I thought this parenting thing would get easier

I thought it was supposed to get easier.
I thought the older the children grew, the easier the task of raising them would be.
I thought wrong.
When our first child was born more than two decades ago, I thought the task was insane.
The whining, crying – and that was just me; you should have seen the fuss the newborn made.
Going from no kids to one kid was a big leap. Raising the wee one becomes all consuming. You are at his every beck and call, 24 hours a day.
Feeding the little gaffer several times a day, changing his diaper every two or three days, I mean come on, how much can be expected.
I am kidding about the diaper thing, of course. As any parent knows, when Junior needs a diaper change, he needs it now and he is none too shy about vocalizing his displeasure when the garment that gathers recycled food matter becomes uncomfortable.
Eventually, the diaper days are done, then, it's potty training where you make a big deal when Junior goes poopoo on the potty.
Any self consciousness is wiped away by the time you finish dancing around the bathroom with a toddler because he made a stinky in the potty.
But with potty training comes accidents, so you never leave the house without at least one extra change of clothing because, as I learned quickly, when Junior has to go, he goes.
“Daddy, I have to go peepee,” said Junior while we were in a store one day.
“OK, son, hang on I will get you to the nearest bath....”
“Too late, Daddy. I already go.”
Cue the change of clothes.
Similar stories can be told of all my children, and I am sure every parent can relate.
I was prepared for that aspect of child rearing – sort of – before we had children. I knew once a child arrived, my life was no longer my own and I accepted and even embraced it.
I really did enjoy being a dad — maybe not the cleaning up barf from all over the floor, crib and wall at 2 a.m. — but, most of the time, it was a task I did enjoy.
It was fun to watch them reach milestones like:

• successful potty training
  
• going to school
  
• going to high school, etc.
  

But I must admit, once they got into early adulthood, I thought my parenting stress and responsibility would reduce.
This is where the parents of adult children snicker at my naiveté.
I am learning one set of parental stress is simply traded for another.
Helping them through the early years of adult life is proving to be a bigger challenge than I thought. I used to think once you're an adult, you are on your own to forging your own path.
While they are forging their own path, that path leads through post-secondary education and that means money – lots and lots of money.
My two oldest are in university and working hard to get by. Both go to school full time and work part time, but they still need a little help once in a while.
When they are a few dollars short on rent, or tuition or books, it is often up to the Bank of Mom and Dad to help out.
So the stress of getting them out of the baby and teen years morphs into the stress of helping them through the young-adult years.
Not just the financial stress, but there is also emotional stress as they navigate life, love, loss and all that other stuff young minds encounter.
There's the stress of watching them make less-than-ideal decisions, or trying to help rein in the raging hormones of a teen girl (that is a story in itself.)
But that is just part of what parenting is all about, and I wouldn't want it any other way.
Now, if you will excuse me, tuition is due for both of my oldest, so I am going on eBay to sell a kidney.
Any takers?

Copyright 2017 Darren Handschuh

I'm old and wise. I used to be young and stupid

It happened once again.

The clock kept ticking and another birthday came and went – just like it does every year.

I have been roaming this earth for a little more than half a century, soaking up knowledge and storing it in the vast intellectual vault that is my brain.

OK, I will admit a lot of that knowledge is absolutely worthless. Did you know cockroaches have teeth in their stomachs to break down their food? Now you do.

Just another useless tidbit of information I have archived over the years. I could barely remember the information in a book I am studying, but I do know all bananas have a very low level of natural radiation.

But I am much wiser now than I was 20 or 30 years ago.

There is a difference between being smart and being wise.

Smart will help you figure out quantum mechanics, wise will help you realize you are not smart enough to figure out quantum mechanics.

There have been many instances when I have passed my hard-earned wisdom on to my children – only to have it completely ignored.

Not because it was poor advice, but because teenagers know everything in the world that has ever been worth knowing.

Junior bought a truck a while back. A great big four-wheel drive that is much more truck than he required.

A co-worker asked me why he needed a truck that big.

“He didn't 'need' one that big, he 'wanted' one that big.”

And to a teen, 'want' and 'need' are very often the same thing.

While the truck is in pretty decent shape, it needed new tires before long

Wisdom told me the rubber would be expensive. And when I mentioned that to Junior, he replied, “I know.”

I told him they would cost more than $1,000.

“I know.”

I told him with the bank loan, insurance and his social life, coming up with that kind of money will be hard.

