Getting rid of unwanted visitors, parent-style

We've all had this problem from time to time: People who just don't seem to get the hint when you want them to go away.

You try everything: Tapping your foot; yawning; falling asleep; coughing up blood; faking your own death. And still they drone on and on about their latest vacation to Branson Missouri, ignoring you as you frantically search for a bottle of sleeping pills to swallow.

But I'm here to tell you to fear not! I have some solutions that will drive them away immediately. There is, however, one caveat: You must have a child. If you do not have a child, feel free to borrow one from a friend or a neighbor. Preferably multiple children with a reputation for obnoxiousness.

I guarantee that if you use one of the following steps, you'll get rid of the unwanted visitor who won't leave your house. Got an annoying, talkative neighbor? Be gone! Jehovah's Witness? Shoo them away! Just use any of these following tips and your annoyingly lonely friend or hanger-on will suddenly remember a dentist appointment.

Give your kids Jolt Cola and chocolate and tell them that it's time to play "Living Room Olympics." Nothing gets people out the door like loud, obnoxious kids. Indeed, most parents of young children should not have to resort to such tactics. Unfortunately, plenty of visitors have kids of their own, and are impervious to average kid antics. They require maximum strength childishness.

Talk about the afterbirth. Plenty of conversations focus on the birth: The length of time in labor, the baby's weight, various curse words Mom screamed at Dad, etc. Nobody talks about the afterbirth, and for good reason. It's disgusting. (Indeed, I'm sure roughly half the readers of this blog, all five of you, probably hit the back button the moment they read that phrase; and yes, I know that half of five is 2.5 and that it's thus a physical impossibility to have half a person.)

Two words: Dad breastfeeds. (Yes, this requires an infant, though the same affect could be accomplished by having dad use a baby doll while pretending to believe that it's a real, live infant in need of male breastfeeding.) CAUTION: This recommendation has been known to result in damaged doors and broken windows as visitors were too quick to leave; use only in an absolute emergency.

Ask the visitor to change the baby's diaper pail. All I know is that every time The Wife asks me to change the diaper pail I'm looking for the nearest exit, so I can only imagine that would work on a visitor.

Household screaming contest. Tell your kids that the one whose scream drives the annoying visitor away will get a toy, then let them at it.

Dress-up time. Tell the kids that your visitor wants to be a mummy for Halloween and give them several rolls of toilet paper and a spray water bottle.

Target practice. Give the kids several Kool-Aid-filled water pistols and let them have at it. (Yes, I know that this tip, and the previous one, could conceivably result in minor assault charges, but as a defense ask the judge to have a personal, one-on-one meeting with the "victim." Assuming the judge survives the meeting, he or she would never convict you.)

The dangers of a mobile baby

The Sequel is newly mobile, which means that life around my household is like playing shortstop for the Yankees -- I spend much of my time diving in an effort to catch my youngest son from doing something he's not supposed to. (And, like the Yankees, making errors in the process.)

It's not easy. Mobile babies are excited about their mobility and are eager to employ it to its fullest extent. They're also endlessly curious, and have a remarkable ability to find potentially dangerous/breakable/flammable/valuable items in the vicinity.

To wit: The Sequel is typically surrounded on all sides by toys when he's on the floor in our living room. Most of the time he simply crawls past them, directly toward my computer. His goal is to accomplish one of the following tasks:

1. Eat the computer
2. Eat the cord

He apparently prefers the cord, probably because he can get more of it into his mouth at a time and, I'm sure, it tastes better. Regardless, he bypasses toys of all colors, shapes and sizes, then reaches as far as his little arms can to get that cord, this time bypassing various contraband to get at it. At least I should give him credit for making an effort.

Of course, The Sequel rarely considers the size of the object he tries to insert into his mouth. So long as the item in question is smaller than a Toyota Corolla he will do what he can to get that item between his cheek and gums. Come to think of it, make that a Chevy Suburban. I think I've seen him try to get our Corolla into his mouth once.

When he is not making every effort to manhandle my laptop, The Sequel is trying to open doors into cabinets with hazardous chemicals or drawers that probably contain sharp objects we forgot place out of reach. Or he's reaching for important papers we forgot to put away or slobbering on guests sitting on our couch.

And when he's not doing these things, The Sequel is making a beeline for our steps into the basement, which are just off our living room and are protected by an iron gate with openings just large enough for a determined infant to slip through. He breaks land-speed records when heading for these steps -- I swear once I heard a sonic boom, then saw my youngest only a couple of feet from his goal, forcing me to play shortstop again to keep him from the steps.

We could, and do, baby-proof to our heart's content, to the extent of wrapping the entire house in bubble wrap, but he'd still find his way toward something he should get. Like, say, the bubble wrap.

Experience with my firstborn tells me that there is only so much I can do to keep The Sequel from hurting himself. He's going to do it. It's inevitable.

The Boy once discovered that he could use the handles of several drawers in our kitchen like a ladder, enabling him to climb atop our counter and access his favorite food: Cheese-Its. I removed the handles. He simply began pushing the chair to the counter. I could have decided to go Japanese and sit on pillows, but The boy would probably move the table, then stack the pillows atop the table ... one wonders why kids don't apply this level of innovation to their schoolwork.

