A tough conversation, period

“What’s this?” my seven-year-old son Evan asked, holding up a tampon.

“Can I have some crackers?” my four-year-old son Zack asked at the same time.  Like a politician at a press conference, I chose the easier question.

“No, no snacks.  We’re just about to eat dinner,” I said.

“What’s this?” Evan repeated, pointing the tampon wrapper at me like he was Harry Potter casting a spell with his absorbent, unscented wand.  Expectum answeris!

Of course, their mother was out-of-town for work, so I couldn’t pawn off the question on her.  Before she left, though, she’d apparently skipped around the house, tossing feminine hygiene products onto various household surfaces from her woman basket.

Something in the way Evan stood there, pointing the tampon at me in an almost accusatory way, like he knew he was on the verge of discovery and I was stonewalling him, gave me a flashback to when I was a teenager, standing in my parents’ kitchen.

“What’s this?” my mom asked, holding up a tube of K-Y Jelly.  I recognized the tube from the glove compartment of my car.  As far as I knew, the tube came with the car, like an owner’s manual.  I hadn’t put it there, and I’d never really given its origins or intended applications too much thought.

“Oh, that’s the tube from my glove box.  I don’t know who put that there.  I assumed it had some kind of automotive purpose,” I said.  I didn’t know exactly what went on inside a Jiffy Lube, but it seemed plausible they might need some personal lubricant in there somewhere.

“It doesn’t have an automotive purpose,” Dad said, looking at me sideways, with an “I wasn’t born yesterday” look.  I think my parents thought I was much better at being a teenager than I actually was.

I never did get to the bottom of what was going on with that K-Y Jelly, but I’m pretty sure my parents never entirely believed me, and I still got tainted with a squirt of suspicion by the whole thing.  Stonehenge, what happened to D.B. Cooper, how that K-Y Jelly got in my glove compartment: the great mysteries of our time.

Over twenty years later, another member of my family eyed me suspiciously, sensing that I was weaseling out of giving a straight answer.  In retrospect, he might have thought that the tampon was candy, which would explain why he cared so much.  The wrapper looked a lot like the wrapper of the good kind of after-dinner mint.  He may have thought he’d just hit the jackpot.

“It’s, uh, it’s a thing that women use,” I said, pausing to take a bite of my Oreo, waiting to see if the conversation was over.

“Hey!  You said no snacks!  You’re eatin’ Oreos!” Zack yelled.

“I’m about to make you dinner, it’s been a long day, and I need the energy.  I’m doing you a favor by eating Oreos.  The energy from this Oreo is going right back into caring for you.  You’re welcome,” I said.

“What do women use them for?” Evan asked.

My brain ran through several possible responses, and it couldn’t come up with a single one that wouldn’t make his head explode.

“It’s a hygiene thing, like soap,” I said, trying to say the most boring possible thing so that the conversation could end, to be resumed in a few years, whenever his health teacher got around to resuming it.  That’s why I pay taxes.

“How much time until dinner?” he asked, setting the tampon down and walking toward his Legos.  Success!

“It’s not fair that you get to eat Oreos before dinner,” Zack correctly noted.

“You’re right.  I shouldn’t have done that.  We’ll all have cookies after dinner,” I replied.

As a parent, it’s important to be forthright and fair.  But it’s also important to try obfuscating and sneaking cookies first.

You can cast a spell at Mike Todd with the feminine hygiene product of your choice at mikectodd@gmail.com.

For whom the bird flips

By the time I realized we were on a collision course, our cars were only inches apart, our headlights preparing to occupy the same space.  Fortunately, we were crawling along in traffic at the speed of arthritic sloths, so we had plenty of time to avoid each other.  Plenty of time, but no inclination.

“Go ahead and crash into me, if that’s what you want to do,” is the attitude I usually take when playing chicken with fellow motorists, especially when driving my wife’s Civic.  We’ve had that car for seventeen years now.  We would consider getting rid of it, but Kara has an emotional attachment to it, and over time, I’ve come to empathize with the car, too.  Much like me, the Civic looked really good seventeen years ago, still runs just fine even with all that mileage on it, and has lately become somewhat of an eyesore.  Seventeen years can put a lot of wear and tear on a car and/or human.

