Postcard #88: Boyfriends II - Tenth Anniversary/Holiday Postcard

In December of 2004, the first Postcard from the Garden of Estrogen made its appearance.  It was just a single essay, with no plans for anything else.  I have republished the Postcard elsewhere on this blog.  But thanks to the five women in my life, the past ten years have provided a limitless supply of material.  And with over a half million miles spent in the air, I have had enough time to write it all down. 

Whether you have been with me from the beginning or have joined along the way, thank you for reading.

And now we turn to a topic that was not even on the distant radar when my daughters were 8, 8, 8 and 5.

* * *

Come on in boy, sit on down
And tell me 'bout yourself.
So you like my daughter, do you now?
Yeah we think she's something else.
She's her daddy's girl and her mama's world
She deserves respect, that's what she'll get, ain't it son?
Now y'all run along and have some fun.
I'll see you when you get back
Bet I'll be up all night
Still cleaning this gun.

Rodney Atkins, “Cleaning This Gun”

I know some people like to poke fun at country music, but how can you not like lyrics like these – especially if you have daughters? 

* * *

When D1, D2 and D3 were ten years old I wrote a Postcard entitled Boyfriends - OK, not a very original title, I admit, but also not at all confusing as to the topic.  The purpose (aside from general amusement) was to document their views on the subject of boys and dating while they and their friends had virtually no firsthand knowledge of the subject.  Postcard #30 is posted elsewhere on this blog. 

At the time, I made one prophetic statement:

I don’t know what worries me more:

• The idea that one day my daughters will have boyfriends.
• The idea that it may happen at approximately the same time (at least for the big three – this is NOT one area where I want the little one to play catch-up). 

Through intermediate school and middle school I watched as my daughters’ peers started to experiment with relationships.  Boys would appear on the spectator sidelines at the games I was coaching. Or we would hear at the dinner table about who liked whom, who was going out with whom, etc.  The Queen and I just listened.  As far as we could tell, all of this was going on around our daughters, but not directly involving them.  Nevertheless, just to be on the safe side, I would find a way to periodically remind the girls that I had won a number of awards shooting target rifles when I was a teenager.  My own version of Rodney Atkins.

Then came high school.  First year, same story.  Then suddenly, boys started showing interest in D1, D2 and D3.  I didn’t interview any of the boys at the time (now THAT would have made for an interesting Postcard), but perhaps it had something to do with the fact that at 5-6, 5-8 and 5-6 1/2 respectively, the girls no longer towered over the boys the way they used to (D3 in particular is far less intimidating when she is looking up).

However, just because the boys started paying attention doesn’t mean their efforts were reciprocated.  Every single one was unsuccessful.  Eventually we reached a point where I started to become more curious than fearful to see what kind of boy was going to manage to break the ice.  D2, misreading my curiosity, reassured me that (a) she does like boys, and (b) she and her sisters would not settle for any boy just to be able to say she had a boyfriend.

Note:  Not that there was ever any doubt, but D2 has since stated on multiple occasions that “I would never want to date a girl.  I don’t know how guys do it.  We are impossible!”

By this time, D4 had passed her sisters in height (currently approaching 5-10).  With a hairstyle that looks like Darryl Hannah’s in Splash, it would be easy to think she would be the first to attract a beau.  However, not to worry – I think she can be even more intimidating than D3.

Note – apparently among the high school set, the term “beau” has been replaced by BAE (pronounced “bay”), which means Before Anyone Else.  At some point these kids will discover that “bae” is the Danish word for poop (the ae becomes a single letter).  Wonder what will happen then?  At the very least, if your daughter starts dating someone named Lars or Magnus, you might want to warn her not to use this term of endearment.

In any event, at the beginning of this year, without any warning D2 suddenly had a BAE.  By late summer, D1 and D3 had followed suit (and before anyone asks, no they are not dating triplets).  Now here’s the amazing part:  I haven’t thought about making a firearm purchase even once! 

For years I have been thinking up all the clever things to say that will strike fear in the hearts of potential suitors:

• “Thanks for bringing my daughter home.  Yes, I always stand on my front porch late at night.  See ya!”
• “Sure you can take my daughter out again - her next free night is in 5 years.”
• “The movies?  No problem - what are you planning to see?  Oh, The Queen and I were just heading out to the same movie.  We’ll be sitting behind you.” (The Queen’s parents really did this the first time I took her out when we were home from college – no joke).

And yet I have used none of these lines.  What is wrong with me?  In fact, the only restriction I have put on my daughters is that I get veto power over the transportation arrangements, and they seem to be fine with it.

Maybe I’m saving it all for what my vivid imagination is cooking up for D4. 

D4: “But Dad, you didn’t give my sisters a hassle about their boyfriends.”

Gardener: “Your sisters’ boyfriends weren't 6-5 with a Harley Davidson tattoo.  And no, he can’t pick you up for a date on his motorcycle, even if he does have an extra helmet!”

Until then, the gun cleaning will just have to wait.

* * *

Whatever holiday you celebrate, I hope the season brings you happiness and peace.

Postcard #30: Boyfriends - A 10 and 7 Perspective

This Postcard appeared in 2007.

* * *

The big girls have moved on from their elementary school (K-4) and have begun intermediate school this fall.  The little one is only in second grade, but she thinks she can keep up (and in many ways she does).  It’s an amazing age.  Sometimes they give glimpses of what they will be like as adults, and then they can turn around and be little girls again – which they still are most of the time.  But before the little girls disappear entirely, I need to take a few snapshots for the time capsule.  This month we take a close look at the subject of dating.

* * *

I don’t know what worries me more:

• The idea that one day my daughters will have boyfriends.
• The idea that it may happen at approximately the same time (at least for the big three – this is NOT one area where I want the little one to play catch-up). 

However, I remember how completely inept most boys are at all things social, so perhaps I still have some breathing room.  Of course, one should not assume the topic doesn’t enter their thought process, but for the time being I can still observe and be (mostly) amused.

Disclaimer: my daughters claim that I have muddled some of this account.  If so, I take full responsibility for any misidentification of my daughters or misinterpretation that may have occurred.  I was writing as quickly as I could, and 10 year old girls have a tendency to talk simultaneously (no, really?).  Of course any actual names that appear here have been changed.

The scene: Dinner time at the Staffin house late spring – the girls are about to conclude their 4^th grade experience. 

The Queen has a speaking engagement and I am alone with the kids.  As we have learned, this means they eat, while I serve and listen.

D3:  “Kevin is so annoying.  Daddy, why are boys so annoying?

Father: “It’s something we practice starting in pre-school.  There is a special ‘annoying’ class that only boys can attend, where they teach us how to drive girls crazy.  Then we spend a lifetime perfecting the techniques.”

D4: “Really?”

D3: “No silly, you can always tell when Daddy is joking.  He gets that look like he’s about to smile.”

D1:  “Are you writing this down?  Oh no, he’s making a Postcard!  Let’s change the subject.”

I think I’m going to have to change tactics one of these days.  They are getting wise to my research methods.

D3 (ignoring D1’s warning): “Daddy, are you Mommy’s boyfriend?”

Father: “Yes.”

D4: “How can you be her boyfriend if you are married?”

Father: “You get married when you decide you want to be boyfriend and girlfriend forever.  I take it none of you have boyfriends, right?

D2: “D1 likes Mark”.

D1: “Eew, I do not.  He curses.”

D2: “D3 chases him.”

D3: “He asked me to.”

Father: “And so you do?”

D3: “Sure, why not?”

Why didn’t I think of that when I was a teenager?  She looks cute.  “Hey chase me.  Want to go out on a date?  Great!”

D1: “He thinks he is funny, but he is completely annoying.”

D2: “Totally.”

D3: “You know, boys think it’s cool to have a girlfriend.”

Father: “Why?”

D1 and D2 in unison: “I have no idea.”

D3: “I don’t know, but it seems that way.”

Father: “What do they do?”

D1: “They don’t do anything.  They just say they have a girlfriend and leave them alone.”

Father:  “So let me get this straight.  Boys annoy you, right?”

D1: “Yes”

Father: “And then they leave you alone?  This sounds like a good thing.” (especially for Dad)

D1 and D2: “No, you don’t get it.”

D1: “They say they have a girlfriend, but they don’t do anything.  They don’t give Valentines or go out on dates.  They just leave the subject alone.”

Father: “What if you ask the girl?”

D3: “The girls say ‘No, I don’t even talk to him!’  or ‘He’s the most annoying person in the universe!’ ”

Father: “So the boys are making it up.”

D1: “Yes.  They just say it and go do boy things.”

Father:  “Has any boy said he likes you?”

D1 and D3: “No”

D2: “Well…”

D3 (always the helpful one, whispers): “Jake”

Father: “Did Jake say he likes you?”

D2: “No, but I think he does.”

Father: “And how does that make you feel?”

D2: “Bad.”

D3: “I put ice down his back.”

D1: “Yeah, she beats up the boys.”

Father: “So, boys like D2, and then D3 beats them up.”

D3: “I don’t really beat them up.  I just protect the girls – especially when boys steal their stuff.”

D2: “It’s really nice to have D3 on your side.” Note:  D3 is only 10, but she is about to reach 5 feet tall and is as strong as some adults.  If I were an annoying little boy I think I would steer clear of D3’s friends.”

Now let’s see what D4 thinks of all this.  She has been listening to this whole conversation with a mixture of fascination and skepticism.

Father: “D4, what do you think about boyfriends?”

D4:  “They’re dumb.  I want to marry a boy that doesn’t like kissing.”

Father: “Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

D4: “No”

Father: “When do you think you will have a boyfriend?”

D4: “College.”

Father: “Good answer.”

D4: “Or high school, whichever comes first.”

D2: “Not such a good answer, eh Daddy?”  I don’t know which is more scary – D4 dating or the fact that D2 is starting to find me predictable.

D3: “You know what’s cool?  They have to ask me if I want to be their girlfriend.  And I can say no whenever I want.”

Father: “What if they don’t ask?”

D3: “I’ll ask them.” At least I’m raising a modern woman…

D3: “Or else I’ll hypnotize them.” ...and apparently a mystic as well.

D2: “Or better yet, ask them just before they are about to go to sleep when they are really tired.”

Father: “You aren’t going to be anywhere near where boys are going to sleep.”

D3: “Sure we are.  In college.  You just walk into their room when they are lying in bed and scream ‘ASK ME!!!’.”

You have to give D3 points for originality there.  I attended four years of undergrad and two years of graduate school and never heard of anything like that.  Not sure if my girls are typical in the way they look at this whole boyfriend thing at this age (aside from the screaming in the dorm room tactic), but it will be fascinating to see how this all resolves itself over the next decade. 

Postcard #1: Getting Ready

This is the Postcard that started it all in December 2004:

* * *

The setting: Family is preparing to go to worship services. Four daughters (ages 8, 8, 8 and 5) are scrambling to get ready on time. Mother calls out "5 minutes!!!" from downstairs.

Daughter #3 (panicked): Daddy, my tights don't feel right. Can you help me find the right size?

Father: I don't know anything about tights. They all look the same crumpled up in your drawer.

D3: But you know all about sizes and stuff.

Father (trying to be helpful): What size are you?

D3: Daaaadddddyyyy!

Father: Look, I really don't know anything about girls stockings. I don't wear them - (then adding, in a flash of brilliance) - just like you don't know anything about underwear with a fly in the front.

Daughter #2 (arriving on the scene): A what?

Father (oblivious to warning signs): A fly in the front.

D2 & D3 (unison): We don't get it.

Father: You know how your underwear is flat across, but your jeans have a zipper? Well, boys... (suddenly senses the magnitude of the tactical blunder) Oh, never mind. (hastily retreats to master bedroom and closes door)

D3 (through the door): Oh, now I get it!

Father (also through the door): I'm sure I don't want to know! Go downstairs and tell your mother you need help. 

Cookie (Postcard #87)

Dear Readers,

I have asked The Gardener to skip one so I can try this Postcard thing. My name is Stump Valley SS Cookie ET ("Cookie" for short), and I am a Holstein heifer. In layman's terms I am a female cow with black and white spots. About 90 of the dairy cows in the United States are Holsteins, but if you can't remember what we look like, just grab a Ben and Jerry's container. That's us.

I know what you are thinking: It's been several months since the last Postcard. What have you been doing? Cut me some slack here. Do you have any idea how hard it is to type with split hooves? And don't even get me started on touch screens.

Anyway, I met D 1 and The Gardener at the Delaware Valley College Cattle Auction this past March. It was a cold, miserable, rainy weekend, but the cows had a nice warm barn. I made the trip from Stump Valley Farms (from which I take my full name) and took my place in between two other yearlings.

After a while, people started walking through - mostly men. If I could read at the time, I would have noticed that a lot of them were wearing John Deere hats. I was tied up facing toward the wall, so most people that looked at me were staring at... well, let's dispense with the subtleties, they were examining my rear end. I know what you are thinking: "It's such a meat market." But you are mistaken. The meat market is the local Hooters restaurant. This is a dairy market, thank you very much. And incidentally, we don't go to Hooters. We go to Udders. If you have never seen cows on roller skates serving beer, it's quite a sight.

Anyway, back to the pre-auction. While standing there ruminating (chewing my cud), I started to hear comments like, "Looks like she will calve well.", or "The hooks and the pins seem about the right height." Do you mind?! Of course it was hard to tell which comments were directed at me and which were directed at my fellow heifers either side of me, but either way it's bit objectifying, don't you think?

Eventually this man and his teenage daughter came over to look at me. They were different. For one thing, the girl was telling her dad what she thought of me, rather than the reverse.  Eventually I figured it out. The man had no idea what he was doing, and the girl was the brains of the operation. She would talk, and he would write stuff down. A lot of times he would ask, "What does that mean?" But I figured he was there serving some purpose, and I kind of liked the girl.  So I tried to put my best hoof forward and impress them both.

The next morning they began parading us into a ring in the next barn. All the people were sitting in chairs and bleachers. There was a guy talking really fast. I couldn't quite understand what he was saying at first. He was calling out numbers and people were raising these white cards. Sometimes the people got really excited. Eventually someone else would smack a hammer on a table, a person would stand up looking very happy, and walk away with whomever was in the ring.

When it was my turn, the girl from the previous night was staring at me. The fast-talking guy started doing his thing. Eventually, the girl raised her card. Then someone else did.  Then she raised her card again. Back and forth a bunch of times, until finally the hammer sounded and she jumped up with her father. They led me to a table where he pulled out a whole lot of pieces of green paper and handed it to a man. Now I know what her father was there for: He was the keeper of the green paper. Then they led me back to the barn.

The girl introduced herself as "D1" (an odd name, I think). She kept hugging my head - not sure what that means, but she seemed to like doing it. The man said he was "The Gardener", which I thought was a particularly strange name for a farmer. I guess when a farmer gets a bunch of green paper he becomes a gardener.

Finally they put me in a trailer, and we drove to a farm I had never seen before. This was my new home.

At the new farm I met a huge 2 year old cow named Eclipse. She also belongs to D1. She was pregnant, and seemed a lot happier about it than I expected. I wondered about that. It turns out that while most Holsteins get pregnant from something called a "veterinary procedure", Eclipse had an unscheduled romp in the pasture with a Hereford Bull named Nelson. Herefords are beef cows, so I think Eclipse may be expecting a cheeseburger.

D1 and I have become friends. And I have learned that she is part of a herd as well. There is a D2, a D3 and a D4. I think their farmer (The Gardener) needs to come up with more original names - just saying…

In early summer, Dl picked out a bull for me - his name is "Canyon Breeze AT Airlift". I had the "procedure" - suffice to say that Eclipse had way more fun making the cheeseburger. But the procedure appears to have been successful and I'm hoping for a baby girl next spring.

* * *

The Gardener will return for the next Postcard. In the meantime, remember the Holstein motto from my bovine sisters who work in advertising at that fast food place: EAT MOR CHIKIN! 

A Holiday Mystery Revealed (Postcard #86)

This Postcard was co-written by The Gardener and D3 (mostly the latter).

 

* * *

 

Growing up in a Jewish household, my experience at this time of year was a bit different from most of my friends.  For one week my brother, sister and I would show up to school completely bread-free:  matzo sandwiches, matzo cookies or macaroons, colored sugar fruit slices for a treat, etc.

 

Then I met The Queen, who is Presbyterian and also half Greek, and discovered that the spring religious season is not complete without garlic-roasted lamb and potatoes and red-dyed eggs.  As much as I enjoy Passover (which may be my favorite holiday of the year), the lamb and potatoes are unparalleled as a feast.

 

Between the two families, D1, D2, D3 and D4 have pretty much had the full range of cultural experiences, which is helpful because there are still some traditions I don’t fully understand.  For example…

 

* * *

 

On the Thursday before Easter I was picking up a few items at the supermarket, and noticed a shelf full of Peeps bunnies.  For those who may not know the name, Peeps are those brightly colored marshmallow animals. Since marshmallows eventually go stale and there appeared to be far more on the shelf than seemed likely to move by Easter Sunday, only three days hence, I texted D3 and asked “What do you suppose happens to all the peeps bunnies after Easter?” 

 

About four hours later, the following reply text from D3 popped up on my iPhone:
 
Well…                                           

A week after Easter at quarter past five,                                          
Every marshmallow bunny at once comes alive.                                        
They hop off the shelves and move down market aisles,                     
Winking at dolls and receiving grand smiles.

 

They waddle out doors and parade through the street,             
Thankful that they were not chosen to eat.                                      
But the poor things don't know- they'd be better off dead.      
These sugary creatures don't know what's ahead.

 

They dutifully follow their sickly sweet friends.                         
Until they approach what will soon be the end.                             
They come to the edge of the specified place.                         
And at once the sounds cease from each colorful face.

 

They hear a loud rumble rise out of the ground.                                
A crack opens up and their hearts start to pound.                      
(They don't have the truth- just the rumors they keep                 
'Cause nobody lives on to tell- not a peep).

 

A giant black cauldron floats up to the crack.                                 
And swallows the peeps- then it gently floats back                       
As if nothing had happened. The street's again bare.                    
Not a trace left behind- not even a hare.

 

But under the street the machines are at work-                                        
They're bubbling, brewing, they toot, twist and jerk.                  
The sugar is melted, re-colored and poured.                                    
Into bunny shaped molds- and then it is stored.

 

Until 10 months later, 6 days and a night                                         
The end of the tunnel has come- there is light!                           
The boxes are lifted and shipped to the store                              
Where the recycled candies are welcomed once more

 

By the dollies who saw as the last batch walked by,                          
But they'll never tell the new treats- and here's why:            
How would you feel- I mean wouldn't you hate                         
A man who would lead you to that kind of fate?

 

You'd think it a horrible end- you’d not go.                         
Because we can't see that big picture, you know?                    
It's just like the story the Bible relays.                                   
Jesus was killed- but then rose in three days!

 

Some things might just seem to suck at the time,                              
But trust that God has the big picture in mind.                          
So I hope that this answers the question you had.                     
(for once, it feels good to know more than my dad).

 

And know this: if another strange query appears,                         
Just ask; like those sugary treats, I'm all ears.

 

* * *

 

Happy Easter, Passover, Greek Easter, or whatever you might celebrate at this time of year!

Milestones (Postcard #85)

Not long ago I turned 50.  Thanks to my parents’ decision to push me ahead one year in school at age 4, all of my college and high school classmates preceded me to the half-century mark.  So I was kind of used to the idea when it became my turn.

Then again, I am now older than every player in the four American major league sports who has played in my lifetime.  How about the English Premier League?  I’m 10 years older than Ryan Giggs (Manchester United), who is considered ancient.  If I can improve my golf game slightly - about 35 strokes should do it - I will qualify for the PGA Senior Tour – or not.  Hmm…  looks like I may need a new set of comparisons.  Well, Tom Coughlin, coach of the New York Giants Football Team is nearing 70.  Pete Carroll, who just coached the Seattle Seahawks to their first Superbowl win, is past 60.  Arnold Palmer is 84.  Works for me!

One thing I discovered about reaching 50 is that it gives friends a whole new set of ideas for gifts.  A couple with whom The Queen and I have been friends for a long time were especially creative.  At my surprise birthday party (perfectly planned and executed by The Queen), this couple presented me with a large, very colorful bag filled with items including:

• Under-eye firming serum
• A magnifying glass (so that The Queen can see if the under-eye firming serum is working)
• Spectrovites™  “For men over 50”
• A weekly pill organizer, presumably intended to remember to take the Spectrovites.
• Gold Bond Powder
• Fixodent
• Natural Fiber Powder - 100% Psyllium – the economy-sized package for which boasts of a “smooth orange taste”.  I’m not sure what a psyllium is (perhaps it’s where crazy people over 50 live?), but whatever it might be, it is unlikely that it has anything to do with oranges.
• Adult Diapers – I think if I avoid the orange psyllium powder these will be unnecessary.
• Preparation H – Is there a pattern here?
• Bengay “Vanishing Sent” (I remember that stuff from my high school wrestling days, and the only thing that vanishes is the people around anyone who uses Bengay).
• Compression Socks – these are actually useful at any age.  I have seen kids wearing them in road races.

* * *

Then there is D1.  During a recent family dinner, she observed, “Hey Dad, did you know that you were born before the Civil Rights Act of 1965?”  I guess we know what she has been studying in her US History class.  OK, where are we going with this?  She continued,  “That’s cool.  It makes it not seem quite such ancient history.”  Gee, thanks.  I feel so much better now.

In an interesting coincidence, my house was built in 1964, just like me.  In just the 17 years we have lived here we have replaced the roof, the furnace, the basement, the driveway, the front walk, the bathroom, two hot water heaters and three dishwashers.  And what does a house do?  It just sits here all day, every day.  Maybe the Preparation H was for the house!  Did I say that out loud?  OK, now the Queen is looking at me strangely.

 

* * *

The flip side of all this is that seeing the kids turning into real people is the payoff for adding up the years.  At the aforementioned party, D1-D4, their cousins, and several of their friends (all of whom are fairly close in age) had commandeered the iPod and the sound system, and displaced whatever had been playing with more recent releases.  The scene looked like a sorority party, and it reminded me of a line in the 1980’s song “And We Danced” by The Hooters: She could dance all night and shake the paint off the wall.  I could see several candidates that fit the lyrics perfectly. 

* * *

So maybe 50 is not such a big deal.  On the other hand, in less than 7 months D1, D2 and D3 will be old enough to vote.  Wow, a whole constituency at once - now that will be a big deal!  Onward we go in The Garden…

The Pit Crew (Postcard #84)

I am working late one night at the office when I receive a call from The Queen, who is waiting to take D3 home from soccer practice.

Queen: "There is a hissing sound coming from the car."

Gardener: "Can you isolate the sound? Is it coming from the hood? A tire?"
Queen: "It's not obvious, and none of the tires look flat."
Gardener: "I suppose it's possible the hissing could be coming from the car next to you, but how about you drive home, and we'll see what things sound like there."

Upon arriving home it still isn't obvious what is wrong until I put my ear very close to the left rear tire (note for beginners – this is a diagnostic step that should be performed when the car is not moving). I hear a hiss coming from the tread, and upon closer inspection I see a piece of metal embedded in the tire. OK, found the problem. Too late to get to a service station, plus it’s getting dark. There is never a convenient time to change a tire, but at least we are in our own driveway.

Gardener (calling into the house): "Could you please figure out which child has the least homework and convince her to come help me?"

The kids have been up late studying the past few nights, so I am expecting an argument over who gets stuck helping to change a tire. Sure enough, an argument ensues, but to my surprise, D2 and D3 emerge simultaneously, each trying to convince The Queen that they should be the one to help.

What's this? Teenagers vying to perform manual labor? Hurry, check the sky for pigs flying or a blue moon. Has a certain extremely hot place frozen over? Have the New York Mets won the National League Pennant?  No on all counts, and of course the last one really is impossible. Nevertheless, what am I missing here?

Well, it seems that the kids' calculus teacher recently instructed them to learn how to change a tire because he wants them to develop life skills along with the intellectual skills. So naturally D2 and D3 can’t wait to be the first to tell him they have indeed changed a tire.  D1 must really be buried with homework tonight or she would probably be out here as well.

Of course this brings out the teacher/coach in me, and I immediately decide that the kids will do as much of the job as possible, and I will simply ask questions, ensure safety, and make certain suggestions to keep it from taking all night.

Gardener: "OK, let’s get started.  Where is the spare?"

D2: "Under the car"(true for a 1997 Dodge Grand Caravan, our previous car, but not our current 2011 Honda Odyssey).
D3 (looking): "I don't see it. Maybe we need to lift the back of the car first."
D2: "OK, we need the jack. Where is the jack?"
Gardener: "Maybe the jack is with the tire."
D3 (looking back under the car): "How stupid is that? Why put the jack with the tire if you have to lift the car to get at it?
Gardener: "What does that tell you?"
D2: "That we should be looking somewhere else?"
Gardener: "Good thinking."

A few minutes later, still no luck. As it is a school night, I need to speed things up a little.

Gardener: "Maybe you should look in the glove compartment."

D2: "Who would put a spare tire in the glove compartment?"
Gardener: "Any of you seen National Treasure?"
D3: “I love that movie! Oh wait, I get it. It's a clue!”

D2 opens the little door, starts sifting through registration, insurance, warranty...instruction manual. Aha!!!!!

D2 (finding the tire changing section): "Which one is the second row? We need to lift the carpet in the second row of seats."

D3: "Got it. Wow, what is all this stuff?"
D2 (holding up lug wrench): "What's this for?"
D3: "Removing the hub cap."
D2: "Ok, let's do that. Hey, where are the hub caps? Dad, we can't find the hub caps."
Gardener: These are alloy wheels. No hub caps. You get to skip that step.
D3: "Then I guess this isn't a hub cap remover, is it?"
Gardener: "How about you just follow the instructions."
D2: "Let's jack up the car."
Gardener: "How about you just follow the instructions."
D3: "It says loosen the lug nuts first. Why?"
Gardener: "Try it."
D3: "Hey, which tire has the problem? None of them look flat."
Gardener: "We'll, perhaps we should solve that problem first."

The kids scurry around the car, bending down and listening carefully. They find the hissing tire, retrieve the wrench, and try to remove the lug nuts.

D3 (straining mightily to turn the wrench clockwise): "It won't budge! Am I turning the wrong way?"

Gardener: "Have you heard the saying 'lefty loosey righty tighty'?"
D3: "Right, let's try it the other way. Still won't budge. What am I doing wrong here?"

I suspect the kids are no match for the pneumatic lug wrench that was obviously used to mount the tire at the factory. I step forward to help. Wow, those are on tight! Grunt, silent expletive, then - Ok, finally got it. Same thing for the other four. Now time for the important lesson.

Gardener: "OK, that was tougher than it should have been. But what do you think about trying all of this with the car balanced on the jack?"

D2: "Ooh, good point. Loosen the nuts first, then jack up the car. Let's do it."

Fifteen minutes of trial and error and a few safety tips later, the kids have the rear corner of the car raised high enough that the tire is off the ground. They remove the lug nuts, slide the wheel off, and grab the donut (the car does not have a full size spare). Several more minutes of trying...

D2: "The spare won't go on. Are you sure the holes are the same?"

Gardener: "Yes the holes are the same."

More fruitless attempts, more time goes by.  Perhaps I should be in a lawn chair sipping a beer.

D3: "We give up. What are we not getting here?"

Gardener: "Ok, if you are having trouble getting the wheel on and you are NOT working with your back to traffic, sit on the ground in front of where the wheel is supposed to go. Now balance the tire between your feet and hands and look through the lug holes."
D3: "I get it! I can see where they go now! This is so cool. Now let's put on the lug nuts.
Gardener: "Go in a star pattern, but don't tighten all the way."
D2: "I know. We don't want to knock the car off the jack."
Gardener: "Exactly"
D2 and D3 (fist bump): "We own the material!"

Finally the new tire is on, the car is down, and the kids start to head in.

Gardener: "Where are you going?"

D2: "We're done."
Gardener: "And the driveway looks like your bedroom. All this stuff needs to go away."
D3 (sheepishly): "Oh yeah."

The kids find all the various parts, which is not so easy in the dark. I verify that nothing is missing. Then we put the flat tire in the back of the car.

Gardener: "Now you are done."

D3: "Can't wait to tell our teacher tomorrow."
Gardener: "We'll it's almost tomorrow now, so let's get inside. I don't think a flat tire will be a valid excuse for falling asleep in class."

The total elapsed time for this experience has been 90 minutes, which is about 89 minutes and 50 seconds slower than a NASCAR pit crew, but way more fun.

Midterm Priorities

The kids have midterms this week.  This morning I discovered D2, not studying the last few details for today's test, but instead meticulously operating her hair straightening iron.  I asked her, "What if all the brains are in your curls?" Her immediate response, "Then I'm making it fair for the other kids to compete."