A camping we will go...for some reason

I have to admit, I didn't really understand the whole camping thing.

When I wed my beautiful bride, she wanted to leave our home and sleep on the ground under the trees wrapped in canvass.

I had been working hard for many years to prevent that sort of thing and now I was supposed to do it voluntarily.

Like I said, I didn't really get it, but because I was in love I readily agreed — and the cooler full of adult recreational beverages didn't hurt in convincing me either.

So off we went, leaving our lovely rented apartment behind so we could sleep on the ground like a wild critter.

The first thing I noticed about camping was how much work it was. You had to load everything you needed into a vehicle, drive to the campground, unpack everything, set up the tent, bedding, cooking utensils etc. only to reverse the whole process a few days later.

And don't even get me started on the insects, especially the eight-legged monsters that haunt my dreams when I am in my own bed, let alone sleeping in a sack of stuffed material on a thin layer of foam in the middle of bug central.

Camping actually goes back to biblical times. Moses did it for 40 years. It may not have been by choice, but he still spent four decades pitching a tent and looking for just the right fauna for personal use.

I get tired of camping after just a couple days.

And speaking of fauna for personal use: where the heck did they find fauna in the middle of a desert in the first place? And if there was no fauna, what did they use?

On second thought, maybe I don't want the answer.

Fortunately, provincial campgrounds have bathroom facilities of some sort and what a thrill it is to make a boom-boom in an outhouse.

The most distressing part of the outhouse was the aromatic essence of the structure. Outhouses have a special odiferous quality that just can’t be described without actually experiencing it.

But young love ruled the day, so camping became a regular part of our summers — wooden toilets and all.

The longer we were married, the more our camping evolved. We went from a small, three-person tent to a 10-person tent that was so large it had room for our queen-sized air mattress, baby playpen, luggage, a full basement and in-ground pool.

The tent of wonders eventually gave way to a tent trailer, and not just any tent trailer, the largest tent trailer ever built by the human race.

The thing was so big we dubbed it The Land Whale. With the wings out, it was 26 feet long. In the right light, it could be seen from space.

What an improvement it was. I was no longer a ground-dwelling barbarian, but had an actual bed to sleep in. Camping was still a lot of work, especially with three little ones, but the Land Whale made it a lot more bearable.

My favourite part of camping was sitting around the fire with those adult bevvies I was talking about while the kids slept quietly in their beds.

But it still took many years for me to really enjoy camping.

The change started when I saw how excited my children were to leave our home and head for the hills.

When my son was 18, he said he can't wait to go camping with us and his own family (when he has one).

In that moment, the importance of family camping became clear. Suddenly, I loved camping. What an awesome way to spend a weekend with the family.

Now, if we could just do something about those bugs.  

