Early morning at the Thrice household is one of quiet bliss. The children are all sleeping soundly. A gentle breeze stirs the kitchen curtains where crickets chirp lazily together. 

The reason that crickets are now residents in our house in mid October is that we, as a family, have decided that having pets will teach our kids responsibility (responsibility is the most important thing you can teach your kid. Discreet nose-picking is a close second) It follows, then, that my 9 year old son owns a lizard.

Lizards eat crickets.

Kids who feed lizards clumsily drop crickets (purchased in batches of 24) onto their bedroom floor and neglect picking them up immediately while they (the 9 year olds) hastily attempt to pull said lizard out of her terrarium so that SHE can get all the crickets herself.

By the way, I'm not sure what the life cycle of a cricket is, but I'm pretty sure that it has increased ten-fold by eating whatever radioactive Cheerios and Cheez Doots it finds under the fridge. In fact, I'm convinced that "under the fridge" you will find a cool little tiki bar for crickets and 5am is the perfect time for them to hang out, rub their legs together and mate amongst the dust bunnies.

But that is all part of raising a family and teaching the value of responsibility. You just get used to it.

Another thing we get used to is our new Shi-Poo puppy's schedule. In fact, every morning we get up at 6 am to let the puppy outside to pee. Then up again at 6:15 to let the puppy out again because she forgot about pooping. Then we let her onto our bed where, for the next ten minutes, she commits acts of intense personal hygiene. This is not the quiet type of personal hygiene one would expect from a distinguished pet, such as a Schnauzer. These acts involve lots of loud slurping and force her to take on a variety of poses that one rarely sees outside the circus.

By way of contrast, Toby, our other dog, has one pose--head down, droopy-eyed and depressed. We're not sure if he REALLY IS depressed  or if he is trying to throw suspicion off of himself. You see, one of our dogs is a stealth pooper. No matter how quickly we find the evidence, it seems that both dogs have an alibi.

Last night, after discovering a "Cleveland Steamer" on the downstairs carpet, I found Toby standing beside our bed, staring at our book shelf. "I'm looking for some help with my self-image," he seemed to say, "and I left no steamer."

The puppy, by contrast, was beside the fridge barking at the tiki bar. "Not me!" she protested, "I'm too cute! Check with the 9 year old."

It seems the only responsibility here is the one Dad has for cleaning up his family's messes.

Sometimes it's painful to be a part of a family.

I'm not talking about when someone you love breaks your heart. You probably had that coming. I'm talking about how painful it is when your teenagers are fighting and you want to bury them both in the back yard but you know that your wife has just spent so much time getting it to look perfect that you would hate to ruin her day.

As they get older, my kids assure me that they need less sleep, then work their hardest to prove themselves wrong. What they are actually saying is: 'Dad, we are too old for you to tell us to go to bed. We will stay up until our eyes are drying inside their sockets then collapse in our rooms and stay until sometime past noon, making you think we have turned into vampires.'

Even this wouldn't be so bad if we only had one teenager. Unfortunately we have a pair. And when they are tired, they become extreme opposites of each other. My fourteen year old daughter is one who needs her space on a good day. When she's been up all night, she would prefer that we leave the house and come back in the fall. Plus she has the patience of a wounded badger.

My son, on the other hand, is convinced that when he is feeling exhausted he needs to make sure that nobody wonders where he is or what he is thinking.

Duncan: "Hey everybody! Gather round and hear a song I just wrote about Emma.."

Emma: "I don't want you to write a song about me."

Duncan: "it's called'The Girl Who Smelled Like Poop."

Emma: "Duncan!!!"

Duncan: "Emma, just listen to the song. I'll even get down on my knees and sing it to you."

Emma:"GET AWAY FROM ME!"

Duncan: "Emma, why would you ask me to serenade you then push me away with your foot (which, by the way, smells like poop)?"

Emma: "I SAID GET AWAY FROM ME! AND I DO NOT SMELL LIKE POOP! DAD! WHY DO YOU NEVER DO ANYTHING ABOUT HIM?"

Duncan:"Emma, why do you always try to hurt my feelings? People with your smell can't afford to hurt anyone's feelings."

Emma:"I. DO. NOT. SMELL. LIKE. POOOOOP!"

