Merry Christmas!

Or would you rather be a snake?

I went to pick up David today. Yuki, one of his friends, promptly informed me that David was in the 'nap room'. The nap room is normally reserved for the younger kids, so I was a tad bit curious as to why David would be sleeping there. When I asked Yuki, his only response was that David had made 'trouble'.

I went downstairs and asked one of the teachers where David was.

'He's sleeping.'

'Please wake him up.'

Sleepy Dave came out looking guiltier than our cat with a mouthful of toilet paper.

'David, what did you do?'

'Nothing.'

Okay, well - glad that was settled. What a load off of my mind. I can be quite cynical sometimes, though, so I thought that David and I would pop by his teacher's room to clear the air and say goodbye.

'Five times! I told him FIVE times to stop, but did he listen?'

The busted look on David's face answered the rhetorical question and I couldn't do anything other than apologize and assure her that there would not be an encore.

When we got home, I forced David to explain to me what exactly he had done. Instead, he plopped down on the floor and gleefully showed me.

In addition to Peter's birth, I have been witness to many, many strange things, but most of them didn't have the added value of making me laugh. As I watched David slither around on the floor, I really had to fight the urge to drop to the ground and get my wiggle on.

He explained that he had turned into a 'super snake monster' and that he couldn't possibly hear his teacher because snakes don't have ears. He also claimed that his friends were laughing too loudly. I reminded David that his teacher has quite a powerful voice, but then he reminded me that his friends can laugh really loudly. Damn, he's good!

I then explained to Snake-boy that there would be no TV, no games, and no dessert for him. The new reality apparently didn't sink in, because his next question was 'Can I play Angry Birds?'.

As if on cue, Angie came home and demanded a re-explanation. Talk about your angry birds.

Micro Mama

Seconds before this lovely image, a microphone was shoved into Angie's hand, preceded by a curious question from Alex, one of her colleagues.

'Here ya go - you're opening the ceremony, right?'

'Uhh, no.'

'Yeah, funny - here's the mic.'

Before I dwell on emails from colleagues that Angie should have read weeks prior that explained silly little organizational details like that she was expected to open the school's Christmas church service, allow me to flash back to our simple breakfast.

'I'd like an egg.'

'I'd like a Mai Tai.'

'Not funny, Steve - we've been practicing this play for weeks and I'm nervous.'

'I see that, which is why I'm thinking a Mai Tai would help much more than an egg - just saying.'

I'll let your imagination figure out who won that logic round.

As Angie was leaving for the church play, I reminded her to switch off her phone.

'Right! Thanks! How do I do that again?'

'Well, here - give it to me. You just need to flip the switch here on the...oh, never mind - it's already on silent.'

'It is?'

With that innocent question, a sudden wave of realization came crashing down on me. I had honestly wondered why Angie had been ignoring my calls since OCTOBER!!!??? That's right, I bought my lovely wife the iPhone for her birthday and she's had the damn thing on silent since then. Her big 'I'm just trying to help' comment was:

'Oh, I wondered why I had so many more missed calls than with my old phone.'

Doesn't matter - at that point, my number one goal was getting valley girl out of the house. I succeeded and when I came home from work, Angie gave me an encore rendering of her impromptu speech:

'Uh, Hello.......Welcome students and...uh.......Welcome parents...and...Welcome teachers....yeah, uh....I hope you enjoy the service.....Thank you!'

Something tells me that she might not be asked to open the ceremony next year.

Shut Up and Heal!

Angie and I are not morning people by any stretch of the temper, but with Angie I would definitely capitalize the NOT; I might even underline it as well. I'd probably then encrypt that statement and only fork over the decryption key after her second pot of coffee. And all this is under the silly assumption that we actually get the five hours of beauty sleep that we've grown accustomed to over the past seven years of childatude.

The fact that Tommy was up for three hours last night coughing, crying and, for the grand finale, throwing up meant that neither one of us were exactly perky, let alone peachy and keen. In addition to the many, many joys of parenthood, one of them is flipping the coin on who gets stuck on sick duty. As a former squid, my knack for deck-swabbing somehow volunteered me to man the mop and bucket. Thanks, babe.

Before leaving, Angie actually had the audacity to ask me to make her a coffee to go. One telling glare later, Angie was quickly and silently closing the front door. Sans coffee.