Copyright 2017, Darren Handschuh

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

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

Soliciting strangers for candy

It's almost that time of year again.
The leaves are turning their magical colours, the air is crisp with a hint of frost glistening off the hood of my car as I head off to another day in the salt mines.
Yup, it can only mean one thing: Halloween is just about here.
I love Halloween. It should be a stat holiday. How can kids concentrate when they know there is a mountain of candy waiting for them at every door?
I know when I was a wee lad the school day was pretty much a write off. Kind of like most days actually, but this time I had a legitimate excuse for not paying attention.
All sorts of hideous creatures with their scary faces and foul stench were seen roaming the hallways at my school, and some of those people dressed up for Halloween as well.
There were always a few kids who were too cool to wear their costume to school, but later that evening, when all that free sugar was being handed out, they were jostling for position with the best of them.
You are never too cool to get free candy.
The spooky commercials and TV shows would start a few weeks before the big day adding to the excitement.
Is it just me, or was the world a lot less weird back then? Some of the stuff coming out in the form of horror movies these days is downright disturbing.
I never saw it in the theatre – I was way too young – but I can remember hearing about The Exorcist and how scared people were. I can remember news stories on how people were terrified about being possessed.
Now, it would likely be viewed more as a comedy than a horror, but back then, it was some scary stuff.
I know I am rambling on like an old fuddy-duddy, but movies seem to have crossed the line from being scary to being gross and filled with mindless violence.
But then again, I am sure older people said the same thing about the horror movies I used to watch as a teen.
Either way, horror movies and Halloween go together like America and fat people.
TV is also besieged by ghastly ghouls of every description and that is just on the news.
Every show has to get in their Halloween special featuring everything from cute and cuddly monsters to some scary beasts that devour humans like Elvis on a deep-fried doughnut.
Before TV, people used to sit around in the dark and tell scary stories to frighten each other.
“There were two horrific beasts preying upon the good citizens of the land. Each had a foul tongue and used every trick they could to fool and captivate innocent people...”
Wait a second, my bad, I was referring to the U.S. presidential debates, sorry about that.
Anyway, TV and movies have replaced storytelling with visual effects that could not even be imagined a few decades ago.
Costumes are also way more intricate than when I was a kid. My friends and I had to suffer those thin plastic masks with elastic band straps that depicted vampires or werewolves or other ‘scary’ creatures.
The problem was, the only scary thing about those masks was when your friend ran up and pulled on it before releasing his grip and laughing as the mask smashed into your face.
It is amazing how often that would happen in a single night.
But no matter how things change, the more they stay the same.
Halloween is still about dressing up, having fun and getting a bag full of free treats.
So like clockwork, every Oct. 31, parents dress their children up, send them into the dark of night and encourage them to take candy from strangers.

Copyright2016, Darren Handschuh

You're OK, kid, walk it off

I find it interesting how children interact with their parents.

When my boys were younger, it was clear their mom and I each had particular roles to play.

If they wanted to wrassle, roughhouse, or generally do things of a testosterone nature they came to yours truly.

I can remember one instance when the boys, who were around eight and six at the time, were using me as their personal wrestling dummy.

They would attack in tandem and I would fend off the assaults that came from every direction imaginable.

I stopped the action and asked why they never wrestle their mom this way.

My oldest stopped, looked at me and with all seriousness said, “Because we love mom.”

The younger one agreed and the assault resumed.

It's not that they didn't love me, but they decided it was my role to give them noogies while holding them in a headlock.

It was mom's job to provide a more nurturing role.

As little guys, they determined mom was the giver of affection and dad was the jungle gym, punching bag and wrestling mat.

Their mom also took on the role of academic assistant. When they needed help with their math homework or something of that nature, they ran straight to mom.

This had nothing to do with me being the dad, but everything to do with mom being a lot smarter than I am.

However, when they needed help repairing their bike (later on their cars) they came to me, because while their mom makes me look the intellectual equivalent of a neanderthal with a learning disability, I am fairly handy with tools.

I spent a lot of time fixing my own bikes and cars over the years, so I could apply that knowledge to assisting my spawn.

And while they interact differently us, my wife and I interact with them differently.

Being boys, I expected them to come home with scrapes, bruises and the occasional boo-boo.

If they were walking, talking had all their appendages and assorted body parts, I would generally say “You're OK.”

And they were – aside from a few minor injuries that is.

I witnessed many of my dad friends do the same thing with their kids.

“You're OK, now pick up your spleen and put your bike away.”
Of course, if the injury was more than just a minor boo-boo, I knew exactly what to do.

“Where's your mom!”

Mom would then rush in, assess the situation and apply whatever type of care is needed. From a Bandaid to a hug, mom could cover it all.

It's not that dad's don't care, they just do things a little differently than their female counterpart.
For example, my oldest son loved to climb trees when he was small and the apple tree in front of our home was a perfect place to hone his skills as a monkey.
One day he fell out of the tree, a distance of about two metres. I ran to the window in time to see him get up, dust himself off and give me a big grin.
I made sure he had not hit is head or broken anything before giving my official diagnosis of “You're OK.”
When I told his mom about it a couple hours later, she called him over for an examination that came just short of a full body CT scan.
When she was done, she reached the same conclusion I did, he was OK.
I hate to say I told you so, but...