My wife: "Ugh. Teenagers."

Me: "I think if we get them to stay up late for one more night, they'll take each other out and our problems will be solved!"

For years we tried to be wise with our money. This meant telling our children that, under no circumstances, were they ever to play hockey. That way we didn’t have to join the ranks of beleaguered parents that had to pay a thousand bucks a year for the PRIVELEGE of paying three hundred bucks for a hockey stick, two hundred bucks for skates and who knows how much for the rest of the equipment, only to then get up at 4:00 a.m. and drive to a freezing cold arena and get hemorrhoids on those hard, wooden seats.

Basically, we didn’t want to get into something where, one year later, we found ourselves helplessly engrossed and unable to get out—sort of like watching the television show 24…

Unfortunately our youngest does not listen to reason. Nor does he respond to threats: casually mentioning that signing up for Hockey Basics may mean no longer sleeping INSIDE the house led to a discussion about winter camping.

My buddy John went through the list of equipment that we had to have for our grade one son to enjoy the sport.

John: “You need skates ($60), a helmet ($60), socks ($10), shorts ($50), elbow pads ($10), shin pads ($30), shoulder pads ($70) and a cup.”
 Me: “A cup?”

John: “Believe me, he needs a cup. A rink full of six-year-old boys with long sticks and balance issues is a recipe for disaster.”

Me: “Maybe without a cup he’ll learn to be ultra fast.”

John: “If you were my dad, I would put myself up for adoption.”

One of the most important things to remember when going to hockey practice is to go early enough that you can follow the other parents into the correct dressing room, because you will have lost or forgotten the original instructions. Make sure that you dress warmly, or the one-hour practice may seem more like a three- hour colonoscopy. Next, you must make sure that you put all the equipment on correctly, in the correct order. As a tip, the pads should go on FIRST, then the thick shorts, then the jersey, then the shin pads, the socks, the skates and the gloves….and the helmet. There may be other pieces that you have forgotten. Check the big hockey bag you brought in with you.

If you are a novice hockey parent, you may be proud of yourself for signing the kid up, paying for everything and getting him to the rink on time. Chances are you don’t have everything down to a science yet and there will be a few friendly parents who have “been there” and will help you out:

Hockey Dad (watching Benjamin on the ice): “I think that kid’s laces need to be a lot tighter.”

Me: “What makes you say that?”

Hockey Dad: “He’s skating on his ankles.”

My buddy Tim and I got into a heated discussion about Santa Claus.

Tim: “My kids have grown up without believing in Santa and they LOVE Christmas!”

Me: “Mine grew up believing in Santa and they love Christmas, too!”

Tim: “Sure, but now they think you’re a liar.”

Me: “I lie to my kids all the time. It’s good for them.”

Tim: “I think you’re somehow proving my point…”

Christmas, to me, is a magical time. And magic means deception…and tradition. In fact, I stand for a magical tradition of deception at Christmas. It makes for the best memories! And the best stories!

When my nephew was seven years old, he asked me how Santa’s nine reindeer were able to fly as they pulled Santa’s sleigh full of toys. (Brandon was always very bright and I had my work cut out for me.)

Brandon: “Honestly, Uncle Mark, how can reindeer fly?”

Me: “That is a great question, my friend. Usually reindeer CAN’T fly, can they?”

Brandon: “No.”

Me: “But we know that Santa is pretty tricky, right?”

Brandon: “I guess so. He fits down our chimney.”

Me: “He also puts his reindeer on a very special diet the week before Christmas.”

Brandon: “He does? What does he feed them?”

Me: “Magic beans.”

Brandon: “Magic beans?”

Me: “Sure. Remember the beans that Jack threw out his window and they grew into a giant beanstalk?”

Brandon: “That was TRUE?”

Me: “Sure. If he had EATEN those beans, he would have been able to fly!”

Brandon: “How?”

Me: “What happens to your dad when he eats beans?”

Brandon: “He gets the toots.”

Me: “Imagine what kind of toots you would get if you ate MAGIC beans!”

Brandon: “Wow! You’d probably be able to fly right up into the sky!”

Not only was that a great story, he won third prize in a Christmas Stories newspaper competition. (Mostly because he entered it under the “True Stories” category.)