“I know.”

Well, the time has come for the rubber to hit the road and that rubber is going to cost a bundle.

When I mentioned it is time to replace all four tires, he replied “Ya, but they are expensive.”

To which I had the great pleasure of responding with, "I know."

My son is very smart, but he is not very wise.

What young lad is, really?

I wasn't at that age.

It has taken five decades to accumulate such a vast wealth of knowledge and intelligence. Well, knowledge anyway, I have never claimed to have an abundance of intelligence.

It is a shame you cannot download all that wisdom to your children, saving them from making he same mistakes you made at that age.

But because it is the first time they have done or experienced something, teens think it is something completely new and us 'old people' wouldn't understand.

What the kiddies don't appreciate is us 'old people' have already walked that path, we have already experienced what they are now just discovering.

I am sure my own father wished he could have injected his wisdom into my teenage brain, just like his father and his father before him.

But before you can be old and wise, you must be young and stupid.

I admit, I took the stupid part to new heights (well, new to me anyway), but what teen didn't do stupid things in the name of adventure and excitement?

Wisdom teaches you it is not smart to try and jump a barbedwire fence with your dirtbike. The stupidity of youth says 'Go for it, dude.'

Wisdom also knows new tires for a big truck are expensive, eating fast food several times a week is not good for you and the world will not stop rotating if you do not get the latest and greatest gadget.

Not all 'old people' are wise, and I have some peers who are still making some very dumb decisions. Fortunately, I am now wise enough to not make the same choices.

Tobogganing the mountain of doooooom

There is a terrific tobogganing hill a couple hundred metres from where I live.

There are several grades from a leisurely slide down the hill to a rocket-like decent for the brave and foolhardy.

The best part is, the run off area is a football field.

My children spent many an hour sliding down that hill, as did numerous other kids from the neighbourhood.

There were even a few of us older kids out there once in a while, reliving our youth by taking a blast of frozen ice particles to the face.

I never had an actual toboggan when I was a young lad, but I have ridden on one and quickly learned the snow pours over the top of the wooden contraption and sandblasts, or rather snowblasts, you in the face, tearing off the first layer of skin and rendering you temporarily blind.

Good times.

But, the more the hill is used the less powder there is, until eventually, the snow packs down and the slope ices up until it is basically a downhill skating rink, allowing participants to break the sound barrier before they reach the bottom of the hill.

As a young lad, we would all gather at 'Suicide Hill' to do our sledding.

What else would a group of youngsters name a tobogganing hill? Gentle Slope of Fun? Slide of Silliness?

No, it had to be something dangerous, something that evoked the death-defying acts we were performing.

We were, after all, daring dare devils doing daring acts. Or something like that anyway.

Actually, it really was quite a dangerous place to go sledding and now that I am all grown up I wonder why we were even allowed to go down such a hazardous hillside. Where were the adults when I was growing up? Probably just happy to have us out of the house.

There were two runs: a short fast one, and a long slower one.

The short fast one went down a fairly steep slope before it leveled out. Doesn't sound too bad, does it? And except for the barbed wire fence at the end of the run, it wasn't. If you had too much speed, you actually had to jump off your mount to slow down or you would hit the fence – as had been done by many people on many occasions.

Torn jackets, scratches and even a few stitches were just par for the course.

The other run was much slower and if you did it right you would slide across a driveway, over a cross road and down another road that was even longer than the actual hill you started out on.

The full length of this run could only done when there was a fresh, unplowed snowfall blanketing the blacktop because sliding on bare asphalt is a bad idea any time of the year.

Aside from the risk of being run over by a 2,000-pound automobile, it was a lot of fun. Kids rarely factor danger into their activities, so we hardly ever thought about being clobbered by a car.

Our focus was on racing down the mountain and seeing who could slide the farthest, the fastest.

No one was ever seriously hurt, but one intrepid slider did crash into the side of a car, much the displeasure of the car owner who was more worried about a dent in his automobile than the head of the child that caused it.

That hill is now a housing development, so never again will a child be able to dodge a Dodge or find a way to stop before sailing through a barbed wire fence.

And perhaps that is a good thing.

Copyright 2017, Darren Handschuh

The 'fun' of parenting never ends

When my children were younger, I would always think things will be easier when they are older.

“When they are older, I won't have to change stinky diapers anymore.”

Which is true, but for a while you have to deal with 'accidents' that happen at pretty much anytime of the day, no matter where you are.

