Good Boy at the Hospital:

Look into my eye! 

Over the Easter holiday Dave, Raine, and I were visiting Raine's mother at the hospital. She's nearly (if not over) 80 and sometimes her health is a bit chancy. Now Dude loves Raine's mom, and he'd never want any harm to come to her, but he's almost overjoyed to hear about any time she's admitted to the hospital. 'We have to go to the Hospital building and ride the elevators!' Is normally his response to hearing about the woman he calls grandma's latest health crisis.
   After the visiting part was over and the 'Raine spending time with mom' part had begun, Dave and I went for a walk outside. And as we were walking back down the hallway to the elevators a man passed us on the left and Dude made a funny sound. Dave generally walks around plugged into his 3DS and doesn't have any social shame anyway, so he often makes noises or says things that people can misinterpret and take offense to. So I turned to him to shush him and was shocked to see his face locked into a spastic rictus and as his whole body jerked several more times strange grunts were forced from him. Even though he'd never had one it took me only a moment to realize that he was in the midst of a seizure. With his back against the wall and his body spasming he turned toward me as best he could and with a heart-rending plea in his eyes, and tried to reach for me as his body betrayed him repeatedly. I immediately reached to him and lowered him gently to the floor. I cradled his head and quickly scanned him as he went into full Grand Mal, or tonic-clonic seizure.
   One of the few benefits of being me is that I am my own PA system. When I need to be heard, I will be, no matter the background noise. So when I yelled, 'I'm gonna need some help here!' the previously empty corridor became a beehive of activity in mere moments. The professionals shuttled me to the side (not knowing how useful I can be) and immediately began to have problems lowering the gurney, lifting him onto said gurney, and then getting the damn thing to stay up once they'd raised it again. I finally stepped in and helped the nurse at my end to secure the thing. Another nurse (what was she doing this entire time? No idea) asked me if Dave had ever had a seizure before and in the 5 seconds it took me to answer they somehow made Dude disappear. I looked down at my hand and had no memory at all of how the hell I'd managed to separate David from his DS3, but there it was. Right there in my hand.

   The next half hour was pretty much a blur of worry and intake paperwork and texting Raine to let her know that we wouldn't be returning to her mom's room anytime soon. I just barely made it into the secure area of the ER when I was snagged by the Dictator of Documentary Bureaucracy, at least I think that was her title.  I hate hospital paperwork. I know it's necessary, but all I wanted to do was run down the hallway and start rifling through rooms until I came up with a Dude. So while the (supposedly) nice lady was asking me insurance questions (at least I think that's what she was doing) I was craning my neck around and not really paying any attention to what she was asking. I think I got Dude's birthday wrong 3 times, and I pretty much know it better than my own. People ask me for his a lot more often than they ask for mine.
  Then the Cavalry came charging to the rescue in the form of Raine swooping down on the ER like a mother eagle. I heard her voice berating the ER reception lady from across the hall. 'What do you mean I can't go see him?' I heard in an angry, strident, but somehow familiar, tone, 'You'd better open this door, or I'm gonna break it down!'. Luckily for the receptionist I stepped out into the hallway and told the lady she'd better let her in before anyone found out if bullet-proof Plexiglas was also Raine-proof (she had chairs close at hand, and the will to use them).
   As I was explaining to Raine that we had to wait until after the initial Doctor-hovering to see Dude, a nurse walked up to us and said we could go see him. He was something of a minor mess. He'd been stripped to his skivvies and mostly covered with a blanket and was lolling around in a totally un-Dudelike state. If I hadn't seen post-seizure reaction before I'd have thought they'd sedated him to keep him quieter. (Which at times has been tempting, but I've never actually done it) Like most patients after a seizure Dave was pretty much... well stoned. Slurring his words and making even less sense than usual. He was in and out of it for a while, but he seemed less restless with me there holding his hand. So that's what I did for the next hour, or so While Raine finished off the paperwork woman. (I meant 'with the paperwork woman', I'm almost certain I meant 'with') After watching me with him while they administered an EKG, the ER nurses began to get some idea that it might be a good thing to have me around, so they insisted I attend all the tests.
  After a while, when Dude was recovered somewhat, the time came for 'the tests'. First up was a CAT scan of his brain. So they wheeled him out of the room, bed and all, and immediately rammed the corner into the door frame. Dave hollered out, 'Watch out! There's a door there!'. and then, as the nurse bumped the door again because she was laughing, 'Be careful! We don't want to go to the Emergency Room!'. Let's just say that her driving skills didn't improve. It's hard to double over with laughter and see where you're going at the same time, I guess.

Am I under arrest?

