The incredible stress of picking a restaurant

We have a friend visiting from out of town. She has no kids. I'm totally jealous.

Jealous, that is, of her ease in choosing a restaurant. In her pre-visit planning, we asked where she'd like to go. "Oh, I can go anywhere," she said. "I like anything. And, because I'm by myself and have no little hyperactive burdens coming along with me, I can go to just about any type of restaurant whatsoever."

From our end, of course, the choice was brutally stressful. We have a borderline hyperactive 5-year-old with typical 5-year-old taste-buds and a baby who, while generally happy and smiley and pleasant, is still a baby. That means he's a ticking time bomb who could go off at any moment and start screaming bloody murder for no explicable reason. Or he could excrete various bodily fluids on anything within a certain radius -- including other restaurant guests.

(I'll spare you the details of some of the worst moments but believe me, it's completely, totally and utterly disgusting.)

Therefore, on most days, our restaurant choices come down to two things:

* Does it have a menu that includes one of the following: Macaroni & Cheese, pizza, burgers or chicken nuggets?
* Will we be able to be served in said establishment in a short enough time that we can avoid provoking a major, international incident?

And as we are at heart pretty simple folks, this choice is pretty easy. McDonald's, here we come! Yet we could hardly invite an out-of-town friend to a restaurant in which helium balloons is the main form of decoration.

Of course, some people are easier than others. The Wife's family is infamously impossible to take out to a restaurant -- one person is a vegetarian; another doesn't eat beef or nuts or food cooked on stainless steel; a third is normal; another would be normal, save for various digestive problems that largely eliminates anything with spices. Some days it seems like it would simply be best to have family gatherings at the mall food court.

Another problem in choosing a restaurant for guests is that we are tremendously risk-averse, which plays out most when we're thinking of a restaurant. Sure, we'll try a new place now and then when it's just ourselves -- because we're crazy like that. But we're desperately afraid to try a new place with guests, because of the legitimate possibility that said restaurant completely sucks. We will clearly lose that friend forever if we take him or her to a restaurant that sucks.

(So if we don't want people to visit us again, we take them to a horrible restaurant. And if that doesn't work I strip to my underpants and start dancing and singing loudly off-key. In the restaurant.)

Suffice it to say, we successfully chose a quality, local restaurant on this night, thanks to several weeks of intense study of Internet sites, interviews with local chefs, a lengthy series of taste tests and consultations with local psychics. But now we know that people will be visiting us this Christmas. We might have time to pick a good restaurant.

My insane kid-filled weekend

I'd have normally posted by now, but I was only recently released from the psychiatric ward following a weekend in which I hosted a party of sugar-loaded five-year-olds, then taught an unusually large Sunday school class -- with kids who must have had extra bowls of sugar-frosted sugar bombs with extra sugar and chocolate syrup for breakfast.

It was, to say the least, an interesting weekend, and I learned a few things -- mostly, that it's a really good idea to consult with my calendar before scheduling events in which I'm locked in a room with a bunch of kids too close together. And I learned a few other things, too:

* I need to hug my urologist, whose cutting skills assured me that my offspring count will be limited to two.

* Those two kids are boys, virtually guaranteeing me a lifetime of emergency room trips. During both the party and the Sunday School class, the boys were easily the more obnoxious and rowdy of the two genders -- such as time that several of them decided to pile atop one another, for no explicable reason. And that was in Sunday School class. At both the party, and the class, the girls mostly sat in their seats and didn't start running around until it was the prescribed running-around time. And for a fleeting moment I envied their parents.

* The most difficult task on Earth involves keeping a group of kids in a small room when a huge, indoor playground beckons just feet away. Not even pizza and cake -- CAKE! -- could keep them in there. Trying to keep those kids in that room was like trying to shove 20 grasshoppers on stimulants into a baby-food jar. And the kid who had the most trouble staying in the room? Why, my own boy, of course, the person whose birth was to be celebrated.

* I still don't know what kind of freak kid I'm raising. He doesn't like cake. He didn't even eat one of his own birthday cupcakes.

* You know that you've been a parent for a long time when your leg gets urinated upon and you don't even blink an eye. Yup, that happened to me this weekend when I removed a kid from my lap to discover that my leg was wet. And it wasn't my own kid who provided the urine.