My adversary had caught me at a disadvantage on this day, though, as I was driving our other car, a six-year-old Highlander, which I’m only supposed to crash by accident.  I also had my son, Zack, in the backseat, and while he would have probably enjoyed competing in a demolition derby, I decided to back off and let the other motorist merge in front of me, confident that the historical record would vindicate my position that it was indeed my turn to go next.

Long ago, I decided that the world can be ugly and mean enough without the sound of my car horn making it uglier and meaner.  I resolved to only use the horn when necessary to avoid an accident, but not to discipline other drivers.  Kara doesn’t share my aural pacifism.

“Dude, honk at that guy!  He totally deserves it!” she will say, reaching over to press the center of the steering wheel for me.

“Chill!  Chill!” I will reply, using my right arm like a windshield wiper to fend off her attacks.

In extreme circumstances, like when this guy decided he was entitled to take my (rightful, did I mention?) turn in the merge as we went from two lanes to one, I will register my displeasure with a quick flick of the high beams, or, as I like to think of it, the gentleman’s honk.


The gentleman’s honk says, “Cheerio, my good fellow.  What’s this about, then?”

So I gave the guy a quick gentleman’s honk, choosing a pinch of passive aggression over a dollop of ugliness.  Immediately, his window went down, he stuck his entire arm into the winter air, and he held one finger aloft in a decidedly non-gentlemanly gesture, keeping it there for a solid five-count.  Fortunately, Zack is four years old, wouldn’t have known what that meant, wasn’t paying attention anyway, and couldn’t have learned anything profane unless he happened to glance up and peer into that guy’s soul.

Didn’t flipping the bird go out of fashion around the time that “road rage” entered the lexicon?  I thought we all decided to be more polite out there so that we wouldn’t get shot.  Perhaps it’s a compliment of sorts when someone gives you the finger, since they’ve sized you up and think you look stable enough to handle it.

As we picked up speed, I wondered if the world has gotten meaner lately.  It sure feels like it.  Maybe we could all work harder to merge with each other a little better.

“Hey, buddy, tell me something good that happened today,” I said.

“I built a Lego ship that had a secret place for a toy dog to hide in it,” Zack replied.  And just like that, the world started to feel a little better.  But that guy still better hope he never meets me while I’m driving the Civic.

You can exchange a gentleman’s honk with Mike Todd at mikectodd@gmail.com.

Out with the old, in with nothing at all

“You really shouldn’t look in there,” my wife, Kara, advised, so of course I looked in there.

“Dude!  You’re really going to toss this?” I asked, pulling a Spider-Man lunchbox out of the trash bag and holding it out as evidence, like I’d just caught her trying to throw away a Faberge egg.

“You’re worse than the kids.  I told you not to look in there.  The latch is broken,” she replied.  She’d just spent an hour going through all the kids’ toys, figuring out which needed to be donated or tossed, and which were worthy of continuing to occupy vast swaths of our house that humans used to be able to use.

“My Spider-Man lunchbox!” our son Evan screamed, running over and grabbing it, his precious.  That he hadn’t touched the thing in four years no longer mattered.  THIS was the most important object in the world, until we stopped trying to throw it away, at which point he could go back to forgetting it existed.

When my sister was little, she went fishing with my dad, and they kept all the fish they caught in a bucket.  Dad intended to clean and cook the fish for dinner.

When he took the first fish out of the bucket and explained what he was going to do, Amy yelled, “No, not THAT one!”

So Dad let it go.  When he took the second fish out of bucket, Amy yelled, “No, not THAT one!”

And so on, until there were no more fish in the bucket.  Then they ordered pizza.

It’s the same with toys.

“No, not THAT one!” our boys will yell, as the plastic monster truck with the snapped axle hangs over the trash can.