After two cups of coffee for me, I called up Angie's address book on the computer and looked up the doctor's number. Organizing a doctor's visit in Germany is never fun and can often take hours to even get through to someone with a pulse, so I allowed myself a third cup before making the call. I was pleasantly shocked and awed when a human picked up on the second ring.

'Hi, my name is Johnson. My son Tom is sick - can I make an appointment?'

'I'm sorry, Mr. Johnson. We have a Peter and a David, but we don't have any record of a Tom. Has he ever been in for a visit?'

'Yeah! Try every second week for the past three years.'

'It doesn't matter, Mr. Johnson, just please bring in his medical card and we'll add him to the system. We don't have any appointments left, but if you come by at 4.30 we should be able to squeeze him in.'

So, yeah. I showed up at the doctor's at 4:30, as prescribed.

'Can I help you?'

'No, but you can try and help my son, Tom. I called earlier - Johnson. I was told to come by around 4:30.'

'I don't know who would have told you that - I've been working all day and we are completely booked. You don't have an appointment?'

'No.'

'Ummm, okay. Please have a seat in the waiting room, Mr. Johnson.'

After an hour of hanging out with vertically challenged sick-o's, I stormed back to the front desk.

'This is ridiculous! If you couldn't see us, you should have just said that instead of telling me to come in.'

'But I didn't....'

'Look, stop the games, lady! I've got to get back home to my family. Can the doctor see my son today or not?'

'Tell you what - just take a seat over there and I will try to squeeze you in the next time the doctor comes out. Just please don't tell any of the patients in the waiting room.'

As we were waiting, Tommy broke down into a slobbering mass of cranky sickiness. I did what any sane father would do when confronted with such a public display of tears and embarrassment and promptly shoved two sticks of sugar-packed gum into wailing boy's mouth. Yup, that worked.

Eventually, the sacred door to the doctor's room opened and we were ushered in like we were in the witness protection program on the eve before testifying against the Godfather. Not surprisingly, he gave us the expedited version of a check-up and gave the whopping diagnosis that Tommy had 'a cough'. The wise doctor wisely ignored my loud clapping and applauds and instead wrote a prescription for cough syrup. As we were leaving, he kneeled down in front of Tommy and mistakenly tried to be funny.

'You were such a good boy - I would have given you some gummy bears, but since you have a mouthful of gum, there is probably no room for...'

With that, Tommy spat his big wad of gum out. It landed with a splat next to the surprised doctor's boot. The doctor looked at me, not exactly happy. I shrugged, trying my damndest not to crack up. Wisely, the doctor motioned to his nurse, who rushed over wearing latex gloves and scraped up Tommy's response. He then forked over a couple of gummy bears and we left.

After running to the pharmacy, we got home at the same time as Angie. As on any given weekday, Angie made a bee-line to the computer to check her number of friends on Crackbook. That's when she let the hammer drop.

'Why do you have Dr. D's number up? We haven't been there for years.'

It only took a second for the complete hilariousness of it to kick in. I had called our old doctor, who of course had no entry for Tom, since we had moved away long before he was born. I had then threatened and bullied my way into an appointment that we didn't have with our current doctor by trying to convince his innocent receptionist that she must certainly be losing her mind.

My first thought was that I absolutely had to hide this minor screw-up from my wife. My second thought was that I needed to apologize to Dr. W's assistant. I often have second thoughts, so I delivered a box of chocolates to the poor receptionist who was now questioning her sanity. As for Angie, I'm guessing this blog will pretty much let the cat out of the bag. Hi Sofa, long time, no see.

Tommy's Ute

Most normal kids cling to stuffed animals and make possessive claims like 'My cheetah!' or 'My gorilla!'. As a Johnson, Tommy had no choice but to distance himself from the normal pack with corrective shouts of 'My Ute!' every time someone mentions Ute.

Aside from being one of Tommy's possessions, Ute is a good friend of ours who helps out occasionally with watching the animals while Mama and Papa play work. It was also her birthday today and, despite fully knowing the consequences, she still invited us over to celebrate. It's okay; we got you earplugs this year.

In keeping with the Johnson tradition, we showed up an hour late. I made a beeline to the keeper of the beer, also known as Alex. No shit, it took less than two minutes for Tommy to full-on body-crash into the corner of their coffee table. What, parties are supposed to be loud, right?

Ute immediately scooped up Tommy and started spastically blowing on his forehead. After two minutes, Tommy finally stopped wailing and explained in broken sobs to HIS Ute that actually, he had hurt his elbow.

