The downside of children growing up

I have mentioned before how little an empty nest is going to bother me.
Left overs in the fridge – oh no. Actual hot water for a shower – oh the horror. More than an eighth of a tank of gas in the car when I need to go to work – say it isn't so.
Yes there will be many benefits when the youngsters fly the coop.
My oldest will be moving out any day now (he just doesn't know it yet.) My middle one is in Grade 12 and he is looking at university and my youngest just entered the hallowed halls of high school, so the light at the end of the tunnel is still a few years off, but it is growing brighter.
Even now as my kids get older and more independent, my wife and I find we have more time for ourselves. We can actually go to a movie and not have to re-mortgage the home just to get the entire family in. Going out for dinner no longer involves clowns, grease burgers or a play area.
When the children were really young, going to a movie or anywhere else for that matter, was quite a process. We would have to book a baby sitter a week or so in advance, pick up the rented child watcher, leave a list of what is to be done, make  formula, write down contact information, blood types, next of kin, genetic DNA codes and all sorts of information.
Following the evening out, I drove the baby sitter home which, depending on the sitter we were blessed enough to get that night, either took a few minutes, or more than a half hour for a round trip.
Of course when we did get home, the dog would bark, which would wake up the children which would mean we had to get them to go back to sleep which meant any relaxation gained from the evening out was somewhat diminished by the immediate return to parental duties.
As they grew older, it was a little easier to go out as not as much preparation and planning was required. Eventually the oldest one reached an age where he could look after his siblings and whole new world opened up.
Now, my children are all in their teens so they can pretty much fend for themselves. Going out consists of telling the kids, “Hey, your mom and I are going out. There's food in the fridge. Bye.”
And off we go, simple as that.
However, in a stunning development, a problem with aging children and their independence has arisen that I did not foresee: Halloween.
For the first time in roughly 17 years there will be no one trick or treating in my home.
But if no one solicits strangers for candy, and if I am not required to escort them around the neighbourhood to gather said candy, how am I supposed to collect my 20 per cent service fee?
OK, now we have a problem.
I have always loved Halloween and long believed it should be some sort of national holiday, but this year things will not be the same.
The two oldest have not wandered the streets begging for sugary treats for a few years now, and this year my youngest is not going door to door, but to a friend's Halloween party, meaning I will be without my allotted portion of sugary treats.
I could just go buy some I suppose, but where is the fun in that? Where's the thrill of looking through the loot bag to see what all 'we' collected?
It just won't be the same.
My middle-aged waist line does not need the candy influx so I guess this is one of nature's ways of keeping me from getting flabby, well flabby-er anyway.