   I almost had to tackle Dude back down on the bed when we got to the elevator. You see, Dude is our elevator man, and he knows it's his job to push every button in the process. A little thing like being a patient lying on a gurney shouldn't affect that. When we eventually got to the imaging room and faced the CT scanner it was my job to hold my son still on the table with his head in the Doughnut of Destruction (Spaced Invaders) while keeping my hands out of the image. Yeah... good luck with that. That's something akin to trying to keep a caffeine-crazed ferret inside a box of cereal with a pair of chopsticks... behind your back. But somehow I seem to possess the skills required, (though I hope no one films my face while I do these things), and miraculously an image was acquired.   Now I never saw the images, and even though they said they were 'normal'  I imagine they looked something like a game controller next to a bowl of Mac&Cheese inside a skull. Next was the X-ray, and our travelling nurse stopped the x-ray tech on approach, nodded at me and said, 'Get him an apron, you want him in there.' I guess they figured I had spawned enough mutants without the help of radiation. After making Dude pose in front of the nuclear beam like a marionette without strings, we headed back to his room. On the way back down to the ER Dave performed yet another kamikaze move to hit the elevator buttons, but the nurse was now a veteran and she quickly shoved the gurney up next to the buttons in time to keep him from scrambling his egg on the floor. Buttons pushed by the Agent of the Elevator we descended back to the proper floor.
    When we were escorting the Rockstar's bed through the ER halls and back to his room I heard several of the nurses already talking about David in that awed, giggly tone of someone who's been hit with a cute-ray set on 'Oh My Gosh!'. I don't mean to sound petulant, but I'm sure there weren't this many women thinking I was this cute when I was 17. Certainly not when I was lying half-naked on a gurney, or possibly even when lying all-naked anywhere. Anyway, despite his father's jealousy Dude's hospital visit seemed to be going well.
   After a few more tests, some consultations, much spinning of prayer wheels, and, for all I know, a flip of a coin. It was Determined (by some office drone at Tri-State Pediatric, David's GP) that Dude had the ill-considered bad taste to have his 'event' at the wrong hospital (so much for the good-luck factor). So we were advised to go back home, wait for him to have another seizure, and then take him to a more fitting hospital (one that they had an association with). Needless to say the anxious large man with the long hair (me) was not pleased. So not pleased in fact that he flat refused to go home and insisted on a transfer to Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh within the hour. And so it was to be.
  Dave loved the ambulance ride. He especially loved to tell the guy driving how to get someplace Dave had never been before. They made the mistake of mounting their GPS where Dude could see it, and he called out directions the entire 20 minute trip. With a double dose of directional assistance we made it safely to the ER at CHP (Lots of anacronyms in this one). Which was exactly where the officious oaf from Tri-State wanted us to end up (after another seizure for cripe's sake) but it was also exactly where I wanted to be. Children's has the best group of doctors in the area and I wanted a part of that focused on my son.
So let's tally up and see what has been done so far:
1 X-ray
1 CAT scan
2 EKG's (one at each hospital)
3 Doctors
2 X-ray techs
7 Nurses (now under Dude's Evil Spell. pat.pend)
And 1 officious  oaf (is there any other kind?) from Tri-State Ped.
   Results?

None... Zero, zip, zilch, nothing, nada, bupkiss. Other than affording Dave the opportunity annoy a couple of  EMT's and to turn several more nurses into robot-slaves, the whole evening was a bust. Except for the fact that Dude was now in the system. That's where the real results would come from... or so I thought. In the ensuing 3 weeks we added a cardiologist, 2 more EKG's (machine/Dude interface malfunction) a neurologist, an EEG (and technician), an MRI (and tech) and a veritable gaggle of giggling nurses to the list. And next month we go see a Geneticist, presumably to tell me what kind of mutant my son is. (The Cardiologist didn't like when I said that) Actually to check for Fragile X, as a possible cause for his autism, and ARVD, a genetic heart condition that runs in my family. The Grand Sum Total of the last 2 months watching every twitch of my son expecting him to explode? Or, more realistically, to seize? Imagine if you will, the entire medical community of Pittsburgh shrugging their collective shoulders. I'm starting to think Dude staged the whole thing just to get to ride new elevators....

Into Each Life a Little Mucus Must Fall:

Look what they made me, Dad!

One of the worries about dealing with a non-communicative child is the difficulty in discerning how ill they are at any given moment. Then again sometimes information can come in startling ways. And in, what seems at the time, a wealth of over-information.
   A few months ago, Dude had a bit of a cough for a couple of days, but wasn't showing any more symptoms than that until one afternoon while we were both alone in the house. David was upstairs preparing to battle (or do) Evil depending on his mood and the game he was playing. I was downstairs, on the couch reading a book, when I heard him take a break from his Gaming to attend to the necessities of nature. Since no one else was in the house I clearly heard him start his business and with the slight smile of one who spent many extra years teaching his son to go when he needed to instead of just when told, I went back to my book.  There were no sound producing electronic devices or people in the house so there were no distractions to block the sound that I heard next.
   'My dick is bleeding!'
   My head snapped up from my book and my keen, analytical mind caused my mouth to say, 'What the fu....?' Trying to convince myself I hadn't heard what I knew I'd heard, I ran up the stairs to find David, business unfinished looking from me to his male appendage, almost as if he wanted me to 'fix it', like it was a broken controller or something. 'What did you say?' I demanded as I entered the little room. He looked  from himself to me and back to himself almost nervously. I suddenly realized that perhaps he thought that he was in trouble for using 'the D-word'.  I curbed my frustration (I've had a bit of practice with that) and asked him again, only sounding a little (ok, maybe more than a little) anxious, 'What did you say?'

It Burned!!

  He looked back up at me and said in a clear, but untroubled voice, 'My dick is bleeding.' Two quick strides and a downward glance assured me that, in fact, it was not bleeding. Despite his insistence of urinary exsanguination there seemed to be nothing wrong with either the appendage, or the steady stream of urine-colored urine falling into the bowl. 'It's burned.' he explained matter-of-factly as he finished up what he was doing and settled his clothing to something more suitable for public viewing, then walked past me to the other room to continue battling/doing Evil.
   It suddenly dawned on me what was likely going on. Dude is something of a Drama King. (no telling where he got that.... shut up Lorraine!) Nothing 'hurts' with Dave, it 'bleeds'. He'll stub a toe or drop something on a finger or even get a mosquito bite and immediately yell out, 'It BLEEDS!' So the Dude-dad brain should have translated 'My dick is bleeding!' to 'Father, I don't wish to alarm you, but I'm experiencing a certain discomfort in my genital area.'  With 2 ex-wives, 4 pregnancies, 4 sisters, and uncountable Aunts and female cousins in my experience, I've had dealings with, or heard about, just about everything that can happen to the urinary tract in graphic (and sometimes embarrassing) detail. So it occurred to me that my son might have some sort of urinary infection. Either that, or my son's generative member actually was on fire, I just couldn't see the flames.
   Trusting in the homeopathic remedies that have served generations of pregnant women so well, I started him on a regimen of cranberry juice and extra water and cut out what little caffeine he might have had. Within hours, seemingly, he was doing much better, and I didn't hear anything more about 'bleeding', but his cough continued through the Holiday.
    One sure sign that David isn't feeling well is when he doesn't eat. Especially when the meal consists of something with cheese, sauce, gravy, or pasta. (The perfect Dude-meal would consist of all of these elements and have the ability to be dipped in ketchup and ranch dressing) (Thankfully, modern gastronomic science has yet to develop such a thing) Since Thanksgiving is the gravy-est, most sauce laden holiday on the map, with cheese and ranch dressing thrown in and left-overs with pasta, it's nearly a perfect fit. So when Dude ignored his high-piled plate and didn't even touch the warm, freshly buttered rolls, I knew we were in trouble.