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

It's OK to let your kids get a hurt once in a while

The other day I heard someone say it is a shame children today do not get to experience getting hit in the face by a big red ball during a game of dodgeball.

And they are right.

I loved dodgeball when I was in school; mainly because I was really good at it.

I could twist and turn and was rarely taken out of the game. I did get hit in the face a couple times, but that was just part of the fun.

We did all sorts of sports, games and goofing around that ended in minor injuries. It was called being a kid and it was something we all accepted as simply part of life.

In elementary school, we used to play tackle football at lunch without any gear. We could have played flag football I guess, but it was just not the same.

Following a rambunctious 30-minute game, just about everyone had some sort of minor injury from grass burns on our elbows to bruises and even the occasional black eye – which was worn as a badge of honour. But we were all ready to go again the next day.

Nowadays, teachers and parents are so worried about Junior getting a boo-boo they have banned pretty much all contact sports. One school even banned tag because a child might fall and hurt themselves while running from the person who was 'it.'

Really? Tag is nothing but running and fitness and building cardio. And then they wonder why Junior is so, um, er, weight enhanced at such a young age.

I played hours of tag when I was a kid and I don't ever recall someone getting hurt.

If someone fell down, they dusted themselves off and got back up – simple as that. The worst part of falling down was it usually meant whoever was chasing you, caught you and now you were it.

No need to call the paramedics for that.

Another school banned soccer because – you guessed it – someone might get hurt. Here is another sport that involves nothing but running around a field. There is no tackling, body checking or any real physical contact, but someone was worried some how a child could receive a minor injury while having fun so they had better cancel having fun.

It's all part of the 'helicopter parenting' that has taken hold of North America in its overly cautious grip.

I admit, I too have been a hovering parent at times, but not so much when it came to letting my boys be boys.

Every parent wants to protect their child, but there is a time when you simply have to step back and let them get a bruise or two.

It's part of life. I did it, my dad did it, his dad did it and so on and we all survived.

I am not saying to let them jump off a small cliff holding onto a bed sheet as a parachute because that really does not work - trust me on this one - but a little rough housing is just fine.

Oh, and also maybe don't let them try to jump from one branch of a pine tree to another because if they miss that really hurts too.

But my sons would often come home with bruises from skateboarding or crashing their peddle bikes – something I had done more times than my mom could recall – and they are now healthy adults with a few scars to tell stories about with their friends.

In the quest to keep children safe from harm they are also keeping them from having any fun, experiencing life (which involves bumps and bruises) and doing what kids do.

I got way more hurt playing organized sports than rough housing, so let them take a big red ball to the face, let them fall out of a tree, let them have fun (but keep the bandaids handy).

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Why when I was a kid...