For parents with children in this transitional phase, you quickly learn to carry extra clothes with you even if you are just running to the grocery store for 10 minutes.

Because, as every parent knows, you can ask your young one if they have to go 'potty' before you leave to which they will always say no.

Then, five minutes after arriving at your destination, they will have to go - immediately. Sometimes you would make it to the nearest lavatory on time, some times you wouldn't.

And of course more than one day began with the changing of the sheets after a night time 'accident.'

“It will be nice when they can walk, then I won't have to carry them everywhere.”
Now that statement is true. I did not have to carry them everywhere, I had to chase them everywhere. And young children rarely walk anywhere. Instead they skip and hop and run, but they rarely walk.

I used to think, “It will be so nice when they are in school. I will have all this free time – it will be wonderful.”

Well, you do have more free time during the day. But after school there is homework and sports and special events and parent-teacher interviews and...

Then there is the drama. Oh my, the drama.

Not so much with my sons, but with my daughter there was lots of girl drama – something I was not expecting nor prepared for.

I had no idea the emotional tsunami a growing girl brings to the party with her. One minute she is feuding with someone, the next they are best friends. One second she is happy, the next she is bawling her eyes out.

It was hard to keep up.

“When they are in high school, then things will be easier.”

Remember that emotional tsunami I was talking about? Well, it carries on well into the high school years.

It is true they are a lot more independent in the teen years, which is good, but they also think they know a lot more than they do.

It also means they want to drive, and for the first few years that meant driving my car, until they could afford one of their own.

“Dad, the car is out of gas”

“Well, put some in.”

“I don't have any money.”

“Dad, I kind of backed into a truck. The truck is fine, but the car not so much...”

So for the next couple years a drove a red car with a grey trunk that was always out of gas.

OK, when they graduate high school and move out things will be easier.

Except for the ridiculous expense of college that is.

“What do you mean one book costs $600. What kind of book is it? Is the type written in gold or something?”

Then there is the moving out part.

“He dad, can you help me move – again.”

“Hey dad, I'm a little short of rent money this month – again.”

So you see, the challenges of young children are replaced with challenges of older children.

I know people who's children are well into their 40s and still giving their parents grief.

Now I say, “It will sure be nice when we retire, then we can move away and not tell them where we went.”

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

They're right, you can't herd a cat

So there I was, pitted against a wily beast.

A creature of such cunning, such prowess I knew the odds were heavily against me.

But I refused to give up.

First, I tried sneaking up on the beast from behind, but my ninja-like skills have been slowed by old age, well middle age anyway, and the furred critter made good its escape.

Perhaps enticing the beast with food would bring it close enough for me to get my hands it.

And then again, perhaps not.

Said beast remained just out of arms reach, foiling an otherwise brilliant plan.

A few other attempts were made to grab the wayward animal, but in the end I had to admit defeat.

I had been outsmarted and outmaneuvered by a one-year-old cat.

Young Daughter wanted a pet of her own, so a year ago we picked up a kitten.

Her name is Lisa, a.k.a. Little Cat, and she is your typical cat that does typical cat things.

We decided she would be an outside cat, so we let her explore the backyard in short stints and she seemed fine with that because every little sound scared the snot out of her.

A bug farted and she sprinted for the backdoor like a pack of wolves were after her. Sure it was pretty big bug, but she is not exactly coming across as a fierce creature.

And I am OK with that as it should improve her survival odds in the great outdoors.

And it's not like we live in the deep forest or harsh jungle. We live in your typical suburban neighbourhood mostly devoid of vicious predators.

There are, however, coyotes in the surrounding hills and we occasionally hear them howling and yipping at night.

And that is why I ended up spending a good portion of my evening trying to herd a cat into the house.

It was near dark and Lisa bolted out the back door as fast a cat can bolt, which all cat owners know is pretty fast.

In a flash she was out the door and down the stairs.

She jumped the fence and settled in our neighbour's yard as my wife muttered some words under her breath while watching Little Cat take off.

Not wanting Lisa to spend the night outside, my wife made numerous attempts to corral the kitty back into the house, but to no avail.

You know what they say about herding cats?

Well, it's true. It is an impossible task.

So with my wife stressed out and Young Daughter having a slight meltdown at the prospect of her beloved kitty surviving on her own through the night, I was asked to assist. (Like I am some sort of cat-herding expert or something.)

