Three Rules

Alternating between my elbows suctioning mud and my full body weight bearing down on a single pebble beneath my kneecap, I danced a confined centipede through the crawl space toward the leaky pipe.

I could feel the pipe dripping, but when I used my flashlight to see it, the illumination faded immediately.

I’ve told them they’re not allowed to play with the flashlight on my dresser.

I pulled my shoulders together and rolled onto my back, contorting minute physical adjustments to find a surprisingly comfortable position, spilling a can of purple PVC primer in the process.

The dark solitude and unanticipated massage that came lying flat on hard, cold earth was secretly pleasurable- like laboring on the floor to retrieve a misfit sippy cup lid, but then finding tranquility and a desire to pause.

Until you hear footsteps and anticipate your spouse will ask if you are OK- in judgement, forcing verbalization and filling the pleasurable void under the kitchen table with negative zen.

No need to anticipate interrupting concerns in the dark crawlspace, thankfully.

Just time to think.

Maybe I’m being too hard on my kids. 

The flashlight I hide on my dresser is the only working one in the house.

It makes sense they would come and get it when theirs don’t work.

I get flashlights for free at Harbor Freight anyway.

I have so many rules. It’s understandable that they would confuse those governing the sacredness of the flashlight on my dresser, when I also expect them to remember…

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What other rules do I even have?

Maybe I’m not so difficult.

I’m just asking for one flashlight in the house to not be a toy- so I can have it when I need it.

Like now, lying on my back marinating in purple acetone.

Now would be helpful.

Here I’m not talking about dictating expected behavior, like bad language, finishing homework, and flushing.  

Rather, these are the nuanced guidelines of decorum that my kids might need to review with their friends before they come over.

I can only remember my own dad having two such “rules:”

1. No Alvin and the Chipmunks.
2. Make sure I know where you are.

Granted, Dad’s rules evolved over time, and perhaps mine will too.

When we were very young, we were not allowed to listen to our “Alvin and the Chipmunks” cassette in the minivan because it was “too annoying.”

By the time we were in middle school, that had evolved into a variation for the television show, “Roseanne,” which we were not allowed to watch because it was “too stupid.”

And I will note that the parlay of “stupid” into acceptable household vernacular made that request much easier to respect. 

If Dad’s going to let us say “stupid” now, I guess it’s a fair trade that we watch a different show.

Similarly, just as Rule #2 had me circle back home on my bicycle to let Dad know if explorations would extend past our territory landmarks, this was replaced by phone calls when I got old enough to drive. 

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I think if I really parse it down, I only have a few rules, myself:

1. The flashlight on my dresser is not a toy.

Flashlights bring cheer, turning any otherwise routine activity into an act of exploration. I know even the office supply cabinet at work is more fun by the light of flashlight. We do what we need to.

However,

There are times in life that a working flashlight is genuinely helpful.

• Installing a garbage disposal
• Looking behind the couch for the remote control
• Power outages
• Walking alone in the woods

I’ve never seen any of my kids turn off a flashlight.

So I claimed one and hid it in my sock drawer.

Then I got careless.

One time.

Instead of putting it back in the drawer, I left it on top of my dresser where my kids could smell it.

So I had to make a rule.

                     2) No Glitter.

First a little background:

At a wedding reception decades ago, I danced in the vicinity of a girl embossed in some sort of spray glitter.

Several days and showers later, coworkers at the factory collectively asked me why I was wearing glitter.

Wearing. As if to imply intentionality.

For the rest of my time there, I matured constant low grade paranoia that a permanent glitter infused nickname would establish at any sudden moment.

I recently made a routinely confused turn down the wrong aisle at Wal-Mart to find myself surrounded by hundreds of multicolor tubes poised to fall and break open upon me.

My glitter PTSD surfaced in the form of a full blown panic attack. 

To my kids, the ban on glitter has become as normal as the prohibition of the word “stupid.” 

“You know we don’t talk like that in this house.”

“You know we don’t bring any glitter in this house.”

(And I don’t see the glitter ban “evolving.”)

One time, the Vacation Bible School teacher said to my daughter,

“Your Dad is here to get you. Show him the craft you made. I bet he’ll want to hang it up at home.”

“No,” she said perfectly happy. “He’ll throw this out since we aren’t allowed to bring glitter in the house.”

Her teacher smiled at me, but I didn’t smile back.

I nodded.

“That’s the rule,” I said.

                 3) No Plastic Bags on the Stairs.

I mentioned that my own father only had two rules, but, to be fair, the house I grew up in was a single level ranch.

We’ve had five kids over the last nine years, so as far back as I can remember I’ve been carrying infants and small children up and down stairs.

My 10 month old would love to climb up the stairs. He scurries toward them at the half-sound of the child gate opening and not being closed by his older sisters.

But now all the kids old enough to go up the stairs safely have lost interest.

It’s not so special anymore. No longer being forbidden or mystifying.

So instead of returning items back up stairs, they just throw everything on the first three or four steps.

And I’m not saying clothes, dolls, and hairdryers aren’t hazardous.

I am saying I’m willing to pick my battles.

I feel somewhat confident in my ability to carry a two year old and kick a doll at the same time.

But even if lucky enough to notice a plastic bag, I envision a scenario rolling an ankle trying to scoot it aside prefacing my entire body rolling down two flights.

As a father of five, recovering from an accident or illness would not be the glorious vacation it was in grade school, with unfettered television and motherly maid service.

In this “season” breaking a finger or even both legs would in no way result in less household responsibilities, just more time spent on them- deducted from the little time I sleep already.

But superseding any physical pain, my phobia is that I’d idle this time tormented by the stupidity that bred the circumstance:

• What did you think would happen standing in the Wal-Mart grocery cart to get peanut butter off the top shelf? It even says, “Ask an Associate.”
• What was really the big deal with a little gutter leak? 
• Sure. You were cold. But you know better than to run from the pool to the hot tub.
• How much time would it have really taken to just drain the toilet before lifting it?
• Why didn’t you ever take the time to tell the kids not to leave plastic bags on the stairs?

So I do have a rule for that one.

My kids will eventually move out and have the freedom to choose their own rules for their homes, just like I did.

At the same time,

I vividly recall setting aside the studies and watching “Roseanne” in my freshman dorm room for about one and a half episodes before deciding for myself that it was “too stupid,” indeed.

Not too stupid to keep me from studying.

But it was late, and it was certainly not worth losing sleep over.

And while it took longer in life to appreciate his second rule, I’ve noticed that my kids have been conditioned  to press “skip” whenever an “Alvin and the Chipmunks song comes on Pandora.

At least when I come in the room.

Which tells me that they are thinking of me.

And that means something.