My Hero

I could tell he was upset about something, but wasn’t sure what. Not minutes before I watched him hustle off after his brothers to play among the trees while we waited for the bus, but something had turned his sweet smile sour as he returned.

“Hey buddy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing” he pouted as he passed, his shoulders slumped and his steps sloppy and listless as he dragged his feet back to the car. I know that body language. It’s frustration with a hint of resignation. Ok, I’ll bite – “What’s going on?” This won’t take long to figure out. He’s easy to read. His cheeks are flushed and you can see the tension mounting in his lower lip where he’s trying to hold it in, but resistance is futile. His eyes are welling up too quickly for him to blink the tears away as they spill out with his confession. “I’m so SLOW. I can’t catch anyone”, he blurts out with a throaty warble and casts himself forward with a stomp of his foot against the floor mat.

“Oh sweetie….” His forehead now pressed against the back of the front seat where he can hide his face from view, I can tell he’s going to need a minute to recover while I try to comfort him. In his fragile condition I know better than to offer any of that 'slow-and-steady-wins-the-race' bullshit when this loss is so fresh in his mind. And "it's not wether you win or lose, but how you play the blah blah blah" is only gonna aggravate this self-anointed slowpoke, especially if He think I think he's slow. I can't have him go off to school in a state of festering depression and self loathing. That ain't no way for a 4th grader to start the day.

When the snow is gone and the days become warm enough that the morning grass is dry, they often play some sort of game with other kids at the bus stop. Today we were early, but the advantage of having 3 sons is that we have enough players to be self-sufficient. Sometimes I throw myself into the mix for some 2-on-2 action, or just to even the playing field. They generally play well together, but I often find it helps to sacrifice myself for whichever little lamb is struggling with the competition. As they get older and begin to differentiate themselves, it is easier to discern their individual strengths…. and their weaknesses do not go unnoticed either. They are constantly testing boundaries with each other until somebody gets hurt, or upset, or until Dad can’t fuckin’ take it anymore and has to pull the car over for an abruptly threatening father-son’s chat… but I digress...

With my hand on his shoulder, I can feel the warmth already generated from his lumbering jaunt across the lawn. A fading tremor stutters his breathing as he wipes the annoying tears that tickle the end of his nose while I recall watching them take flight moments earlier. At 13, the oldest has suddenly become an athlete. He runs with direction and purpose and he’s tall which gives him a distinct physical advantage. The youngest tares off like a jackrabbit. He still wears 7-year-old sizes because his butt's too skinny to hold up a pair of size 8 skinny jeans. There's just a blur of scrawny legs and the flipped up soles of his shoes as he kicks it into overdrive and pulls away from my big sensitive galoot.

Despite the age gap between the oldest and his little brothers, my gentle giant is closing the physical gap. Simply 'growing' is easily the one event at which he is faster than the others. The shelf-life of hand-me-downs has been reduced from years to months and I keep warning the oldest to beware: "Every time he gets hurt, you're the one doing it. I know you're just testing your strength, but it won't be much longer before he's bigger than you and payback's a bitch." But for now, his big bones and youth are clumsy to control. He moves like a gangly Jabberwocky, his torso leaned forward as if to gain momentum while shoulders and hips pull against gravity. It's like watching a marionette run across the stage. His joints seem dislocated. Discombobulated limbs move in all directions while flat feet clomp against the ground.

"… You know, when I was in school we use to have this thing called the Presidential Physical Fitness Test in gym. We had to do pull-ups, sit-ups, and sprint for time. I've never been a very fast runner. My thighs are big so they're strong for biking and lifting heavy stuff, but they aren't built for speed so I'm more of a long-distance, endurance kinda guy. Well, I remember having to run like a 50 yard dash on the football field with the entire class watching. I was O.K, but then there was this girl. She was sorta tall and skinny with a narrow face and wispy blonde hair, sort like your brother's. I mean her hair color was like his. Your brother isn't a girl. (He smiles) So anyway, I was at the finish line when it was her turn and I swear that girl just flew down the field like a baby giraffe across the savanna. I couldn't believe it. When she took off it was like her head was shot out of a cannon strait at me, her legs galloping beneath it. She totally smoked everyone, and she just a was girl! Holy crap!" I said, recalling my naive disbelief. He smiled a little more. 

"I know it's frustrating when you're trying to play tag with your brothers, but everybody has different strengths and weaknesses. You know the Hulk, right? He's totally strong and he can smash stuff and throw cars at bad guys, but he's not known for speed. But then there's The Flash who's super fast. What would happen if Flash ran into the Hulk? That'd be ridiculous! He'd bounce off like a bug hitting the windshield of a car."

"Or he'd go splat and die", he offers with a grin that tell me he'll be ok for the bus ride.

"Right! So listen... I don't know what your super powers are going to be by the time you're done growing. We already know you're gonna be big and you can crush Speedy Gonzalez over there whenever you want to. And nothing says you can't be faster, but you might have to work on it. In the meantime, don't forget that you have other powers that your brother's don't. You know what I mean?"

"Yah"

"Ok, well here comes the bus. Grab your bag and let's have a good day at school, Okay big guy?"

"Okay Dad" he says as I chase him toward the bus with the threat of a tickle attack.

"Hey, don't forget...", I call before he mounts the first step, "Burping and Farting AT WILL are NOT super powers. They might be super EVIL, but with great power comes great responsibility."

Just then, as if on queue, he let out a tremendous resonant belch and smiled as if to say with immortal confidence, "Fear not, Father. You'll be okay as long as I'm around."

"There goes my hero. Don't know what I'd do without him."

The Bucket Initiative

I sat there in the dark corner of my son's bedroom, oblivious to how alone I was, but it would become all too clear by daybreak. Since dinner, we'd washed up, done all our homework, donned PJ’s, picked up bedrooms and hallways, flossed brushed and rinsed, and I'll selfishly offer that I'd single-handedly cleaned the kitchen, performed a double-piggyback feat of superhuman strength carrying 150+ pounds of boys up two flights of stairs, and entertained a myriad of last minute stall-tactic requests including bedtime stories, drinks of water and back-scratches before calling "lights out" all on my own since Mommy left for another week's business trip to somewhere that is "not here". This time it's Malta. “Where the fuck is Malta?” It’s an island off the heel of Italy's 'boot' in the center of the Mediterranean. Sounds like a world away, but the reality is that whether 50 miles or 5,000 she can't help me against these three stooges that continually challenge my grown-up intellect, patience and temper under normal circumstances…

...I stirred at the sound of something unclear coming from the doorway and settled back into the pillow before it came again -  “Dad?” said an uncomfortable voice in the darkness.

“...hhhmmghhh....”

“Uh, Dad??”

“Huhhh?”

“Dad?” again.

“Yah, hhmmm ... what’s up buddy?” I asked in a seemingly compassionate yet gently exasperated tone at the interruption to my rest as I slowly gained consciousness.

“Umm, Dad.., my stomach doesn’t feel right. Can I stay in here with you?”

“Oh, uhh…yah, ok… sure. Hop in bed and I’ll go get a bucket for you just in case”, I offered as I squinted to see 12:30 on the clock. In the last 24 hours, his first younger brother had a rough bought with a stomach bug complete with moans and teary-eyed distress as he transitioned through positions hunched over the toilet, reclined on the couch and writhing on the floor in apparent gastrointestinal distress. “Awww crap” I thought to myself as I set the bucket at his bedside and proceeded to give very simple yet explicit instructions… which he obviously ignored:

“Here ya go, sweetie. Here. is. your. bucket. If you need to throw up, use it, OK?”

“Yah”

“Ok, try to get some rest. Goodnight.”

“ ‘night Dad”
…
..
.

At 3:00 the first last mouthful of dinner was lobbed onto the floor – 'Last one in, first one out,' you might say though it wasn’t quite so funny at the time. I was suddenly jolted out of bed by what sounded like handfuls of marbles being tossed onto the carpet. “What the..??!!” As my bleary eyes adjusted to the dim light and my foot found a warm wetness where I stood, I realized the failure of the bucket initiative which I’m now certain we’d agreed on earlier. “Where’s your bucket?! Use the buck…! Oh come ON! What the FUUUUUHHHHCK?! Well don't just stand there! Go in the bathroom!” As he disappeared around the corner I heard one last grand splattering against the bathroom tile. “Ahhhhhhhhhrrrghhh!!!” My trail of tears lead all the way around the bed and splayed across the entire bathroom, the concentration beginning 2 feet from the security of his bedside bucket and ending just short of the toilet. The Grand Finale splattered the side of the tub, sink and walls.

“…...... Ok… " ...incredulous disbelief .... ....silence......followed by a submissive whimper of ".. okay then..." I surveyed the damage. Rancid dinner now polluted the room with an odor that wafted up from the floor like brown flames from the circle of a pentagram that he had inscribed around my bed. There was no way to sleep in that atmosphere. I resigned myself to begin cleaning.

Crouched awkwardly, still naked in the dim light and dumbfounded by what had transpired in the last 3 minutes, I was oddly reminded of an image I’d seen in a Museum.  Degas, famous for his candid depictions of 'the nude form' in sketches and pastels, captured his models in awkward and unflattering poses. Criticized by many for what some deemed "crude and torturous" works of art, I doubt that even he could have made anything admirable out of this scene as I fumbled around on hands and knees sopping up the mess with old beach towels and bathed in this noxious odor. There was nothing sensual in the awkwardness. The only solace I could imagine in their mother's absence was that she was not here to bear witness to the sight of their father clumsily mopping and scouring the crime scene in unflattering birthday-suit poses, sweating, swearing, disoriented and aghast.

“Uh, dad?

“Yah, bud?” I said sitting back on my heels.

“I’m feeling better now, so ummm, I was thinking that it would probably be OK if I went back to bed in my room?”

Seriously? Now he's gonna go to his own room??  “Oh, alright. You sure?”

“Yah I’m good now.”

“Great, I’m glad you’re OK”, I said as he turned down the hall “But hey? Where is your bucket?” I call after him loud and clear. “Here. Keep this with you. Do. not. go. anywhere. without. it. OK? PLEASE.”

“Got it, Dad”

“A’right. Goodnight. Try to get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning”

I would have to hose down the bathroom and drag the carpet cleaner out to neutralize the smell before going back to bed. I still don’t understand who designs those goddamn things to be so ineffective. This one’s got Dual Dirtlifter Power Brushes, a built in heater for "maximum cleaning power", some kind of heavy duty antimicrobial spot cleaning technology, power something-or-other and sounds like a jet turbine preparing to launch from the deck of an aircraft carrier when you turn it on.  In other words, we paid too much money for a machine that does a fantastic job at smearing everything so deep into the carpet pile that you can’t see it any more. So after 2 hours of Greco-Roman wrestling this thing in my boxers which I stopped to find when I realized all my, um, shall we say 'worldly possessions' had been on dangling in the bedroom window for the last hour, I found small consolation when I reached to turn out the lights and noticed my son’s smeared handprint in vomit on the wall around the switch and deduced that he'd at least tried to 'catch' the slurry as it poured out of his gut. As I lay back down and finally closed my eyes, the alarm went off: Time to wake up.