“No, not THAT one!” to the Happy Meal robot that has been played with less than the ketchup packets it came with.

If the toys have no way to exit the house, they will take over.  Buzz Lightyear becomes the galactic commander of your living room.  Your kid’s closet will be ruled by a stuffed dragon who will push an avalanche of lesser stuffed animals onto the floor every time you open the door.  You will have to park in the driveway so that the plastic red car with the yellow roof can have your garage.  Eventually, Santa will have to jump up and down on your chimney to squish the toys into every last crevice of your house.

If you’re to have any hope of reclaiming your home from the little plastic dictators, it’s really a much better strategy to skulk around in the middle of the night, like Santa, except the opposite.  Spider-Man had Venom, the evil version of himself.  Santa has us, the anti-Santas, who sneak around the house removing toys from all the good little boys, while visions of sugarplums would be dancing in their heads, if anybody knew what a sugarplum was.

On this day, though, Kara was attempting a daring daylight raid, and I was jeopardizing the mission.

I came to my senses, quickly snapping shut the trash bag that she had packed, realizing that she’d done us all a favor, and vowing to remember that people are really the only things that matter, not rocket ships with the doors snapped off the hinges.

“Daddy, wait!” Evan said as I headed for the front door.

“Let’s not even look in the bag.  It’s better this way!” I replied, shutting the door behind me.

By the time I came back inside from the trash can, Evan was running around the house with his brother, the broken old toys already forgotten.  It’s nice to see that even if glue can’t fix the broken rocket door, the more important bonds endure.

You can let Mike Todd borrow your Spider-Man lunchbox at mikectodd@gmail.com.

When your Echo listens to you

“Alexa, put marshmallows on the shopping list!” my son Evan yelled into the cylindrical speaker sitting on our kitchen counter.

“Evan, you don’t have to yell at it, and we don’t need marshmallows,” I said.

I added marshmallows to your shopping list,” the speaker replied, deciding that it was human enough to both refer to itself in the first person, and to choose sides in a family debate.

“Take marshmallows off the shopping list,” I said, but Alexa sat in silence.  I’d forgotten she plays by “Simon Says” rules.

Without skipping a beat, Evan said, “Alexa, add Jell-o to the shopping list.”

“I added Jell-o to your shopping list,” Alexa replied.

“Hooray!” Evan cheered, taking a victory lap around the kitchen, not appreciating the very loose correlation between what goes on the shopping list and what we actually buy.

He was ganging up on me with our new Amazon Echo, a device that invaded our home, along with approximately five million other homes, this holiday season.  Amazon sold out of the devices well before Christmas, rewarding me for making the purchase way back on Black Friday, which gets its name from the amount of money that retailers make, and also from the color it turns our souls.

I bought the Echo for my wife, Kara, because we’ve been together for almost seventeen years, running at a rate of about thirty gift-giving occasions per year.  To avoid reruns, I can only buy her things that were invented since the last occasion.  For her next birthday, I’m hoping to buy her pretzels that get themselves out of the pantry, to save her the effort of asking me to get them for her.

For now, though, we’re still getting used to having the Echo in our home, sitting on the kitchen counter, listening to our every conversation in the hopes that someone will say, “Alexa, put boogers on the shopping list.”  Well, that might not be what she’s hoping to hear, but that’s what she’s going to get in our house.

Some privacy advocates (who must have something to hide) have noted that allowing a corporation to monitor every word you say in your home might not be the smartest idea.  In Arkansas, the police are seeking to retrieve information that an Echo may have recorded at a murder scene, raising an important point: You should always unplug your Echo before you murder someone.  As a corollary, if you’re hanging out with someone and you notice them unplugging their Echo, you might want to quickly find a different place to hang out.

Of course, the main purpose of an Echo is to play music, and I’ll be able to use the Echo to play motivational tunes while I use the gift that my kids got for me: A pull-up bar that rests on the trim atop a door frame, and somehow magically doesn’t rip the whole door frame down when a grown man ringed with five extra pounds of Christmas cookies hangs from it.  So far, the bar seems like a fantastic piece of workout equipment.  Some exercise programs brag about taking only thirty minutes out of your day, but as it turns out, with that thing, I can do a complete upper-body workout in five seconds.

