let’s do a case study.  If you’ve come this far you’re crazy enough to read on.

Actual Scientific Case Study:

My two-year old wipes out on a regular basis, and I get it, gravity takes no prisoners, but it’s criminal that the slightest pitch in pavement is cause for a full-on face plant.  Her knees resemble crosshatching hieroglyphs.

Anyhooch, the kid is tough as nails but the need for a BAND-AID proves overriding.

AHHHH-hah-hah-haaaaa!!!”  Sounding a little like David Lee Roth, defeated by an uneven berm in the driveway, she‘s down. The result is grisly.

Rushing to her, employing one of her many ridiculous nicknames that make no sense, “I got you Beesh-kee.” I’m such a sap.

Of course, I know, she wants Mommy but I offer relief nonetheless.  Realistically, who doesn’t want Mommy when they’re hurt?  I take no offense.

“Mah–mee, mah-meeeeeeee!!”

I’m out of the picture, but not useless.  Like a savior I go for the ultimate panacea: a BAND-AID. This simple step makes me a hero, arriving astride on a fine medicinal steed, draped in a luxuriant American flag, adhesive in hand.  Fact.

Post-care triage my daughter eventually cools, returning to normal, admiring her badge of courage, constantly reminding us of her ordeal.

Bringing her knee into unmistakable view over dinner, “Boo-boo… boo-boo.”  She couldn’t be cuter.

So that’s it, kids adore BAND-AIDs.  But this gets me thinking, not so fast.  It’s not like BAND-AIDS are the sole experience whereby something covers their skin.  If we’re lucky, kids generally wear clothes.  So this must be a fascination with frequency.  Although super rare, I’m hyper-aware when I sport a BAND-AID mainly because irritation pangs from a location where none previously existed.  I’m constantly reminded of that paper-cut on my index finger, a separate droning heartbeat.  This–the adult BAND-AID situation–draws attention from both kids and adults.

Abandoning eye contact, glaring at the BAND-AID, motionless with horror, “What happened?!

“Oh, this?  There was a low-flying airplane.”  I’m a jack-ass.

People instinctively want to know why you’re hurt.  So maybe this isn’t about frequency at all.  It’s about mortality, the sight of blood.  I’m not making this stuff up, so watch your step.

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Kids and Elevators.

There’s nothing more intoxicating for kids than an elevator ride. Pressing buttons, freaking out, the range of emotions expressed during a short ride between floors is cause for drunken celebration, whacked-out posture, even inebriated fear.  They live for this sh*t.

Recently returned from Bermuda, ferried by the ridiculously well-appointed Norwegian Breakaway, we endured 16 decks of elevator Bacchanalia.  Now think about this.  Think about the uneasiness of close quarters with strangers–that staple of elevator travel–then add kids, those wildcard assassins of etiquette.  Witness.


Cruise Creatures!

My daughter pulls off some Kurt Thomas sh*t, reverse-grasping the gymnastic mini bar, legs suspended, white bow unperturbed.  The boy succumbs to elevator music, conducting a wicked Bernstein symphony…


Home now, back to real life, I shuttle my 3 delinquents to an eye appointment, which, wouldn’t you know it, requires an elevator ride.  There’s a brief tussle as to who gets to press the button, 4th floor.  The doors close.  Inside the air seems deliriously thin.  Just then it’s as if they’re intravenously receiving massive amounts of Red Bull, careening off the walls, screeching like banshees.  There’s no bringing them down.  By the time we reach the 4th floor they’ve transformed into frenzied devil worshippers.

Until the next elevator ride I’m taking it all in like a sitcom.

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Wisdom Teeth: The Adult Pull.

I can’t afford to lose an ounce of wisdom, but numbers 17 and 32 have got to go.



I awake from the IV a dazed giddy madman, demanding my “book.”

Slobbering, a Titanic-sized bottom lip, “Bwhere’s by book?!

Genially, a tech informs me, “You didn’t bring a book.  How are you feeling?”

“Oh, ok…  bwhere’s by book?!”

“Let’s get up.  Slowly.”

She gently occupies my hands.  I hear music.  Swiveling in the dentistry recliner I rise.

“Take it slow.”  She’s like a damn angel.

Holding her hands, hearing the music, I ask, “Do you wan do dans?”

A total pro she fields my lame request, leading me to the recovery room.

“Did I ash abou by book?

“Yes.  Just relax.”

Feeling good, powers of speech emerging, “Ok.  Are you available?”

Just then Mom comes in and consoles me.  The process is simple and I’m good.  Soon after I’m on the road to recovery.

Once home, I deal.  The pain.  Man!  Although a die-hard fan of horror, spitting blood for a day or two is fairly unsettling.  I make a show of it for the kids, making this a lesson to brush your teeth. They’re properly appalled.

Now bereft, I’m ok with the loss of 17 and 32, but the aftermath is brutal.  Acetaminophen, oxycodone, gargling with salt water, this is for the birds.  And eating!  How I’ve taken for granted eating whatever I like whenever I want!  This is a real pain in the ass.  Lost a few pounds, though.  I’ll take it.

So, why did I wait so long, as this procedure is generally reserved for college-aged folk?  The teeth never gave me a problem.  Little cavities dictated their extraction.

Is there a lesson in this twisted fable?  Am I less intelligent?  Probably.  Not sure, though.  Too soon to tell.  If nothing else, I’ve been spared dry socket.  Bizarrely, I joked with the dentistry staff that I might go for the George Washington look.  Did you know he had only one natural tooth remaining when he took office?  Look at his dogs!



BTW, spell-check thought “oxycodone” was “oxymoron.”  Probably right.

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Counting Cars.

Always on the look-out for ways to keep the kids occupied, I institute new programs on the fly.  Some of you may remember last month’s installment, How To Control Kids: Question Quotas, a fine breach of free speech.  A far older institution, yet to be revealed until now (I’m such a tool), is Counting Cars, a fairly irresponsible practice if I’m driving.  When Mommy drives I’m like a seat-belted wolf, scanning the road for prey, quantifying victory, because in the end whomever collects the most sightings wins.  Game over.

Seems ridiculous not to identify the make and model, so here’s our list, in particular order:

The Ford Taurus

To judge by its style and frequency some might say the Taurus is plebeian, but they’d be wrong.  First introduced in 1985, the Taurus is now manufactured in its 6th generation, haughty territory for any vehicle.  If you really look you’ll see some of the old-schoolers out there, always on the road.

It's on.

It’s on.

The Ford Mustang

An audible riot, a Mustang is literally the wild west American horse, a freaking asphalt wolf! A common occurrence, each sighting is cause for unbridled celebration in my family.  This brutal equestrian rules the road.



The Corvette

Clearly the most exotic four wheels listed here, Chevrolet’s 2015 ZO6 makes a black hole shudder at 650 horsepower.  And the Corvette in general is a seasonal sighting–warm weather only.  It’s extremely rare to see a Corvette in winter, like a god-damned snow leopard!  Call me if you witness such an event as I’m committed to a longitudinal study.



I realize this is a decidedly American-made affair.  I plan to introduce the European sedan come Summer.

Again, my preoccupation with keeping the kids occupied leads to a new game.  Gradually all come aboard. Mommy mistakes a retro Camaro for a Mustang, and that’s ok (sorry purists).  They’re both American muscle cars.  To Reese everything is a Mustang, and she’s so sweet I could drive off the road.  My true competition is Jack.  Heading south, returning north on the GSP is like an Olympic event.  Shouting, grotesque posturing, unlike sportsmanship rule the day.

Closing Remarks–just learned that 10 and 2 on the wheel is considered highly unsafe–deployed airbags can send hands into the face, breaking thumbs, among other maladies. 9 and 3 is the new rule. This is my PSA.  Call me civic.

Happy motoring!

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How To Control Kids: Question Quotas.

Whether you’re a parent, uncle, aunt, grandparent, or some other source of influence on children, you know kids are wild cards, unruly quasi-citizens who require reigning-in.  Without structured discipline these diminutive devils will run us into the ground.  I’m all for fun, but there’s a time and a place, which leads me to my most recent parental practice: question quotas–I limit the number of questions my kids can ask in a given day.

Having just finished McCullough’s Pulitzer Prize-winning John Adams, I realize the colossus of independence would roar in defiance, but this imposition is mental survival considering the mind-numbing number of questions kids are prone to pose.  So there’s a quota, limiting free speech.

This dictatorship flies in the face of constitutional rights and ACLU lawsuits, but I’m ok with that as my agenda falls under career development–I’m preparing my kids for the workforce as many occupations require quotas.  I’m doing them a favor in service of their future careers.  Oh!  I’m so magnanimous.

Case Study:  Son Jack, a hearty boy, soon to be age 7.  It’s around 9am, Saturday.

“Dad…  Dad.    Dad.  What are we doing today?!”

“We have an agenda.”

“What’s that?”

“An agenda is stuff we have to do.  You have a finite number of questions you can ask today.  That number is 10.”

“What’s finite mean?”

“Good question.  In this context, it means you can’t ask more than 10 questions. You have 9 left, for the day.”

Furrowed brow, “What’s context mean?”

You could say I’m crushing his quota on purpose, maybe I am.  “Context gives us an idea on how to understand stuff. 8 left.”

“Ok. Are those pancakes?”  Mommy is, as always, industrious in the kitchen.

Wasted question!  You can see and smell what’s going on here.  Why ask what’s obvious?  7 left.”

“What’s obvious mean?”

“Ok, you get a pass there (again, so00 magnanimous).  It means you can already know what’s going on so you don’t need to ask.”

“Oh. Thanks, Dad.”

The rest of the day goes swimmingly.  Jack asks a boatload of questions, mostly good, so I’m lenient on the quota.  This system is a great cat and mouse game.  Our conversations are intense, anticipating the thread, we’re totally engaged in how we relate.  I didn’t anticipate this side-effect and I’m loving it.  However, nearing bedtime he makes a fatal error.

“Dad…  Dad.    Dad.  How many questions do I have left?”

“That was your last, son.  Wasted question.  What books do you want to read?  Pick two.”

“How come you get to ask a lot of questions?”

Abandoning my dictatorship, “Good question, Jackie-boy.  I’m your Dad, that comes with certain rights and privileges.”

“Oh, can I ask what that means?”

“You got it, my man.”

We round out the night with a couple Fly Guy books and I couldn’t be happier.  Like Pink Floyd said–All we need to do is make sure we keep talking.

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Comic Sans Must Die!!!

I’ve had it.  I mean it.  And I’m not alone.  Just Google the title of this post.  People are pissed!  They’ve gone so far as paying for domain names like and, advancing their campaign to the web in order to silence this odious font.  Ask anyone who’s currently breathing, “What’s the worst font in the world?!”


We’re just plain angry, revolted by this naive script, constantly confronted by missives from childcare institutions, elementary schools and adults who have no idea what the hell they’re doing.  It’s jaunty curves, lack of true serifs and overall casual nature are an affront to those who think.  Comic Sans is the opposite of sophistication, but that doesn’t make it rude or cool like Blutarsky.

AnimalHouse_082PyxurzAs a font, Comic Sans represents the equivalent of NJ Housewives–they’re on TV, in the headlines and they’re a plague.  For real.  Numerous studies–supported by the National Institutes of Health mind you–reveal some startling side effects.  In a double-blind study, reading more than four words jacketed in Comic Sans is proven to lower libido, deteriorate brain cells and, oddly enough, reverse the aging process.  This last side effect is likely attributable to the font’s childlike nature.  Although not widely reported, one study conducted by the World Health Organization purports when heard out loud, Comic Sans represents an audible carcinogen, making this font kinda like secondhand smoke.