After some mild elbow blowing and heavy cuddling by HIS Ute, Tommy was released back into the wild. The wild was actually Peter and David, who had already been kicked out to the hallway to play with their Beyblades. They are basically New Age spinning tops for those of you who have yet to experience the joys of procreation.

Within seconds, Tommy had managed to spin his top under HIS Ute's cabinet. At first, this seemed liked a disaster, but it actually turned out to be a blessing in disguise. In addition to being tougher than a honey badger, my brain puts dolphins to shame. My huge cranium whipped out a flashlight and *POOF*, sulky kid was gone for almost an hour looking for HIS toy.

The silent hour was well appreciated, but it went by too quickly. By the time Tommy realized that there was no way in hell he was getting his toy back, it was time to kiss HIS birthday girl goodnight.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TOMMY'S UTE!

Scratch and Fix

Our cat either really likes the guy that came to fix our radiator or he hates repair folk with a passion.

We haven't had Luke long, but he normally just hides under the stove whenever someone new comes over. For whatever reason, he chose today to break out of his reclusive shell.

Angie had run into the kitchen to get the repair guy something to drink. When she came back into the living room, Luke had clawed his way up to the guy's shirt and was just clinging out. If the guy hadn't been screaming his head off, I bet we would have heard purring.

Toe-jam Tommy

Today was the 10th anniversary of Anno 1589, Judy's gallery that's full of valuable paintings and things that are made of glass. It's a great shop for anyone in their double-digits, which leaves another seven years and two months before I consider letting the collective Zoo crew inside.

After a brief trip to breakable city to say hi, I chaperoned the kids to parts of the city that they could break.

It only took an hour of trying to kill themselves and others at the playground before the boys asked if we could go buy new 'Wheelies' because, according to David, 'I are so good being'.

'But what is a Wheelie?', the kidless readers ask.

Well, like the name implies, it's a wheel. That's pretty much it. You can roll them. And you can...uh,...um,....did I mention that you can roll them?

Okay, Wheelies are dumber than My Pet Rock, but at least they are cheap and they keep the yappity ones quiet. Hmm, maybe I should pick up one for Angie?

We picked up Barb along the way and headed off to the store that sold bags of broken car parts to morons with cash. The boys thought it was cool that the store had a revolving door. Of course, they also thought it was cool that we were buying a wheel.

On the way in, I carried Tommy. On the way out, I did not. Mea culpa.

What happened was Peter went first and like a normal human, he continued to walk outside when it was time to 'get off'. David went through next and like a normal David, he did not get off and instead kept going around in circles laughing.

I was holding Tommy's hand when it was our turn to 'get on'. At that point he saw David jackassing his way back into the store and decided to run in the opposite direction of the revolving door. If you ever wondered what it sounds like when someone's foot jams a revolving door to a grinding halt, it goes something like this:

'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!'

So, just to recap - I'm stuck inside with Toe-jam Tommy trying to unwedge his foot. David has proudly made his way back into the store and is gleefully announcing to the forming crowd 'That is my BROTHER!'. Peter is stuck outside bawling his eyes out and screaming 'I'm sorry!' and will most likely be traumatized for life.

In the end, Barb was the one that came crashing to the rescue with a full-on shoulder attack against the glass wall that was pinning my third-born down. As Superchick pried back the wall of pain, I snatched up flat-foot and raced outside. Tommy and Peter were still screaming their heads off, but at least David had the sense to rejoin us on the sunny side of the death machine.

In America, I would have sued the shit out of the store for not hanging up a sign that clearly warned stupid dads against wedging their kid's foot under a revolving door. I'd be ree-yatch.

We were in Germany, though, Land of Customer Friendliness. Needless to say, we fled the scene before one of the helpful store workers could present us with a bill for a broken door. Dankeschön.

As we made it back to the shop, Barb asked if we wanted to come in to say goodbye. My response was a mix between an answer, a curse and a laugh. Barb gave me an understanding nod and went inside to tell Grams and Opa that they would have to come outside to say goodbye to Toe-jam Tommy and the Wheelie boys.

Smackouch!

As early as seven years old, I always knew that my brain was special. I discovered this one day while riding my bike. The sun was warm and soothing and I had just eaten lunch.

My gifted brain convinced me that, because I had done such an awesome job of driving my bike in a straight line with my eyes open, it made perfect sense to try it with my eyes closed. Brains are overrated.

It actually worked for about ten seconds; when I opened my eyes, I was still cruising a straight line down the middle of my block. Great! Lovely! I bet I can do a full minute!