Look up, look waaaay up

It was good to talk to someone who knew exactly how I felt and what I go through on a daily basis.
By no effort on our part, we were brothers of sorts as we face similar issues and challenges.
You see, I am 6'4” tall. Being tall has many advantages such as being able to see over a crowd – my personal favourite - or being able to reach things in high places.
When you are tall, certain things are expected of you. I have changed more lightbulbs in my lifetime than most could even imagine .
Of course there are also hazards to being height enhanced. I have bonked my head more times than I can possibly count.
Just the other day my noggin took a hit as I walked into the open back door of our mini-van.
I was busy loading stuff into the rear compartment of the van, and my watch-out-for-things-that-you-can-hit-your-head-on radar was temporarily down when I stepped forward and whammo – mini-van to the cranium.
Having rattled my brain time and again, I am instantly angry when it happens. It is just an automatic reaction. I admit it is not the best reaction, but I have never claimed to be perfect.
I have also hit my head on the top of door frames, on tree branches, a steel clothesline post (that one hurt) and have taken out more than one chandelier by simply standing up from a dinner table.
The destroying of chandeliers was mostly when I was younger. I grew 10 inches in eight months and was not used to my new height so I developed the habit of looking up before I stood up from any table.
It is a habit I have to this day.
So at my friend's birthday party this summer it was nice to talk with two brothers of the tall who were both a couple inches higher than I am.
We spent a few minutes comparing notes – and forehead scars. We talked about bashing our heads, reaching things without a step stool, about people asking 'How ya doing Stretch?' and of course, changing light bulbs.
I can't talk to my wife about such matters because she is only 5' tall. In the 25 years we have been married, she has bonked her head only a couple of times and it annoyed her each time.
Welcome to my world. 
It is always strange to run in to someone who is taller than I am as it is an odd feeling to look up to someone when I talk to them.
I am just not used to it. That is why I have suggested to my wife we take in the tall people's convention put on by Tall Club International.
Men have to be at least 6'2” and women 5'10” to become a member. (My dad, mom and sister all qualify.)
It would be interesting to be one of the shorter people in the room for a change.
For some reason, my wife has expressed no interest in attending the gathering  even when I suggested we could then attend a little people's convention and she could walk around feeling tall.
Again, she declined the proposition.
My wife's family is, how shall put this – vertically challenged. They are not a large people. My family on the other hand is like the land of the giants. 
The men are tall, the women are tall – everyone is tall. 
My dad's side comes from Germanic decent, while my mom's kin have a Nordic bloodline. Vikings are not known to have been of small stature.
My children however are neither tall, nor short, but slightly above average.
I am not saying it is better to be tall, short or anything in between. It's just the way it is and you are who you are.

Hormone hurricane blowing through my home

I have heard it said raising boys is harder when they are younger and easier when they are older.
The exact opposite is said about girls.
Being a father of both, I can say without hesitation “Yikers, were they ever right.”
When the boys were younger they were nothing but a mass of kinetic energy, always having to do something.
One of their favourite pastimes was wrestling. Not professional 'wrassling' where they hit each other in the head with chairs, but just good, old fashioned wrestling around on the ground like young lads have done since the beginning of time.
They would wrestle in the livingroom, the front yard, the backyard, the mini-van and on occasion, even in the grocery store, much to the horror of their mother.
I was a popular target for their wrestling attack and I spent many a moment fending off two tiny grapplers as they tested their strength against dad.
After one particularly energetic match, my wife, who was watching with an amused look, asked why they never wrestled with her.
“Because we love you,” said my eldest before going for another headlock. Only a five year old could devise such logic.
They were not bad boys, just your typical energetic lads looking for an outlet for all that pent up enthusiasm, but they did take constant watching, guiding and correcting.
The term 'perpetual motion' was conceived by a father watching his young sons as they tore around the estate.
My daughter on the other hand was content to calmly play with her dolls – of which she had roughly a gazillion. Everyone would comment about how quiet she was and what a little angel she is.
That is if we could hear each other over the roar of imitation car sounds, explosion sounds and other noises made by my sons and their friends who invaded my home on a daily basis.
Boys took a lot of attention in their younger years, mainly because they never thought things through and dove into situations without considering about the consequences.
“Um, dad, I wanted to help you out so I decided to move your motorcycle for you and it kind of fell over...on the lawnmower.”
“Why did you even try to move my motorcycle?” was a rather exasperated reply.
“I dunno, because I thought it would help.”
After picking the bike up and looking at customized dent in the tank, I figured there was no point in getting angry because he was just trying to do something nice. But I was once again reminded how you have to watch young lads every second.
Meanwhile my daughter was pretending to make cookies in her room – silent as a little lamb.
Fast forward a few years and my daughter is...well, let's just say raging hormones can be problematic at times – like all the time.
Suddenly the boys were the easy ones to raise. They were quiet, well quiet-ish, and were logical in their discussions.
But take a pre-teen girl with hormones raging through her like a torrential flood, tsunami and tornado all rolled into one and a look out.
“Honey, could you please get all your dirty laundry from your room please?”
Simple request, right?
“Why is everyone always bossing me around? Why does everyone hate me? I'm moving out and never coming back.”
Yikers.
Dealing with a young woman with newly installed hormones is like trying to baptize a cat - there is just no easy way to do it.
I was not prepared for this hormonal hurricane.
And of course all of her friends are going through the same process, so the girl drama is enough to make me want to take a job as a yak herder in Peru.
I asked my wife how long this would go on for. She just smiled and patted me on the shoulders.
Did I say 'yikers' yet?