* There is an absolute limit to the amount of pizza a person can consume on a weekend. We ordered entirely too much pizza for the birthday party, so we had to go home and over the remainder of the weekend consume what remained. Pizza for lunch. Pizza for dinner. Pizza for a midnight snack. Pizza for breakfast. Pizza for second breakfast. Pizza for lunch again. Pizza for afternoon tea. It got to the point that I was feeding it to the birds and begging neighbors to take some of it away. I hadn't consumed that much pizza since college. I might not eat pizza again until The Boy is in college. Ugh.

* A weekend full of screaming kids can make work on Monday look awful good. At least the screaming there seems like it has some sort of purpose. Well, most of the time, anyway.

* Teachers are WAY underpaid. I was nearly insane after just two small parts of a weekend with the little rug-rats and they spend the bulk of their waking hours with them. God bless 'em all, especially the one who is about to be stuck with my boy.

Snap! There goes the pants

We had the big family birthday party this evening, providing me with another excuse to spend an evening stuffing my face full of food. We arrived with our contributions to the meal in the late afternoon and I began eating. When I was done eating I ate some more. And then when I was done eating that, I had cake.

So maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise a little later when, during a rousing game of front-yard softball, the button on my pants snapped off.

Oh, snap!

Inevitable? Maybe. As a rule, pants don't snap when it's convenient for them to snap, like when I'm at home, not surrounded by large numbers of people who would love nothing more than to see my pants fall down -- not, that is, because they want to see my underpants, but because it would provide them fodder to use against me for years.

Hey, Uncle Dork! Remember that time your pants fell down in the front yard and you scared the neighborhood children so bad that their parents called the cops and you got hauled off to jail for indecent exposure? And better yet, a TV film crew was on hand because they were recording "COPS In The Suburbs" and you became a nationwide celebrity -- so you had to change the name of your blog to Pantsless Dad!! That was AWESOME!! DO IT AGAIN! DO IT AGAIN!

Indeed, I only wish this were the first time. My previous experience was during a family reunion for the in-laws, in Michigan. My shorts, for some reason, had been shrinking over the years. That day, they decided to give up. The button snapped, and I spend what seemed like several days in a park near Ann Arbor Michigan desperately wanting the event to end so I could get back to the hotel and my suitcase and a pair of shorts that actually worked -- and, for that matter, did not cut off the blood circulation to the lower half of my body.

At least in both cases my pants did not fall down, but they so desperately wanted to. Whenever I stood up, my pants wanted to remain sitting and I had to drag them up with me. If I had to carry something with two hands I had to walk like a penguin to keep my shorts from plummeting to the ground. And I routinely pulled up the zipper on my pants, regardless of whether anybody was watching or not, because they either watch me adjust myself or they get a long look at my naked legs and my underpants.

Truth is, they wouldn't see much different than they do normally, because I wear boxer briefs in various colors -- from a distance they'd look like a strange pair of shorts. Yet because they're my underpants, the last line of defense from my pasty-white butt, they remain a fearful object in the general public. Just the thought of Mr. Happy poking his head out for a look around is enough to frighten even the heartiest of nudists.

Fortuitously I managed to successfully keep the pants up without resorting to the use of a safety pin -- which, by the way, is dangerous on pants, I don't care what anybody says. Plus, it violates my policy of keeping sharp objects away from my genitals. And I made it home and changed pants and left the old pair for The Wife to mend, because she has Mad Button-Sewing Skillz.

And now it's time for me to do about 4,000 situps.

Bottling up the competitive juices

The Boy played T-ball today, continuing the early stages of my grand plan to get him into the major leagues, thus providing me with a retirement income that would be much safer than Social Security.

At the end of the day's practice, the coaches gathered the players around and informed them that, next week, they'd be playing an actual game. Thus far, as they're all 4 and 5 year olds, they'd been practicing -- because it's a bit difficult to play a game when most of the players are more interested in kicking sand and picking their nose.

But next week's game would have a twist: They'll be playing the parents.

Kids versus parents.

"And," the coach said, "the kids WILL win. The adults are going to look rather silly."

That's what she thinks.

No way am I going to lose a game to a bunch of 5-year-olds. I'm entirely too competitive. They'll have to devise rules to prevent me from winning, or tie my feet together so I have to hop around the bases. But I'm going to do my best to win anyway, dammit.

