(Almost) all quiet on the home front

After a busy holiday period and a Scrabble visit from my friend Frank, things have slowed down here at our cottage by the sea. I've got my semi-annual head cold, but aside from the honking and coughing, it's been pretty quiet around here.

Lots of excitement on Wednesday morning, though. We got word that my Redding pal Charlie Price was nominated for an Edgar Award for his YA novel, "The Interrogation of Gabriel James." And I had my second encounter with the neighborhood skunk. While I was certainly excited for Charlie, the skunk did more to get up the old heart rate.

One of the great things about our Santa Cruz place is its wide front porch. I like to step out there at all hours of the day and night to sniff the sea air and listen to the waves crashing on the rocks. But the dawn hour, I have learned, belongs to a skunk that forages through the neighborhood.

In the latest encounter, I had just gone outside to check out the sunrise when I heard a scrambling in some dead leaves. I froze. The skunk saw me anyway. He froze (facing me, which I sensed was better). We stared at each other for 30 seconds, eight feet apart. Then he toddled away, taking his time, sniffing around the cars. As soon as he disappeared around a corner, I disappeared into the house. Unsprayed.

From now on, I'm turning on the porch light before I step outside. Give the skunk time to scram.

I told my neighbor about the skunk, and he said we see them from time to time in this coastal neighborhood. Raccoons and possums, too, he said.

Oh, joy.

Have a knuckle-cracking Christmas

"Winter break" provides family units with such a prolonged period of intense togetherness, it's a wonder we don't all kill one another.

The kids are home from school for what seems like 17 weeks. Adults who normally would be busy with work get some free days for relaxing and reveling and gaining weight together. Because it's cold outside, the whole family's under the same roof much of the time.

Everything feels a bit off. Routines are disrupted. Social calendars are full. Thoughts are scattered. The kids are antsy. People keep tripping over the dog. The TV is too loud. What's that smell?

Different energy levels bouncing around in the same space create friction. Some of us are slobs; some want to decorate the Kleenex boxes. Some see a vacation and want to go, go, go, while others see it as time for lying perfectly still. We're like cars on a busy street, all going different speeds. Bound to be a few fender benders.

All the togetherness reminds us that even the nicest people have annoying little habits that could wear on anyone, given enough exposure. Repeated sniffing, say. Clearing one's throat 2,309 times per day. If you're stuck in a house all day with a knuckle-cracker or a gum-snapper or a Twitter user, your thoughts might turn to ho-ho-homicide.

Take something as harmless as a Christmas carol. The song gets stuck in a person's mind, like a jumbo thorn, so he goes around singing it all the time. Except he doesn't really know the words, so it sounds like this: "Joy to the WORLD, la-da, la-DAH." Over and over. For two weeks. Until -- snap! -- someone makes a headline.

Minor vices, such as leaving the cap off the toothpaste or the newspaper in disarray, can be ignored for days, but eventually someone will speak up, and the new year is welcomed with fireworks.

(The Murphy's Law winter break guarantee: Whether you prefer the toilet seat up or down, it will always be the wrong way. Mention this to the others at your peril.)

As the winter days of togetherness wear on, we start to see loved ones' quirks as being intentionally annoying. We start perceiving motives.

"She knows she's doing that," he mutters. "She could stop any time. But no, she keeps doing it, because she knows it drives me crazy. She's just getting even because I--"

From the next room: "What's that, dear?"

"Nothing!"

But it's not nothing. It's the beginning. Pretty soon, the couple is locked in an escalating passive-aggressive loop: If she's going to crack her gum, he thinks, then I can pop my knuckles and sniffle as much as I want. She counters with an impressive symphony of tuneless whistling, trying to drown out his honking nose. Which, naturally, forces him to play Neil Young on the stereo, because she HATES that reedy voice. So she runs the vacuum cleaner. He gets a wrench and removes the toilet seat altogether and--

Whoa, whoa. Take a deep breath there, partner. It's always like this at winter break. It'll be fine once we get out of the house, and we're all exposed to smaller doses of our mutual foibles.

The adults go back to work, where our nervous habits can annoy our colleagues instead of our relatives. The kids go back to school and annoy their teachers. The dog gets some rest.

Soon, we're back in our well-worn ruts. Ready for another year.

Together.

Everybody awake? How about now?

Regular readers may recall that I like to watch DVDs while walking on the Dreadmill in my garage, but this activity is not without its hazards.

Because I'm trying to hear the movie over the thumping Dreadmill, I keep the volume up high, even though I work out in the cool of the morning. My neighbors have been very understanding.

But this week I plugged in the DVD of a movie called "Surveillance," a strange crime drama directed by Jennifer Lynch. The movie opens with an extremely violent attack on a couple in bed; the woman gets away and runs off down the highway, only to be chased by a pickup. The whole time, this woman screams at the top of her lungs.

I'm sure my neighbors thought someone was being slaughtered at the Brewers' house. Again.

After I fumbled for the remote control and got it pointed the right way and the audio turned down, I could only wonder: What was that movie moment like in a theater, in Dolby SurroundSound? Did viewers flee screaming with their hands over their ears?

Murphy's Law #413

No matter how many ballpoint pens there are to choose from, the first one you pick up will have no ink. Every time.

Grumpy, jumpy and jangled

I’ve got nerves that jingle, jangle, jingle.

Too much daily coffee and a tightly wound nervous system make me jumpy, particularly if I’m in a bad mood or trying to concentrate.

(Funny how often those two things go together. Do bad moods make concentration more difficult? Does concentration put me in a bad mood? Is that why my head hurts? What’s it to you? Grrr.)

Anyway, I’m frequently on edge, and that means a certain amount of wear-and-tear on my family, who must put up with having in their midst a person with the emotional constitution of Don Knotts.

My nerves apparently lie near the surface because it’s so easy to get on them, and my startle response is strong. I often react to everyday events like a skittish kitten. Surprises send me straight up in the air. Bad news can leave me reeling. Even an unexpected phone call can make me grouchy and tense.

Sudden loud noises occur in any household. But in our house, they result in even louder noises as I curse and spume and clutch at my heart. Normal people react to sudden noises with a brief start, perhaps followed by a chuckle. But for us uptight types, the clatter of a dropped pan is a perfectly good excuse for cardiac arrest and/or a phone call to Homeland Security.

The noise doesn’t even have to be sudden to be debilitating. Regular sounds can move from normal to annoying in the twitch of an eye.

Let’s say I’m writing something (which would be, oh, any given day of my life). Now let’s say someone is talking nearby. On the phone, in person, it doesn’t matter. Harmless casual chitchat. To me, the sound might as well be the scream of a power drill against my skull. Pretty soon, I’m typing gibberish. Or, shall I say, even more gibberish-y than usual. (Hah, beat you to it.)

I should be able to tune out noise. For years, I worked in newspaper newsrooms which, in those days, were noisy, smoky, rowdy places, full of practical jokes, clanging phones, loud arguments and the occasional small fire.

(Since computers and political correctness came around, newsrooms tend to be about as rowdy as banks, but that’s a complaint for another day.)

I was still a testy type, and a few newsrooms have dented file cabinets to prove it, but I learned to work through the hubbub. Once, I was on a roll and kept writing after the fire alarms went off. I only left my desk because my superiors demanded that I go outside.

But I got spoiled. Twelve years ago, I left newsrooms behind and started working all by myself. Working at home, I was able to control my environment. If there was a loud noise during the day, it was one I made myself and I usually knew it was coming.

After school hours, I still had the thrill of noisy young men, with their electric guitars and minor emergencies, in my home, but for several hours a day, it was just me and our sleepy dog.
That changed when my wife started working at home, too. She’s much busier than I am, and the phone rings constantly, and people come and go, and pans clatter in the kitchen. She can’t understand why I’m so jumpy and grumpy all the time.

It’s not me, I tell her, it’s my jangled nerves. They’re scaredy-cats.

Tykes on a plane

The skies are less friendly when you’re flying with children.

Air travel these days is tough enough, what with all the canceled flights and baggage charges and people who insist on barbecuing goats for their in-flight meals. Throw a few screaming children into the mix, and you can soon find your brains leaking out your ears.

Or, you could get thrown off the plane altogether.

That happened to a Seattle family last year. A woman and her four children (including two with disabilities) were flying Southwest Airlines from Detroit to Seattle, changing planes in Phoenix. The mom admitted her children had been unruly on the Detroit-to-Phoenix leg, but she was shocked when Phoenix police told her the family wouldn’t be allowed on the Southwest flight to Seattle.

Wendy Slaughter and her kids were stranded in Phoenix until the children’s grandmother ponied up $2,000 to get them last-minute tickets on Alaska Airlines. After the news media got hold of the story, Southwest Airlines contacted the family and said it would refund the entire cost of their one-way tickets.

Several things about that story reflect the troubling state of air travel:

--The family said they were warned twice about the disruptive children, but were never told they could get booted from their next flight.

--The police were called because of unruly children?

--These people were flying from Detroit to Seattle via Phoenix. That’s approximately 42,000 miles out of the way. No wonder the kids got antsy.

--The airline offered a refund only after the family was safely back home.

Though it probably was no joy to be sitting near them, my sympathies are with the family. I’ve traveled with small children and it’s no picnic even when the kids are on their best behavior.

In fact, air travel presents one of the few occasions where I concede that it’s much easier to be the parents of teens than of smaller children. At least teens can put on their I-Pods and tune everybody out and be their usual inert, surly selves for the duration of the flight.

With little kids, everything about flying goes against the grain:

--They have to sit still.

--They’re supposed to be quiet.

--Pressurized cabins make their ears hurt, resulting in shrieking.

--They’re surrounded by strangers.

--Their parents act weird because they’re worried about the children disturbing others. Kids sense that discomfort, the same way horses sense fear, and react accordingly.

When I fly these days, I usually jam foam noise-suppressors into my ears so the shrieking kids (and chattering adults) don’t bother me. But I’m still reminded occasionally how much easier it is to travel without the little beggars along.

Recently, I was sitting in an airport across from a dad and his five-year-old son. Dad, sensing that something was wrong, patted the kid’s back, asking him if he felt okay. The boy responded by throwing up. A lot.

Dad suddenly had several problems to solve. His day had taken a difficult turn.

Since I was traveling alone, I performed the Business Traveler’s Special: I offered a sympathetic look, then picked up my briefcase and relocated to a different part of the terminal, pausing only to thank my lucky stars that my kids have grown up.

They call me Mr. Look-at-that

I was born to be a tour guide. Whenever we leave the house, I spend the whole trip pointing out the sights.

Sometimes, it’s informative.

“Look at that,” I’ll say. “Those black rocks originally came from that volcano way over there. Wow, what an explosion, huh?”

Sometimes, it’s sublime.

“Look at that. The way the sunlight plays on the water. Beautiful.”

Other times, it’s ridiculous.

“Look at that. Another chain-saw grizzly bear sculpture!”

And sometimes, sad to say, it’s downright mean.

“Look at the ears on that guy! If he could flap ’em, he could fly.”

It’s not as if other people can’t see these passing sights for themselves. It’s not as if they’re breathlessly waiting for me to show them the next point of interest. In fact, there’s evidence that it gets downright annoying.

“I see it,” my wife says, once she’s had enough. “We can all see it. It’s right there in front of us. We are not blind.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t sure you were looking over there,” I’ll say. “I didn’t want you to miss that particular cloud and -- Hey! Look at THAT!”

Heavy sighs all around.

My look-at-that compulsion may stem from my decades as a journalist. Newspaper folks are professional observers, relating what others don’t have the time or inclination to go see for themselves. When I see something interesting, I feel I must report back, even if the people receiving the reports are standing right next to me.

The compulsion may go even farther back, to the classroom, where I was one of those kids who always had his hand up, eager to share the (possibly) correct answer with my fellow students. They found it annoying, too, which resulted in bathroom-related hazing and the nickname “Swirly Steve.” (OK, I made up that last part.)

I can’t help it that I’m full of trivia. My brain collects factoids the way pants pockets collect lint. Acting as tour guide gives me a chance to inflict that knowledge on others.

My family doesn’t even bother to do any research before a vacation. They know Mr. Look-at-that will study the travel guides and websites so he can make pronouncements about when a particular monument was erected, the differences between bald eagles and ospreys, or why the native rock is that color. They just go along for the ride, relaxing and taking in the scenery while secretly hoping I’ll run out of steam.

I stand ready for any visitors we get this summer. I’ve got some stuff to show them. Whether they want to look at it or not.

Comedy of manners

It says something about the state of our nation when an airline has to tell us how to behave, but apparently that’s what it’s come to.

Delta Air Lines Inc. (corporate motto: “What luggage?”) now offers humorous videos instructing passengers how to act during flights. The animated videos, posted online and on flights, show passengers who behave badly, hogging armrests or bumping into others or letting their children shriek.

“We understand what you go through as a traveler,” Delta vice president of marketing Tim Mapes told The Associated Press. “These videos can reinforce, ‘Hey, you don’t want to be that guy.’”

The 25 videos are called “Planeguage: The Language of Traveling by Plane,” and include titles such as “Lav Dance,” about a passenger who bumps everyone along the aisle while returning from the bathroom, “Shady Lady,” which shows a woman who raises or closes her window shade without regard for others, and “Kidtastrophe,” which depicts unruly brats on a plane.

Experts say such basic instruction is necessary because more people are flying now than ever before, including thousands of first-timers who don’t know you’re not supposed to bring live chickens onto the plane.

Instructing these neophytes is more constructive than the reactions of veteran air travelers such as myself: Sighing and eye-rolling when the old lady in line at security says, “We have to take off our SHOES?” or the cowboy insists that his rodeo buckle always gets through metal detectors “Jes’ fine.”

Delta may be onto something here. Maybe we need humorous videos to teach people good manners in other aspects of life. Some suggestions:

“Dysfunction Junction” -- A video about maintaining proper boundaries while discussing family issues. Yeah, yeah, your childhood was terrible. Get over it.

“Hair Scare” -- In this video, women and young men with long hair are taught to pull it back into a ponytail at mealtimes rather than dip it in their soup.

“Hang Up” -- This humorous video shows a motorist chattering into a cell phone while mowing down pedestrians. Funny stuff.

“Shut Up and Eat Your Popcorn” -- This video could star Robert DeNiro in full “Taxi Driver” mode: “You talkin’ to me? You must be talkin’ to me, ‘cause you wouldn’t talk during the movie, right?”

“Queue” -- An animated video of stick figures standing in line, committing violations such as cutting, dallying or coughing on the necks of the persons in front of them. One stick figure corrects this behavior and enforces good manners -- with an ax. Hilarious.

“After You” -- A video about the proper etiquette of the four-way stop.

“Colonel Mustard in the Library” -- No one wants to find mystery stains or inked marginalia in a library book. Get a clue.

“Cracking Up” -- Keep your mouth closed while chewing gum. If you must crack your knuckles, go off someplace by yourself. And, while you’re at it, pull up your pants.

“Face Forward” -- An interactive video in which you get to twist around the heads of NFL quarterbacks who wear their sidelines caps backward.

“Thumpers” -- Rap music, big speakers, too much bass. Need I say more?

“Just Desserts” -- No one wants to hear about your new diet or how much you’ve lost.

“Spam I Am” -- Explores e-mail etiquette, and how users don’t want to hear from you, even if you really are Nigerian royalty.

“That’s Aroma!” -- If I can smell your perfume/after shave, you’re either wearing too much or standing too close.

Holy Bluetooth, Batman!

At a theater recently, as the lights dimmed and the movie began, I was distracted by a flash of blue light.

Saw it out of the corner of my eye. A blink of bright blue. Hmm.

I focused on the screen. Things were starting to happen there, and I needed to pay attention and, there it went again. Flash of blue.

What the heck? Now, I’m completely distracted. I stare across the dark theater, waiting for the flash. There it is. A guy sitting on the aisle has one of those Bluetooth gizmos screwed into his ear. Every few seconds, its little blue light flashes.

Once I recognized the source, it was all I could see. The movie was forgotten.

FLASH. Son of a gun. How does he not sense that the light’s flashing, right there on the side of his head?

FLASH. What about his wife, on the other side of him? Can’t she see that her husband’s creating a disturbance--

FLASH. What kind of blinking moron goes into a movie, wearing one of those things and--

FLASH. Who needs a phone in a movie anyway? Unless he’s a surgeon, on call for an emergency, he can manage without a phone. And if he is a surgeon expecting an emergency, what’s he doing at the matinee?

FLASH. Grrrr.

As I was weighing whether to just go ahead and kill him, his wife snapped to the problem and gave him a sharp elbow. The guy snatched the thing out of his ear and stuffed it in his shirt pocket, thereby forcing me to spare his life. I can only hope he missed a really important call.

Am I the only one who’s sick of self-important gearheads walking around with gizmos in their ears as if they’re characters in “Star Trek: The Cellular Generation?” Isn’t it bad enough that they treat the rest of us to their loud, inane conversations? Now they have to FLASH, too?

Hands-free phoning is a good idea if you’re driving (though NOT talking on the phone while you’re driving is an even better idea), but it’s inappropriate in most other places.

I saw a young guy with a phone device in his ear at an outdoor concert. The music was so loud, you couldn’t hear yourself think, much less carry on a telephone conversation. Plus, wasn’t hearing the music the whole point of being there? If he wanted to talk on the phone, he could’ve stayed in his car, driving badly, like everyone else.

I suppose it’s some kind of status symbol to be plugged in at all times. It makes the statement: I’m really important and must be in constant contact with my office because I have big international deals brewing and/or transplant surgery to perform.

But that’s not the message I receive. I see a guy with electronic doodads in his ears and more gear on his belt than Batman, and I think: Here’s a nerd who’s addicted to all the latest toys. Someone who’s so insecure, he has to show off his toys to everyone he meets.

The really cool/rich/important people don’t go around with phones hanging off them like leashes. They have assistants who handle their communications. They have big deals brewing, sure, but on their terms and on their timelines. You don’t call them; they call you.

They recognize that blue flashes are not a fashion statement unless you’re a police car.

For sure, they’re not wasting their afternoons in matinees like some of us.

Flash on that.

Doing the floorboard stomp

Parenting holds many thrills, chills and worries, but none as spectacularly terrifying as teaching a teen-ager to drive.

Our older son is driving now, and it's a regular carnival ride every time we take the minivan out of the garage. Abrupt starts and stops and sweeping turns, breath-taking braking and heart-pounding near-misses, and concrete curbs that seem to leap right out in front of us. And that's all before we leave our cul-de-sac.

I'm kidding. He's doing fine. My anxiety has nothing to do with reality. It's a pre-existing condition. I've always been a nervous passenger. Other drivers don't go quickly enough, they don't stop soon enough, and I'm pretty sure they're not paying enough attention. If I'm riding in your car, you'd better pray that the floorboards are solid, because I will be stomping that invisible brake. I can't help myself.

When in a moving vehicle, I prefer to be at the helm. Even on public transportation in unfamiliar cities, I'm always a little itchy about the driver. The airlines are lucky I don't know how to fly.

Giving the steering wheel to another driver causes me the same anxiety as handing over the TV remote control. Only worse, because misuse of the remote control isn't likely to result in death by fiery crash.

For all these reasons, I wasn't the one who taught our son to drive. I half-heartedly volunteered, but that made the rest of the family laugh until beverages spurted out their noses.

My wife taught him. She's patient and considerate and level-headed and calm, all the things I'm not. She's the one who took our son to parking lots and endured the gear-grinding and the whiplash accelerations and the shrieking stops. I stayed at home, watching sports on TV and chewing my fingernails down to the knuckles.

Our son also went through driver's ed in school and attended a six-hour driving course taught by a professional with nerves of steel.

By the time the boy and I started driving together, he already had his learner's permit and many hours of experience.

And he still scares the bejeebers out of me. I ride in the passenger seat, fingers dug into the upholstery, feet dancing, a frozen smile on my face, while we miss other cars by inches or drift too close to the shoulder or stop, stop, I said stop, right now. Whew.

I try not to distract him with too much coaching, try not to criticize unnecessarily, try not to imagine what it will be like to plunge across the median into that oncoming semi.

Just a few constructive comments, I tell myself. Only when absolutely needed. Only when it will help. After all, we're preparing him for the big driving test, the one where he'll get his full license and be allowed to drive all by himself.

I try to picture him driving without me in the car. He'll probably be better off.

(Editor's note: This column ran a few years ago. Our older son now zooms around town in his own car, and our younger son has his learner's permit and is practicing for his final test. My wife tells me he's doing well.)

Every day is Boos-day

Why do some people make such a big frightening deal over Halloween? If you're the parent of small children, Halloween is no scarier than any other day of the year.

Trick-or-treaters are nothing compared to the everyday terror of a kid with a dripping chocolate ice cream cone rolling around on new carpet. At least trick-or-treaters stay outside on the porch, where they belong. Your own kids can run the gamut of the house, scaring the bejeebers out of you at every turn.

Okay, it's a little disturbing when you answer the door and there's a toddler out there, red lipstick all over his face, proclaiming, "I am SATAN!" But it's really no different from your own kids tearing around the house with grape jelly on their faces, screaming, "Noooo! You can't MAKE me!" And that happens on a daily basis.

Let's look at some Halloween traditions and see how they stack up against everyday life:

--Costumes. Kids love playing "dress-up," and they don't save it strictly for Halloween. Little goblins and demons are nowhere near as frightening as the sight of your four-year-old playing in the dirt in Mommy's $300 evening gown.

--Jack O' Lanterns. Halloween gives social sanction to playing with fire, as long as the child does it inside the safe confines of a damp pumpkin. Such safety rules don't apply the rest of the year.

--Demands for candy. Halloween is the only time of year when absolute strangers can ring your doorbell and demand sweet treats. Any other time, you'd call the cops. But your own kids demand candy year-round. They're addicted to sugar. And they think nothing of waking you at 3 a.m. to ask whether there are any more Whoppers in the house.

--Bobbing for apples. Sure, it's a fun activity at Halloween parties, as long as no one actually drowns. But, the rest of the year, you're lucky if apples are the worst thing you find bobbing in the bathtub.

--Haunted houses. How can parents be frightened by fake spider webs and strobe lights and bloody, screaming monsters? At home, they have actual cobwebs and children flicking the lights off and on all day and screaming over "owies" real and imagined. For parents, a haunted house seems like just another day at home.

--Tricks. Part of the fun of Halloween is the "trick" portion of the trick-or-treat equation. Is it coincidence that my local supermarket was running specials on eggs and toilet paper the week before Halloween? Parents know that kids love to pull pranks all year round. What other explanation could there be for hiding rotten apple cores under beds or painting the dog or the premeditated booby-trapping of toilets? "Harmless" pranks? I don't think so.

--Scaring others. "Boo" is not a Halloween-only phenomenon. Kids take great delight in startling their parents with well-planned surprise attacks. My own sons loved to hide around corners and jump out and shriek "Boo!" They enjoyed watching Dad put dents in the ceiling with his head.

So bring on your witches and werewolves, your pirates and zombies and Frankenstein monsters. They won't scare me a bit. We expect such things at Halloween.

But let a kid show up at my door costumed as your average five-year-old -- filthy T-shirt and scabby knees, wild-eyed from a sugar high, grape jelly all over his face, torturing the family cat -- and I'll hand over all the candy in the house before I quickly slam the door and lock it.

Some things are simply too scary.

Full frontal

If teen-agers live in your house, then at times you probably find yourself thinking: How can any human with a functioning brain act that way?

For example, you might catch your teen-ager teetering on the roof or "surfing" on the hood of a speeding car or "chugging" soda pop until it spurts out his nose.

If you are of the parental persuasion, you will not be able to help yourself. You will ask, "What the heck do you think you're doing?"

And the answer will be, "I dunno."

That answer, no matter how unsatisfactory, is the truth. Teens truly don't know why they do the things they do. Because they don't have fully functioning brains.

Researchers using magnetic resonance imaging have found that the human brain isn't fully developed until the person reaches his or her early 20s. (If then.) Teens engage in risky behavior and emotional upheaval and impulsive soda-chugging because their brains don't warn them of the potential consequences.

"We found that the frontal lobes were the last to develop," UCLA brain researcher Paul Thompson said in a recent news article. "These brain regions control inhibition, rash actions, rage and anger."

(So not only will your teens do incredibly stupid things, they'll get really mad when you point that out. It's the perfect combination, really, to drive a parent insane.)

While they're waiting for their minds to mature, teens use a primitive part of the brain called the amygdala, researchers said. The amygdala -- from the Latin "amyg," meaning "wild apes" and "dala," or "under your roof" -- controls aggressive behavior and the well-known "fight or flight" response in teens and other beasts.

These new discoveries explain many of the puzzles of modern society, such as the popularity of skateboards and "monster" trucks.

The lack of inhibition in the primitive teen brain accounts for such look-at-me phenomena as "streaking," tattoos, mall loitering, nose rings and thundering auto exhaust systems. Impulse control problems include binge drinking, temper tantrums, text messaging and watching "That '70s Show" on TV. Underdeveloped frontal lobes might even explain why young males insist on wearing their baseball caps backward; it might truly be more comfortable for them that way.

Parents can make use of this new research. When our teens start acting crazy, we can remind ourselves that they can't help it; they're not playing with a full deck. We can stop asking them for explanations of their bizarre behavior. When they wheedle and whine, demanding that we let them stay out late or arguing for more freedom, we can say: "Hey, you're not ready yet. We'll talk about it when you've got a full set of frontal lobes."

The researchers haven't gone far enough. The next area to explore: Where do teens' fresh frontal lobes come from?

I have a theory: Teens are brain-sucking vampires, feeding on the gray matter of their parents. During adolescence, the kids slowly get smarter and more responsible, but we parents get more stressed-out, disconnected and stupid. Worrying over our teen-agers, we literally "lose our minds."

If I'm right about this shift in brain power, then it would explain the "mid-life crisis," when adults (especially males) start acting like irresponsible teens -- driving fast cars, acquiring younger spouses, taking up "extreme" sports and wearing their caps backward on their bald heads.

Often, when we see some so-called adult acting this way, we think, "It's as if he got a lobotomy."
Now we know why. His teens have stolen his brain. And they won't give it back until Geritol spurts out his nose.

Parenting tips for dads

Dads of America, repeat after me: "Go ask your mother."

This useful phrase should be practiced until it becomes your standard reply to every question. When a child comes seeking permission or wanting something, send him right out the door again by saying, "Go ask your mother." Then go back to watching the football game on TV.

Kids' demands never stop. If you work up a decision every time, you will wear out the neurons in your brain and end up one of those gibbering old men with gravy on his cardigan.

Worse yet, most of the decisions you make will be, um, wrong. You might think, as the Man of the House, that your word goes, and each decision is final and blah, blah, blah. But you're wrong about that, too. Because here's what happens: If the child doesn't like your answer, s/he will appeal the decision to a higher court -- Mom -- and you will be overruled.

Sure, Mom may consult with you first, might even have a long discussion on the merits of both sides of the argument. By the time you lose that debate, the game will be over and -- pop! -- there goes another neuron. It's easier to send the kid to Mom in the first place.

At our house, my wife and I are known as the "Yes-No Parents." One of our sons will make some request -- to stay out late, to hang out with friends at the mall, to buy a genuine samurai sword -- and my wife and I will answer simultaneously. I'll automatically say, "no." She'll say, "yes." We'll share a long look, our eyes calculating the algebra of the disagreement. Then I'll say, "Whoops. I meant 'yes.'"

(To tell the truth, we both said "no" to the samurai sword. Shouted it, in fact. But that's another story.)

Why do I give in so easily? Because I know I'll lose on appeal. Because the result doesn't matter that much to me anyway. Because somebody's standing in front of the TV and I'm missing the replay.

Mostly, though, it's because I'm busy bracing for the next request. "Yes" is never good enough. If we say "yes" to loitering at the mall, the next question is, "When do I have to be home?" And that starts a whole 'nother round of talks.

Parenting experts tell us we shouldn't negotiate with our children, that we should give a firm answer and stick to it, but we all know that's so much claptrap. Life with kids (especially teens) is one long haggle.

That's why I've added a new tactic to my arsenal. Now, along with "go ask your mother," I use what I call "reverse negotiation." When a child tries to bargain with me, I go backward.

Say my son bids for a 11 p.m. bedtime. I come back with 10 p.m. If he then does the natural compromise and tries for 10:30, I say 9:30. If the baffled kid argues, I say, "Make it 9 p.m." If he's slow to catch on, we can negotiate a settlement that results in him going to bed before kickoff.

Here's another example:

Son: "Can Nick stay for dinner?"
Dad: "Yes."
Son: "Can he spend the night?"
Dad: "No. And now he can't stay for dinner, either."
Son: "Aww. But--"
Dad: "Keep talking. Nick can go home immediately."

Son slinks from room to play with Nick. Dad returns to football viewing. All is right with the world.

Until dinnertime. When Mom announces that Nick is spending the night.

Gab bag

Got fear? Odds are, if someone wants you to make a little speech, you're feeling anxious and afraid.

Fear of public speaking is the most common social phobia, experts say, affecting 75 percent of the population. More people fear public speaking than fear spiders, snakes, scorpions, toddlers, you name it. Some people are so afraid of speaking in public that they get actual physical symptoms, such as nausea, stuttering or trouser dampness.

There's a name for this fear: Glossophobia. You'd think fear of public speaking would be Podiaphobia or something melodic like that, but no, it's glossophobia, from the Greek "glosso," meaning tongue, and "phobia," meaning fear. Fear of tongue! Those wacky, fun-loving Greeks!

I give a lot of speeches in my job. Fortunately, I'm one of the lucky 25 percent of Americans who do not fear speaking in public. I'm afraid of everything else, but not public speaking. In fact, I'm so comfortable at a podium that I've been diagnosed with Hypo-Anxiety Modality, or HAM, which means that, once I start talking, the only way to shut me up is to send everyone home and turn off the lights.

But I recognize that not everyone is lucky enough to be a HAM. Nervous public speakers find that any kind of talk, from a short presentation at work to a commencement address to an extended eulogy, can be cause for alarm. For you glossophobics out there, we offer the following tips:

DO be prepared. Write out your speech ahead of time rather than trying to "wing it." Last time we looked, you had no wings. A little rehearsal never killed anybody.

DON'T read directly from the written speech the whole time. Look up occasionally. Try to act as if you're talking to a friend rather than droning on from some printed document.

DO speak slowly and clearly. You are not an auctioneer.

DON'T speak so slowly that you hypnotize the audience.

DO make gestures for emphasis and to keep the crowd's attention, but keep the gestures subtle and gentle. Jerky, broad movements make people think of Hitler.

DON'T wink and give a "thumbs up." Former President Clinton ruined that one for everybody.

DO pause for effect. Also, if you're lucky enough to get applause or laughter, give it time to run its course. Don't talk all over applause; it makes the audience unwilling to offer any more.

DON'T pause in expectation of applause. The audience will let you know when. If you look around for someone to start clapping and no one does, you will embarrass yourself and others, and you might actually melt into the floor.

DO find a friendly face in the audience. Tell yourself you're talking to that one person, not a multitude.

DON'T, however, stare at that person the whole time. Staring gives people the creeps, and may cause the recipient to run screaming from the room.

DON'T picture the audience members in their underwear. This feat of imagination is often recommended to anxious speakers as a way to help them relax, a reminder that the audience members put their boxers on one leg at a time, too. But this doesn't work unless the audience is extremely attractive. In most cases, picturing the audience in its underwear will produce giggling or mild nausea.

The main thing to remember is that, in most cases, the audience is on your side. They want you to succeed in your presentation. They want to be entertained and informed. They're there because they're interested in what you have to say.

So relax. Probably very few, if any, audience members are picturing you in your underwear. Really.

Browbeating the blabbermouths

In everyday conversation, it's remarkable how many people can't tell the difference between "rapt" and "trapped."

They'll yammer on and on, believing they have our undivided attention, when in fact we are secretly practicing the skill known as "yawning with our mouths closed."

It's not just that these people are boring. They're so self-absorbed that they think they're fascinating, or their topic so enraptures them that they assume it must be equally interesting to the world at large. They feel justified in "sharing" with the rest of us, so we won't be deprived of this information/opinion/enlightenment.

We've all been trapped in such conversations. In the workplace, a co-worker (or, worse, a boss) corners you in a corridor and forces you to listen to gory descriptions of his recent surgery. Or, a client spends an entire business lunch reliving the detailed itinerary of an exotic vacation you yourself could never afford. Or, you're seated at a dinner party next to a blowhard so breathtakingly boring that you want to spit in his plate.

Fortunately, you needn't suffer in silence any longer. You can use special communication techniques to derail runaway yakkers. Try the following:

Direct confrontation. If a co-worker insists on telling you the plot of last night's TV sitcom, say, "I thought only idiots watched that show."

Distraction. Sometimes, all you need is to divert the person's attention. For example, if a colleague won't shut up, try interrupting with, "You've got a smudge on your face." When he wipes his cheek and keeps talking, say, "No, on the other side." When he wipes his hand on that side, say, "Oh, no, you made it worse." Soon, he'll stop chattering and go find a mirror.

Appeal to the senses. You can create a diversion by saying, "Is it cold in here?" Or, "What's that smell?" Or, "Look! A bear!"

Physical cues. Roll your eyes. Clear your throat repeatedly. Look at your wristwatch. If none of those cues work, then get physical with the talker. Give him a little "goose" in the ribs with your finger. Seven or eight times. Or, a friendly slap on the shoulder. Harder each time, until he goes away. Actual strangling is considered bad manners.

Disagree endlessly. When a colleague wants to complain about working conditions, say, "I like it that way." Every time.

Agree endlessly. Some people just love to argue. If you agree with everything they say, you take the legs right out from under them. If your agreement causes problems later, you can always deny it.

Verbal judo. Use the yakker's own momentum to throw them off-balance. Some examples:
If a colleague insists on telling you about last night's dream, pretend to listen, then, no matter how outlandish the description, say, "I had a dream just like that."

If the person keeps talking about illness/poor health/surgery, take it farther by "topping" them. Tell them their malady is "nothing compared to dengue fever." Offer to compare scars. Try, "Want to see my boil?" Soon, even the sickest gabber will find the strength to scurry away.

If a genealogy nut tries to tell you about past generations in her family, pretend to consider the names, then say, "I thought my ancestors killed all your ancestors. Guess we missed some."

If a co-worker complains about his ex-wife, say, "I know just what you mean. She's been the same way, ever since we started dating."

Using these techniques can rescue you from many excruciating conversations, and in most cases can actually lengthen your life.

Remember, though: If you find people using such techniques on you, then it's time to shut up. Before they start goosing you.

Ducking the stress

We all know stress can be a killer, but too little research focuses on the minor stresses of everyday life.

Yes, life catastrophes are stressful and our sympathies go out to anyone facing serious medical problems or divorce or any of the other "biggies" in the world of stress. But scientists give all their attention to the health effects of these major stressors, while ignoring the seemingly minor irritations that accumulate like hairline cracks in a dam.

Car trouble or parenthood or even burnt toast first thing in the morning can set your whole day on its ear, and can produce enough stress to shave years off your life.

This insidious everyday stress builds to a cumulative effect that researchers call "being nibbled to death by ducks."

Allow me to illustrate from a typical evening hour at our house. The tranquil domestic scene: Dad's watching a basketball game on TV. Mom's busy at the computer. Two sons and the dog play the roles of the ducks.

Dad's schedule goes like this:

7 p.m. -- Stop watching game to let dog out. Return to sofa.

7:03 p.m. -- Jump up and answer phone. It's for son No. 1.

7:06 p.m. -- Let the dog back in.

7:09 p.m. -- Jump up to check out funny noise being produced by toilet.

7:12 p.m. -- Return to sofa with no solution to toilet issue.

7:14 p.m. -- Get up to answer other phone. It's for son No. 2. Dad searches house, finds son No. 2 jumping on bed. Stern lecture must wait; son is wanted on the phone.

7:18 p.m. -- Dog brings son's dirty sock to Dad, who extricates sock from alligator-like jaws and marches to laundry room.

7:19 p.m. -- Dad tosses sock at the laundry basket. His aim isn't what it used to be. Sock bounces off rim and falls into tight space behind the clothes dryer. Dad curses.

7:19 p.m. to 7:25 p.m. -- Dad fishes behind dryer with the handle of a fly swatter, trying to snag stray sock.

7:26 p.m. to 7:30 p.m. -- Dad searches house for a particular toy -- a long handle with a grabber claw on one end -- because it's the perfect tool for sock retrieval. Sons can't be bothered to help in hunt. They're both on the phone.

7:35 p.m. -- Dad finds grabber toy, lying in plain sight. Returns to laundry room, muttering about vision and old age.

7:37 p.m. -- Dusty sock is successfully retrieved. (Victory should be a stress reliever, but …)

7:38 p.m. -- Dad throws sock at laundry basket. Sock, apparently intent on suicide, plunges
behind the dryer again.

7:39 pm. to 7:42 p.m. -- Creative cursing.

7:43 p.m. -- Repeat earlier steps to save sock. Dad carefully places it in laundry basket.

7:46 p.m. -- Dad returns to game. Finds that it's halftime. Grrr.

7:48 p.m. -- Jump up to answer phone. It's for son No. 1 again.

7:49 p.m. -- Let dog out.

7:50 p.m. -- Check toilet. Still making funny noise. More cursing.

7:53 p.m. -- Let dog in.

7:56 p.m. -- Jump up to answer phone. It's for son No. 2. Dad carries phone the length of the house to find boys feeding socks to the dog.

7:57 p.m. -- Dad clutches chest and reels around room. Sons, in unison, quack: "Look out! He's gonna blow!"

7:59 p.m. -- Mom, drawn by noise, interrupts Dad's tirade to say: "What's wrong with you? I thought you were watching the game."

8 p.m. -- Dad melts into trembling pile of protoplasm. Rest of family confused. Why is Dad so stressed?

And why does he keep raving about ducks?

Mellow out, dog

For those of us who work alone, our pets serve as our co-workers, our confidants, our sounding boards. But it's a relationship that's often rife with misunderstanding and envy.

Spend much time around a dog, for example, and you might start coveting his lifestyle of ease and simple pleasures. Or, at least, his round-the-clock nap schedule.

But how do our pets see us? When I'm in my home office, with my dog Elvis lazing nearby, is he watching me work? Trying to understand what I'm doing sitting still all day, trapped indoors when it's beautiful outside?

What do our pets think when they see us yakking on the phone for hours? Doesn't a telephone receiver look a lot like a chew toy? Does your pet think you're intently talking to your toy all day? Is he waiting for you to set down the phone so he can take a turn chewing on it?

The psychology of home-office pets has been much on my mind lately because I've enjoyed more "quality time" than usual with Elvis. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I drove halfway across the country with Elvis in the back seat. If you haven't spent three days on the road with a 70-pound dog with halitosis, then, friends, you simply haven't lived.

There was much concern at our house in the days leading up to the trip. Elvis, we realized, almost never travels by car. He only takes a ride when he's going to the groomer or the veterinarian. Fortunately, dogs have short memories. Elvis always is happy to get in the car, even though he hates the usual destinations.

But now we were talking about him spending three days in the car, traveling through unfamiliar territory with its strange sights and foreign smells. How would he react? Would he think we were on our way to the vet? And, as the hours roll past, would he start worrying that such a long vet trip was a signal that he was seriously ill? If it's a ten-minute drive to get a rabies shot, then three days on the road must mean surgery at least, right? The last time he had surgery was when he was neutered. And that's enough to worry anybody.

To prepare Elvis for the trip, I took him on a few short rides around town. More importantly, I consulted with our vet, who had the perfect solution: Drug the dog.

Seems there are doggie sedatives that make car trips one long snooze for a pooch. Give three little pills to Elvis, the vet said, and he'd sleep all day, so groggy he could barely get out of the car at rest stops.

It didn't exactly work that way. Elvis, it turns out, can handle his drugs like an old hippie. The pills made him very relaxed, but not too sleepy. He spent the trip with his head resting in the back window, watching the landscape whiz past. An extremely mellow dog and an absolute pleasure to travel with, if you discount the halitosis problem.

By the end of the trip, I envied Elvis like never before. After three days, I was a jangled, road-weary human with aching muscles, a bad attitude and no appetite. Elvis, on the other hand, was a well-rested, happy dog, though he did seem to suffer from the "munchies."

The sedatives had one negative side effect: Elvis really liked them. Now, he wants to ride in the car all the damned time. Every time he hears the garage door roll up, he starts jonesing for doggie dope. Dude, let's go for a ride.

I drove him to the groomer the other day, and he seemed truly disappointed when our drug-free journey ended after only five minutes. Then he got a bath and a haircut without the benefit of sedatives. Bummer.

We'll get through this rehab period. Elvis eventually will forget those three glorious days of purple haze. And I'll find some way to make him that happy again.

Maybe I'll let him chew up the phone.

All the rage

Spring is in the air, and a young man's thoughts turn to rage.

With the arrival of warm weather, cities are plagued by a blossoming of orange barrels and blinking sawhorses as all streets are demolished and rebuilt. Everywhere you turn, signs say, "Seek Alternate Route" until you end up back where you started. Motorists spend all day sitting in hot vehicles stalled in traffic, becoming edgier and more aggressive until words or fender paint are exchanged. Some short-fuse guy starts screaming and swinging or, worse, shooting a gun.

Suddenly, detours are the least of the problem.

Road rage has gotten a lot of media attention in the past few years, and airline rage is becoming more common all the time. But many other forms of rage exist in our hectic world. These rage phenomena have been overlooked by the press and the government, but they represent a ticking bomb that could detonate any second into senseless violence and random bad vibes.

Rage can happen anywhere, anytime, but you can protect yourself by becoming familiar with the symptoms of impending furor and by avoiding places where rage likely will erupt. Post offices, for instance.

Here, then, are some types of rage to watch out for:

--Home Improvement Store Rage: A man who's making his fourth trip of the day to a hardware store is only one metric-sized nut away from true rage. These guys roam the warehouse aisles, holding a broken part, grumbling to themselves while desperately searching for the correct replacement. And nothing fits. They can't remember what the other thing was they were supposed to buy. And they have to keep dodging those beeping forklifts. Next thing you know, our aspiring Bob Vila has become Attila the Hun.

This form of rage is particularly dangerous because there are so many blunt instruments and lethal gizmos at hardware superstores. Think nail guns.

--Package Rage: This form usually occurs within the home and, fortunately, causes only brief outbursts. It's triggered when a person tries to open a box of cereal or other packaged good and finds the words "Open Other End." For the thousandth time.

--Jogger's Rage: Rarely makes the news because joggers usually are armed with nothing more dangerous than underwear and $200 sneakers. But, trust me, they're really angry. Joggers often are set off by more sensible people who are driving cars in air-conditioned comfort. Various road hazards also cause this rage. See: "Curb Your Dog Rage."

--Personal Computer Rage: There's a reason it's called a computer "crash."

--Gardening Rage: Often triggered by defenseless animals such as gophers and rabbits, this rage can be particularly dangerous to the gardener himself and to anyone sipping beer nearby, particularly if said gardener happens to be holding a rake at the time.

--Plumbing Rage: From the slow torture of drip, drip, drip to the barked knuckles to the eventual flood damage, plumbing is rife with potential rage. Every fitting has to be tight enough that not a molecule of water can escape. But not too tight or it won't work. This form of rage often manifests itself in anti-social behavior such as cursing and "plumber's cleavage."

--Lawn Sprinkler Rage: See "Plumbing Rage."

--Rave Rage: Most prevalent in fathers whose daughters stay out dancing until 4 a.m. Highly explosive.

--Phone Rage: A particularly virulent form of rage with a variety of triggers: telemarketers, poor reception, midnight wrong-number calls from mysterious guys named Guido. Cellular phones have introduced a whole new format -- phone rage mixed with the ever-popular road rage. Call for our new safety brochure: "Hang up and Drive, You Idiot."

--Age Rage: The feeling, every time you look in the mirror, that you want to spit. Sometimes results in bizarre behavior such as radical plastic surgery and the purchase of sports cars.

--Rage Against the Darkness and the Light: For people who are angry all the time.

Now that you're more informed about rage, take the proper steps to shield yourself from it. Forewarned is forearmed. Get forewarned enough, you'll have arms like Popeye.

Just kidding. I didn't mean you look like Popeye. Did not. Aw, come on. Gee, you don't have to get mad about it. Hey, put down that rake . . .

Utility player

Before you call to inquire: Yes, my refrigerator is running.

So is my deep-freeze and my dishwasher and the washer-and-dryer. The furnace roars. The computer fan whirs. Somewhere, a toilet is mysteriously running. That infernal fluorescent light in the kitchen is buzzing again. And I can't get any work done.

With the kids safely imprisoned in school, the home office should be quiet as a tomb. But no, the child-free home turns out to be a lively place, a regular disco full of sounds and smells and lights left on in empty rooms.

I carefully schedule my home-office time to coincide with the hours when my two sons are safely in school. I need absolute quiet when I'm working, and there's no chance of that happening if my children are anywhere within three city blocks of my desk.

In the sudden silence, background noise steps boldly to the foreground.

An example: Various heaters in our house are going around the clock, preserving that greenhouse effect that keeps my wife's plants thriving and the rest of us in "tropical wear." The constant growl of the burners becomes like static over a phone line. We talk over it. We turn up the TV a notch. Pretty soon, we don't even notice the heaters.

But when I sit at my desk and try to wrap myself in silent concentration, the heaters boom like endless thunder. I notice one is making a ticking noise, and I start to worry. I jump up and go examine the heater for any sign of flame or smoke or other malfunction. (It's a given that I know absolutely nothing about how heaters work, but I'm compelled to go check.)

This is how I spend my work-day -- playing "What's That Noise?" Jumping up and running around the house, then returning to my desk with no idea what I was doing originally.

Partly, this is because we've made so many plumbing/furnace/flood repairs to our old house over the years. I always expect the worst when the place makes an unfamiliar creak. Partly, it's because I'm so focused on the quiet, that every noise-- no matter how inobtrusive -- feels like a jolt to my brain.

We recently added to the household din by purchasing a half-size deep-freeze, mostly to store the annual harvest of roasted green chile.

(I'd love to tell you how my wife saved the delivery fee by driving the new freezer home herself -- the huge box jutting from the back seat of her top-down convertible -- but there isn't room here, and you wouldn't believe it anyway.)

The deep-freeze runs just as quiet as any other modern major appliance, which is to say just loud enough to penetrate your subconscious, even when you're at the far end of the house.

My problem: The new freezer has a nervous, high-pitched motor, which sounds like water singing in the pipes. Since it's parked near a bathroom, I trek to that end of the house, oh, 37 times a day to see if someone left the water running or if that long-balky toilet has finally run amok. What I find is the freezer, whining along, doing its job.

The freezer shares a room with the washer and dryer. Our regular refrigerator is right around the corner. When they all get going at once, it's a regular symphony of hissing water and tumbling jeans and humming compressors and the ka-chunk of the icemaker. Listen closely, and you can practically hear the electricity being sucked from the grid by those huddled appliances, a portent of whopping electric bills to come. And that, folks, is why they call it the "utility room."

The music of the appliances eventually starts sounding like the ringing of a cash register at the power company. All that money constantly flowing out of the house, so the house in turn can make enough noise to drive me crazy.

The sounds should be an impetus for me to get busy and make some new money. And I will, just as soon as I can get some quiet around here.

Hope for the best, prepare for the emergency room

Calm parents have no imagination.

You know the ones: Parents who trust in the flexibility of young bones and the abilities of emergency room trauma teams. They maintain saint-like repose while their children swing from clotheslines or plunge into the deep end, secure in the belief everything will be all right.

I’m not one of them. I’m a high-strung, overprotective father with a vivid imagination, and sometimes it ruins the whole experience.

My sons climb high in the mulberry tree, swinging like howler monkeys, and I don’t see two boys enjoying themselves. I see broken bones and itchy casts and plastic newspaper wrappers at bath time.

They do their balance-beam number on the wall that rings the back yard, and I envision the precise trajectory that will result in a shattered elbow. They hang by their knees from the swing set, and I imagine their golden heads splitting on impact.

I spend all day bellowing, like a demented opera singer: "Get down from there!" "Be careful!" "Watch out!"

They get the inevitable scrapes and bruises and goose eggs. No broken bones or hospital stays yet (knock wood), but I don’t find any reassurance in that. It only enforces my inner fear that our time is coming.

How did I get to be such a Nervous Nelson? Memories of my childhood center around mad dashes to Dr. Irvin’s office for stitches and blood-pressure cuffs and tetanus shots. When my parents regale my wife with tales from my daredevil boyhood, they almost always end with a bandage count.

I rocketed my bicycle through a barbed-wire fence and did a spectacular end-over-end dismount. I snapped a leg when a rope swing let me down hard. I did a belly flop off a rocky lakeshore into water that was two inches deep.

My poor brother broke all his bones before puberty. He was always falling out of trees or stumbling over roots or plowing headlong into gravel. I got blamed every time.

I fondly remember my mother standing at the kitchen window, screeching, "Get down from there! Watch out!" Just like I do now.

Once my mom watched warily as we leaped off a high bank into the local swimming hole, moving her to shout: "If you kill yourselves doing that, don’t come crying to me!"

My wife, naturally, is cool as they come. Don’t people often pair up that way? Isn’t it a good thing? Someone has to keep her head when an emergency arises. Me, I go running to help and fall down the steps. Then two of us are writhing on the ground.

Other times, I leap into action and do the wrong thing.

Our boys used a seven-foot-long fallen elm limb as their access to the wondrous branches of the mulberry tree. They’d prop the limb in the lowest fork at an angle, then go up it like squirrels. I spent way too much time listening for a sudden scream.

The fourth time one plunged off the limb and howled, I marched out, checked him for major injury and decided he’d live. Then I snatched up the limb and broke it over the back fence and tossed the two rotten pieces onto the woodpile. This made the victim scream louder.

I felt like a heel.

The boys recovered. They found a rope ladder that lets them climb into the mulberry tree, and forgot all about the old branch.

As for me, I’m trying to learn to be patient and calm, trying not to break stuff or whine.

Sometimes now, I follow my familiar warning shriek with a hollow laugh. The boys think maybe I’m just joking, but they stop teetering on the picnic table anyway.

The other day, they were outside on the swing set, its ropes squawking like a pterodactyls. The boys shouted and laughed and occasionally landed with an "Oof!"

The 8-year-old yelled: "Dad, come see! Seth’s learned to jump out of his swing!"

"No, thanks," I said. "It makes me nervous."

He ran away, giggling. He thought I was joking.