A few years before that I had a bunch of fun with his dad as he was dating my sister. It was Christmas time and we were talking about Christmas traditions.

Me: “Do you guys have a Christmas Turnip?”

Ralph: “Uh, for what?”

Me: “Well, for Christmas, of course.”

Ralph: “No. What do you do with it?”

Me: “You see how this turnip is covered in wax? Every Christmas Eve, we gather around the table, light the turnip and tell each other what we liked about the past year.”

Ralph: “Wow! That sounds really cool.”

Me: “Sure it is. You should ask my folks if you can light the turnip this year.”

Ralph: “You think they would let me?”

Me: “They might be surprised that you asked, but they would definitely let you.”

Like I said, the magical tradition of deception at Christmas makes for the best memories and the best stories!

You will begin to miss many things as you make your journey through parenthood: your youth, your energy, uninterrupted conversations; weekend getaways for two; color in your hair; a cool car; your hair.  The list goes on and on.

The #1 thing on my list is spare change.

There was a time when my piggy banks were full of quarters, loonies and toonies. This was before I was even married. Once the ring was placed on my finger, a subtle process began which eventually robbed me of my cash. First she (my wife) would show me some cute but totally useless item that she found at Sears or Eatons and enthusiastically, through a series of gestures and hand motions, show me where it would sit in our apartment and how it would make our life so much better. I did not notice my piggies getting lighter until much later (possibly Year Three).

Try as I might to refill said piggies, life (and my wife’s devious plans) kept getting in the way: a house, then a bigger house, then furniture to fill the house, then kids to jump on the furniture in the house, then a dog to pee on them (the furniture)(and the kids). In fact, there was a point when we were dealing with so much “life” in our house that I would come home from work and find the shell of the woman who was once my wife.

Me: “Honey, come sit on the couch with me!”

My Wife: (gasp) “C-c-can’t make it…s-s-so tired…gonna fall a-zzzzzzz”

Me: “Nice.”

Needless to say, I was so motivated to rescue my wife that I suggested (via the fatherly tactic knows as “The Ultimatum”) we start sharing the jobs in our house amongst all five inhabitants.

We came up with a list of jobs that had to be done every week in our house and who would do them: dishes cleaned, floors vacuumed, dog walked, useless items dusted, etc. Then we reached an impasse. (From the Greek “im” meaning “She won’t” and “passe” meaning “let you make a pass until you agree.”) My wife, it turns out, is of the school of thought that says: “Pay them for doing work.” (I believe at one time she was a commie.) Coming from the farm, I am at the practical and common sense end of the spectrum: I feed them; I buy them clothes and don’t usually make them sleep outside. They owe me.

Unfortunately for me and my piggies, the wife holds the trump card. It’ll be ten more years before I can start refilling.

The sun always shines on someone whose child “sleeps through the night.” As parents, we often invoke this phrase while talking with other young parents, even though the boy could have been up eight times the night before. Everyone wants a child who “sleeps through the night” even if “the night” means from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. Yep, that was the night and he slept right through it.
Anyway, even if your child actually DOES sleep until morning, you are always “on call.” Sure, you fall asleep but your brain is still expecting to hear something so it doesn’t let your body get sleeping TOO deeply. So when you can convince your brain that everything is OK (or that your wife will get up), you need to take advantage of your time and snooze.
Last Thursday was such a night. My wife wasn’t working the next day, so I knew that she was “on call” for the baby. I climbed into bed and rolled around a couple of times to get comfortable. (I had a dog once who did the same. This was no surprise.) My wife snuggled close and laid her head on my arm. This basically meant that I had to get comfortable without moving anymore, because there was no moving her.
I started to relax and just as I was about to meet Mr. Sandman, I was assaulted by Mr. Nose-Whistle. I don’t know if you have ever had the misfortune of meeting this dastardly villain, but he is my arch-nemesis. Instead of making your eyelids heavy, he makes your nose sound like a dime-store flute: small, irritating and unstoppable. You must understand how frustrating this can be.
The room is still and dark. As things get settled, our breathing grows deeper. Something is wrong, though. Instead of inhale/exhale, I hear Fwee-Fwee-Fwee-Fwee. Mr. Nose-Whistle has struck again. But, now the problem is that I can’t move. If I could move, I could blow or pick or fill my passages with Vap-O-Rub, but I can’t. So I whistle. And whistle.
My wife wakes up and asks me if I’m calling the dog. We don’t have a dog. I bury my head in the pillow and this stifles the noise. However, it also reduces the oxygen to my brain. Sensing danger, I turn my face and press my nose against her ear. Now we’ve gone from whistle to French Horn and my wife thinks I’m goofing around. (Me?)
Now I’ve got to become a mouth-breather in order for BOTH of us to get to sleep. Luckily, even Mr. Nose-Whistle gets tired and I finally get some shut-eye, none the worse for wear. Even as I doze, I contemplate the value (or possibility)of shaving one’s nasal passage.
Hmmmm.