The problem is that if I do win, I'd not only anger the coaches and make all the kids cry, but I'd probably be forced to sleep on the couch for the foreseeable future. Because my wife would be mad. Real mad. As in get-the-divorce-papers mad.

So my only choice, really, is to pull a hamstring. I could even pull a hamstring in some sporting event, enabling me to go down with honor. But it would be my luck that I'd pull my groin.

Dorky Dad the toothless hillbilly

For the past two days, The Wife's evenings have been taken up by what she said were "meetings" involving "important work" that she "had to do." As a result, I've spent the past two evenings playing zone defense against my two kids.

Ugh.

Double ugh: The infant was screaming because he was teething and likely has an ear infection. The 5-year-old, meanwhile, was whining because I was paying too much attention to the screamer.

My life is hell, I thought. Several times. OK, about every five minutes.

This was inevitable. On evenings when I'm alone with the kids it is almost entirely likely that the little one will spend most of that time screaming. It's not like I scare him. Most of the time he's pretty thrilled to see me and on most days I'm the fun parent. I do fun parent things, like lift him in the air and give him zerberts and a variety of other cry-prevention efforts. That's my job as a dad. Indeed, I'd say it's the main reason I became a dad in the first place. (Along with the prospect that one of my children will play in the major leagues one day; in that sense children are like little lottery tickets that cost you a lot of money and most of your hair.)

But when Mom's gone it's like someone has turned on a switch, and my otherwise happy, calm baby turns into a 20-pound demon who screams and flails and produces excess saliva. And I'm reduced to a useless, drooling pile of flesh and bone.

As it is, I revert back to my bachelor days on evenings The Wife is gone. I'm the household cook, responsible for making often complex meals. Yet when The Wife is gone my kids are lucky if they're not eating the ravioli straight from the can. For each of the past two days tortilla chips played a significant role in the evening meal. And yes, salsa is a vegetable.

Activities likewise are light. OK, boys, what movie shall I require you to watch for the next two hours so I can recapture my brain power?

Don't even ask if I clean. OK, I don't. I hate cleaning. The biggest single reason why I'm the family cook is that, one day, I decided I needed to do more work around the house and gave myself a choice. It was a no-brainer and I started reading cookbooks.

Minimalist as my evenings as a single parent are, they are nothing compared to what my evenings are like when The Sequel starts crying and I'm the lone adult. When the baby is crying it's like I've been given a bomb and told to defuse it: As more of my efforts to calm said baby fail, the more frantic I get and the lower my IQ gets. A baby who is crying uncontrollably can reduce a Harvard professor to a toothless hillbilly in a matter of minutes.

Until, that is, The Wife gets home, when I fall down on my knees, lift my hands to the heavens ... and hand the kid over to her before passing out in a big, thankful heap.

Beware the fate of the love-earworm

It's unlikely that any of what's left of my readership would qualify as teenagers -- unless they were reading for some strange science project on the exploration of a completely different species other than themselves. But a few of you, I'm sure, have teenagers. And if you do, or you know of a teenager, or you're like me and you have a future teenager living with you, then the following advice is for you:

Inform them that, under no circumstances, should they ever, ever consider having "a song" with a girlfriend or boyfriend. If they do, they will regret it for the rest of their lives. It is likely that whatever song it is will make it onto the regular playlist of most soft rock stations, resulting in a lifetime in which, every now and then, they walk into a reminder of whatever hellish relationship they had.

I, as you might imagine, am a case in point.

I've said before that my pre-wife lady friends were all completely nuts. (I'm not necessarily saying that they were nuts before I met them -- I fully acknowledge the possibility that time spent with me drove them nuts. Regardless, by the time of the breakup 100 percent of my girlfriends were nuts. In that case, then The Wife is proof positive that I do not drive ALL women crazy, though maybe she just has a slow go-nuts time.)

The result is that, while much of the time spent in those relationships was rewarding, in one way or the other, many of them had, say, a certain unpleasantness about them, like the unpleasantness of having my life threatened or of walking into a dormroom filled with torn-up pictures of myself. Or there are others that just make me wonder what the heck I was thinking. In any case, these are not necessarily memories I want to conjure up on a regular basis. Certainly not when I'm walking into a gas station in the middle of nowhere.