   Generally Dave is so healthy it could almost make you sick. When he does come down with the occasional cold a little extra sleep sets him to rights within a day or so. And so it seemed this time. Other than the fact that his cough didn't abate, despite cold medicines, and he was still only eating once a day, he didn't seem to be run-down or listless, but he just didn't get any better.
   Once the holiday weekend was over we decided to take Dave to the doctor. Somehow it was Raine's turn. I made the call, got the appointment, but I was bundled firmly off to work and Raine was the one who kept it. For one reason or another Dude has a lot of experience in Doctor's offices. He usually hates going to the doc's office, hospital (except for elevators!), care center, et al, so I distractedly went about my work and glanced at my phone every 10 minutes expecting to have to drop everything and rush to Beaver (it's really a town, and that really is its name) after a call from the Sheriffs Office Hostage Negotiation Unit to un-barricade my son from the Medical Center where he was running rampant. I'd show up and there'd be helicopters and news anchors swarming overhead and a crowd of people gawking behind caution tape with Japanese tourists snapping pictures of the carnage. Okay, so maybe I was a little paranoid... and very imaginative.
   When the call came it was Raine and not only did I not have to rush to rescue the public from the ravages of my offspring, but he was almost wonderful at the doctor's office. (the little weasel!) He charmed the front desk ladies with some witty and familiar banter: 'Hi babes! We're at the doctor's office to see the doctor.' And then when they walked him back to the examining room he reached up to flip the little colored indicator flags near the door. 'Not that one,' The nurse stopped him, 'it's the yellow one.' 'Yep, it's the Yellow one!' he said, merrily and flipped the appropriate flag. The doctor came in later, as doctors do, and started the examination. Dave was cheery and co-operative and more energetic than he had been for days. Everything seemed fine until the doc listened to his chest. 'Oh yeah, that's not good.' she murmured in a cheery tone, then moved her stethoscope, 'Yep, definitely not good.'  Dude could have cared less about the diagnosis, he was quiet while she listened to his chest, and then continued babbling once she sat back up.
   Raine was still anxious about Dude, despite the fact that like a car taken to a mechanic, he didn't seem to have a thing wrong with him. The doctor said admiringly, 'Look at him, you'd never know that he was a sick little boy, would you?' 'How sick?' Raine asked as the doctor looked down David's (for once quiet) throat, "Oh, yeah," she said, sounding as if she were announcing a birthday, "It's like a river running back there."

Feeling fine, and ready to go!

     So the diagnosis was something like: Aspirant pneumonia (that's walking pneumonia for us old-folks) caused by a sinus infection/virus. Now traditionally (Back in the olden-days, you know, when I was young) this was countered by a month-long regimen of antibiotics, strange smelling pee (don't ask), several days to two weeks of bed-rest, and a lingering addiction to prescription Robitussin (with codeine, Woo!Hoo!) Now it's a Z-pack and truck the kid back to the work camp (school). I would have felt more apprehensive about this except after the first dose Dave had seemingly returned completely to normal... Dude-normal that is. Which filled me full of wonder at the advances in medicine, but at the same time made me wonder why we'd gotten him treated. (Man that kid has a LOT of energy!)
  Of course the successful treatment of his ailment meant that he felt fine while Raine and I struggled through the cold that caused his pneumonia that, once he no longer needed it, he generously gave to us. I know there are benefits to having children. I may not be sure what all of them are, but I know that good physical and mental health aren't anywhere on the list.

Who is It?:

For one reason or another David hasn't had his very own-this is mine-no one else comes in without permission-room for some time. Due to the small size of the house we were living in he had to share a bedroom and all his precious games and gaming things were in our room with the bulk of his toys consigned to the dining/computer room and the basement. So when we moved to the Island, into a house with 5 bedrooms Dave was in what you might call... well... heaven really. Not only did he get his very own room, but it was on a completely different floor than Dad and Raine's room and no longer above the living room so he didn't have to be particularly quiet while Dad and Raine were watching TV downstairs. With bed (which he didn't really care about), bookcase, (also no interest), dresser (ditto) TV (getting better), 360 (yes!), and games (Ah! there we go!) all installed he promptly shut the door and ignored us for the next several hours.
  In the next couple of days it seemed to take an inordinate amount of time for Dude to start down the stairs whenever we called him. Either for meals or to take something else up to his room he just wouldn't respond as quickly as we thought he should. He also seemed to be having a bit of trouble getting the door to open to let him out of the room. I checked the door, and it did appear to stick a bit. But, since it wasn't an emergency, and the door did work, I just had too much to do at the time to bother with, or think much more about it. And for one reason or another neither Raine or I ever went into his room while he was already ensconced before the Altar of Microsoft (Xbox) for the next several days.
   One day, about a week or so later, when it started to get a bit colder, and things calmed down just a little bit Rain had Dave come down and help her take some things up to his room. They made two or three trips together and then Raine took some time to get a couple of things settled and left him to his games. Possibly 30 seconds after she returned downstairs she turned right around and took some extra blankets (still getting used to the steam heating) up to David's room. 