“Why are you dangling there, Daddy?” Evan will ask.

“Don’t bother Daddy while he’s dangling,” I’ll respond, then the door frame will creak with relief as I drop to the floor, exhausted.  It’s going to take a lot of dangling before I look like the guy on the box.

Plus, dangling works up a hunger.  Maybe we’ll leave the marshmallows and Jell-o on the list after all.

You can ask Mike Todd to stop listening to everything you say in your house at mikectodd@gmail.com.


When it snows, it blows

The woman deposited a shovelful of snow beside her driveway just as we drove past, and it looked like she might collapse and deposit herself headfirst into the pile she’d just created.

“Man, she’s doing that whole driveway by herself with a shovel?” I said to the dog, who yawned; Memphis has little appreciation for the finer points of snow removal.  Snow disappears from the driveway, food appears in the bowl, poop vanishes on our walks: the world is full of magic.

For most of the morning, drizzle had been falling on top of the snow, turning each shovelful into a sopping, leaden concrete approximation, the stuff that keeps chiropractors in business.  I’d just spent the previous hour liberating my family with our trusty snow blower, and as soon as the driveway became clear, my wife, Kara, opened a window to let me know that she’d ordered pizza to be delivered to our house in a few minutes, by me.

When Memphis and I returned to our neighborhood with the pizza, we passed the lady again.  Fifteen minutes had transpired, and she’d advanced about three inches down her driveway.

“You guys get started on the pizza.  I’m going to take twenty minutes to go help this poor lady down the street.  I’d want someone to help you if you were ever in that situation,” I said.

“If I were in that situation, I’d pick up a phone and a credit card, not a shovel,” Kara replied.

I was reminded of the time twelve years ago, when Kara and I bought our first house together, and we made a trip to Home Depot at the beginning of our first winter there.

“We’ll need a couple of these,” I said, pulling two snow shovels out of the bin.

“Why do we need two?” she asked, and we stared at each other.  We’d each been making some assumptions about the other person’s role in the snow removal process.

“I thought you’d want some help,” I replied.

I parked my snow blower at the end of the woman’s driveway.  She only lives about five driveways down, but we’d never talked, because learning your neighbors’ names only mattered before iPhones were invented and actual people became obsolete.

“Hi!  Would you like some help finishing this off?” I asked, the idea suddenly striking me that perhaps my attempt at neighborliness was actually super weird.

“Oh, no, we have a snow blower, I just couldn’t get it started.  Maybe you could look at it?” she said.

At the entrance to her garage sat a beautiful, bright orange, brand new, gas-powered snow blower.  It was a parallel-universe version of my snow blower, with similar knobs but more of them, so it still felt like I was staring at the cockpit of an F-16.

“Hmmm, it can take a plug, just like mine,” I said, pointing to the electric-start receptacle.

“We don’t have a cord that’s long enough,” she said.

I checked the knobs and gave the starter rope a pull.  Then another pull.  Fiddle with a knob, pull again.  Different knob, ‘nother pull.  By the fifteenth pull, my credibility went PUTT PUTT PUTT silence.

Just as I was about to declare the situation hopeless, my eyes wandered to the garage wall, where a neatly coiled, 50-ft extension cord hung.

“That cord right there isn’t long enough to reach any of the plugs in your house?” I asked.

“Sure, but it’s not long enough to reach the whole driveway,” she said.

All of a sudden, I had useful information.  You just use the electricity to jolt the engine to life, in case you don’t have access to anyone with muscle enough to start it the real way, like us.  One minute later, the snow blower roared to life.

She clapped at first, then looked sad.  “I just spent two hours shoveling for no reason,” she said.

The important thing, though, is that she could finish the driveway without flopping down face-first into it.  But perhaps most importantly of all: the pizza was still warm.