Which is what I did this past weekend. We were on our way to a friend's house in southern Minnesota and stopped by the gas station because The Sequel needed a sequel to his diaper. And as I walked into the gas station, I was met by Bryan Adams' "Everything I do," one of the single most annoying songs ever written -- made quadruply annoying by virtue of being a song dedicated to an early college girlfriend.

(Dammit. I have it in my head now. CURSE YOU, BRYAN ADAMS FOR WRITING THAT HORRIFIC EARWORM!!! CURSE YOU! CURSE YOU, I SAY!!)

One may wonder why I'd pick a song with lyrics that sound like they were ripped off a middle schooler's love note, and I'd provide this answer: I was on lots of drugs at the time. OK, maybe not. But the impact on the brain of an immature infatuation is quite similar, to the point that it's not really a good idea to drive or operate heavy machinery or be governor of South Carolina and be love-sick at the same time. That's to say, I wasn't really thinking straight.

I had no idea the fate I had brought upon myself, the periodic torture to which I'd be subjected for a lifetime. I don't go a month without hearing that stupid song in a grocery store, an elevator, a pharmacy or even the car as The Wife decides to change the channel to her favorite soft rock station -- the home of several of those old girlfriend songs. Most of which I'm desperately trying NOT to remember.

In the end, maybe it's my ex-girlfriends' ultimate revenge. I drove them nuts, and their songs are spending a lifetime driving me nuts.

So take it from me, kids. If your girlfriend or boyfriend wants to dedicate a song to you, make up some excuse. Say you've gone deaf. Fake a heart attack. Accidentally toss your stereo out the window. If you're in your car, drive off the road. But whatever you do, do not let that song be connected with that relationship until the woman has a ring on her finger and you've begun choosing florists for the wedding.

Even then, at least make it a good song.

Giving park goers a comedy show

Here's a site for you: The Boy and I were at a park today, desperately trying to hold on to the last of a three day weekend. He was on his bike, practicing, having recently learned how to ride it without the aid of two extra wheels.

He was being guided by yours truly, who also was practicing -- and failing -- how to stop on Rollerblades without the aid of a tree or the ground or another person at the park.

I recently got the Rollerblades because I have a death wish. Hurtling down an incline with only one small piece of black rubber to slow you own is my idea of a good time. I also figured that it would help me lose some weight, as the body indeed weighs less when it is missing a limb or a chunk of torso or a head.

So on I went, and wisely decided to use them while The Boy rode around the park on his two-wheel bike.

(By the way, do you know those commercials in which the father is shown proudly and happily pushing his son/daughter/complete stranger down the street on a two-wheel bike for the first time? They never -- ever -- show you the part where the child tumbles and hits his head and ends up in the hospital. Nor do they show the argument that ensues when the stubborn child refuses to follow any guidance whatsoever on how to start the bike. And they definitely don't show the kid, angry, frustrated and woozy, shout "TO HECK WITH THIS! I'M WALKING!" before going back home. Not that my kid did that. I'm just saying. They don't show anything like that.)

The Boy actually does quite well on the two-wheel bike, yet he's still more wobbly than a single-footed penguin in a wind storm. And sometimes he doesn't have that brake thing down, like when he went down a hill this afternoon and his brain refused to tell him how to stop, so he kept riding with his feet scraping the ground. I, at the top of the hill, looked down upon my hurtling son, and was completely helpless because if I started down that hill after him I'd be hurtling even faster and would be much more helpless. It'd be like jumping in to save a drowning man when you can't swim yourself.

Fortuitously, he managed to stop himself along the way. But I did not -- yes, I still went after him -- and I sailed right past him, hurtling at top speed and wobbling to and fro in a desperate effort to keep from falling. And by some miracle, I managed to avoid that fate. I also managed to avoid landing in the lake, a feat of which I'm quite proud.

We continued to ride around the lake, which was well populated with picnickers and people who arrived from nearby neighborhoods having heard of the father-son slapstick bike riding-rollerblading team.

Throughout the rest of our trip we took turns hurtling down hills and screaming for our lives and being laughed at by passersby. But we managed to make it fully around the lake, and when I arrived at my car I got down on what was left of the skin on both my knees and thanked the Good Lord that I made it back alive.