Epilogue: Later that day

I'm starting to feel like a doctor on the Mayflower, moored in the harbor that first hard winter when it found service as a hospital ship:

“Three men have fallen victim to this pestilence. The third child is coughing all over his homework and me. The first two of my ‘settlers’ remain suffering in their beds with fevers. This 24 hour virus has confused itself with a 48 hour affliction and they’ve been throwing up since 3 this morning while I've been washing carpets, mopping floors, and tending laundry. I've just informed the crew that they are not allowed to eat until further notice. Why on earth do they feel the need to run while throwing up???...

...I was overtaken by malady about an hour ago. Afraid to eat anything, I planned to stay hydrated on a steady stream of Mt Dew until supper. Alas, I'll add its mild regurgitated flavor to the list of reasons it appeals to me. I can't recall whence I've felt this irritable. I'd rather be out stealing land and horses from the Indians, but I shall conserve my energy and continue to drink this soothing tonic for medicinal purposes instead. As the only qualified nurse on this infected ship I have not choice but to stay the course until reinforcements arrive a fortnight hence. I've lost 10 lbs. in 2 days without breaking a sweat. Still, I must carry on for the sake of my charges despite exhaustion, chills, stomach cramps, joint aches. .... Am I menstruating? ...

Making Men

“Helmet?”

“Check.”

“Shoulder Pads?”

“Check.”

“Arm Guards?”

“Check.”

“Gloves?”

“Check.”

“Cup?”

‘What?”

“He needs a Cup.”

“Really? But he’s only 8.”

“It’s on the list.  There’s gonna be a team FULL of 8-year olds running around in body armor, wielding lacrosse sticks and throwing balls at each other…”

So yah, it makes perfect sense that we should take appropriate steps to protect the littlest member of the family, but it hadn’t yet occurred to me when I took junior to buy his X-Small equipment. This is the first season of Lacrosse for our youngest and all the little guys get to suit up for combat. I think that’s half the fun for them, and they look adorable out there on the field.  I haven’t taken a picture yet because you can’t tell one from the other with their bobble-head helmets on.  With all that padding draped in an oversized jersey they seem virtually indestructible… until you glimpse those knobby little knees and spindly little legs poking out from below to remind you that those are our babies out there. But then a whistle blows as if to slap soft-hearted parents back to their competitive senses and the coach rounds up all the little soldiers to begin their field exercises.

Soccer was our introduction to team sports. “It doesn’t matter whether you win or lose.  It’s how you play the game that counts.  Now let’s have fun out there, kids!” That’s the sort of nurturing spirit and good sportsmanship that welcomes any new tyke to fall soccer in our town.  Players can come to expect they’ll be served juicy orange slices at halftime and post-game popsicles.  Parents wander around with travel mugs and folding umbrella chairs slung over their shoulder as they hunt for a good neighbor to park next to and pass the time with pleasant conversation.  But as seasons pass and the novelty of arbitrarily assigned servitude in the fundraising Snack Shack begins to wear on parents, focus turns toward the scoreboard.  The kids finally begin to develop a keen awareness of which goal they are supposed to be shooting on, and more and more parents are want to blurt out subtle encouragements: “KICK IT!  GET HIM!!!!  Oh my God!  Hey Ref, what was that?! C’mon, open your eyes, Ref!! OK…Shake it off, guys… Turn aROUND!!  Get it!!! GET IT!!!!!!!..”  No doubt the banter will become progressively more aggressive over the years.  I've stood next to my brother at a few of my nephew’s high school games listening to him and his kindred hollering up a storm.  There's more than a few over exuberant fathers in the bleachers that deserve a yellow card for unsportsmanlike conduct off the field, but who am I to judge.  I'm not there yet.

So while I casually stood on the sideline not judging my son’s emerging footwork skills against the particular prowess of other more seemingly gifted athletes, and quietly deciding which parents were way to loud and ‘involved’ in the game, my attention was often draw elsewhere.  Adjacent to the soccer fields, a squadron of football mites was hard at work counting off jumping jacks and pushups in prepubescent unison, driven by a small volunteer team of full-figured dad-coach drill instructors. The falsetto of their little chant would tattle their youth. Laden with even more protective padding, their own bobbling helmets and yes, cups, I'd wonder what’s the right number of reps for an 8-year-old.  How many gutt-busting sit-ups and pec-popping pushups would the flabby coaching staff be able to coax out of them before Child Protective Services would show up.  Just how early should you begin to nurture junior's killer instinct on the gridiron?

Now, as I watch my little gladiator join his teammates on the ground for perhaps the first pushups his twiggy little arms have ever attempted, I wonder what all this is teaching him.  If exercise and fitness are so important why are so many of the coaches overweight? Let's see how many of them can put down the clipboard and bang out a few squat-thrusts without passing out in front of the team.  Are we preparing kids for greatness?  Perhaps 'winning' matters a lot more than we let on, or is it simply our natural instinct to live vicariously through our children.  But I balk at the notion that second-grade isn't a bit too soon to treat them like men.  Well, as long as he’s having fun I’ll be here to support him....which reminds me...

“Here ya go.”

“What’s this?”

“That, Son, is your cup”

"Okaaaaaaay", he says warily.  I know he has no idea what it’s for or what to do with it as he flips it over.  So I get right to the point before he begins the obvious experiment of using it to cover his face like an oxygen mask.

“This is to protect your ‘private’ parts”, I tell him.  He laughs awkwardly. “Well, what do you  and your buddies call them?”

“uhhhh…Nuts…?” he says shyly but with a grin that tells me he’s on the ball, so to speak. 

I sense this is one of those father-son moments where I get to, if perhaps a bit too soon, treat him like a man off the field as I continue… “When all you guys are running around swinging sticks and whipping balls at each other, this goes in your shorts to keep your, uh, ‘little buddies’ safe and sound.  You gotta protect your the ol' ‘frank and beans’ if you know what I mean … the uhh, ‘twig and berries’… you know”, I say boldly, “yer BALLS.”

“Awww, Dad”, he giggles for a minute and fumbles to position the strange new object, but it’s upside down.

“Actually, it goes this way with the narrow end pointing down so it’s more comfortable when you’re running around.”

He pauses for a brief moment to consider the geometry that seemed counterintuitive to him. “But I like it when mine goes up.”

“Me too, Son. Me too….”

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Bummed Out

FAILURE.  Sometimes it happens in an instant.  Other times you can see it coming like a slow train rolling down the tracks with the momentum of your decisions, bad judgment, missed opportunities and indifference. In this instance it is with the great wisdom afforded by hindsight that I can only recognize my shortcoming and try not to make the same mistake again. Though it is too late for me and my heirs, perhaps their children (or yours) will benefit from this insight.

Periodically I regret that I wasn’t more diligent in the effort to train my boys the fine art of How to Pee Standing Up. I admit utter FAILURE.  I’ve got one, the youngest, who embraced it like a Jedi Knight born with the ability to ‘use the Force’. He wields his saber with precision and grace.  …Not his brothers.  They still prefer to pee like girls, which is not an issue at home. However, it’s a different animal altogether when you have to hunt for a reasonably clean location to relieve yourself in a public Men’s Room.

In those formative years of child rearing, we suffered, as all parents do, the reign of terror known as “Changing the Baby”.  Diapers, baby powder, wet wipes, ointments and creams, plastic bags, gas masks,  various and sundry other implements were all stuffed into some ugly flower covered sack of crap (literally).  This emasculating tote was dubbed “the diaper bag”.  I can’t even imagine having to deal with cloth diapers, so to those parents who accept the challenge to Go Green with baby’s bowel movements, I salute you…. BUT I am not that kind of hero.

So, as the first four years trudged along while our oldest denied us the common courtesy of self-potty training, there were admittedly times when I deferred to their mother when it came time to bring the kid in a public restroom for a change.  Why her?  What’s a’matter with me that I couldn’t do it?  “Were my arms broke?” as my father says…. I’ll tell you why: Because MEN ARE ANIMALS!  And I don’t mean in the sense that we can be vulgar, slovenly, foul-mouthed, chauvinistic, sexist, horn-dogs, so on and so forth.  I mean that something transformative happens when some of us cross the threshold of a public bathroom and settle in for a few minutes to wreak havoc behind a bathroom stall's door.

Before kids, I recall visiting the restroom of the ‘professional’ office building where I worked only to discover that I must be working in close proximity to some blind armless asshole with a severe bladder control issue because it appeared the fire department had unleashed a hose in the stall nearest the door.  Not only is the seat wet, but the floor, the walls, and even the door also appear to be sweating --- THE DOOR!  How the Hell does that happen?   I’ll disregard the occasional unflushed toilet.  As unpleasant as that appears, it is easily rectified.  But then there’s the guy in the next stall over that settles in to create something magical.  He grunts, He groans.  There’s a moment of silence and then a musical crescendo of bowel-moving flatulence.  Bravo! Bellissimo!  Is this performance for FREE???  He must think he’s in a soundproof room, which is odd considering there is never a roof on these stalls and I can see my neighbor’s shoes under the partition.  That’s when I suddenly realize there IS a price to the show performed by this One-Man-Band and I’m gonna pay for it as soon as it wafts over here. For the record, there is no difference between the gastrointestinal tract of a man compared to a woman even though you almost never hear a woman ‘let one rip’! The only reasons you ever hear a man fart is because he’s lazy, he doesn’t think anyone can hear him, he thinks it’s funny, or he just doesn’t give a shit (pun intended). 


As I await the encore, I notice some unassuming artwork.  Cheap imitations are often scribbled in pen, but this one...THIS is an original. I can tell by the way it is meticulously scratched into the paint with a car key.  It depicts the lower torso of a lady, legs akimbo and an unkempt vagina beckoning closer inspection much like a scene I imagine is all too familiar to obstetricians in the Labor Room.  It's signed by the artist "- Richard". Oh but some ill repute has tarnished it with with the clever scrawl: "U suk, Dick!"  I detect a hint of the vandal's double entendre as I move on to the next exhibit... a Poem, American literature... 

          Here I sit,

          broken hearted.

          Came to shit,

          but only farted.

                    (-unsigned)

....that's 20th century I believe.  A classic.  I am in awe.

Now, standing over there at the urinal is the guy who must be talking to his girlfriend or his wife while he stands there with the cell phone in one hand and his dick in the other – That’s sweet.  "..Yah, you too," he replies to her "I love you" on the other end of the call like we don't know what that means.  Thanks for sharing your conversation with all of us you self-absorbed jerk.  The ladies room has GOT to be better than this!

 

So keep this in mind, all you new and future dads out there: It may seem easier to pass a smelly baby to Mommy with the excuse that the Men’s room is a pig sty even when you admittedly sometimes know it isn’t. But don’t underestimate the value of a little extra father-son time and some manly guidance. It'll pay off sooner than you think.  It sure beats having to wait for your little princess while he waits to use the least disgusting toilet in the restroom, especially when there is a perfectly good urinal hanging on the wall behind you.  Oh and hey MOM, you can do your boys a favor too:  Don’t just teach them your fancy “Hover Maneuver”.  Make them stand there with their feet together and face the toilet like men!

I won’t make the same mistake moving forward.  Now it’s time to teach them to spit.  They either learn to ‘hock a loogie’ properly or I’m taking the sound “-PTOOEY-” as the next sign of the Apocalypse. 

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Oh, For Crying Out Loud

"Dad, he needs you"
"Who, your brother?"
"Yah, he got hurt."
"Ok."  I walk across the yard to the driveway where a child lay face down, legs entangled in the frame of his bike and tears rolling down his distraught red face.  "Whats the matter?...... What's wrong?......" - No answer. But it's not that I'm not getting any response. It's because the little guy can't seem to speak over his own tear-filled sobs.  ...So I turn to the nearest suspect and ask, "What happened?"
"I was just....."
"No.  How did your brother fall?"
"...But he - "
"No.  Why is your brother on the ground?"
"I pushed him because blah blah blah blah blahhhhh..."

I use to indiscriminately jump at the sound of their cries, but not any more.  Have I become callous?  Uncaring? Unconcerned?  No.  Just the opposite.  Oh I scanned the crime scene as I seem to stroll across the yard, so I've a pretty good idea what happened before I get to the victim.... and there's no blood - that's a key fact.  More importantly, I think I've become more sensitive and acutely aware of my children's expressions.  When they were babies, I use to have to guess what was wrong and then guess how to fix it.  And then somewhere along the way I started to learn the lingo.  I think I've developed an a pretty good ear, or at least some reasonable intuition for interpreting the many varieties and nuances of unintelligible adolescent cries from any one of my three young lads.  Not every crash is life threatening.  Not every cry is an emergency.  Here's a few of my favorites:

The Tantrum:  Hysterical, full body writhing and senselessness.  A good indicator that they aren't getting what they want and think somehow this ought to do the trick.

The Multi-Sylabic Cry:  A melodramatic demonstration of crying often used to indicate a need for attention.  Distinguishable by a rhythmic pulse of noise separated intermittent momentary pauses or breaths.  Body language is the give away as the child is usually standing there facing whoever's attention they are trying to attract, mouth agape and eyes open and searching.  It would almost be musical if it weren't so relentless and annoying until it thinks it's gotten it's point across.  Sometimes used in conjunction with The Wail for a very stirring arrangement, but don't let them see you laugh when you hear "Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah....(breath) Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah....(breath)..."  'cause that might just piss 'em off.


The Gurgle: Often prefaced by a few seconds of silence, and anguished face with vein pulsing vein in the forehead, and then a dramatic change in the complexion from it's normal color to a nice bright shade of red.  More often witnessed in infants and toddlers,  it's a good indicator of some kind of real discomfort, but you're never gonna really know what it is or how to fix it.  If whatever you try doesn't solve it within a few minutes, abandon that effort and try something else.  If that doesn't work, hand it to it's mother.


Tearful Paralysis:  This one you know is real.  After a fall, they can't even move:  TOTAL. BODY. PARALYSIS.  You could run to the garage for a stick of sidewalk chalk and run back to the scene of the crime to draw a chalk outline around the body and they'd still be in the same position until you come to help.

The sob, often combined with The Pout or The Sulk: Not quite crying, but clearly upset and expecting you to step up in your role as a parent looking out for their best interest.  Head hung low with drooping shoulders, you'll find this one quietly sitting in a corner, conspicuously inconspicuous, or walking away from the scene of the crime. If you lose track of them, go check their room or any of their favorite hiding spots.  They can be unbelievably patient waiting for you to find them so they can tell you how you or their siblings have failed them.

The Hissy Fit:  You know that nothing has even happened or that what has happened is ridiculously minor, but psychologically they've just lost their minds at the though of it.  Wanna see one?  The next time they have to got to the pediatrician's office for a shot, YOU take 'em, and have fun.  Here's another one:  The next time they scrape a knee, point out the most minor red dot you can see and ask ask if it's bleeding - see what happens....

Of coooooouuuurse these don't apply to all kids.  Sometimes I can't even squish one of my own boy's little fits into one of these neat little packages for interpretation, treatment and release back into the field.  But as the summer approaches, take a look around.  At the playground, the beach, a town playing field, on a plane or at your favorite restaurant, you will bear witness to some screaming kid putting on an embarrassing display for the whole world to see.  Take an extra minute or two to consider the situation because it's a lot easier to pass judgement on someone else child and their poor parenting skills than your own: What is that kid trying to say with all that nonsense? .... and what would you do if it was yours?