A Fine Kettle

When it comes to the Art of Shopping, my mother is a Master. Being retired, she can afford to spend her days cruising the city with her friends, looking for deals and, well, I guess looking for more deals. I don't know if I'm real PROUD to say this or not but most of her purchases come from a store by the name of Value Village.
For those of you who are not in the "know" or possibly in the "care," Value Village is a store that resells previously enjoyed merchandise. It is a veritable treasure-trove of...um...merchandise that has been enjoyed previously. There are, according to the experts (my mother), many great bargains to be had there. This fact, for her, would be like a flame to your common moth. Somedays, she gets more than she planned.
Last weekend, she and a friend paid their weekly visit. They split up and went their separate ways. Mom ended up in the "home decor" section and found a beautiful tea kettle. It was large and very new-looking with blue enamel on the outside and white enamel on the inside. "This is a great deal," she thought to herself. That is the way her brain warns her wallet that it is about to be called upon. But don't think that my mother is the type of person who would just go into a store, find something that catches her eye and buy it on a whim.
Heavens. Don't think that.
Before buying anything, my mother subjects her prospective purchases to a rigid inspection process that leaves no question as to the quality of the item in-hand. For example, with clothing, you tug on all the seams. With toys, you check for choking hazards, cracks and loose parts. With tea kettles, you check the inside of the spout for chips.
Why? I don't know. I'm sure there must be a good reason. Much like there must be a good reason for the WAY in which you perform this check: you jam your pointer finger down as far as it will go.
The ordinary, run-of-the-mill consumer may experience a small problem retrieving her finger from the afore-mentioned spout. Rest assured, my mom is far beyond ordinary.
Yes, it's true. As soon as it went in, it was solidly glued to the inside of that kettle. And there she stood in all of her glory, purse in one hand and kettle stuck, spout first, on Peter Pointer.
The other shoppers began to stare.
Mom was not worried. "All I have to do is add a little moisture and my finger will slip right out," she reasoned. Casually, she lifted her finger up to her mouth and began licking her finger AND the spout all the way around.
The other shoppers began to step away.
Realizing that she was making a scene, she turned, nonchalantly tucked the kettle into her armpit, bent her head down and began licking in earnest. Finger, Thumb, Spout, Handle...if it was within reach, it was getting moisturized.
The other shoppers were suddenly VERY interested in their purchases.
Mom didn't notice because she was locked in a life or death struggle with a second-hand kitchen appliance. In her eyes, she was making great headway, but to everyone else, she was digging for chiggers.
Finally, and not a moment too soon, the kettle relented and released her finger: POP!
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
A few minutes later, my mom's friend appeared.
My Mom: "Where were you? I got a kettle stuck on my finger and had to lick it until it came off. I'm keeping it, though. I can tell it's a good deal. I'm a Master Shopper!"
Her Friend: "You're certainly a piece of work!"

When my 13-year-old asked if he could buy himself a snake, I wanted to say “no.” That is my answer for everything and I find it keeps our expenses down. My wife, on the other hand, likes to say “yes” whenever possible. Knowing that a kid taking care of his own pet is probably a good idea, I had to find a way to get to a “yes” all the while understanding that if I was the guy who pushed for it, I would be held responsible if the snake devoured one of the kids. Then it would be me requiring a heat lamp and a new place to curl up. I gave the best answer a man in my position could give: “Ask your mother.” Then I added: “But probably not.”

Once she knew I was maybe not “on board,” his mother immediately gave the green light and Duncan bought a baby Columbian Rainbow Boa Constrictor.