You can build good fences between you and Mike Todd at mikectodd@gmail.com.


May all your laser beams be bright

“Laser beams!  Laser beams!” the kids yelled from the backseat, spotting another house covered in green and red dots.

“How many is that?” I asked.

“Twelve,” said our seven-year-old son, Evan, who had been keeping track of the score.  If we saw more than ten laser-beamed houses on our twenty-minute drive home from the pizza place, then my wife Kara and I won.  Less than ten, the kids won.  We have to live it up and play these kinds of games as a family now, before the kids grow up, acquire smartphones, and text their friends “OMG my parents are SO lame” when we make the suggestion.

“Thirteen!” Evan said, pointing to a house that had green and red speckles drifting like snowflakes across its vinyl siding.

My wife, Kara, and I had meant to hand the kids an easy victory, but we’d underestimated the ubiquity of this newest innovation in hall-deckery, the Christmas laser.  When I was a kid, everyone had the same basic building block of Christmas decor: strands of gigantic multi-colored lights, with each bulb the size of a youth-league football.  You couldn’t put too many on your house, because it would collapse.

Then the bulbs got smaller, and the arms race began.  People started hanging them from the gutters and putting them on reindeer with moving heads.  Eventually, the bulbs got more energy efficient, so we had to put giant inflatable Santas in our yards with blowers running constantly to help use up all the extra electricity.  Finally, we have arrived at this moment, with a populace seeking technological innovation, hungry to take its jollification to the next level.  Like Dr. Evil deciding what to mount to a shark’s head, we have chosen laser beams.

While you can make the case that shining lasers on your house is much more practical than climbing stepladders to hang regular lights, I worry that this trend is a corruption of the original, scientific use of the laser beam, which is to make cats chase red dots across the floor.  Or to shine on a planetarium ceiling while Pink Floyd music plays, for some reason.

“How do they get the lasers all over the houses?” our four-year-old son, Zack, asked.

“You put a little device in your yard and point it toward your house.  When you plug it in, it shines laser beams all over the place,” I said, scientifically.

“So when you open the front door, do you die?” he asked.

“What?  No, I don’t think anyone would buy a device that killed you when you opened your front door,” I said.  Sometimes, I question his understanding of capitalism.

“He means like the laser beams from Star Wars,” Evan explained.

“Ohhh, oh, oh.  No, these laser beams aren’t like the kind that storm troopers shoot.  Those are make-believe,” Kara said.

“Oh, that’s good,” Zack replied.

“Fourteen!” Evan said as we rolled past our neighbor’s house.  He sounded excited that the number was so high, even though Kara and I were running up the score.  Of course, we weren’t going to win anything in particular.  Sometimes, as a parent, it’s victory enough just to crush your kids’ spirits.

“Don’t worry, Zack.  I’ll tell them the new rules when we get home,” Evan whispered.

“I sense victory slipping from our grasp,” I said to Kara.

“I feel like the old rules were just fine.  I don’t know why we need new rules,” she replied.

As the kids hopped out into the garage, Evan said, “Zack, the new rules are: We win!”

“Yay!  We win!” Zack yelled as he ran up the stairs.

For their sakes, we’ll just hope Santa already checked his list twice.

You can deck Mike Todd’s halls with lasers at mikectodd@gmail.com.

Zack, I am your father

As we drove home last Wednesday evening, I performed the nightly ritual of wheedling information out of my four-year-old son, Zack, who protects the details about his time at daycare like they’re the nuclear launch codes.  During this ritual, it is my job to find out how his day went, and his job to withstand the interrogation without surrendering any actionable intel.

“What was the coolest thing that happened today?” I asked.  I’ve learned not to ask yes/no questions, since there’s no such thing as voluntary elaboration.  If you want to know how a kid’s day was, you have to come at them sideways.

“I don’t want you to die, Daddy,” he replied, throwing me off the trail of whether or not he’d had a good nap that day.  I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw him looking back at me, serious but not concerned, just voicing what was on his mind.