Dang. Now I really sound like a parent.

Psssst. Wanna buy a cheese ball?

You THOUGHT it was safe.

You thought you were protected in the company cafeteria. You figured it wouldn't be a problem answering the phone from your brother. You were excited to hear about your grandchildren when the phone rang, showing your daughter's number. You were happy to see your neighbors and their son, knocking on your front door.

And you habitually clicked on Dorky Dad's latest blog post.

You had no idea of the horrible fate that awaited you. The dreaded ...

(DRAMATIC PAUSE)

School fundraiser!

Every fall, schools across the country send out armies of children, many as young as 5. They will be armed only with a brochure and innocence. But it is efficient and effective. Friends, neighbors, family members and, mostly, their parents' coworkers will fall victim, mindlessly opening their wallets and their checkbooks in the promise of Christmas ornaments or spinach dip that they don't need, which will arrive in some distant, indeterminate future.

The brochures will make their way through carpools, buses and trains and onto cafeteria tables or reception desks. Guilt will radiate outward from the brochure, catching unsuspecting employees, luring them into its pages with guilt. "But it's for the children."

And then, without even knowing it, your mind will race through the possibilities. "If I don't spend an inordinate amount of money on pre-shaped cookie dough, this young child will not be able to go on a summer trip. Or he won't win a prize. He'll be shunned by his classmates. I cannot, in good conscience, leave a child to a lifetime of ridicule and schoolhouse torture. GIVE ME FIVE BOXES!"

But that is nothing compared with the slave-like obedience of friends, relatives and neighbors. Backed by the power of the Dreaded Fundraising Brochure, the child will extract concession after concession from loved-ones unwilling -- or unable -- to disappoint such a sweet, innocent face.

"I have no power against that small child. That face. That sweet, sweet face. It makes me ... do things. Horrible things. Like buying five boxes of Sweet Jelly Pepper Cheese Ball Mix."

But nobody -- nobody -- is as powerless as the parents. Wanting to see their child do well in his fundraiser, and already unable to resist the power of school-age salesmen, they weakly submit to emptying their bank accounts so they can purchase 20 red meat slings. Worse, they become pawns in the game, mindlessly spreading the brochures and infecting everyone they know in the name of their child's education.

Alas, this is what I face. So if you see a somewhat doughy middle aged man with thick hair, a round face and an air of dread clutching a brochure of gift wrap and chocolate, turn around and run away! Quickly!

But not until you buy some stuff. You know, because my kid really wants a koosh ball.

Sending the kid off to priso ... er, school

We sent The Boy off to kindergarten today, officially his first day of "school," the outset of a 13-year stretch where he'll learn to make spitballs, to copy his friend's homework, to dress like an idiot during homecoming week and, if I'm really lucky, some math skills.

Here's what I told The Boy during the days leading up to this monumental event:

It'll be the most fun you'll ever have! You'll meet lots of new friends! You'll learn and grow and sing songs and play games! You're a big boy now! You'll love every second of school! When we pick you up every evening you'll be doing everything in your power to crawl your way back into the building! You'll declare yourself a ward of the state in an effort to spend more time there! School is easy. Eeeeeeeeasy!

Here's what I was actually thinking:

School sucks. Perhaps later in life you'll look back and think you liked it, but for the most part you'll dread every waking moment you're there.

That's right. I lied to my kid. Not for the first time. Probably not for the last.

Of course, I was hardly about to go to the bus stop dressed in black and humming Darth Vader's theme music while warning my child of 13 years of pure terror. For one thing, The Wife wouldn't like it. For another, well, I'd probably have trouble getting the kid on the bus. Which would make me late for work.

I'd much rather he enjoy school, which would probably make it more fun as he has no choice but to attend for the next 13 years. Perhaps he will get his mom's more studious genetic material, rather than my decidedly non-studious genetic material. To this day I have no idea how I got through high school and college. Aaaaaah, the days before stringent educational standards.

The Boy hardly understood the significance of what he did today, probably because he'd been attending some school-like function every day for his entire waking life. So he entered the bus this morning with no problem, confirming the usefulness of sending him to preschool for so long. (You, too, can get your kid ready to stand in line and ride the bus before he or she hits kindergarten, all for the low, low price of $30,000.)

He'll repeat this task over and over again until he's 18, except for summers, holidays, random weeks in March, half of every December, days when The Boy fakes illness, snow days plus days when the school superintendent is either feeling like a freeze baby or just doesn't want to open school and uses the cold weather as an excuse, plus random days labeled teacher "inservice," whatever that means.

In the evening, we asked what The Boy's favorite part of the day was, and he told us in detail a story of how his teacher demonstrated the proper way of going to the bathroom (quietly) and the much funnier but not proper way of going to the bathroom (noisily and without washing hands). Clearly, The Boy got a kick out of the "wrong way," meaning his favorite part of Day One was teacher-led potty humor.

Sounds like he's in the right class.

I had no idea I was an astronaut

I picked up The Boy from school this afternoon and was met by a young girl, maybe a year older than my son. She had determined look on her face.

"Have you ever been to outer space?"

I didn't even blink.

"Of COURSE I've been to outer space!"

She walked away, skeptical. As she did, I looked at The Boy, and noted that I covered his butt -- this time.

Apparently, my boy is so impressed by my career choice that he's telling his friends I'm an astronaut. It's possible, however, that he could mean this figuratively. He may also have heard me mumble about feeling like I'm on another world. And he may also know that plenty of people -- like most of you -- think I'm from a different planet.

But as my kid is 5, my assumption must be that my boy would rather I be some sort of spaceman. I can understand that. As a child I told my classmates that my house was haunted, mostly because I just thought ghosts were cool and I really wanted my house to be haunted. Plus I was a kid who wanted attention. And most of my classmates believed me. But one notably skeptical person refused to acknowledge the specter in my home and was reminding me of my fib literally years later. (Dude, we were 9. Get over it.)

And, though I have a good job, "astronaut" to a five-year-old sounds a heckuva lot better than "desk jockey." And telling people that "My dad blasts off in a rocket ship" likewise is more exciting than "My dad deliberately drinks too much liquid during the day so he has a reason to take frequent bathroom breaks."

There is little doubt that The Boy is into rockets lately. For his birthday he got a foam rocket launcher, which you stomp upon to launch a foam rocket high into the air. A few days ago he got a Nerf bow and arrow -- same concept, only you shoot the shockingly phallic foam object horizontally. Then, after watching a science teacher shoot a model rocket into the air this afternoon, he and classmates were given yet another foam rocket -- this one powered by a finger and a strip of rubber.

It appears in each case that the object of these toys is to land on the roof the garage or the house. And apparently there is some secret kid game that anybody who lands a rocket on a roof or in a tree and causes Dad to break out the ladder and climb upon said roof gets a point. Two points if Dad curses. Three if Dad says, "That's it. The next time you do that, you won't get it back."

Five points if Dad falls off the ladder and ends up in the hospital.

Indeed, as we speak, two of The Boy's rockets are on my garage roof now. He lost them at the tail end of a five-minute span in which he lost four rockets total. The first one I recovered. The second one is missing. He shot a third one up there, and then for good measure shot another one on the roof -- the same one I had already recovered.

So perhaps this is what The Boy means when he says I've been to outer space. Assuming that outerspace means the top of my ladder, and that the roof of my house is some sort of space station. It might as well be, given that I hate ladders and am generally afraid of heights. And I'm not too fond of my steeply slanted roof, either.

One dorky midnight meeting

As a teenager, I once woke up to find a strange creature in my bedroom. He was a man, slightly tubby with big hair and a permanent scowl. Come to think of it, he looked a little familiar. But no less scary.

YOUNG ME: AAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUGGGH! What are you?! KILL IT! KILL IT! KILL IT WITH FIRE!

CREATURE: Calm down, you idiot. I'm you. Twenty five years from now.

(Side note: It's really been 25 years, a quarter-century, since I've been in my mid-teens?! Dang.)

YOUNG ME: What? You're me? I'm you? How? Why? AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUGGGH!

(My younger self then broke down and sobbed uncontrollably, and I spent the next couple of hours consoling myself. The conversation continued when my younger self calmed down.)

YOUNG ME: Why are you here?

ME: I am here by some mysterious force to give you a glimpse of your future.

YOUNG ME: Is it a good future? Am I rich?

ME: Well, no. Not even close.

YOUNG ME: Famous?

ME: Only for modeling women's undergarments. Please don't ask. In fact, if anybody on something called "The Internet" dares you to wear a bra, don't do it.

YOUNG ME: What's the Internet? And why would it make me wear a bra? I don't have man-boobs. But apparently I'm going to get them, if you really ARE me.

ME: These are pecs, not boobs. PECS! And the Internet is a place where you can be anonymously rude to other people for no other reason than to satisfy your most fiendish personal traits. But that's not important. Ask me more questions.

YOUNG ME: Do I get married?

ME: Yup.

YOUNG ME: Do I have kids then?

ME: Yes. Two of them. And you'll spend most of your time making fun of them on "The Internet."

YOUNG ME: Why would I make fun of my kids in public?

ME: Because you make fun of everything.

YOUNG ME: Oh yeah. Now tell me more about me.

ME: Well, you live in a house in the suburbs. You drive a minivan. You fret over the condition of your grass and you fight a losing battle with moles and gophers and box elder bugs.

(Young me then passed out and faints. I woke myself up by kicking myself in the ribs.)

YOUNG ME: You're still here? Crap. I was hoping this was some nightmare. Some awful nightmare. Come to think of it, this whole thing is stupid and pointless. Because if you really were me, you'd be giving me investment advice. You'd tell me who will win the World Series and maybe give me some lottery numbers. Yet all you're doing is scaring me by telling me I'm a tubby mole-obsessed suburbanite with a creepy van who lets computers talk him into cross-dressing. My poor, poor kids.

ME: Well, you do have a hot wife.

YOUNG ME: I do? WOOHOO!