It's a damn good thing that brains have no spending cash for betting; after approximately thirty-four seconds my head smacked into our mail box in a not-so-subtle gambling lesson to 'keep your eyes open, moron'.

Tommy is apparently a competition freak - he pretty much has to be with two older brothers and a father that rivals Evil Knievel. His challenge began in the kitchen as Mama was telling me about her day. Who the hell let Angie into the kitchy?

'Blah-blah, the kids had a ball at the blah-blah playing with the blah-blah-freakity-blah. Have I told you today how hot you are?'

'Yes, several times. Umm, why is Tommy wrapping a towel around his head?'

Before either of us could scratch our heads, Tommy took off running, full speed, towards a corner coming soon to his face.

'Smackouch' does not begin to describe it. As the scream levels rose, my inconsiderate brain chose to taunt me with thought-snippets like 'you waited until you were seven? That kid's got you beat by FIVE years. Wuss.'

Brain Dead

There is no way to jump start this one without knowing that I will end up on the sofa, so I'll just come out and say it - Angie was a moron. Twice.

It all started on a Wednesday afternoon, when Moron-lady drove her Smart car back home from work. Because those things are micro-tiny, her humongoid school bag does not exactly fit in the trunk. Clever Angie used the passenger seat to store her bags of squishy balls and other torture toys that she beams at kids when they misbehave.

Not-so-clever Angie proceeded to drag her bag from the passenger seat and over a button that switches on a light when she got out of the car. The same light, that when left on overnight, will drain the battery dead. Smart car, my ass.

This in itself was stupid, but innocent stupid. Kinda like when you stick a fork in the toaster, like my sister Christine did last year. Not overly smart, but you would hope that these thought-challenged people learn from their cerebral lapses. Hope is overrated.

Angie has demonstrated long ago that she is not like other people, so I wasn't surprised when she repeated exactly the same steps, not even two days later. I'm sorry, let me rephrase that - NOT EVEN TWO DAYS LATER!!!

The cool thing is, Angie now has the number for ADAC (AAA for you American types) memorized. Not so cool, ADAC now has our street address flagged in their system as belonging to 'that hot woman with the Smart car that isn't so...' well, I'll just let you finish that sentence; I'm already lounging on the sofa side of trouble.

Yes, ADAC-guy chuckled. He also laughed, mocked and pointed fingers, which won my respect and admiration. I can only hope that Angie learned her lesson, but a car is only as smart as it's driver. I'll just leave it there.

Eco-panic

I normally put the boys to bed. It's a simple routine, actually. Pajamas, brush teeth, Ladder Talk, and a tickle attack, followed by a story. Ten minutes later, I leave the room and celebrate their snoring with a beer. Sometimes two.

Angie decided tonight that she needed more mommy time and announced that she would be tucking the animals into bed. I reluctantly agreed and explained the rules. Turn off the bright light, don't give them anything wet and never feed them. Yeah, they're a lot like Gremlins.

Confident that Angie was adequately armed, I went to the fridge to celebrate in advance. About ten minutes later, the melancholy sounds of spastic blubbering filled the apartment.

Apparently, the cute, furry Mogwais had chosen a book on the tropical rain forest. Everything was fine and dandy until the third page, which depicted a tapir. An innocent little tapir, just lounging around, munching on some leaves. Behind the tapir was a flap, that when lifted revealed a leaping jaguar about to devour the poor thing. It was at this point that the flood gates of Peter's conscience opened.

'Mama, there are so many problems I have to solve. Tapirs are being eaten by jaguars. Rain forests are being cut down. Even the whales are getting extincted!'

At this point, Mama tried to help.

'Actually, the rain forests are being cut down, so the Jaguars have no place to live either.'

Here's where David joined the rainbow ranch of animal lovers.

'THE JAGUARS ARE BEING KILLED, TOO??!!! BUT, THEY'RE MEAT EATERS - I THOUGHT ONLY THE PLANT EATERS GET EXTINCTED?!! WHAT DID THEY EVER DO?!! AAAAGGGHHHH!!!'

It was interesting that David didn't give two shits about the rain forest, the tapirs, or the whales. I don't even think he cared about the jaguars, but he felt compelled to take a position and, well - Peter had already chosen his corner.

Two hours later, Angie emerged and headed straight for the fridge. Something about the look she gave me when I asked her how it went told me that I'll be doing the bedtime stories for the next decade.