I married the worst criminal on the planet

My wife is the worst criminal in the world.
Not that we have ever really done anything illegal, but I know for a fact she would never make it in the underworld of crime.
This became painfully obvious when we went on a road trip a few years after we were married.
Junior was just over a year old and my mother-in-law blessed us by taking the wee one for the weekend so we could have a little getaway.
It was the first vacation we had been able to take in years and the first time we would be away from Junior for more than a few hours.
But we were confident he could handle being with his granny for a couple days, so we packed our bags and ran for the car.
Um, I mean we tearfully said goodbye to our precious child before forcing ourselves to leave our first born as we embarked on our trip where we would miss him dearly every second we were away.
Who am I kidding. We ran for the car so fast the wind of us passing by knocked our neighbour on his butt.
Packing took a matter of minutes, as all we had were two suitcases instead of the dumptruck load of stuff needed to go on a weekend outing with a toddler.
I will admit, there was a little bit of guilt at leaving Junior behind, but fortunately I was able to ignore it.
Our destination was a hot spring resort town where we would have two glorious days to rest and relax.
We were not staying in what we soon dubbed “The Richie Hotel” because we were not rich. Instead, we stayed at a decent hotel down the road that was more suited to our budgetary situation.
Because this was a hot spring town, we wanted to bathe in the natural pools of mineral-laden water. The problem was, our hotel only had a regular old hot tub, so we ventured to the public hot spring facility which was basically a large, warm swimming pool.
It was somewhat relaxing, but not quite the hot spring experience we were looking for. Later that day, we wandered down to The Richie Hotel and saw not one, not two and not even three, but four pools of varying sizes filled with hot spring liquid.
Upon seeing the pools of luxury an idea formed in my cranium: we were going to crash the place.
Sure there were signs that stated for hotel patrons only, but God made the hot springs, so who is man to tell me I can't indulge. Later that evening, we snuck in the side entrance, doffed our jackets and shoes and slipped into the soothing warm water.
My wife was nervous about breaking the rules, but I convinced her it would be fine. She was just beginning to relax when hotel security came by and started talking to people.
When she saw him, my wife went white as a sheet. She became visibly nervous as he came in our direction. I casually asked if they were closing the pool and he said they were just asking anyone under 18 to leave because it was now time for adults only.
What a wonderful idea, I said as the security guy went on his way. 
I looked at my wife and I thought she was going to have a heart attack. She was nervous and stressed and a few minutes later we had to leave because she could not keep up the criminal ruse any longer.
We gathered our stuff and took off like we had just robbed a bank.
She began to breath easier and I realized I had married the worst criminal in the world.
I tried to get her to sneak into The Richie Hotel again the next day, but she would have none of it.
Personally, I rather enjoyed our walk on the dark side. 
The weekend went by way to fast, but it was relaxing, restful and informative as I learned never to involved my wife in any sort of activity that was not 100 per cent above board.