I spent the next while trying to get Little Cat into the house where there was no risk of coyotes, eagles, cougars, polar bears or any other nasty chompers that might want to have a snack before bedtime.

I tried to explain to everyone that this is what outside cats do: they go outside. She will not have been the first feline in history to spend the night outdoors and I had all the confidence in the world there was a pretty good chance Lisa could do it.

But to appease the Missus and Young Daughter, I did my best to get Little Cat into the house.

However, as darkness enveloped the land, I knew it was a lost cause and finally convinced everyone there was nothing more we could do.

Reluctantly, everyone headed into the house, leaving Lisa to her fate and all hoping she would return in the morning – which she did.

As soon as the Missus got up, she checked for Little Cat who was sitting at the back door with a very proud look on hear face.

She had done it, she survived her first night in the wilds of suburbia with out so much as a scratch.

The Missus was relieved, Young Daughter, oh, hell, we were all relieved.

I learned a couple things that day: Little Cat can make it on her own and it really is impossible to herd a cat.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Kid goo is just plain gross

There are many things about raising children no one tells you before you have kids.
You hear about how cute they are and the funny little things they say and do, but parents rarely tell non-parents about the train wreck raising children can be.
Yes they are cute. Yes they say and do funny little things and I wouldn’t trade being a father for the world, but there are certain aspects of parenting I could do without.
It seems little kids are always emitting some form of liquid, especially when they have a cold.
I first noticed it with my oldest son when he was a baby, and the bigger he got, the more goo he produced.
When he had a cold and crawled across the room, it looked like a giant snail had slinked through my house.
The upside was he was easy to find, just follow the trail of mucus.
The dogs enjoyed it too. There was always something to sniff, lick or roll in.
Junior would come crawling over put his arms in the air and say, “Up daddy, up.”
“No, slimy little dude, no.”
But of course I would pick him up and we would wrestle around for a little while. I would then have to burn the clothes I was wearing because they had been encased with so much kid goo they had become their own life form.
Because this was our first child, I was mildly horrified at the excretions coming out of such a cute little person.
OK, perhaps mildly is too gentle a word.
There were some diapers I had to beat with a stick to get into the trash can. The government was investigating my garbage bags for bio-chemical warfare agents.
Good thing George Dubya wasn’t around at the time, or marines would have landed in my driveway looking for WMDs, which in this case was Wicked Messy Diapers.
It was a good day when it came time for potty training.
Dr. James Dobson says it is important to make a big deal out of it when Junior goes on the potty.
So my wife and I would whoop and holler and dance around like drunken lunatics whenever Junior “made a stinky on the potty.”
He would laugh and feel quite proud of himself.
He was also encouraging to others. Like the time at a restaurant when he accompanied me to the washroom and let out a victory cry of, “Yay, daddy went pee in the potty.”
It is amazing how far a little kid’s voice can carry.
Just as Junior was starting to figure out the whole potty thing, we had another son and it was back to diapers, bio-chemical agents and other nasty stuff you usually see only in horror movies like The Blob.
But he too mastered the art of using the lavatory and there was much rejoicing in the House of Handschuh.
But we were not done yet. We had one more bundle of joy to get through the diaper stage. Fortunately the third and final instalment of our clan learned quickly and we were once again free of diaper changes.
But we were not free of cleaning up, not by a long shot.
One of the happiest days of my life was when the last of my children learned how to barf in a bucket.
One thing I have learned as a parent is how not to be grossed out (to a degree anyway.) It is still disgusting, but you build up a sort of immunity to it. The mind is an amazing thing that has the ability to block stuff out, which is a very good thing.
Many was the night when a kid would blow chunks in bed, on the stairs, in the hallway on route to the bathroom and once even on the dog.
The hound didn’t seem to mind or need any help getting cleaned up because by the time I got around to wiping the mutt down, the job had already been taken care of.
Dogs seemed to have mastered not getting grossed out. In fact, when it comes to the family hound the rule of thumb seems to be the grosser the better.
Man’s best friend is truly a disgusting creature.
But being grossed out is only a minor burden to bear for the rewards of being a dad.
And for all you non-parents out there, I would just like to say having kids is a wonderful experience. It truly is.
So go ahead and have children, lots and lots of them. They say and do the cutest things.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Boys are just plain icky

Boys can be gross little critters.
They don’t necessarily mean to be, it’s just the nature of possessing testosterone without the maturity to wield it.
Testosterone is kind of like the Force - once you learn how to control it, it can be of great benefit, but if it is unchecked it leads to the dark side and the dark side usually involves something that will gross out mom and dad.
Mind you when boys grow up, testosterone can still lead to some uncouth situations. I highly doubt it was a refined woman who invented the globally popular ‘Pull my finger’ gag.
Anyway, not too long ago I was talking to a lady who was appalled by the actions of some of the young boys in her neighbourhood.
The lads were around 10 years old and full of vinegar and puppy dog tails or what ever else they are supposed to be made of.
It would seem these future leaders of our nation decided it would be more fun to pee in their water guns and squirt each other than to just fill them with boring old water.
When she said this to myself and another father, I had to chuckle.
They looked at me like I was demented.
“You both only have girls, don’t you?”
They did and were thus unfamiliar with the minds of little men.
I doubt a girl would ever think of doing such a thing.
I know it is disgusting and I am certainly not endorsing it, but it is something little boys do, and parents who only have girls simply do not understand.
Most girls are all cute and sweet, while boys are more like chimpanzees on a sugar high. I am sure boys are where the term ‘perpetual motion’ came from, because it seems little boys never stop moving, doing things or looking for new adventures – which translates into getting in to trouble.
They don’t necessarily mean to get in trouble, it just kind of happens.
One day, my oldest son was looking at this small, black thing he took out of his pocket.
I assumed it was a rock or something and I asked what he had.
“It’s a bird’s stomach” was his matter-of-fact reply.
I stopped dead in my tracks and contemplated his response.
“A what?” was my somewhat horrified reaction.
“I also have what I think is a heart and a lung.”
My mind raced at the information I was hearing.
“OK, calm down. There are plenty of good psychiatrists in town. That’s it, all he needs is a little assistance. He will be fine. All little boys carry animal parts in their pocket – right?”
My next concern was how he came into possession of said body parts.
He went on to explain that he had found a dead bird behind the shed and decided to take it apart to see what was in it.
He always enjoyed taking things apart which, until that moment in time, I thought was a good thing. He was expanding his knowledge, exploring how things worked – now it was just a one-way ticket to Barf City.
He did not have any surgical tools or even a pocketknife, so he pulled it apart with his fingers.
I would just like to say – eeeeeeeewww. Now that is disgusting.
He did not know it was gross, he was just a curious seven year old with no concern for minor details like germs, bacteria, malaria or the plague.
Again, I doubt most girls would ever do that.
While girls are playing with dolls and having imaginary tea parties, Junior was performing a do-it-yourself autopsy.
“Go in the house and wash your hands – a lot. Use the entire bar of soap and don’t touch anything on the way in. Just keep your hands in the air. Wait, let me open the door and turn on the taps. NO, don’t touch me. NO, don’t touch the cat either.”
“Can I keep the stomach?”
“Noooooo.”
Boys just do things differently.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

My kids aren't perfect, but close enough

Parenting is not for the weak minded.

Or for those with a weak stomach now that I think about it.

How a baby can get that much goo into a single diaper I still do not know.

I speak of the joys of parenting from a place of wisdom and experience.

Despite protests from many of my so-called friends, I reproduced three times. I have brought three children into the world.

Well, technically my wife did all the work, what with carrying them around for nine months and doing stuff like creating lungs and a heart and what not.

But I did my role to make a baby possible and once the kids were born I stepped in as often as I could – well, more or less anyway.

Raising children can be a challenge at the best of times. It is a fine balancing act between heaping on too much discipline and restricting too much of their freedom and letting them run wild and watch them make the top of the news feed.

Children are always pushing the boundaries of their confinements.

When they are little, their goal is to escape from the crib, then they want to escape from their room and as they get older they want to escape from the home they perceive as a concentration camp and run through the streets like a bunch of barbarians only with more of an attitude problem.

When they are in school they want to test the boundaries of just how far they can push the teacher before that vein in her head starts to throb like an alien trying to crawl out of her cranium.

Some children push those boundaries a lot farther than others and I am happy to say my wife and I were never, er, rarely, called in to talk to the principal about the actions of our children.

I am not saying we had perfect little angels (like my parents did), but overall they are pretty darn good kids.

Sure they did stupid kid stuff like setting the kitchen on fire while cooking or accidentally shooting out the window in my garage with a BB gun, but that is more youthful inexperience that adolescent malice.