The first big job involving Atticus the Boa Constrictor was feeding time.

Step One: Defrost a frozen mouse that has been living in your freezer and staring at you whenever you open the door.

Step Two: Be severely warned by your mother: Remove the frozen mouse from the microwave. “I will NOT have a mouse explode in a kitchen appliance. Put the mouse in a mason jar and fill the jar with boiling water. Do this in the sink. You WILL NOT spill the water on anything.”

Step Three: Agree heartily.

Step Four: Struggle with the lid of the mason jar and spill the contents of said jar across the counter, the floor, the ceiling, the dog and the microwave.

Step Five: Say something silly like, “Cool! Now I smell like mouse. I wonder if the snake will try to eat me!”

Step Six: Dangle the thawed mouse in front of the snake and watch as it hungrily crushes and devours it.

Step Seven: Watch with pleasure as Mom becomes the “no” parent.

Benji: “Can I get a snake, too?”

My Wife: “No.”

Emma: “Can I hold the snake?”

Duncan: “Yes.”

My Wife: “No.”

Duncan: “Do you want to hold him, Mommy?”

My Wife: “Absolutely not.”

Benji: “Can I get a mouse?”

My Wife: “NO!”

Me: “What’s the problem, honey? It seems like you don’t like the snake now.”

My Wife: “I don’t. I didn’t know it would…you know…squeeze the poor mouse like that.”

Me: “The poor dead mouse?”

My Wife: “Yes. I don’t like how it squeezes…”

Me: “You mean “constricts”?”

My Wife: “Yes. I don’t like how it constricts the dead mouse.”

Me: “Honey, what would you expect a boa constrictor to do? Tickle?”

My Wife: “It was my understanding that the “constrictor” was only a sub-category of the boa species.”

Me: “Like the black sheep of the snake family?”

My Wife: “Exactly. This was a bad idea of yours.”

Me: “Right. I’ll get the heat lamp ready.”

Who knew that fixing up the bathroom could be so tough?  Knowing that I could easily give up on our latest project and wanting to get my “buy in,” my wife worked hard to make sure that I was engaged the whole way through.

“Let’s go look at new toilets!” she suggested.

“Let’s not!” I replied.

“You never know what you might find,” she countered.

“Probably a lot of toilets,” I said.

And guess who was right.

Toilet research has been at a stand still since the discovery of the “flush.” (“Watch, gentlemen, as I push this lever and presto! Everything disappears!” “Where does it go?” “We have no idea…”) There is the porcelain bowl and there is the porcelain water tank. In fact, the best thing that toilet scientists have come up with since 1953 is the cushioned seat. Everything else has remained unchanged…until now.

I found a bold new toilet. One that breaks out of the mold of the common man’s receptacle and approaches the realm of science fiction. Not only is it a streamlined one piecer, but it replaces the everyday “lever” with, not one, but TWO push buttons AND it conserves water as well!

Yes, it’s true. Toilets are now being built with the “push button” technology that’s been available in every other industry for the past fifty years! And I have one.

“Why TWO buttons?” I asked the hardware store guy.

“One for “raindrops” and the other for “driftwood.” ”

“Cool.”

Now I want to be very honest with you here. Conserving water has never been high on my list of must-do’s. Why would I want to save the stuff that finds its way into my basement on such a consistent basis?

(Note: I do not conserve mice or hairy spiders, both of which also find their way into my basement on occasion.) But show me a push-button toilet that allows me to separate the raindrops from the driftwood and I am SO in! (I’m betting I can get a remote hooked up to it by the summer.)

This is why I am now “into” the bathroom renovations. What other inventions are out there that I don’t know about? A vanity that makes ice cream? A bathtub that shaves your bum? The sky is now the limit!

Captain Kirk: “Scotty, how long can you hold off the Klingons?”

Scotty: “What are ye doing in there?”

Captain Kirk: “Using this incredible new commode!”

Scotty: “Raindrops or driftwood?”

Captain Kirk: “Unfortunately just raindrops. It would have been cool to “beam” some driftwood into one of their ships.”

My Wife: “WOULD YOU HURRY UP! EMMA HAS TO GO!”

Me: “Okay, fine. We have to go to the hardware store anyway. I want to look at new bath tubs.”