The Day I Nearly Ruined and Then Saved Christmas

Christmas is almost here, and once again, I am visited by the ghost of Christmas past.  This year, he’s taken me to the year 2005, when I had just 2 kids and things were… well… a bit quieter around our suburban Phoenix home.  Isaac was 5 and Emily was 3, and while my eldest was dead-set on getting some sort of video game from Santa, Emily asked for a shiny new bicycle.

As these things are prone to happen, Mrs. Claus headed off to the store in search of the children’s prizes without a plan in place to ensure their arrival at our home having been pre-assembled.  Furthermore, Mrs. Claus didn’t tell Santa that it was his job to complete the assembly until the day before his anticipated arrival.  And while nobody truly knows the exact day of Santa’s birth, around our home, it’s common knowledge that the day before Christmas (also known as Benmas) is the birthday of Mr. Dismukes, who had been conscripted to fulfill the duties of the true Mr. Claus.  I had no desire to build anything on my birthday, let alone a bicycle.  So I spent the better part of my morning lamenting the fact that a completely unassembled bicycle awaited me in our garage.  But, as always, one look into the bright blue eyes of my then youngest daughter caused every reservation I had about the daunting task that lay before me to crumble like a stale biscuit.  After all, what kind of Santa would I be if let down this precious little girl.  So I made my way out to the garage and began the monumental task.

As I entered my workshop, I informed Mrs. Claus to keep the kids occupied lest they be tempted to meddle and discover the true identity of their favorite superhero.  I cursed under my breath as I tore open the box that held the millions of microscopic particles that, once fully assembled, would comprise my daughter’s soon-to-be favorite new bicycle.  I dumped everything onto the ground in search of something resembling an instruction manual and found only a single sheet of paper with some Chinese characters in the top margin, followed by a cartoon of a bicycle magically assembling itself.  I rolled my eyes and cursed some more as I started piecing together the bike, frame by frame of the menacing Chinese cartoon.

It’s common knowledge in our family that I am not the most handy person around.  It’s also widely accepted that certain projects, such as installing ceiling fans, putting up sunscreens, hanging crown molding and (thanks to this specific incident) assembling bicycles, are likely to present me with enough frustration to push me beyond my limitations and are likely to be accompanied by loud grumblings and intermittent profanity.  So Mrs. Claus decided to steer clear of the garage on this fine Christmas Eve.  

After several rounds of banging and yelling hailing from Santa’s workshop, Mrs. Claus decided to send one of the elves into the garage to inquire as to what kind of sandwich Santa wanted for lunch, instead of coming herself.  It’s not exactly clear to me now why Mrs. Claus didn’t think through the ramifications of sending an elf into Santa’s workshop where it would be discovered by that same elf that Santa wasn’t actually the one building her present, but this Mr. Claus has never truly been able to understand his Mrs.  Nevertheless, at some point during the construction of the bike, I looked up to see a pair of loving blue eyes, though slightly bewildered, looking at me, followed by a precious little voice that asked, “Daddy, Mommy wants to know if you want ham or turkey.”

Now before you go wringing your hands and assuming that Christmas was ruined for a 3 year old girl, you should consider a couple of things, as I did in the wake of that horrible moment.  First of all, while our eyes could clearly see each other as she stood in the doorway and I sat on the opposite corner of the garage, there were several piles of boxes and assorted junk between us.  So it was entirely possible, as I reasoned in that moment, that she never actually saw what I was building.  Furthermore, this story is about Emily – my most preoccupied child.  Emily has always lived in her own little world.  She’s now 9 and comically refers to her own land of make believe as “Lou-Lou Land” (named after her middle name, Louella), a place she’s frequented since she emerged from the womb.  She has the potential to walk right by an elephant in an otherwise empty room and miss it if her mind is on something else.  So I further reasoned that she was so pre-occupied by turkey or ham that she never thought twice about what I was building beneath the pile of boxes and assorted junk.

I went in to eat lunch.  I glared at Mrs. Claus and sarcastically thanked her for sending Emily, of all people, into the garage to inquire about my lunch order.  She gasped and covered her mouth as the realization of what she had just done smacked her upside the head.  But Emily said nothing or gave any indication that anything was out of the ordinary.

After lunch I finished the bike, and soon it was time to begin the Benmas festivities.  We opened presents, we had cake, but Emily said nothing.  We went out to eat that night at Mr. Claus’s favorite restaurant – Carrabba’s – and still, Emily said nothing.  We came home and began focusing our attention on Christmas itself.  We read the story of Jesus’ birth to the kids and discussed the true meaning of Christmas.  We then spread “reindeer food” out on our front lawn in hopes of giving Santa’s magical creatures a little snack as they paused at our house.  We each opened 1 present and then tucked the kids into bed.  Still, Emily said nothing.

She hadn’t noticed a thing!  Bullet dodged and Christmas saved!

The next morning, we were awakened by 2 very excited children ready to go see what Santa had brought them.  At our house, Mom and Dad have to be roused before anyone is allowed to see what Santa left behind, and for some reason, our kids have never questioned this silly rule.  So we walked to the den as a family, and Emily’s face lit up like the Christmas tree itself when she saw her shiny new bicycle in the middle of the floor.  She ran to it, climbed aboard and began riding all over the house.  She was as happy then as I have ever seen her, not once questioning the bike’s origins.  The kids spent the next 2 hours opening presents, calling relatives and playing with their new toys as Mrs. Claus and I soaked in the moment and eventually prepared a big breakfast for the family.

The excitement of the morning soon waned, and we enjoyed a quiet breakfast as a family.  Halfway through our holiday meal, little three year old Emily piped up and said to me as I sipped my coffee, “Daddy, I know that Santa didn’t bring me that bicycle because I saw you building it yesterday.”

Pppppppppppffffffffffffft, went the air out of my Christmas spirit balloon now hanging limp and lifeless over the breakfast table.  

“What?” I asked incredulously, “no, you don’t understand!” I had no idea where I was going, but I had already started going there.  Half panicked and half curious as to how I would salvage the moment, I listened to myself go on, “See, honey, I didn’t want to tell you kids this but… well… Santa and I are friends.  We’ve known each other for years.  And I told him a long time ago if he ever needed any help to just let me know.  And this year, he’s been sick a lot, so he needed some help.  He called me up last week and asked if I wouldn’t mind building your bike for him, and I told him that I had the day off on Christmas Eve and that he could just bring it by the house early…”

I rambled on and on, but amazingly, my little girl hung on every word.  Anyone else would have needed a shovel, but not my Emily.  She wanted so desperately to believe, that she extended me the benefit of the doubt at every turn.  And when my story was complete, Christmas had just been elevated to a whole new place in her eyes.  After all, not every kid could say that their Daddy was friends with the Big Man himself!

Ike the Knife

Just found this post today - it's a blog I wrote earlier in the year, but never posted.  Better late than never.  Enjoy.

A few days ago, I encountered one of those rare Hallmark moments that seem to be reserved only for those fortunate enough to hail from the Dismukes clan.  It was a precious moment that marked the passage of my eldest (and only) son from childhood to adolescence.  It was a moment filled with excitement, confusion, panic and blood - a moment where the cold steel of a knife blade parted his flesh like Moses passing through the Red Sea.  There have been many historic blade wounds throughout the history of mankind – the beheading of Marie Antoinette, the stabbing of Julius Caesar, the emasculation of John Wayne Bobbit – but none had the impact on my life that this particular incident carried.

The night of the wounding began in relative normalcy.  I was at home alone with the kids, while my wife was at a PTO meeting.  I had all the girls in the den, where we were watching a little TV.  Isaac had been playing quietly back in his room, or at least that’s what we thought he was doing.  As we watched Rachel Ray prepare a tasty and healthy meal in 30 minutes or less, we heard a strange noise coming down the hall.  Shhh-klump, shhh-klump, shhh-klump.  Isaac peered around the corner hunched over, grabbing his leg, while mumbling incessantly, “I’m sorry Daddy, I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry, Daddy.  I cut myself, and I’m so sorry.”

“Wait.  What?  Did you say cut?  Why do you keep saying you’re sorry?  If you cut yourself, you’d be crying.  Why aren’t you crying?  What are you so sorry about?  What’s going on here?”  All these thoughts ran through my mind, but I didn’t voice any of them.  I was in process mode, and I was looking for any little bit of information that would help me reach a decision as to what to do next.  The banter continued. “Daddy, I’m so sorry, Mama’s going to be so mad.  I cut myself…” he said as he shhh-klumped his way closer to the couch.  And there it was, the first glimpse of blood – a tiny trickle ran from under his clenched hand down to his ankle, disappearing into his sock.  But he wasn’t crying.  “I’m confused,” I think to myself as I grasp at any straw that smacks of logic.  Fake blood.  The boy has bought a container of fake blood and is doing his worst knife victim impersonation. 

After a cursory round of questioning, I eliminated the possibility of fake blood and moved on to actual injury.  But judging by the volume of blood trickle and the absence of tears, I surmised that we were dealing with a scrape or, at worse, a tiny nick.  Convinced that my son was overreacting, I made him shhh-klump his own way into the kitchen where I could get a better look at his “wound”.  All the while, he’s still mumbling, “I’m so sorry Daddy, I cut myself.  Mama’s gonna be so mad.”

Prepared for nothing but the best, I made him release his death grip on his leg so I could get a better look.  As he moved his hand to the side, he revealed a 5 inch long swath of flesh hanging precariously from his leg.  If I didn’t know better, I would swear I saw it flopping about in the breeze.  A surge of blood gushed from his open wound as his little heart pounded, and as the red goo oozed, I felt my head begin to swim.  I’m not ordinarily bothered by gore, but there’s something about seeing the inside of a body belonging to one of your own.  It’s… well, it’s just not natural.

I immediately called for help with the girls (one of the many benefits of living close by to grandparents) and whisked the boy off to the ER.  After 8 or 9 stitches, the full story emerged.  Isaac was testing the sharpness of his new blade.  While testing to see if it would shave the hairs off his leg, he slipped and sliced his way to serious cut.  Apparently, the blade is plenty sharp enough.

To his credit, the boy handled the hospital visit like a trooper.  No crying - only the kind of gritty toughness that makes a father proud.  And while I had initially questioned his intelligence after hearing his account of the incident, I admired the display of manhood demonstrated in the ER.  After all, life is full of nicks and bruises, but manhood is partly a measure of the way in which one deals with them.  (Or at least it is for men, anyway.  I wouldn’t imagine we would talk about how manly a woman is for not crying while getting stitches… but I digress.)

This milestone was one I hope and pray I never live through again, but having come through it, I’m appreciative of what it revealed – a son who, though he may be prone to mistakes (like all of us), has the resolve to emerge a better man for it.

The Day My Son Officially Went Too Far

I have recently decided that I might be a strong candidate for Anger Management therapy.  I’ve always had a bit of a temper, but in the past few years, it’s become a bit more serious.  If you want to know the severity, please read the blog entitled “Hello Anger, My Old Friend.”  However, I am now consciously aware of the problem, and as they say, that’s (hopefully) at least half the battle.  Nothing made me more aware of the problem like a recent episode involving my 11 year old son.

I should pause here to point out that in his 11 (almost 12) mischief-filled years of living here on Earth, he has never really done anything that has truly shocked me.  Don’t get me wrong, he’s all boy and is constantly pushing every limit and button he knows to push of, and many he’s not aware of, all because that’s what boys do.  And so despite all the outbursts in crowded shopping centers and all the publicly repeated comments meant only for private ears and all the broken precious items that once belonged to family and friends and all the times of outright disobedience, my son has always lived within the boundaries of expectations – that is, until last week.

We were in Phoenix, visiting family.  It had been an especially long day – one in which we had been on the road for 2 hours in what I would call ‘doable traffic’, meaning it wasn’t a bumper to bumper parking lot, but rather a large number of cars barreling down the highway at a speed that is both acceptable and stress-inducing all at the same time.  I know it’s no excuse, but I was a little on edge from the traffic stress and very much tired from having to wake up earlier than I would have preferred, given that I was on vacation - a fact that was lost on no one in the truck at the time.  We were on the interchange between the 101 Loop and the northbound lane of I-17 in north Phoenix.  The ramp is two lanes wide, and since I was aware of the fact that those 2 lanes would soon converge into 1, I legally and conscientiously changed lanes leftward (and by conscientiously, I mean with no intent to impede or inflame any other motorists in the vicinity – a fact that you should hold on to as we plod along the storyline).   All was well until we got to the little stretch of road beyond the merging point where there’s no more dotted line in the center of the road, but the space between the 2 solid white lines is more than enough for just one vehicle, temporarily speaking, of course.  As we hit this space I affectionately call “no man’s land”, the car behind me decided that the view must be better from the front and pulled over to the right to pass me – in no man’s land.

As I pointed out earlier, we were travelling at a pretty good clip down the highway – I would guess 60 to 65 - so real estate quickly became an issue for us both as we barreled down the ever narrowing stretch of road, side by side.  Caught in a game of chicken I had no intention of playing, I braked hard as the car and its reckless driver swerved in front of me and away from the solid concrete wall on its right.

At this point I, along with everyone else in the vehicle, realized that I officially have an issue with anger.  I said things you wouldn’t expect to hear in a PG-13 movie – good thing my sweet little girls were asleep.  My lovely wife quickly chided me.  I didn’t hear her words of correction, however, because my son had some choice words of his own. His were PG, but the situation swiftly deteriorated from there. 

As I now recount the story, I can see the whole scene unfold in sloth-like motion.  Rest assured, however, the following events happened in such rapid succession that I was unable to think as clearly as I can now.  In a fit of rage, I hastily chose to get even with this numbskull, who had ruined my otherwise perfectly tolerable drive, by pulling up beside him and giving him the look of death.  In moments such as this one, where I’m simply recounting a story with little, if any, emotion other than shame, I well know that glaring at someone does next to nothing to extract revenge.  In fact, my experience tells me that most of my evil looks at other motorists simply go unnoticed, which only makes me madder.  After all, if I’m going to glare at someone, the proper thing for them to do is at least take notice.  But as I said, I wasn’t thinking with my head, but rather with the adrenaline that was coursing through my veins.  So I commenced with operation stare down. 

As my foot hit the accelerator, my son popped off a question, “want me to flip ‘em off, Daddy?”  I promptly answered with a resolute, “yes!”  And before I could correct myself, I caught a glimpse of his little arm flailing about in the window, middle finger extended.  I gasped, “What are you doing?” I then noticed that the “he” who was driving the car was a very much elderly “she”, who gawked back at my son and me as if we were the Manson family.  A wave of nausea hit me like a baseball bat to the groin.  Thoroughly embarrassed, I turned away, hung my head in shame and eased off the accelerator.  I was a monster – not a father.

In all fairness, I truly thought he was joking.  My son has never seen me give anyone the finger.  I know this because for all of my flaws, flipping people off is not one.  I always saw that gesture as being beneath me, somehow.  However, my half-joking, half-angry ‘yes’ was enough license for him to begin gesturing like a drunken sailor at a blue haired, cataract sun-glasses adorned old lady who’s only sin was scaring the bejeepers out of me, a trigger-happy, stressed out driving buffoon.

My wife quickly moved from chiding to outright rebuke, and I can’t blame her in the least.  I may as well have doused the boy with gasoline and given him a lighter to play with.  This is what’s known as an epic fail in the fatherhood department, and I owned up to it. 

Few things have ever truly shocked me.  At the top of my list is the sight of my son flipping off an old lady…  with my permission.