I can honestly say I never set the kitchen on fire while cooking some hamburgers when I was a kid. Sure, I set half a mountain on fire while playing with some matches with my best friend, but at least our kitchen was fine.

Anyway, I knew going into it that my children would do some dumb stuff either because of inexperience or youthful bravado – of which I can claim incidents in both categories.

Kids are kids, but there is a big difference between youthful exuberance and being a little degenerate.

Youthful exuberance is seeing how far you can jump your peddle bike,

Being a degenerate in training is throwing a rock at your friend while he is seeing how far he can jump on his peddle bike – which results in you crashing and immediately looking for a better class of friend.

I noticed the bratty kids of my youth mostly grew up to be trouble makers in their teen years.

Drugs, alcohol and a general bad attitude accompanied them where ever they went and they soon had a reputation that also went where ever they did.

While I was hardly a perfect little saint spreading goodwill to my fellow man in the teen years, I was also not a really bad kid. No drugs, no alcohol and no harmful acts, just youthful stuff like speeding in my car, sneaking my girlfriend out the side door 2 a.m. and other stuff that was relatively harmless.

As far as I know, my own children are walking a similar path. Are they little angels? Nope, but neither are they the 'bad kids' other kids try to avoid, and that is close enough for me.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

First time parents are a funny lot

Having been a father for many years, I find it amusing to hang out with people who have just had their first child.
I call them frantic first timers because they are always frantic about the state of their offspring.
I have to admit I was the same way when kid No. 1 came along.
Every peep Junior made would send me scrambling to make sure he was OK.
If he suddenly started crying in his crib, I just knew a giant anaconda had escaped from some zoo, made its way to my house and was about turn my beautiful baby into a serpent snack.
Or perhaps a pack of jackals had some how gotten past me and snuck up the stairs, opened the door to his room and were licking their chops in anticipation of the defenseless meal that awaited them.
I would go charging into his room, ready to battle the evil creatures who dared threaten the safety of my child.
The evil creature most often turned out to be a full diaper – which was only evil to the person changing it. What did the kid care, his work was done.
I still remember changing the first diaper of my life. My wife took pictures and greatly enjoyed the look on my face when I discovered what the diaper held.
It was kind of a combination of revulsion and stoic shock.
Anyway, a fresh diaper, something to eat and he was as happy as a little kid can be.
When kid No. 2 came along, I possessed a much greater understanding of children and realized they are not going to spontaneously combust if their crying was not tended to in less than three seconds.
I also came to the conclusion that roaming packs of anacondas riding jackals were extremely rare in Canada.
Instead of dashing up the stairs every time he made a noise, I would wait a couple minutes to see if he would go back to sleep, which he sometimes did. If not, I would head upstairs and tackle the terror of the diaper. Once again, Junior would emerge happy.
And once again I would be repulsed by the diaper content, but the more diapers I changed the faster I recovered.
By the time kid No. 3 came along, I was a cool and calm and had a pretty good grip on the whole baby thing. Diapers were no more mentally damaging than wiping a runny nose or cleaning the all impressive ‘spit up.’
The joys of parenthood just never seemed to end.
So, she would start crying in her crib and I would casually stroll up to get her, with no more urgency than is warranted.
Try explaining this morphing of attitude to someone who is still tending to kid No. 1.
They look at you like you are nuts.
A few years ago we visited some friends in northern B.C. who had just had their first child.
She was a beautiful little girl who hardly made a peep, but when a peep was made, parents would scramble.
She slept for several hours the first day we were there and her dad checked on her many times.
Apparently he too had heard of the anaconda threat and was making sure his daughter was safe from the roaming band of vicious vipers.
After watching him quietly open the door and peak into her room, I tried to impart some parental wisdom on my friend.
I debunked the anaconda theory, and told him not to worry, that at six months old, she would let him know when she was awake.
He nodded in agreement, digested the information and then took a break from our conversation to sneak down the hall peak in her room.
Frantic first timers are an amusing lot.
After she woke up we decided to go for a walk to the corner store and while my three children ran down the park trail, their bundle of joy was in a stroller.
The walk should have taken about 15 minutes, but because the sun was shining, Mom had to turn the stroller, adjust the shade cover and make sure the evil rays from the glowing ball in the sky never touched her child, so it took more than 30 minutes.
I didn’t mind. It was a nice day, my kids were having a good time running around in the woods and the live entertainment was so much fun to watch.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

A horror story parents would understand

I feel obligated to provide a warning to all who read these words. This column contains images that are not recommended for those with a weak constitution. It is a tale of unspeakable horror and scenes so vile only the bravest of souls should dare read Tales from the Crib.
The day started out like most other days, except this day my son, Junior, had the flu. Now a flu is not fun for anyone, but for a two-year-old boy it brings with it a whole set of problems adults don’t deal with, such as a child’s ability – or should I say willingness - to throw up no matter where they are.
Hearing Junior was awake I entered his room and stopped cold when I saw what my young son had accomplished. I also instantly realized giving grape juice to a two year old with the flu is not the smartest move.
Standing in his crib with a big smile on his face was my son. The front of his sleeper was purple, the crib was purple the floor and even the wall was purple, but what really impressed me was he got some on the ceiling.
That is regurgitation of Herculean proportions. I had never seen a kid hose down a room with such efficiency.
His older brother had done his fair share of spewing, but I was in awe of the master.
I felt a brief twinge of fatherly pride, however it was quickly eclipsed by a sense of ‘Oh the humanity.’
Junior was not upset in the least by the situation, but I was left wondering how I could get my hands on a haz-mat suit. My wife poked her head in the door and then took off faster than a gazelle on steroids mumbling something about how she gave birth, so the least I could do was clean up the mess.
Now, just how long does the ‘I gave birth’ excuse work? When I’m 90 and the dog makes a mess on the floor, will she mumble through her false teeth something about giving birth before wacking over the head with her cane and telling me to clean it up?
But, back to the task at hand. The first thing I had to do was get Junior out of the crib, which would normally be an easy task, but the blonde, blue eyed Creature from the Purple Lagoon standing before me made it a scary proposition.
At first, I tried using ‘The Force’ to lift him out and float him to the bathtub, but it didn’t work.
It was obvious I was going to have to pick the little guy up and carry him to the bathroom. It is amazing how fast one can run while carrying a small child by two fingers at arms length.
Jr., meanwhile, was having a great time and giggled all the way as I tore down the hallway with the determination of a weight watchers class which had just spotted a pizza.
I placed him in the tub, got him out of his sleeper and cranked up the water. I took the sleeper to the wash machine and set it on puree before heading back upstairs to deal with the crib, wall and ceiling.
Surveying the room I wondered how so much goop could come out of such a tiny person. As I scrubbed I realized I had not even had breakfast yet and I began to think about how good some eggs would be right about now.
I am convinced only a parent could think about what to have for breakfast while cleaning up 37 gallons of kid barf.
Eventually I got the room cleaned up – there is still a stain on the carpet as a sort of memorial to the event – and got Junior dressed and downstairs, thus ending the vomit incident.
If you’ll recall this adventure in parenthood started because Junior had the flu and with it came diarrhea, or as we call it ‘the scoots’ because you are always scooting to the bathroom.
That was also the day I learned a diaper can only hold so much recycled food matter before it escapes the elastic confines of the undergarment by any means possible.
But the story of the overflowing diaper and the family dog who gave its best effort to help clean up the floor will have to be told a different day.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

So long Junior, I will miss you. Who knew?

So my oldest child has flown the coop.

While hardly a kid anymore – he is 22 years old after all – he will always be a child because I was there when he was barely old enough to lay in a crib and wiggle.

I know many people who watched as their children spread their wings and took off, but to be perfectly honest, at the time, I really didn't understand what the big deal was.

I moved out when I was a young man, just like billions of other young people have done throughout the course of time.

As the papa bear, it was my job to raise my children to the point where they are able to move out on their own, then it was “Don't let the door hit your butt on the way out.”

I know a papa bear might not be the best example of parenting in the wild because an adult male bear will attack any other male bear that comes in his territory, even his own child.

But considering male lions eat their young, I think I will with the bruin analogy.

I have never attacked my kids, nor threatened to eat them, so I guess I am doing OK.

Anyway, Junior reached an age where he wanted to take off on his own, to explore new worlds, to live in a different city than the one he was raised.

It was a day I had been thinking about for years, but when the day came I was not doing cartwheels across the lawn – mainly because I am way to old to be doing cartwheels across the lawn - but also because I was not that thrilled with Junior jumping from the nest.

What? What is this? What is this odd feeling I have? I did my job, I raised him as best I could and now I should be able to sit back, wave goodbye and get on with getting the other two out of the house.

But instead of seeing a young man spreading his wings, all I could see was the little boy who held so many grasshoppers in one hand their guts were squishing between his fingers.

Suddenly, the big, tough papa bear was feeling more like a hormonal tween.

During the eight-hour drive to his new city – I helped him move like any papa bear would – all I could think of was the days gone by and the moments a father shares with his young son.

Was I sad Junior was all grown up, something I had worked hard to help make happen?

I surprised even myself because I was.

That can't be right. I'm the big tough papa bear. It was the mama bear who was supposed to be sad little bear is leaving the clan. Papa bear is the one who was supposed to hold the door as Junior made an exit before doing a little dance because it was one down and two to go.

But there I was, the big tough papa bear feeling very melancholy about Junior leaving the cave.

I know it is how life works: you are born, you are a baby, then a kid, then a teen, then a young man and then you move out.

I was ready for it, prepared for it, at times I was almost longing for it so imagine my surprise when I was saddened by it.

With Junior gone there would be things like left overs in the fridge, gas in my car and finally a spare room where I could put my treadmill – yes I actually use the treadmill for more than collecting dust.

Hmm, perhaps there is some good to Junior flying the coop and striking out on his own. I just wonder if his flight will imitate that of a homing pigeon.

I guess we will have to wait and see.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Little boys can be really gross

Boys can be gross little critters.
They don’t necessarily mean to be, it’s just the nature of possessing testosterone without the maturity to wield it.
Testosterone is kind of like the Force - once you learn how to control it, it can be of great benefit, but if it is unchecked it leads to the dark side and the dark side usually involves something that will gross out mom and dad.
Mind you when boys grow up, testosterone can still lead to some uncouth situations. I highly doubt it was a refined woman who invented the globally popular ‘Pull my finger’ gag.
Anyway, not too long ago I was talking to a lady who was appalled by the actions of some of the young boys in her neighbourhood.
The lads were around 10 years old and full of vinegar and puppy dog tails or what ever else they are supposed to be made of.
It would seem these future leaders of our nation decided it would be more fun to pee in their water guns and squirt each other than to just fill them with boring old water.
When she said this to myself and another father, I had to chuckle.
They looked at me like I was demented.
“You both only have girls, don’t you?”
They did and were thus unfamiliar with the minds of little men.
I doubt a girl would ever think of doing such a thing.
I know it is disgusting and I am certainly not endorsing it, but it is something little boys do, and parents who only have girls simply do not understand.
Most girls are all cute and sweet, while boys are more like chimpanzees on a sugar high. I am sure boys are where the term ‘perpetual motion’ came from, because it seems little boys never stop moving, doing things or looking for new adventures – which translates into getting in to trouble.
They don’t necessarily mean to get in trouble, it just kind of happens.
One day, my oldest son was looking at this small, black thing he took out of his pocket.
I assumed it was a rock or something and I asked what he had.
“It’s a bird’s stomach” was his matter-of-fact reply.
I stopped dead in my tracks and contemplated his response.
“A what?” was my somewhat horrified reaction.
“I also have what I think is a heart and a lung.”
My mind raced at the information I was hearing.
“OK, calm down. There are plenty of good psychiatrists in town. That’s it, all he needs is a little assistance. He will be fine. All little boys carry animal parts in their pocket – right?”
My next concern was how he came into possession of said body parts.
He went on to explain that he had found a dead bird behind the shed and decided to take it apart to see what was in it.
He always enjoyed taking things apart which, until that moment in time, I thought was a good thing. He was expanding his knowledge, exploring how things worked – now it was just a one-way ticket to Barf City.
He did not have any surgical tools or even a pocketknife, so he pulled it apart with his fingers.
I would just like to say – eeeeeeeewww. Now that is disgusting.
He did not know it was gross, he was just a curious seven year old with no concern for minor details like germs, bacteria, malaria or the plague.
Again, I doubt most girls would ever do that.
While girls are playing with dolls and having imaginary tea parties, Junior was performing a do-it-yourself autopsy.
“Go in the house and wash your hands – a lot. Use the entire bar of soap and don’t touch anything on the way in. Just keep your hands in the air. Wait, let me open the door and turn on the taps. NO, don’t touch me. NO, don’t touch the cat either.”
“Can I keep the stomach?”
“Noooooo.”
Boys just do things differently.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh