The Hubby is an amazing father. Much of this owes to the fact that he is—by his own admission—really a 9 year-old boy in a big man’s body.

But being a good play-mate doesn’t necessarily translate into being a good caretaker. Now, let me start out by bragging on this man a little. Did you know that he is directly responsible for saving two lives? Both, coincidentally, from near-drownings.

One of those lives was my own, when I was trapped underwater in the tangled roots of a cypress tree by a monster current. I had given up hope of mustering enough strength for one final effort to extricate myself and force my head above the surface when his strong hand reached down and pulled me up.

The second—well, actually the first: the story I just told you took place about three years after the one I’m about to tell you. Remember: no particular order, right? Anyway, where was I…oh–the other one  was a 6 year old boy. We were camping with friends and had gone in for a swim. The lake’s maddeningly gentle slope meant that you had to walk halfway to the middle before the water even came up to your hips. One minute, My Future Hubby saw this little boy playing in the water with his ball. When he looked back, the boy had disappeared. He launched himself off of the double air raft we were sharing—launching me off the other side, thankyouverymuch— and pounded that water like Michael Phelps (who was probably still in diapers at the time), and as I watched in awe he ducked under and came up with a very scared little boy.

So in addition to having cute knees, this man is a bona-fide hero.

And in over 14 years of parenting, he has proven to be a very good caretaker. Truthfully, he has a more than decent record when it comes to looking out for the safety of his own children. I mean, he’s never lost one of them. At least, not for more than half an hour–which, in guy terms, doesn’t even come close to being “really lost.” And they’ve all lived through various misadventures, both the kind that leave evidence (like the time Ri fell off our bed head-first onto the clock-radio, raising a huge purple goose egg in the middle of her forehead only 15 minutes before I arrived home ready to take pictures of her for the Christmas cards. “No, we meant to wrap the headband so that the bow sat square in the middle of her forehead. We’re starting a trend.”), and the kind that in and of themselves leave no trail, but are nonetheless revealed by little beings who revel in seeing someone else on the receiving end of trouble for a change.

When Mason wasn’t yet mobile (in conventional terms) and not sitting up on his own, The Hubby left him playing safely on the living room carpet while he came into the kitchen to get a drink. I came into the kitchen from the other room about the same time, and we started chatting about the stuff that married people tend to chat about.

We talked for a few minutes before I asked, “Where’s Mason?”   Now, it’s not that I didn’t trust him when he told me Mason was on the rug. I mean, it’s a fairly self-contained area, and the kid was non-mobile…mostly. What could happen? But somehow we mommies find staring at our children fascinating, so I meandered into the living room to take a gander at him.

I walked around the couch….and no Mason. 

“Honey? Are you sure this is where you left him?”

“Of course I’m sure–you think I wouldn’t remember?”

By now The Hubby was standing next to me looking at the empty space that was supposed to contain a Mason, only notsomuch. It’s not a very big area—it’s basically a 5′X8′-ish rug bordered by a couple of chairs on each short end, an entertainment cabinet on one long side and a couch on the other. If he’d been crawling, he could have motored away. But he wasn’t, so he couldn’t.

So there we were, trying to make sense of the situation. It’s not as if we could look any harder—it was one of those “what-you-see-is-what-you-get” kinda moments. Somebody might have said something along the lines of “Oh my gosh—you lost the baby! I leave you alone for fifteen minutes and you go and lose the baby! Who loses a baby in their own house?” I don’t exactly recall….

Then suddenly, we heard it–like the infamous scene in Poltergeist where the mom is shaking her son, screaming “Where is CaroleAnne? Where is she?” And they both turn toward the television, where CaroleAnne’s muffled voice is coming through the static. Only the sound of Mason’s muffled voice wasn’t coming from the television. It was coming from….the couch?

And that’s when I saw it—the telltale flutter of the skirt around the bottom of the couch. I reached under—hoping it wasn’t some ghoul or goblin, because Poltergeist always did scare the pee outta me as a kid—and grabbed hold of a pudgy little foot. One good tug landed a slightly scared, lint-covered, twelve-pound dust-bunny in a blue romper…

…and landed The Hubby a job sweeping under the couch….

Tags: 9 year-old, drowning, dust bunny, father, hero, lost children, Poltergeist, The Hubby

Once upon a time, I considered writing self-help books. Only problem was that I’ve never really been good enough at anything, and I’m fairly certain you have to have mastered the topic in question before you can credibly impart your wisdom to others.

But in the midst of this chaos and ineptitude that I live with on a daily basis, I do occasionally find isolated gems of wisdom that—while they don’t completely elevate me to the status of “ept”—make me at least feel like I have something to offer to make the world a little better place.

1.  Quit teaching your kids to “cover their cough/sneeze with their hand.” I know, it’s what they told us to do when we were kids. But when you think about it, spraying your bodily fluids into your hand is even more germalicious than just spraying them into the air. I mean, a kid (or a grown-up) sneezes or coughs into their hand, and then proceeds to touch doorknobs and shared markers and desktops and waterfountain buttons and faucet handles, not to mention other kids. Eeewww. 

Solution: Cough into the crook of your elbow. You hardly ever see people going around grabbing stuff with the crook of their elbow, right? 

2.  While we’re on the topic of germs, next time you’re in the produce section, watch a mom as she picks out apples. Chances are she won’t just grab five apples and drop them into her bag. No, she’ll carefully consider each one, turning them to inspect for bruises or holes, and in the process she’s bound to touch nearly every apple in the bin before selecting her five.

You know where her hands have been? I have seen mothers (guilty whistling) change diapers in their car before they head into the grocery store. Most moms are also obsessive about the cleanliness of the various orifices in their children’s heads, and will attend to such hygeine before taking their little darlings into a public venue. And I’m going to tell you something else: when it comes to anti-bacterial hand gel, we all see it as something that protects US from other peoples germs, so the liklihood that someone is going to squirt on some sanitizer BEFORE going into the store is about 0.0004%.

I’m not trying to dissuade you from eating produce. But when you think about all the people who’ve touched it (not to mention the people who actually picked it—they don’t have restrooms with hot running water and soap out in the middle of the orchards), doesn’t it make sense to scrub it with a little soap and water BEFORE you eat it?

3.  “Neil Diamond” and “Barry Manilow” should never be mentioned in the same sentence, unless the connecting words are “…rocks way harder than….” And that really doesn’t make sense, given that Barry Manilow doesn’t rock at all. If you doubt the veracity of my statement (the part about Neil Diamond, not the part about Barry Manilow. I mean, the fact that Barry Manilow doesn’t rock isn’t exactly up for debate, right?), then you obviously haven’t dipped your toes any further into the greatness that is Neil Diamond than “Sweet Caroline” and “Forever in Bluejeans.”  So before you mock me, go old school. Do a YouTube search on Solitary Man; Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show; Cherry Cherry; You Got To Me; Kentucky Woman; Thank The Lord For the Nighttime; Holly Holy. Until then, it’s really not up for debate.

4.  DRIVERS: Pedestrians have the right of way. Especially pedestrians crossing parking lots with three children in tow and one more on their hip. You are in a climate controlled vehicle listening to your choice of tunes on your CD player. They are walking in the heat and humidity or the cold or the rain or the wind, listening to the sounds of children who have already begun the begging even before they’ve crossed the threshold. Yield.

5.  PEDESTRIANS: When crossing a parking lot in front of a waiting car, would it kill you to walk STRAIGHT across the lane instead of DIAGONALLY? I mean, we all remember that the hypoteneuse of a triangle is longer than the base, right? And while I’m on the subject—I’m not saying you should actually run, but if you slow down on purpose just because you know I have to wait for you…well, I guess there’s not really anything I can do short of running you down. But lets just say that if while your ambling across the road in front of me a grackle poops on your head, I’m going to laugh at you and not even feel bad about it. So there.

6. The word “with” is a preposition. It begs for an object. Please, be kind to poor neglected “with” and give it the object it so rightly deserves.  Should I explain? Okay: “Do you want to come with?” My head nearly exploded just typing that. Junior year of high school, my English class dared Mrs. J to say “ain’t” after learning that she had never uttered that simple, maligned syllable. Ever the good sport, she did–and in the process had a complete conniption fit. I thought someone was going to have to get the nurse. Now I know how she felt. It’s just wrong–”with…..me? them? the nice police officer?”  Some rules are just set in stone….

There you have it, 6 principles that could drastically improve life on this planet. Or at least challenge me to find new things to complain about….

Tags: advice, antibacterial hand gel, apples, Barry Manilow, Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show, Chaos, Cherry Cherry, cough, drivers, Forever in Bluejeans, germs, hand sanitizer, Holly Holy, hypoteneuse, ineptitude, Neil Diamond, pedestrians, preposition, right-of-way, self-help, sneeze, sneezing in your hand, Sweet Caroline, Thank the Lord for The Nighttime, triangle, You Got To Me