Just stay away from it people, please, I’m begging you… on bended knee, reeling with disgust.

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Dead Goldfish: A Harrowing True Story.

The death of any child’s pet is cause for concern, be it dog, cat, ferret, crustacean, or in our case, the frighteningly disposable goldfish.  The death of Dashey, Jack’s morbidly obese goldfish, is not only a familial loss, it’s a terribly smelly affair.  A full week passes before we discover Dashey’s bloated remains.  While we were on vacation hamming it up, this bony fish went belly up.


But let’s get back.  Halfway through our vacation Jack’s genuinely concerned, bubbling with clairvoyance.

“Dad.  Dad.  Dad!  Dad, are my fish gonna be ok?”

In full vacation mode, lounging in both mind and body, “C’mon Jack, really?  I fed those guys like a boatload of food before we left.  They prolly turned into sharks by now. They’re fine. “

“OK!  Let’s go to the pool!”

“You got it pal.”

Meanwhile at home, already expired, Dashey pulsates, pinned to the filter.  His scales slough off and revolve around the tank like off-white apparitions.

We hate to leave picturesque Rehoboth Beach and race home, but this vacation has to end.  Jack, Reese and Faye, backseat squabbling all-stars, crush our patience, hour after hour during this brutal minivan tour.  I eventually lose it and take a hand off the wheel.  The following is a moment in every parent’s career–we grab onto the closest backseat limb and constrict, teeth gritted, eyes glaring.  The act is cathartic but ultimately useless.  Anyways, we’re finally home.

The front door opens with customary flourish and we’re unwittingly confronted by a tidal wave of fetid air .. .  .   .     .   the living room reeks of death!!  Instinctively Jack rushes upstairs to confirm his suspicion.

The slow wind-up cry can be heard in the next county.


I fly up the stairs like an Olympic athlete.  Requiring more oxygen as a result of this exercise, I take a few deep breaths upon entering Jack’s room.  Here’s where I throw-up in my mouth a little, followed by muffled dry heaves.

“Holy CRAP!  We gotta clean this up.  Go to Mommy and Daddy’s room and wait for me there.”

What’s the last thing you want to do after a vacation, after hours of putting out fires between your ungrateful kids?  Clean up a dead fish.  The overstuffed suitcases, mountains of laundry, getting ready for the work week–it’ll all have to wait.  I’ve got a situation here.

I’m halfway done with this hellish clean-up by the time Jack composes himself.

“Where’s Dashey?

“In a bag in the garbage can outside.” 

My eyes are teary, not because I’m mourning Dashey, it’s just that the air in here is like burning vapor, like living inside an onion.  It dawns on me–my birthday’s coming up–I’m requesting a Hazmat suit.

“Why didn’t you flush him down the toilet, like… like the other ones?”

“He was too big.  Probably woulda blown-out the toilet.”

Excitedly, “Well… when can we get another fish?”

My eyes distribute complete disdain.

“Dashey just died. Don’t You Want To MOURN?!”  I’m a counselor, can’t help it.

“I guess…  What’s mourn mean?”

I’m getting on a roll here, “And what about Spotty, what did he have to go through, stuck in here for a week with his dead friend gettin’ stinky and smelly?  What about his feelings?  Did you ever think about that?!


“Ok then.  Go downstairs and ask Mommy if she’s needs any help.  We’re done here.”

We hold vigil for a week then buy “Ock-ee” presumably Oscar, this according to Reese who picked-out and named the replacement fish.  She’s such a doll!

So, what have I learned so far?  Parenting is a full-contact sport, that’s for sure.  Dealing with death is but one of the many joys.


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