Murphy has a penchant for precise pooping

If Murphy the Wonder Dog were a person, he would likely be considered eccentric, maybe even a little touched in the mind.
But because he is a dog, he can be considered goofy, playful and, well, who am I kidding he is an odd little hound.
I saw the oddness of the mutt early on and have often wondered what he is thinking and why he does the thing he does.
Murphy has a rather unique personality and it shines through on many occasions. First off, he has little-dog syndrome, but that is to be expected from a beast of only 17 pounds.
He knows he is a big dog trapped in a little dog's body, so whenever he sees other dogs, big or small, he acts tough by growling, barking and acting aggressive – much like most little dogs do.
The fact is he is not tough enough fight his way out of a fog bank, let alone take on another dog, but because he is size challenged, he must put on a good show.
But there is nothing strange about little dogs trying to act big, so what makes Murph the Surf so unusual. 
Where do I begin?
When he was a few months old, he pooped on my son's acoustic guitar. Odd you say? Well you haven't heard anything yet.
He did not just make a boom-boom on the guitar, he walked backwards part way onto the neck of the guitar to, um, er, make a deposit.
I have never seen a dog do that before – ever.
And his penchant for precisely placing poops in precarious places did not end there. Not by a long shot. He is now five years old and just the other day he backed up a cement meridian as far as he could to um, er, make a deposit.
He was basically doing a handstand on his front legs to get his butt as high as possible before pulling the trigger.
He has backed into a thicket of weeds so dense he had to force his way in,  he has balanced on three legs so he could make his deposit atop some ferns, climbed on top of a rock the size of a medicine ball and in general he finds the weirdest places in the world to do his business.
He is a strange little dog, but he is good for a laugh.
He also hates the wind. Even a slight breeze freaks him out and he is reluctant to go outside, but put him in a car and he sticks his head out the window at 60 miles per hour, happy as a dog can be.
Unlike most dogs, he won't eat everything you place in front of him. He will sniff it and think about it, and on occasion he won't even eat it. Unheard of in the canine kingdom.
He will turn his nose up (literally) to a new type of dog food, but then he will eat a half rotted mouse the cat left in the back yard.
We took him to the salmon run a couple years ago and he dove into a large rotted spawner like it was his last meal.
The closer I got the faster he ate. A few minutes later he was recycling the rotted fish meal all over the woodland trail, but still seemed as happy as can be.
Yes, Murphy the Wonder Dog is a strange little animal, but he greets me every time I come home and no matter how bad my day was or how grumpy I am, he is always glad to see me.
Which is why most people have a dog, even if they are weird.

Yikers - my daughter is in high school

I wanted to do the clothes shopping myself, but my daughter would have none of it.
Instead, she dragged her mom to every mall in the Valley looking for the perfect clothes to wear to school.
Personally, I would be happy to see her decked out in a nice big burlap sack. Cut out a hole for her head and arms and send her off to school.
"Dad, what is burlap anyway?” she asked.
"Burlap is the latest in fashion,” I replied. "It is all the rage in Europe right now. You could be a trend setter, honey. The first to break out this new fashion style here.”
She went online (stupid Interweb) and saw what a burlap sack actually was and no matter how much I praised it as Euro-chic, she did not buy into it.
I would prefer she head off to school with a big, ugly piece of cloth wrapped around her. Perhaps a big floppy hat that covers her face as well.
Instead, she walked out the door every bit the pretty young woman she is – darn it.
My wife makes sure our daughter dresses modestly, with none of the three Bs showing – boobs, butt or belly.
And for the most part my daughter complies with little fuss, even though some of her classmates are dressed differently.
"But their mom's let them dress that way,” is occasionally her plea.
"Well, I'm not their mom. If I were, they wouldn't be dressing that way either,” replied my unflappable spouse who is a big proponent of modesty  in young ladies.
It was a lot easier for me to see my boys grow up than my girl.
At her elementary school graduation, it hit like a Mike Tyson sucker punch that she will now be going to the big school, a school full of teenage boys. Yikes.
I remembered what some of my classmates were like as teenage boys and I immediately wanted to ship her off to an all-girl boarding school somewhere in the Arctic circle where there is virtually no chance of boys being around.
I know that is not realistic, but I still wanted to do it.
I worried about my boys when they went into high school, but for different reasons. With them I was more concerned about their grades, who their friends were, who their teachers were and other things a typical parent thinks about.
I thought about those with my daughter as well, but in the back of my mind   (actually it was screaming its head off in the front of my mind) was: building full of teenage boys with raging harmones.
If I recall, teenage boys only think of a few things: girls, girls and more often than not, girls.
To be fair, they also think about sports (to impress the girls), cars (to take the girls out in) and how they look (see to impress the girls.)
Personally, I was never a 'dog' in or after high school. Jumping from girl to girl was just never my style, but I knew many guys who were the eptiome of a man-whore and would chase anything with breasts.
Those are the type of young men who concern me. OK, they all concern me, but those ones concern me the most.
My daughter has a good head on her shoulders and is a smart, confident person, but I am a dad and that gives me the right to worry about my little girl. And that is a right I choose to exercise – a lot.
I cannot force her to wear a burlap sack, forsake all makeup and look as frumpy as possible, but when a boy does come over, I can sit there in my martial arts uniform, sharpening a 10-inch hunting knife and muttering to myself about how much I miss all my old pals in prison.

I have seen fear and it is a spider

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and knew something wasn't right. There was something on my neighbour's house and it was huge.
When I looked over I was stunned to see an arachnid so large it was hauling a cat into its web.
OK, maybe not a cat, but it was one of the biggest, ugliest black spiders I have ever seen in my life.
I stood and watched the beast for a few moments while trying not to wet myself as this monster of prehistoric proportions scurried along its web.
A shiver ran down my spine and I knew what I must do: kill the spider. The question was how. I was about as close to the critter as I planned on getting, so smashing it was out of the question. Besides, I did not have an elephant gun and it had crawled behind a downspout, which I assumed was its lair, making it nearly impossible to smash.
And if I failed in my noble quest to slay the beast with a manual form of attack, it would panic and who knows what havoc it would wreak upon an unsuspecting world.
Then I remembered I had a can of spider killer spray stuff in the garage, so I ran for the canister of death and dispatched my foe with extreme prejudice.
I sprayed half a can at the beast and when its convulsing body hit the ground, I actually heard the impact. 
A co-worker said the multi-legged terror was a cat-faced spider. So I went to the knower of all things worth knowing – Google – and sure enough, there was a picture of the creature in all its hideous glory.
Even seeing a photo of it on a computer monitor gave me the creeps, so you can imagine what coming across one in person did to me.
With the monster dead, I continued to mow my elderly neighbour's lawn and noticed more of the spiders that had strung massive webs between the cedars and the fence.
I am not sure if it is a particularly bad year for these kind of spiders, but it looked like they were having a convention at my neighbour's place, causing me great anxiety.
My fear of spiders is well documented, but I have not always been an arachnid wussy.
I came by my fear of spiders honestly when I was around 11 years old. Until 'the incident' I did not like spiders, but they did not warrant the stark-raving terror that grips me today.
It was during a school camping trip my fear was born when as some friends and myself were running through the woods.
I grew up in the country, so playing among the pines was one of my favourite activities and on this fine spring day I was leading the charge when it happened.
I ran full speed into a huge spider web that wrapped around my entire head like a sticky, silk helmet.
Sitting in the middle of the web was a spider of epic proportions. Upon hitting the web, the spider ended up in my left eye socket before it scurried across my face, over my head and was trying to hide down the back of my shirt.
I began to spin and gyrate like a madman while ripping off my shirt and throwing it to the ground.
But the panic did not end there. I still had the webbing wrapped around my cranium and the feeling of being encased in the fine white string gives me shivers to this day.
My friends, of course, thought this was the funniest thing they had ever seen and offered all the sympathy an 11-year-old boy can conjure up – none whatsoever.
I threw my shirt on the ground and stomped it with a blind fury. I went back to camp and grabbed a new shirt, leaving that one hanging in a tree incase the beast was somehow still alive. My fear of spiders was tattooed into my mind forever.
Even as I write this, I can feel little creepy crawlies scurrying all over my body. Time to think of something more pleasant, like a trip to the dentist.