Man Your Stations

We have been under siege lately.  We had a couple of raccoons break into our old chicken coop and kill our favorite chicken.  She has been producing for more than 4 years now and would crawl up into your lap to take a nap.  The Striblings do not like losing a favorite chicken.

Not being a family easily intimidated by varmints, we began building our defenses.  We set three traps, got the pellet gun sighted in to pinpoint accuracy, and shored up the coop.  Then, they broke in again the following night and killed another chicken.  They are wiley creatures, and curiously strong, but we were ready for the onslaught.

That night, I was awoken by a terrible squaking.  I ran outside in my skivvies at 4 am to find a dead chicken, a fleeing raccoon, a trapped raccoon, and a trap that had been outwitted. 

I don't get up at 4 am to catch one raccoon when I know his evil Ninja cohorts are on the loose.  I reset the trap with the dead chicken as bait, moved the remainder of that flock in with my younger flock in the newer coop, and went back to bed.

I came back downstairs at my appointed time to find the other raccoon trapped, a victim of his own curiosity.  HAHA!

I thought about taking them for a long ride and dropping them off to become someone else's problem.  The LW would have none of it.  "We take care of our own animal problems around here."  Too much Little House on the Prairie as a child if you ask me.  Don't ask her what happened to her pets when she was a wee lass and they got sick.   That's why we don't have a dog.  So, needless to say, we disposed of the vermin under the cloak of darkness, and have been resting peacefully since. 

Now, I realize that their little raccoon friends are gearing up for a full frontal assault.  We will be prepared.  We have bats, sticks, and helmets at the ready for hand-to-hand combat should it come to that.  I imagine it looking like a scene out of ancient England where the villagers (the peaceful Stribling Tribe) come out to fight off the invading barbarian hordes (the wiley Varmints) with pitchforks and shovels.  It will probably wind up looking more like a scene out of Monty Python than the Battle of Hastings, but we will be ready.

To quote Si Robertson, our favorite personality from Duck Dynasty, "(The raccoons) are like the Vietcong.  They only come out and night and they live in holes in the ground."

Potty Training for Dummies

You may or may not be aware that we are in the midst of potty training our fourth and final child.  When I was 25, being around piles of poopy diapers, getting peed on by someone other than myself, and having my skin actually touch someone else's vomit, would have made me physically ill.  Now, I am pretty sure I remember to wash my hands after dealing with various bodily fluids, but don't mind wearing the same clothes- for two days.  That is part of why we are potty training.  We want to regain some semblance of who we once were, and try to find that glimmer of youth that is hidden in the gray hair.  Plus, it is just time.  

Well, we have not made much headway with this one thus far.  He pees outside pretty good, but hasn't gotten the hang of what to do with his poop.  The other day, he pooped on the floor and then proceeded to stomp it to death.  The good news is that he killed the poor thing.  The bad news is that he probably killed the rug, and his shoes.  We are still waiting to see if the LW is going to make it.  He has not gotten the hang of not pooping on the floor, not stepping in it a dozen times, not grinding it into the carpet or smearing it on the walls, not picking it up in his hands and squeezing it until it gets between his fingers like it's a handful of lotion, and then not walking through the house touching everything under four feet tall.  The good news is that we finally figured out what is going on when we hear the other three kids run screaming through the house like they are trying to make it to the high side of the Titanic.  Sadly, it is a sinking ship from which few escape.  There are just not enough life boats.  You may not want to go into our train room.  Ever.  In fact, if you have a haz-mat suit, I would love to borrow it.  

The weird thing is that I want to go back to my childhood where you grab the offending dog that made the mess, stick his face in, pop him in the butt, tell him "No!" and then throw him outside.  You can't do that with a 2 year old.  It does not have the same effect, but is probably equally satisfying.  As a parent you just cant go there.  However, I have an experimental solution that I stumbled upon accidentally.  A couple of days ago his filled his shorts, which was great because it was contained.  But, it was all over his nether region.  So, I took him outside, stripped him down, and then hosed him off.  He didn't particularly like that.  The water started out warm and cozy because it had been sitting in the hose in the sun all day.  But, when that ran out it got pretty cold.  That'll teach him.  Now I follow him around the house with a spritzer bottle full of ice water.  Whenever I see him start to "leave the straight and narrow path" I give him a quick squirt.  Now, all I have to do is give him my "ice water glare" and he pops back in line like a Nazi storm trooper.  I don't think we are going to have any more trouble out of that one.  

Innocent Beginnings

Most incidents that occur in, or to, our family begin as innocent adventures.  We recently met our friends, the Maloof family for an afternoon of bowling and Mexican dinner, typically followed by ice cream.  If you have not heard of the Maloof's, get in the game.  They are the most understated family in Atlanta, but bring the most to the table.  Their four children and our four children match up and we all have a lot of fun together.  Well, it turns out that Mr. Maloof missed his calling as a professional bowler.  I had to hang my head in shame in front of my children as he bowled something close to a 200.  Not the perfect game, but might as well be for a guy who bowls once a year whether he likes it or not.

Once we left our family spanking at the bowling alley, we piled the boys in my car and the girls in Mrs. Maloof's car so we could make our way to Jalisco's.  We like to think of it as the finest Mexican restaurant in town.  What it lacks in authenticity, it makes up for in atmosphere.  And, when 12 people descend on a small place all at once, things can easily get out of hand.  But I digress.  That is not the point of this story.  We then walked next door for ice cream, which sets the stage for Act III.

There was a lot of excitement.  There were a lot of kids.  And there was a lot of dairy.  It is impossible to go to a Mexican restaurant and not eat copious amounts of cheese dip, followed by two scoops of something dark and sweet.  Turns out my one year old cannot turn down a bowl of cheese dip either.  Tie that in with all the excitement of the evening, and it explains the panic in my LW's voice on the way home.

We were in separate cars, and I was winning.  It is always a race.  

LW- "Where are you?!"

Me- "In front of Lovett.  WAY ahead of you I am sure."

LW- "Well, when you get home I need some help so get ready.  Win has thrown up all over the place.  The kids are about to climb out onto the roof and it stinks in here."

Me- "Yuck."

Yuck is right.  However, the vehicle that arrived significantly behind me- because I am a winner- was quite the sight.  Apparently it was tilted for at least part of the way as the kids took it upon themselves to reason that their safety was second to their proximity to their baby brother.  They had all unhooked and were as far away from him as they could be and still be in the car.  I could hear three of the kids screaming as they approached.  By this point, they were not even in the car.  They weren't on the roof, just running down the street.  When given the option to flee the premises, they did and ran the rest of the way.  

My poor one year old was in his car seat, still as a statue, arms raised, afraid to move or make a noise.  It was like the Germans were on his tail and his best defense was to act like a tree.  He could move his eyes, but any other movement would give his position away, and he did not want to be captured. 

I didn't even try to clean him up.  I just pulled the whole chair out of the car, put it in the tub, and showered him out of it.  I am not sure that seat will ever be the same.  I feel like most of my blogs are centered on my children's bodily functions.

Lesson in Evolution

This past summer, my family and a select group of friends, had the privilege of experiencing evolution in action.  I realize it is nothing more than a theory concocted by a bearded man who spent a large amount of time communing with animals in a remote location.  But, that is hardly the point.

We had some friends up to the family lake house one weekend this summer.  It is a trip we do every year with this group of friends.  Between the three families that attend, there are twelve children ranging in age from one year to around 13 or so.  I am never sure about the age of other people's kids.  Anyway, all that to say, it is at best organized chaos.  We cooked out, watched movies, went skiing, caught countless bream and bass, and did a lot of swimming.  On the final day of our sojourn, we had lunch on the dock so we could soak up the last of the weekend.  Docks on our lake are not your typical dock.  They are more like extravagant garages.  They have at least two boat slips to put ski boats and pontoon boats into that can be hoisted out of the water.  They are all double decker so you can hang out on the top, have a high dive, that kind of thing.  It also gives you a good vantage point to see over the water.  We all simultaneously looked up to see a large flock of geese come around the corner in our general direction.  

Perfect!  We had sandwiches, which when you have as many children around as we had, means you have plenty of crusts and extras to throw into the water to attract waterfowl.  We lured the unsuspecting prey to our dock by dropping the crusts and some chips into the water.  Then, my eldest son, much to my surprise, jumped in, right in the middle of them.  I did not even have to say anything.  He just took it upon himself to scare the hell out of that flock of geese.  It was incredible.  They scattered and dodged and ducked like someone had yelled "Fire" in the middle of church.  What he was not prepared for was the leader of the group to turn on him and start attacking.  My son handled it well, got out of the way and came up laughing.  It was hilarious.  I jumped in just because he seemed to be enjoying it so much.  

We climbed out of the water so we could do it again.  We lured the geese back over and this time I jumped first.  This time it did not go so well.  One of the younger geese, full grown but part of this year's brood, did not get out of the way.  I landed on that thing with my foot and power drove it into the depths.  It was awful.

The big goose started attacking me before it took off to join the remnants of its flock.  That poor goose that I landed on was not in good shape.  I looked up to see all, and mean all, of the kids leaning over the railing, their eyes the size of potatoes, watching this whole thing unfold.  The LW, always the first one into action, quickly shooed them away with the promise of candy and sweets and did her best to distract them with song and dance.  Those are not always her greatest attributes, but they do distract.  I think they were too shocked to truly move on.  Two words for you: trau-ma.

The neighbors were watching the events unfold as well.  I think they called animal control on me, and would have called PETA and the police and had me arrested had I not gone over and apologized.

My friend David Bennett couldn't look me in the eye for the rest of the summer.  All he could do was light a cigarette with shaky fingers.  

After it was all said and done, I had to spend some time with the kids, explaining what accidents are.  They, amazingly, bounced back rather quickly and moved on to what they would normally do.  Not me. I was green for hours and could not talk about it for 4 days.  I am just now about to write about it, and it has been three months.  

I was recounting this story to a friend of mine over lunch.  He laughed at my pain and generally mocked what he did not understand.  He then said, "Well, all I can say is that he must have been a slow one and would not have made it anyway.  I mean, if that goose did not have the sense to get out of the way of a falling human, he did not have a chance in the wild."  And all of a sudden, I felt much better, suddenly vindicated by that crazy man on the obscure island in the middle of nowhere.

What I have not told you, kind reader, is that I tried to sink that thing, but geese are bouyant and cannot be sunk in a traditional manner.  I put a large rock on it, hoping a few turtles and schools of catfish would come by and strip it clean.  My plan did not work very well.  Basically I left it for my sister to clean up when she was up there the following weekend with her friends.

Sniping 101

I made a last minute purchase at our school auction last weekend.  I have an unblemished record of making historically poor choices on unplanned buys.  I am the demographic grocery store managers have in mind when they put all that stuff you don’t need by the register, knowing some poor sap is going to see something he absolutely cannot live without, and buys it. 

Well, this purchase appeared to be no different my other previous poor unplanned purchases.  But, like most of them, it was one I could not pass up.  It was an opportunity to learn to accurately shoot a rifle up to 1000 yards the following Saturday.  Who would turn that down?  The LW, that's who.  Turns out she already had plans for us to attend the Auburn- Georgia game.  My purchase went over like a sack of rocks.  Though I do enjoy a good college football game, I also enjoy shooting things at great distances and living out my dream of being a Marine Corps Sniper.  I want to be invisible, shoot the enemy from far away, with s silencer, and slip out completely undetected.

Our "teacher" was a colorful character straight out of the United States armed forces about 40 years ago.  He was indeed a great teacher and knew his weaponry better than just about anyone out there.  I think that is why he earned the moniker Chief.  He was also exactly what you imagine an aging Vietnam Veteran would look like.  He could cuss better than anybody I have ever been around, was dramatic when it came to the purpose of weapons and the danger they present when used carelessly, and slowly warmed up to a bunch of wealthy white guys who really didn’t know what they were doing there in the first place.  I say slowly because he certainly did not like us at first.  He saw us arrive, and then looked down on us with disdain for the next several hours. 

I would think he has more than his fair share of war stories, and I am glad there are men like him out there to defend our country.  I certainly did not want to be on his bad side.  I am confident he could have easily killed all of us without a second thought, hidden the bodies where they would never be found, and go about his normal day.  We could probably use someone like him in congress.  Total loose cannon.

What started out looking like another poor choice, actually turned out pretty good for me.  I am confident the LW was not pleased, especially when she was stuck at the house, by herself, with four children, and a babysitter who did not want to show up, making her late to the game.  Fortunately for this sharpshooter, everything worked out.  Auburn won.  My wife was there to see it.  And, though I may not be completely qualified to take out General Stalin at three quarters of a mile, I can put a bullet in the dot on a target at 200 yards and not break a sweat.  I am looking forward to Sniping 201.

Worst Case Scenario

For the past 36 hours, we have had a clogged toilet.  Not that big of a deal.  When my lovely wife Jennifer (henceforth to be referred to as the LW.  Depending on how we are getting along at the time, LW can either be the Lovely Wife, or the Little Woman.  The beauty of that is I am the one in the know, not her.) begins by asking if we should "call a plumber," my wounded ego politely declined.  

"Heck no, we don't need a plumber.  I can handle a clogged toilet!" 

Much to my chagrin, I could not handle it.  I plunged and rooted and splashed until I had blisters on my hands - all for naught.  Whatever dark thing was lurking in that murky abyss had become firmly entrenched behind bulwarks of the most God-awful stuff you could ever imagine. 

As I am sure you are aware, I am a man of finer tastes, and did not want to risk putting my hands into a liquid mess of this magnitude, especially with no clear understanding of what may await my timid grasp. It was bad enough to be in such close proximity to it, but the thought of actually immersing part of my body in that mess was entirely too taxing for my refined constitution.  I tried to convince the LW that we needed her more delicate and sensitive hands to reach in and pull out whatever was in there.  Her little fingers are reminiscent of a raccoon, and can reach into corners my more masculine fingers cannot get to.  And, with four children, I've seen her handle substances that would green the gills of the most seasoned plumber.  But surprisingly, she preferred to call a someone who knew what he was doing.  I, again, in my great wisdom and powerful man-knowledge of all things home related, refused. 

I stood poised over the bowl for what felt like hours as I slowly worked up the courage to do what must be done. Finally, I tore down my inner will and with a gasp and a plunge - reached into the depths.  Much to my distress, I found nothing.  

I decided to hold off and wait it out a little while because you never know, sometimes these things fix themselves.  My car has done that on numerous occasions.  So, I left. 

Imagine my consternation upon my return several hours later to find the toilet in the same sad state of disrepair.  It had not magically fixed itself.  I, a full-grown well-educated man with four children, actually believed that the clogged toilet would "be better" when I got home.  I forgot that there is no such thing as magic.  

As the matter had grown somewhat more dire, I made a quick trip to the Home Depot in search of a tool.  Buying a tool is a sheer-intimidation-offense move.  Sometimes just the act of buying the tool fixes things. 

Returning with what I thought was going to be the final solution in my hands, I knew the end was in sight.  I am sure it has a technical name.  I simply called it the $8 toilet unclogger. 

I jammed this puppy in there and started twisting and tugging and shoving and pulling.  Nothing.  I plunged some more.  Nothing.  Finally, I had the LW go out to the garage to retrieve some vice grips so that I could take the toilet off its moorings and really get to the root of the issue, but before I could do that, I had to empty the bowl.  

It was awful.  I mean it was like something out of Trainspotting.  I am still trying to block out certain scarring images.  

I asked the LW had to go to the sand box in the back and bring back a couple of buckets so that I could begin scooping the mess out, filling said buckets, and dumping them in what must now be a toxic swamp on the neighbor's side of the fence.  The plan was simple - I would fill a bucket and either hand it to her or bring it outside myself. 

The plan was working smoothly.  I handed the first bucket to the LW who, complaining bitterly, hauled it out.  The second bucket was far larger, probably holding about 4 gallons of sand in its heyday.  I filled it with at least 3 gallons of toxic mess.  I then gingerly picked it up by the sides, gently laughing to myself, "Wouldn't it be funny if I dropped this?"  

Want to know what is even funnier?  When the bucket you are holding with 3 gallons of stuff that you did not know your children could produce, breaks.  The rim to which I had attached my ninja death grip snapped off with a loud CRAAACK like the snapping of an angel's wing.  The bucket hit the floor from a height of about 3 feet and cracked right in the middle.  

Imagine if you will - me, standing there with two pieces of plastic bucket in my hands, mouth open wide, eyes the size of dinner plates and the sense of impending doom. 

When I say it was terrible, I am doing it a disservice.  It hit the floor with a loud splash and before I knew it, had successfully sheeted everything in a light brown liquid wash.  It was on the walls and cabinets, filled my shoes - everything.  Before I even had time to cuss good I watched a slow-motion tsunami of sewage go out the door, into the hallway, and quickly work its way into the playroom which, incidentally, was filled lots of lovely things Little Win likes to shove in his mouth.  (Turns out our house has a severe lean in one direction.)  I was powerless to stop it.  

I heard the unmistakable sound of ultimate human suffering emanate from the LW's mouth as she nimbly blazed through the room picking things up before they could get wet - including the hallway carpeting.  I just stood there. I earned it. 

This woman is quick.  If I am ever in a fire I want her to come and get me out.  I don't know if she could throw me over her shoulder, but she could certainly get there quickly.

Finally, after cleaning up the hazmat tidal wave, I was able to take the toilet off its moorings, run the $8 toilet unclogger in reverse, and pull out a child's building block that my wonderful 4th child shoved in, probably at the urging of the devil himself. 

I then burned my clothes, threw away 7 "borrowed" country club towels that did not make it back on Towel Amnesty Day, showered in the hottest water I could stand, and have not returned to the scene of the crime.  I don't need to - the memories of that wave of sewage will haunt me forever. 

In the future, when the LW asks if we should call the plumber, I will humbly, and with a shiver, say "Yes".

'Twas the Night before Hunting... Boggy Creek Style

Care of my friend Clay Calhoun...

'Twas the night before hunting
And all through Boggy Creek,
Not a creature was stirring
Except for one sneak

The shotguns and rifles
Were stashed by the ammo
And there right beside them
Were huge piles of camo

The shooters were sleeping
All nestled in beds
As visions of big game
Danced in their heads

When down the hallway
There came such a clatter
I sprang from my bed
To see what was the matter

The commotion was caused
By a loud alarm clock
Chris jumped out of bed
And reached for his Glock

All this I saw
Looking through the key hole
Next I heard Chris
Call someone an A*Hole

"Now Strib.
Now Clay,
Ward, Jr and Frank
You come here this minute
And pay for this prank"

Though sleepy and dazed
He knew he'd been had
He'd be shocked to learn
It was Ward Sr., the dad

He spoke not a word
and then went to work
He stormed out the door
And called us all jerks

He sprang to his sleigh
And gave out a whistle
And off he flew
Back down to the thistle

They heard him exclaim
As he drove out of sight
"Merry Christmas to All
And to this Hog, Good Night!"