   Raine (unlike me) has a very natural and refined sense of propriety. She won't just open a door to a child's bedroom, she always announces she's entering. She also possesses a double set of fairly long, natural fingernails that she uses (with either hand) in rapid staccato fashion against the center panel of the door instead of knocking. On a solid panel door in a mostly empty house with hardwood floors this tends to sound like a veteran secretary from the 40's running an old Underwood manual typewriter to its absolute limit of speed. It's not loud, but it can't possibly be ignored. Not even by my son when he's deep in the throes of Video-Zombie-ism to the point where he doesn't even stop for Mac and Cheese. (now that's some serious gaming)
   I have the great, Good Luck to witness some of the interactions between these two. It's wonderful to see, but sometimes I'm not too sure which one of us she wants to throttle more. Dave, for aggravating the crap out of her or: Me, for laughing my butt off about it. Sometimes I don't think she knows either. Our continued survival might be due to the fact that she can't take out both of us at once.
   So Raine, with the kind of propriety I can't hope to imitate, stood at Dave's door, armload of blankets in one hand and doing her imitation of Arnold Schwartzenegger's Uzi with the other. (there were veterans down the street ducking for cover and screaming for an evac) When she hears through the door, 'Who iiis it?' in that sing-song tone you'd hear from the mom on old black and white sitcoms. Raine laughed abruptly and responded in a slightly different tone, 'Who is it? Who do you think it is? I was just up here 20 seconds ago!' Then I heard the door rattle. 'David Richard! You open this door!' Dude responded in the same tone he used

 earlier, 'Just a mi-nute, I'll be right the-ere.' I heard a rattle, then the door opening, and my son's cheery voice greeting my mate, 'Hi Raine, how are you today?' She responded (rather grumpily I thought) 'If you don't watch out I'm going to show you how I am!'  I'm pretty sure if she hadn't been so aggravated she'd have found it just as funny as I did. Well, fairly sure anyway. At any rate, the door eventually opened, the blankets were delivered, the bed made and Raine returned to the Adult section of the pool.
   She walked through the door to the living room, where I was assembling something in a manly fashion (I'm fairly certain it was shower shelves, but it could have been a missile launcher, not sure) when she grumbled her way around the couch to stand, arms akimbo, directly in front of my mother's favorite son (no choice, she only had one) and said in that amused/aggravated tone that I hear so often (for some unknown reason), 'That son of yours... ' I looked up at her and said, 'Yes, dear?' But there must have been something about my look that she didn't like because she next said in a just aggravated tone, 'Oh... you're not going to be any help!'
  'But dear....!' I said in my best just-trying-to-help voice. But she wouldn't listen for some reason. I mean, I had the proper concerned look on my face and used the 'I'm trying to help' voice and everything. She walked off grumbling to herself, which I'm almost certain is a sign of some sort of burgeoning mental problem (probably called Two-Dude-itis). I chuckled to myself for a couple of minutes, continuing to build some sort of  'object of mass destruction', or towel rack, can't really remember which, and thought no more about the whole incident.

   I was reminded that true sympathy is a gift beyond measure. Or at least it would have saved me from a couple of  'I tried to tell you's. A couple of days later I decided (for some strange reason) to actually enter the Dude Den unannounced. I don't remember the reason I went in there, but I do know that it wasn't my first trip to the Den since Raine's troubles a few days before. It was, however, the first time I'd been up there when Dave had his headphones on. Every other time he'd hear me clomping up the steps and I'd hear a faint 'Uh oh' (which I thought was probably appropriate) and then he would meet me at the door with a 'Hi, Dad! How're you doing?'. (Politeness should have tipped me off right away, but like I said, I was busy) But with his headphones on he couldn't hear the gentle 'clomp-clomp' of my feet as I made my way up the stairs. Let's face it, with his headphones on he probably wouldn't have heard the Crack of Doom. So having made my way upstairs with Ninja-like stealth (with steel-toed boots on), and being the autocratic barbarian that I am, I immediately tried walking straight through Dave's door. As my skull rebounded off the suddenly impenetrable barrier I was immediately and forcefully reminded of an earlier incident where my son had humorously (?) locked a door that I thought was open. This time however, the brain damage didn't seem as bad, or at least the amnesia didn't set in as quickly as last time, because Dave and I immediately had a talk (I talked, he listened... mostly) about free access of the lease holder to any and all non-rent paying areas of the household. I'm not sure whether or not he actually listened to me, but I now have untrammeled access to my son's room. Which comes in particularly handy when I've got to hunt him down for bath-times.  None of the 15 interior doors in the house is safe from being closed (sometimes forcefully), and probably never will be, but at least I don't have to poke them with a stick before I sling them open.

Biker-Dude!:



First day... Yes, that's snow.



    Toward the end of February I bought the very first motorcycle that I've ever owned.  I'd ridden bikes before but they were always someone else's. Naturally I picked a day with traditional biking weather to pick it up.(yes, that's snow) It was 29 degrees with 40mph winds and snow. Doesn't that just make you think, 'Today would be a good day to get a motorcycle'? 

   When David first saw the bike he was very enthusiastic about it. Saying, ' We need to get on the motorcycle and go fast!' I tried telling him it was waaay too cold to even go slow on a bike, but I don't think he was listening. He got up very close to the bike and began patting the rear seat saying, 'This is Dude's seat. To get on and ride like a roller-coaster!' Now I really didn't think that was a good idea. I hadn't even ridden a bike in about a decade so I was less than enthusiastic about the 'roller-coaster' description of a ride on one. What I wanted at that point was a slower, more granny-version of an idyllic riding experience, preferably on empty country roads lined with pillows and mattresses. So I explained to David that dad would have to get some seat-time on the bike before Dude could get to ride on it with him. Once again, as it has so many times before, the distraction of going to play his games saved me from trying to convince my stubborn (genetic? You tell me) son that he couldn't do something he really wanted to do. Thinking myself rather clever, I went into the house, sat down, and contentedly watched a hockey game. Little understanding the determination of a stubborn Dude... Even being one didn't help.



  A couple of weeks later March became unseasonably warm and I started riding my bike to and from work every day, parking out in front of the house to wait for Dude's bus, or pulling up just after they'd stopped. Every time the bike was parked when he got off, he'd circle it and flutter around it until I'd practically have to drag him inside. All the time talking about how 'we had to go fast!' on the motorcycle. And if I was sitting on it, or had pulled up while they were waiting he just hopped off the bus and tried to climb right up on the bike behind me, knowing that the only reason I showed up was to give him his long-promised ride. Again and again I had to disappoint him. Even though I was ready to give him a ride, I had had a problem with the helmet that I'd ordered and was waiting for a better version to return.