I think my parents made life too easy for me growing up.
What am I supposed to say to my children about the hardships of my youth?
The only angle I can think of is I had to work a lot when I was younger, but other than that there’s not a lot to whine about.
When I was around 10 years old I asked my dad for some money. Instead of money, he handed me a shovel.
My first thought was, ‘I guess I could sell the shovel for some cash,’ but I knew if I wanted money I would have to work for it.
I took the shovel - which conveniently came with a handy wheelbarrow attachment - out to the section of property where my dad and grandfather were building a nursery.
Sitting in the middle of the empty lot were two dump truck loads of dirt.
My mind was attempting to form a picture: a shovel, a wheelbarrow and a pile of dirt.
“Nope, sorry dad, I’m just not making any connections.”
It’s amazing just how motivating he could be when he explained things, and I began moving those two massive piles of dirt.
Thus began my foray into the working world. I was bringing down a whopping 50 cents an hour.
As I got older, the nursery got busier so I would work after school and on weekends.
Child labour laws, what child labour laws?
Actually, it was good because I could afford bikes, cars and the most important expense – girls.
So that’s about it, that’s all I have to complain to my children about.
I can tell my children, “Why when I was your age I had already mastered the art of moving dirt with a shovel and wheelbarrow.”
I never had to endure any great hardships like being poor or having to eat the family pet because we couldn’t afford meat.
I desperately need more “Why when I was your age” rants, but they are hard to find.
“Why when I was your age we didn’t have any of these fancy remote control units for our TV sets. If we wanted to change the channel we would have to get up and walk all the way over the set, change the channel and then walk all the way back to the couch.
And if you wanted the TV louder….”
It pales compared to my dad’s stories of working 12 hours a day when he was 15 years old.
Like many people of his generation, my dad grew up poor and worked hard to provide for his family. When he goes on a rant about how tough the times were – which I believe is the right of every senior – his stories are of true hardship.
So the TV remote rant is pretty weak. What else can I say?
I may have to resort to making things up.
“Why when I was your age we didn’t even own shoes. We tied a piece of bark to our feet and walked 20 miles to school in the snow in May – up hill both ways.
“We had to get up at 4 a.m. to milk the cats. We had to milk cats because we couldn’t afford cows. Then after school we had to milk the dogs before we went to bed. In fact we didn’t even have a bed. Me and my 18 brothers and sisters all slept in a broom closet. It was so small we had to sleep standing up, on one foot and we liked it.”
I wonder what my children will be telling their children.
“Why when I was your age our computer didn’t have a hyper-gig of RAM. We had to try and get by with 512 megabytes. Do you have any idea how slow that is? Let me tell you kids something, it was pure hell trying to open a website with lots of pictures.
“Why it took a full 22 second. You kid’s don’t know how lucky you have it.”
Somehow it just doesn’t compare to my father’s stories of growing up after the Dirty ‘30s.
I guess the size of the rant depends on the size of the hardship.

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

Too much technology for my aging brain

It's happening and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

Time is leaving me in the dust.

Well, more accurately modern technology is leaving me in the dust and I find myself turning into one of those “grumpy old people” who complain about modern times and start many a sentence with, “When I was younger...” or something similar.

There are just simply too many computers and gadgets out there for me to keep up with.

While I am hardly a computer genius, I can use the infernal contraptions with some level of proficiency.

Hey, a low level is still a level.

I have a Smart phone, Facebook account, Twitter account and a blog, but my techo-prowess pales in comparison to anything my kids are doing.

They will talk about some techno trend like it is old news and I have not even heard about it yet.

There are all sorts of new gizmos and devices coming out faster than I can possibly keep track of.

Watches with more computer power than the original moon landing craft are commonplace and I can only imagine what the electro-techno world will birth over the coming years.

The leaps and bounds in technology and how it is benefitting (and hurting) mankind have been nothing short of astounding.

When I was a youngster (see, there it is) there was no such thing as the Internet, but my kids have never known life without it.

They never had to skim through an encyclopedia to get the information they were looking for. Instead they searched for it online.

Just type in a phrase or word and what you are looking for magically appears on your screen.

Sometimes the search turns up millions of options – which is kind of like saying we found what you are looking for, it's on planet Earth – but you can refine your search and narrow it down to find the information you are looking for.

I must admit, the whole online thing is way faster and provides a lot more information than those funny-smelling books that weighed seven pounds each and were out of date months after they arrived at the school library.

When I graduated school in the early '80s, computers were a thing of science fiction, or at best a novelty item you read about in a magazine.

Now, the stupid things are everywhere and you don't even need a computer to search for something on the World Wide Web. You can do it from your phone, your iPad, and all sorts of devices.

I may not be at the top of the tech game, but I sure find all the different things you can do nowadays impressive.

When I was a kid (see, there I go again) I was amazed when I saw my first wireless remote for the TV.

What kind of sorcery is this?

You don't have to get up to change the channel? To increase the volume? Not even to turn the idiot box off?

Magical.

I am convinced those days marked the beginning of the Fat Ages, when having to get up and walk seven feet to your TV was too much effort.