“That’s something we have in common, my man,” I replied, thinking that perhaps we shouldn’t have let him watch “Return of the Jedi” with his big brother, Evan, last weekend.  (Things don’t go particularly well for Luke Skywalker’s father in that movie.  I won’t spoil his identity in case you are also four years old and haven’t seen it yet.)

“I’d be sad forever,” Zack said.

“Aw, buddy, don’t worry about that.  I’m planning to hang around for a long, long time,” I said.  Zack doesn’t get sentimental too often, so I appreciated that he preferred me alive, even though I only let him have one piece of Halloween candy each night, so his stash will likely last until St. Patrick’s Day.

“But if you died, then I’d get a new daddy,” he said, perking up.

“Wait, what?  A new daddy?” I asked.  Luke Skywalker didn’t get a new daddy.  Your dad dies, then you go to an Ewok dance party and whoop it up.  That’s how these things go.

“Oh, maybe that’s not how it works,” Zack said, reconsidering after I didn’t immediately offer up another dad from the bullpen.

The discussion of my mortality stopped when we picked Evan up from school, but started again at dinner.  My wife, Kara, recently took a new position at work that keeps her a little bit later and often puts the kids’ evening nutrition in my hands, so I use the term “dinner” here loosely.

“Thirty-nine is not that old,” Zack said, dipping his Pop Tart in ketchup.

“Yeah, it’s a good age,” I replied as my spoon hovered over the raisin bran.

“Forty is really old, though,” Evan said, blowing on his microwave pizza.

“Yeah, that’s REALLY old,” Zack agreed.  Duly noted.  I shall do my best to enjoy my remaining good months.

That night I tucked Zack into bed, wondering if I’d helped at all to alleviate his fears, or at least done my part to tamp down his excitement about trading up for a better dad.  Sitting on the edge of his bed, I patted him on the head and looked into his eyes to make sure I had his attention.

“Zack, it’s a special thing, being your dad.  I love it, and I love you, very much.  And I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

He thought about it for a minute, his little-kid brain doing some heavy processing on some grown-up subject matter.  I gave him all the time he needed to put his emotions into words.

“Daddy?” he said after a moment, holding out his finger toward me.

“Yes, Zack?” I replied.

“Where can I put this boogie?” he asked.

Sometimes, just when you think you’ve got your kid figured out, you realize that you’re actually in a galaxy far, far away.

You can make the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs with Mike Todd at mikectodd@gmail.com.

The case against November

“Food is better in November than any other time of year,” proclaims my son’s bedtime book, “In November”, an ode to a month that seems an unlikely candidate for praise.  November is the gateway to winter, the time when any hope of T-shirt weather is snuffed out entirely, a bleak month of digging through our closets to find that matching glove.  By its nature, November is dreary and grim, which is why we feel compelled to slather cranberry sauce all over it.

In November, trees shed their October glory, going immediately from their most exquisite to their most pitiful, like a fluffy cat coming out of the bathtub, all bones and no dignity.

“Without their leaves, how lovely they are, spreading their arms like dancers,” says the book.  And the music that plays for these dancers?  The drone of a million two-stroke engines rattling the ground, blowing the clothes that the dancers just dropped on the ground, expecting us to pick up.  Which we do, because we need to keep the grass alive.  Otherwise, we’d have nothing to mow in the spring.  This is what our parents did, and this is what we continue doing, so it must have made sense at some point.

As the leaves swirl around our yard, so do the candy wrappers swirl around our living room.  Now that my sons are four and seven, gone are the days of them forgetting all about their stashes of Halloween candy.              Perhaps there is some truth that November makes food taste better.  Nothing tastes better than your kid’s Kit Kat after he’s gone to sleep.  The heat from the guilt makes the chocolate meltier.

Just kidding, of course.  What kind of a monster would steal his kid’s candy, and then admit to it?  I definitely wouldn’t do that second thing.

“Good morning, Zack,” I will say to our four-year-old, pulling his blinds open.

“Can I have candy?” he will reply, his eyes not open yet.

He’s especially proud of his stash this year because of the way he earned it.  This was the first year that the boys were old enough to walk up to houses independently, while I waited for them on the street, which seemed fantastic at first.  Then I noticed that the transactions were taking a little too long.

As one of our nice neighbors bent down to talk to Zack, I walked closer to listen.

“I don’t like Skittles,” Zack said, staring up and waiting to see how she would rectify this situation.

“Oh, I have some chocolate around here somewhere,” she said, running off to her pantry despite my protests.

“Zack, you don’t negotiate with the neighbors.  You take what they offer and you thank them.  You can negotiate with your brother later if you guys want to trade candy,” I said on our way to the next house.

The next neighbor held out her bowl and said, “Take whichever one you’d like.”

“Two?” Zack asked.

“Sure, take two,” she replied before I could interject.

“Three?” Zack asked.

“Two is good,” she replied, and I gave her a thumbs-up.

To Zack, when a neighbor holds out a bowl of candy, that is merely their opening bid.

“In November, people are good to each other,” says the book.  Perhaps we’ve finally reached the point in this November where that can be true.  With the election over, we can look at our friends’ Facebook feeds again and remember why we liked them in the first place.  (On second thought, we may need a little more time on this one.)

But perhaps there are things we can like about November, especially if we don’t think too hard about what’s coming next.

Which reminds me: Seriously, where is that matching glove?

You can negotiate with Mike Todd for better candy at mikectodd@gmail.com.

Third down and thirtysomething

“Yes!” I said as the Penn State player dove into the end zone, my outstretched hands searching in vain for someone to high-five.

“Woof!” said our dog, Memphis.

“Quiet!” I whispered.

Of the eight people in our house, I was the only one who’d managed to stay awake until the fourth quarter to witness a Penn State comeback for the ages.  In Happy Valley, students were streaming onto the field and filing into the streets.  In our house, former Penn State students were drooling into their pillows, resting up for another full day of parenthood.

My wife Kara’s college roommate, Curry, and her husband, Bob, have always made the effort to visit us, even though we live three hours away and haven’t been any fun in over a decade.  Shortly after we all graduated college and the years still had that new millennium smell, we’d throw parties when they came to visit us, the kind of parties in which you had to pump the container to make the beer come out.

This past weekend, Curry and Bob brought their two sons to play with our two sons, creating a tornado of Y chromosomes that blew every toy in a hundred-yard radius off its shelf.  By the time dinner rolled around on Saturday, the kids were still going strong, but the adults were mostly pinned under the wreckage.

“Can I get you a beer?” I asked, looking in the fridge as I picked Tinkertoys out of my shoes.

“What do you have?” Bob asked, brushing the Legos out of his hair.

“Sam Adams Winter Lager,” I replied.  A couple of beats went by as we both did the math.  I could tell that Bob realized that it was October, and that the beer was likely older than his youngest son.

“We, uh, got a special pre-order deal.  It’s totally winter lager for this upcoming winter.  Not from previous winters, in case that wasn’t clear,” I said, as I continued fishing around, eventually finding an option that didn’t appear to predate any of our offspring.

At dinner, the adults all had a single beer or glass of wine while the kids created a mural out of tomato sauce on the tablecloth.  After the rodeo of putting the children to bed, I wandered into the living room to find the Penn State game on the TV, and Kara with a glass of wine in her hand.

“Whoa, did you pour yourself another glass of wine?” I asked.  Back in college, you could often find our friends under the table, right where Kara drank them.  As we’ve gotten older, though, we’ve found that parenting offers plenty of reasons to drink, but very few opportunities to actually do so.

“What?  No.  I just forgot about this glass and found it again,” she said.

We settled in to watch the game, feeling fortunate to have our house filled with so much friendship, family, and history, the Penn State game serving as a serendipitous reminder of the good times we’d all had together.  Sitting there on the couch with Curry and Bob, it was just like old times.

“I’m too tired to finish this glass.  Can you grab me some Tums before I head upstairs?” Kara said, right around halftime.  It’ll sneak up on you, but eventually, antacids will play a prominent role in your social life.

Curry looked at her phone.  “Whoa, what time is it?  10:00?  The kids are going to be up at 5:30.  I gotta get to bed.”

Bob hung in there until the start of the fourth quarter, then he, too, retired, leaving me and Memphis alone to watch one of the greatest football finales in recent memory, an experience that at least one of us would gladly have traded for an extra hour of sleep in the morning.

You can stay awake until the end of the game with Mike Todd at mikectodd@gmail.com.

Hugging a baby: The last frontier

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, buddy, I think you forgot someone,” I said to my four-year-old son, Zack, and he looked at me with despair.

I pointed to the baby on the far side of the living room, whom Zack had conspicuously skipped during his round of good-night hugs.  Zack froze halfway up the stairs, contemplating his options, looking as if I’d just asked him to hug a flaming cactus.  Conrad, the neglected baby in question, tried to clap his hands together and whiffed, performing the infant version of a flubbed high-five.

“Come on, go give your cousin a hug,” I said.

Zack sat on the steps, defiant.  He would not hug that baby.  Whatever Zack may decide to do when he grows up, a career in politics does not appear likely.

“Aw, it’s okay, really,” said Aunt Jill, hoping to avoid the scene that Zack and I were intent on creating.  Conrad gurgled and smiled, bouncing on his mom’s knee, unaware that he was playing a pivotal role in the Shakespearean power struggle unfolding before him.

“Zack, if you don’t give Conrad a hug by the time I count to three, you’re getting a timeout,” I said, dispensing with any notion that a nice family moment was still a possible outcome.

“Hmmmph,” Zack replied.

Ever since Aunt Jill, Uncle Kris, and Conrad had arrived at our house a few days prior, visiting us from Anchorage, Alaska, Zack had been giving his eight-month-old cousin the kind of berth you’d normally reserve for an angry moose.

Conrad is a good baby, too.  Mellow, as far as babies go.  He didn’t even scream during his dozen-or-so hours on the plane.

“He was great,” Jill reported.

“You had to entertain him the entire time, right?” I asked.

“Yep, he didn’t sleep a wink,” she replied.

Everyone complains about babies screaming on airplanes, but nobody mentions the quiet ones.  You’ve been on airplanes with plenty of babies who didn’t scream at all.  The only reason those babies didn’t scream on your plane is because there were parents like Jill and Kris there desperately bouncing, cooing, and cajoling every second of the way.

“Oh, you have such a good baby,” relieved passengers from nearby seats will say as they prepare to disembark, and, as a parent, you will smile and say thanks.  But really, you’re thinking that the baby deserves about 15% of the credit.

“One,” I counted, meeting Zack’s gaze as we faced off like Wild West gunslingers.  In the distance, a crow cawed.  A horse neighed.  A clock struck the seven chimes of bedtime.

“Two,” I said.  Zack sat still.  His jaws clenched.  His eyes squinted.  The room went perfectly silent.

“Thrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,” I said, giving Zack the chance to do the right thing before I rounded the corner into a vowel.

Zack’s eyes went over the Conrad, his only ticket out of a timeout.

“…rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,” I said, and Zack finally jumped up and ran over to his cousin, leaning ever-so-slightly into him to stop the count.

I understood where Zack was coming from.  Babies are kind of scary.  Zack had been regarding Conrad as if he might detonate at any moment.  Really, could we promise that he wouldn’t?  You never know when something might come out of a baby where you’d need to use the word “projectile” as an adjective to properly describe it.

“A real hug,” I said.

Zack reluctantly put an arm around his cousin.  Conrad, for his part, swung his arms up and down and scooched all over the place, because that is what he was already doing.

“Awwww,” everyone said, encouraging Zack’s newfound, if somewhat involuntary, appreciation for his cousin.  Zack may not be a natural politician, but he may just earn our votes yet.

You can refuse to hug Mike Todd at mikectodd@gmail.com.