Father Biker gives the Virago a shot of the Holy



   Just at the end of March I was wandering around and saw this huge, great old, down at the heels church and stopped by to take some pictures. As I was wandering around I started talking to one of the priests and he invited me to the next weeks 'Blessing of the Bikes'. By their definition I had been an 'Inactive Catholic' for a few... decades, but I thought, 'Hey, I'll take all the help I can get.' So, the next Sunday I was back in the parking lot with about 30 other people and bikes, getting the Virago blessed and may have inadvertently been blessed myself. But no Holy Water actually came into contact with my skin so I walked away uninjured.

  Later that same week I decided that I was blessed enough (That stuff wears off quicker on some people), practiced enough, and crazy enough to take my son for his first-ever motorcycle ride. Not being quite crazy enough to take him out on the open road I decided to just putt around the neighborhood to see how he'd do. I barely had the words 'You want to go for a ride?', out of my mouth before he started climbing on. Surprisingly, I didn't even have to tell him where to sit or put his feet, the kid was a natural from the get-go. (Oh crap! I'm in trouble) After getting his hands in the right position on my chest and some minimal instruction we were ready to go. I should say, I was finally ready to go, Dude had been ready for a couple of weeks at that point.

    I couldn't explain to him the dangers, and that was exactly my problem. To ride fairly-safely Dude had to either be cognizant of the dangers involved, or at least amenable to instruction. And since David has absolutely no concept of danger and is only minimally reliable about listening/remembering instructions, I was continually beset with flashes of him seeing something 'cool' and suddenly attempting to dart off the bike. No matter what his level of success, if he tried something like that at speed we were both in deep doo-doo (shit). So after much dithering I finally decided to try it when I could just cancel the experiment if it went bad, rather than having to do it in an emergency and then finding out that it was a monumentally bad idea.

   As we putted away from the curb, Dave, who's face was right next to my ear, (bad spot for my continued good aural health) started shouting 'This is soooo cool!' and when, after a short 1st gear ride hadn't exposed any hidden dangers (like an ejection system in the passenger pad), I rolled the bike into 2nd and heard, 'We're going sooo fast!' And I'm thinking, 'If you think this is fast, we're in good shape.' The whole ride went very smoothly. With only an occasional reminder to 'hold on tight'. He sat behind me, glued to my back and chattering away happily the entire time. Of course he did tell one lady, who was walking on the sidewalk, 'Get out of the way! We're coming through on the motorcycle!' (we were not at that time, or any other, riding on the sidewalk) Every time we started off it was, 'Woah! here we go!' To David, this wasn't a parade, this was a race! We never broke 15 mph the whole time, but to him it was Daytona, the Macao Gran Prix, and the Superbike series all rolled into one. When I pulled on to our block about 15 minutes later he said, 'Uh oh!'. And when I had to tell him the ride was over?  'This must be what a chick feels like.' And I replied; 'I've never taken Raine for a ride, so I wouldn't know.'  This attempt at levity did not raise the despondent spirits of my offspring. But the promise of another ride in the near future perked him right up.


The Biker-Dude!



   The next ride turned out to be the next day, actually. Dave and I were at home together and I had a couple of errands to run. Emboldened by the success of the previous day (and not wanting the instructions to wear off) I decided to make a Dude-trip out of it rather than wait for Raine to get home. So we bundled up appropriately and made our way out to the bike and into the great unknown. First stop: Coraopolis (called 'Cory' for some Pittsburgian reason I have yet to fathom), the town right across the bridge, to pick up my check, and then on to Moon, (pronounced moon) to deposit it, and then back to the house (I was keeping that part to myself. Not wanting to know 'what a chick feels like' throughout the ride)

  Dave did look kind of goofy wearing gloves, dark goggles and a skull-adorned helmet (only one size too big) with tennis shoes and a hoodie, but I'm sure he didn't care. I know he didn't care because he walked right into the AB office and right up to the receptionist, past the person she was talking to. (Bikers and Dudes don't have any use for manners. Biker-Dudes even more so) After charming the pants off (and my check out of) Pat we went right back out to the bike and another 'grand' adventure. After another short ride and further display of charm (I'm not kidding, women love Dude. If I had his kind of charm when I was single... I'd still be single) at the bank we deposited our vast sums of cash.
    Dave has one teller who he always walks up to and says, 'I'll need 10,000 dollars, please!' If that ever works I've promised to buy him all the games he wants. Which will probably add up to more than 10K, so that may not have been such a good idea. We took the slightly longer way to Cory, slower and more scenic with less traffic, and stopped for some 'road food'. Now when I drove 18 wheelers, this normally consisted of a Pepsi and whatever fossilized hot dog facsimile that happened to be left on the nuclear rollers. Dude, however, has a much finer pallet than his dad. He requires something with cheese and ketchup that may have actually once at least seen a cow, served with a fine, carbonated beverage.

    While waiting for our McBurgers Dude looked every inch the seasoned biker on his way to Sturgis, just in from the road. At every stop David waited patiently for me to remove his helmet and secure it to the bike, then pushed his shaded goggles up his forehead to rest on an under-armor type helmet liner that I'd given him to wear, and kept his gloves on. After our stops he pulled the goggles back down over his eyes and waited for me to perch the helmet back on his head so we could continue. But on the road (street) he was a non-stop yammering limpet mine sewn onto my back. I'm not complaining, minus the talking that's exactly what I requested, and he only smacked the helmet into my head a couple of times during the trip. That, and having arrived home in the same two pieces we left in made it, in my eyes, a successful trip. Dude loved the ride, but was hoping for more of a 'Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maitenance' type of trip (without the maintenance part), so while the trip was fine, the relatively quick return was somewhat less so.



This is why I keep the key in my pocket

   To commemorate his very first ride I decided to take some pictures of him on the bike. After getting my camera I told Dave to climb up on the bike. He immediately sat in the driver's saddle and announced, 'I'm a DRIVER NOW!'. Luckily for me I'd put the key in my pocket or I'd probably have been chasing him down the street. You'll notice in the picture that his hands are on the grips, his feet on the pegs with his toes on the controls. I did not show him this, or pose him in any fashion. This is just one of those things that Biker-Dudes know. I'm in sooo much trouble.

Father of the Felon:

I use this picture a lot on this blog... wonder why that is.

You know those stories that start out, 'If only he had known what was in store for him...' Today was one of those kind of days. We've been a bit slow at work, so I've been helping out in the maintenance department and taking my breaks back in the maintenance room, sitting at the maintenance desk. Pretty boring, actually.  When my phone rang during break, I looked to see if New Horizon came up on my screen and when it didn't I let it go to voice mail. Turns out I should have taken the call.

  Several minutes later I listened to my VM and it was Tammy, Dave's speech therapist. The message went something like this: Hi Mr. Hoffman (my oldest is 29 and I'm still not used to people calling me that) this is Tammy, David's speech therapist. Don't panic (Oh God! what has he done now?) but I had my iPad in Mrs. Yarozs' room yesterday and when we went to look for it today it was gone. (Oh, crap) Now, I wouldn't be calling, but (and there's always a 'but') when we asked the room, David said that it was 'at home'. I don't know if he has it, but I know how much he loves it. So if you could look for that, and let me know, I'd really appreciate it. Oh and Dave said that you've moved to a new house, so if you could, please send a couple of pictures of it to school with him. We were going to make a story book on the iPad. (if my son hadn't stolen it, you mean). Thank you.
   Unwilling to actually believe that my son was a high-tech thief, I called back at noon and left a response on her VM: Hi Tammy, this is Dave, I'm pretty sure he was talking about my tablet or 'Layne's iPod, but I'll take a look for you when I get home and let you know either way. (Hubris: The pride that goeth before the fall)
  Several hours later I arrived home and, in no special hurry, eventually made it up into my son's bedroom to search for ill gotten gains. A quick scan of the room didn't turn up anything, and quick look under the bed and on his shelves was equally fruitful. Dude, generally has no self-induced property awareness, or guilt, so it never occurred to me to be any more thorough than that. Smugly satisfied that either Tammy was a bit absent-minded or one of those 'other parents' children' had done the deed I went out on the front porch to wait for Dude's bus.

I just got a new iPad!

   Dave came home in his usual good mood, and I got him off the bus, and we walked up the stairs to the house. He seemed just a bit too eager to get into the house and upstairs, and that tripped my Dude-dad Ninja senses. He didn't come into the front room to take off his shoes, or try to get me to read his (5th and Game inducing) Good Note. He just started up the stairs to his room.
   "David." I said in a quiet, but solemn tone. "Where is the iPad?"
   (Please don't say it!) (but he did) 'Upstairs in the bedroom.' He stated cheerily. (Oh Crap!)
   "Show me."
  Desperately clinging to the hope that he was talking about Alayna's bedroom and her iPod, I followed him up the stairs and unfortunately directly into his room and the third drawer down in his dresser. (Double crap with a crap chaser!) After a long talk about what 'not yours' means and what would happen if he ever again returned home with any of Steven Jobs or Bill Gate's products that he didn't actually own I went downstairs to retrieve my cell phone to eat a generous helping of crow. (Maybe if I apologise 14 times and make the last hundred yards on my belly I won't have to explain to Raine why I need the number of a really good (and cheap) bail-bondsman)
    I called Tammy, (introducing myself as the father of the felon) and apologised profusely for doubting her assessment of my son's illegal activities, and promised the return of her electronics Monday by Dude-post (his backpack). She was very nice and forgiving, telling me that it was okay, and that David should be spared any paternally generated doom, because when asked, he told her right where the thing was. I told her that I'd even been tempted (It's an iPad, man!) to tell her that: No, I hadn't found an iPad, never even seen one, wouldn't know it if I saw it, didn't even believe they'd ever been invented. She laughed, as if I was kidding, and assured me that Dave was in no trouble at school, hinting that that should mean he shouldn't be in trouble at home. I assured her that David would (probably) survive the weekend, and at any rate her iPad would be at the school on Monday morning, and then we hung up.

Picture to be used on milk carton
Just in case.

   I then called Raine to give her and her co-workers something to laugh about. Increasing the chances of Dude's survival by letting as many people as possible know my motive if he should happen to mysteriously turn up missing sometime over the weekend. By the time Raine came home she had developed an interesting theory. She thought, because Tammy had offered to put pictures of Dude's house on the iPad, that David, knowing that the tablet will also take pictures misunderstood and brought the thing home to take pictures with. This theory made a lot of sense to me. It also put the blame for my son's larceny directly back on Tammy's shoulders, and made a certain amount of Dude-sense... if you ignored the fact that he hid the damned thing in his dresser. We're still trying to come up with an official story that won't land Dude behind bars.... unless they're the ones I put on his windows to keep him from slipping out to cat-burgle the neighborhood.

Transportation Issued:

Like many parents I entrust my son to the vagaries of the public school transportation system. Unlike most parents, when something goes wrong there's no way for me to tell if the story I'm getting has any relation to what actually happened.
    Almost every District in our county sends their special needs kids to the same school, so the only thing we depend on from the local school district is transportation. Recently Randy, our usual bus driver had to take a leave for health reasons. So we had to deal with a series of substitutes. Somehow I was under the mistaken impression that the 'professionals' that drove the bus were just that. Professionals. Somehow these stalwarts of transportation have managed to wreck the bus twice in about 4 weeks. No injuries (that I know about) but it's made me a bit nervous about what was a nice steady routine that I thought I didn't have to think about anymore. It kicked me out of a rut, in other words, and we all know how disturbing that can be.
   I leave for work 45 minutes before the bus picks Dude up, so Raine has to deal with the grumpy bus lady and the whirlwind of substitute bus drivers while still suffering through her own caffeine deprivation every morning. Raine doesn't normally have a problem with this, because Randy, our transportation hero, knows he needs to be by the house before a certain time in the morning. I (usually) have just enough time to get home after work to be there to greet them. With subs you get sub-standard understanding, and timing, so there's been a bit of extra added aggravation for both of us not knowing when the bus is going to show up, or which of the Jerry Springer Show rejects we'll have to deal with when it does.

    Usually when something goes wrong New Horizon's Goddess of Reception, (I'm not being facetious, she's a wonder) Carol rings one of us up (in the correct order) and the problem is dealt with. But 'sub' is the root word of 'sub-standard' and the School District Nurse fit that bill to a tee. At 1:00 in the afternoon, I happened to be in the bathroom at work when my cell phone rang. Recognizing the prefix, but not the number (and having finished my business) I decided to answer the phone.  There was an unfamiliar voice on the line telling me that she's the 'Quippa School nurse and there's nothing to worry about, but there was an accident with the bus. Right away I'm thinking, 'Why do people say that? It just makes people worry.' Then it occurred to me. David wasn't due on a bus for 2 more hours, so whatever I shouldn't worry about actually happened six and a half hours earlier. Now I'm worried. Then she starts telling me about how the police where there, and the EMT's checked all the kids out, and how she went down and checked them out, and then how they were checked out by Ann, the NH nurse, and how wonderful everything was and the kids.. blah blah blah. Then she proceeded to tell me that she left 2 messages on MY HOME PHONE!!  It's the second day of the work-week, in the middle of the day and she's leaving messages at my home, despite the bushel of paperwork I have to do EVERY YEAR to tell everyone from the Principle to the gardener where I am at any given moment of the day. And completely disregarding the fact that my cell-phone number is on every third piece of paper that I fill out for the school.
     I've always been a bit conservative about the whole cell-phone thing. Not because I'm old-fashioned or anything, but because I figured it was just a way for people you probably don't want to talk to anyway to disturb you where ever you happened to be instead of just at home. Also, after dealing with a fatal case of 'phone-Alzheimers' (You've had it too. Remember when you were supposed to call your parents and tell them what you were doing?) for most of my life I was pretty sure that a cell-phone would negate my favorite 'I couldn't find a phone' excuse. Due to David's School's initial inflexibility about traditional gender roles I was yanked into the more-or-less modern age. No matter how many forms I filled out, when something happened they'd inevitably think 'Mom' and call Raine at work. Raine didn't mind being called, but not being any relation to Dude there were many things she just wasn't allowed to do. And when David came back from his mother there was much to do. And many calls. So Raine insisted that we get cell-phones so that the school could reach me where ever I happened to be....  Evidently only if  'where I happened to be' was at home.
  Why are educated people so stupid?
   So, knowing that the acoustics of a tiled industrial-sized bathroom are perfect for screaming maniacally (don't ask me how I know that) I was all set to start roasting her verbally when she said that she had finally called Ann and had gotten my cell number from her, and she hoped that was ok. Like she was breaking some bureaucratic rule to get a number that she should have already had. I have a difficult time berating people that actually seem to be trying... even if they are idiots. So I told her to keep the number in case it ever needed to be used again, and hung up.
    I walked back to my machine and stared at it for a few moments getting angrier and angrier at the situation, when I realised that being in the midst of tons of steel with crane access might not be the perfect time to go into a psychotic rage. So I talked to my boss and drove to Dude's school, because I already know that the highway is a perfect place for a psychotic break. That's where everybody does it.

   The people at Dude's school were understanding, if slightly puzzled, about my appearance and the fact that I was yanking my son out of the clutches of the Bus System. At least for that day. No one there seemed to know anything beyond the fact that the bus had been late, and some amorphous story about a 'crazy lady running a stop sign'. As we're walking out the door it occured to me that there needs to be something done about this 'crazy-stop-sign-running-lady' as that's the second time in around a month she's done damage to my harmony. Not to mention school property.
   David is a (mostly) wonderful kid, charming and cute and all that, but if you want information from him you don't already possess you are, as the Bard used to say, 'Shit out of luck.'  So, other than him laughing about the 'bus is broke!' and something about 'The hip is okay now!' (I checked, no bruise), I got nothing from the former tyke. Knowing that the kid bruises up like an over-ripe peach, I wasn't too worried after a quick inspection. And remembering how he needed 'to go to the hospital building' and 'There could be internal bleeding' after falling down on his butt. I was pretty sure he'd be yelling for Emergency Personell if he was in any sort of pain. Or if he thought it was funny.
    We stopped by a River Park on the way home, mostly so that I could finish calming down. I'm sure David had no idea what the big deal was. As far as he was concerned the only reason for me to come pick him up from school is so that I can get him Wendy's and then take him to his games an hour (or more) early. To ease my mind, Randy is once more at the helm and I haven't even seen the old grumpy dude that was driving the day of the 'wreck'. No lurid headlines in the paper, no 'film at 11' about the bumper-car busses we seem to have around here, but my mind will take some time to settle about the issue of transportation.

   Now, not only do we have Randy back, but the Grumpy Bus Lady has been replaced with the Nice, but not very talkitive, New Bus Lady. And the Crazy old Stop-Sign running Lady has evidently been run out of town, because there have been no further incidents, so far. I'm not actually getting my hopes up yet, she may just be out of town visiting relatives. And through it all not a bit of it has effected Dude one way or the other. The only time he likes the bus is when it brings him to the Land of the XBox 360, (home) Bumper Busses is just a fun game (that we don't play anymore), and Dad is still the guy that occasionally grabs him out of school, for no good reason, and takes him to get Bacon-Cheeseburgers. All is well in the Dude-verse.

The Inmates Running the Asylum:

There are times when even Dude-Dads have to be gone from the Dudiverse for a time. Recently I had to hie back to the Homeland for my Father's funeral. This very sad occasion would have been even sadder except for one thing... My family is insane. The funeral home limo driver agrees. Don't get me wrong, there was solemnity and tears.. we just couldn't sustain it for very long. But that's a story for another day and another place.
  After I 'abandoned' the PA crowd things seemed to go along smoothly for a time, but trouble was brewing. Raine and 'Layna were doing a stellar job caring for David, but without a lifetime of dealing with Hoffman children they were ill equipped to understand the depths of deceit that they are capable of.
   Things went along very well for a few days until Raine, after a late night arguing across the ocean about internet availability, missed the bus and had to drive Dude to school. A place where they do not let him play video games, therefore it is a place he'd rather not go. For one reason or another Raine does not take David to, or pick him up from, school very often. So, while she has a basic idea of where the school is, it's not deeply ingrained enough in her memory to recall it acurately in times of stress. (Being an hour late for work and having to drive in the wrong direction to drop off a protesting autistic kid is one example of a time of stress) So while driving Dude up the (correct) road she kept asking him, 'David, is this the way to the school?'  To which he would ernestly reply, 'No.' The turn into the school is kind of tricky, and easy to miss because the school is actually part of a larger complex of mental health facilities and they don't list them individually. They also have recently PC'ed their name to the point where you can't tell that this is where they keep all the wackos. (I don't put a sign on my door either, so I can't complain) So as Raine comes up to the sign for Friendship Ridge (It's actually on Big Beaver Ridge, but I guess that wouldn't look good on a sign) and she asks David, 'Is this the turn?' Her DPS reply? 'No!' She takes the turn anyway and after topping a small rise in the road, and seeing the school ahead of them asks, 'Isn't that the school?' When Dude starts a story he sticks to it. The immediate reply? 'No!' Deciding to treat Dude like a GPS when it sends you to Bangladesh when you wanted to go to Sonic, (translation: She wanted to kick him in the butt to recalibrate him) Raine ignored David and pulled up to the front of the school and tried (operative word 'tried') to get David out of the car. He resisted saying 'No!' repeatedly. Once out of the car he did, however, take her to the correct door.

   Once the Portal of Education was breached Raine dragged a very reluctant Dude to the office to sign him in. Once he had been entered into the log, the secratary told Raine that David knew the way to his class and she should just follow him. Dude immediately took her out of the office and turned right toward the front door of the school. When Raine asked him if this was the way to his class he replied, 'No.' Much to his dismay Raine immediately turned around. This is where David's celebrity status worked against him. Not only did everyone know him, they also knew were he should be at any given time of the day. After being ratted out and escorted to his designated cell (Mrs. Yarosz's room) the prisoner was left to his fate. Raine's fate, however, was to be something a bit more agrivating than school.
   Teachers sometimes live in their own little academic world. They toil, removed from any direct feedback for their labors. So when the oprotunity presents itself to get some of that feedback it can blind them to the realities of the situation at times. Despite the fact that Raine was obviously very late to work and anxious to leave Mrs. Yarosz insisted on showing her around and telling her all the things that David was doing in school, how he gained or lost computer time, and possibly even what he was having for lunch the rest of the week. But even a tightly wound clock runs down eventually and Raine ducked out and raced to work.
   Now events could have stopped there and it still would have been considered a fairly interesting day. 'Interesting' does not begin to describe what happened next. I began getting hints of it the next day, some odd texts: Threats to dispatch my son, deprications thrown at his father, that sort of thing. But since Raine was being very careful not to tell me anything that might upset me, I really didn't know what was going on until I got home.
  I had to think for a while before writing this next part. Because while some funny-ish things happened, it wasn't funny. It was kind of frightening actually. More so because I wasn't there.

   Thursday night, about 15 hours after my father's funeral, while I was drooling on my sister's futon, Raine woke to a strange voice coming from 'Layne's bedroom. A strange male voice. Thinking rather fuzzily that strange male voices shouldn't be coming from her daughter's room at 3am she got out of bed and made it to the bedroom door just in time to see a form pass by on it's way to the head of the stairs illuminating its path by the light of a cell phone screen. 'What the hell are you doing here?!' Rain nearly screamed. The male voice she'd heard earlier answered with the calm of the nearly drunk, 'I came looking for Joe.' the form barely broke stride to answer, continuing to decend the stairs. 'Who the hell are you?!' Raine asked, her voice rising higher in both volume and pitch. The voice remained calm, but he paused on the steps for his answer, 'I asked for Joe, he said he was upstairs, but he's not here.' Then he began to decend again. 'Who said what? Who let you in here?'  The figure didn't pause this time, merely turned his light toward the couch 'He did.' He sounded almost betrayed as he reached the bottom of the stairs and opened the door, 'He said Joe was upstairs, but he wasn't.' He paused slightly, halfway out the door, 'Do you know where Joe lives?' There was only one response to that question at 3 in the morning, and Raine made it. 'Get the HELL OUT OF HERE!!' She yelled wildly. And without another word, he left, closing the door behind him. Raine quickly decended the

steps to re-lock and bolt the front door and then turned to the couch to see Dude sitting there, placidly watching the commotion.
  Being more scared than angry and knowing that she couldn't trust herself not to scream maniacaly into my son's face like an insulted fishwife, Raine showed an immense amount of restraint that I couldn't hope to duplicate in a similar situation. She took him up into our room, closed the door, went back downstairs and spent a terrified 4 hours awake waiting in case the mystery guest (or possibly even Joe) made a return appearance.

  It's always a bit disorienting to return home by plane. One moment you're in no responsibilities mode (or at least different responsibilities mode), and the next you're back to reality. I generally like a little time after I get home to detox and get into 'home/dad mode' but I was completely understanding, and more than a bit frightened Saturday morning when I heard most of this story on the way home from the airport. Dude was very carefully being very quiet in the back seat. It's like he somehow knew that a loooooong talk and a trip to the hardware store were in his future. It was almost uncanny. I, on the other hand, was wondering if  getting him to let me into the house all those times I'd locked myself out was such a good idea after all. I mean, I could have just waited 4 or 5 hours for Raine to come home, right?  I mean, what's a few hours of blizzard in shorts and a tank-top against home security?

   With the Warden back from his vacation, and after a visit to her sister's birthday party, Raine felt comfortable enough to catch up on the sleep she had missed the last couple of nights so she missed the Long Talk With the Boy (I feel so like Jed Clampett sometimes). After a trip to the hardware store and some minor mechanical miracles with power tools and wood shavings a semblance of security and what passes for normalcy around here decended on the Casa de Dude again.

   One thing I've learned while in Dudeworld... You never ask 'What else could happen?' because it probably will.