You know you are getting old when a wireless TV remote was a major technological breakthrough of your youth.

However, I do try to keep up on the latest Interweb trends, but some of this stuff is beyond me.

And a lot of the stuff out there doesn't interest me.

But it is highly unlikely any of this technology is going away any time soon, so I do what little I can (and believe me, it is little) to try and stay abreast of the latest and greatest crazes and trends.

I try, but I know I do not succeed. Things are just changing too fast for an 'old geezer' like me to stay on top of.

But I will do my best to maintain some sort of techno-prowess, even if I don't know what the hell is going on half the time.

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

Ode to the nerd

I had to stop by an elementary school the other day to drop something off and was amazed at how little had changed since I was a member of the early education system.
I don’t mean the actual building, but the kids themselves.
Within minutes I could spot the nerds, cool kids, bad kids and the jocks.
Nature just has a way of separating the herd into appropriate clusters. It’s the whole birds of a feather thing.
I began to look back on my elementary years and all sorts of memories came flooding back until I was once again curled up in the corner of the room, rubbing my head and chanting, “make the bad thoughts go away, make the bad thoughts go away.”
In case you haven’t figured it out, school was not exactly a great time for me. I know I hide it well, but sometimes people can guess school was about as much fun as eyeball surgery without anesthetic – only more painful.
As if nature did not already have a way of sorting things out, there were all these little rituals that helped place the students in their appropriate groups.
Elementary school is a prime example of the strong shall survive and the weak shall be picked last for every sporting event.
I am not sure who came up with this one, but when I was in school this is how teams were selected for a lunch-hour game of football or whatever: the two top jocks would start picking kids and the lesser players would all huddle together, each secretly hoping they weren’t going to be the last to be chosen.
One by one, names would be called out until a handful of sad, pathetic athlete wannabes were left standing in front of everyone looking not unlike puppies in the store window hoping someone will pick them.
The worst, of course, is being the last one to be called.
“OK, I choose Tommy.”
“Tommy? You chose Tommy over me? He has two broken legs and a neck brace on.”
“I know, and your point is.”
It’s not good for your self esteem when a kid who was hit by a truck and spent three weeks in a coma is thought to be more beneficial to the team than you are.
Not that I am speaking from experience or anything. I heard about it from some one, yeah, that’s right, I heard about it.
I was never picked last for anything actually, which basically means I was not even a good enough nerd to be the chief nerd, I was kind of a middle-of-the-road nerd.
Unless you are among the first half or so selected, it is a cruel way to pick a team. As the numbers dwindle, it sort of turns into a nerd parade, where people driving by in their cars glance over and say, “Oh, look honey, it’s a flock of nerds. Get the camera.”
The non-nerds will tell their children tales of the nerd herd.
“Yes my son, there was a day when nerds roamed this land. They were all over this field, free range nerds I liked to call them. Yup, it was quite a sight to see.”
Due to political correctness, I doubt there are any official nerds in the school system anymore.
I am sure there are a lot of cool-challenged kids out there who are also suffering from a social skills deficiency, but actual nerds, not any more.
A nerd by any other name – will still likely be picked last for a sports team.
And there is nothing wrong with going to the junior high school dance by yourself. I read that even Brad Pitt could not get a date for his school’s big dance.
OK, I made that whole Brad Pitt thing up, but a guy can always hope can’t he.
Entering high school proved interesting because with three elementary schools funnelling into one melting pot of youthfulness, the nerd population grew accordingly.
We, um, er, I mean the nerds, would spot each other in the hallway and have an instant comraderie born of the need for survival.
Life could be hard for the nerd and we, er, um, I mean they often travelled in packs for self defence as much as mutual bonding.
The weaker nerds would get picked off by marauding gangs of jocks and be stuffed in garbage cans while the stronger nerds made good their escape.
Eventually, the nerds grew up, became computer experts or whatever and hired the jocks – who failed to take their sports career beyond high school – to mow their lawns and wash their cars.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh