Battle of Wits
Why is everything so competitive these days? It seems everybody is trying to get ahead of everybody else (Read “Criss-Cross-Crash below) At what expense? To quote the great Norm Peterson, “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m wearing Milkbone® underwear.” We lose our peace-of-mind, integrity, character, and panties. It’s good if, after the dealings of the day, you have a safe haven to go home to. A refuge from the veracity of society. What if you don’t have that?
As a project administrator, my work day can become very hectic. There are deadlines to meet, suppliers to yell at, customers who I’d like to yell at – so I yell at the suppliers again. It can be grueling. It becomes especially tedious when I have to negotiate pricing or cost-reduction programs. If you’ve ever bought a car, truck, or battle-cruiser, you know how tough negotiating can be. It usually comes down to “what do we gain?”, “what do we lose?”, “where is the common-ground?”, and “who’s buying lunch?”. I thought I was pretty good at it. I began to develop a steely will that would stand up to almost anything…then I had a child.
In business negotiations, where you have two parties working to understand each other, it can get a little heated. People do throw their weight around (it’s no fun being hit by a 300 pound beer-belly, let me tell you!) But, usually, everybody behaves in a dignified manner. However, when the day is done, the work-bell sounds, and I negotiate my way home, I know my most challenging foe awaits. A lovely, quiet abode. The windows glow with the warmth of a puppy’s belly. Taking the path to the backdoor, I can glance through the kitchen window and see my lovely wife busy making another great home-cooked meal. I begin to hear gentle whispers in the autumn breeze. It’s the sofa beckoning for my caress. Then I walk through the door and it begins again.
My daughter is almost two years of age, yet she could make any seasoned diplomat quake with fear. Her sweet, cherub face and misaligned blonde pony-tails belie her sinister manipulations. It all starts fine. There she sits in the living room scribbling away, no doubt writing her next tactic in a strange form of toddler-ese, when she hears me walk through the door. Right away she’s up and running. Since her legs are all of ten-inches long, it takes awhile for her to reach me. In the meantime, I greet my wife who bears a welcome smile and scars from the day’s battles.
When my daughter finally arrives, about ten minutes later, she welcomes me with open arms, chants of love, and sticky lips tainted with strawberry jam. It’s the cuteness that’s so disarming. No sooner has she greeted me when she’s up on her step-stool reaching for something left on the kitchen counter that she’s not supposed to have. You know the items: graham crackers, candy, glasses, pens, pistols, etcetera. I gently squat to her level and inform her that she’s not supposed to have that and distract her with some other item. The tactic misfires and she lets out both barrels.
God has blessed my daughter, as He has all little girls, with a wonderful gift. The ability to scream at the same frequency as a car alarm. The tears fall, the face reddens, and the pouts begin, but enough about what I’m doing. It’s amazing that such a small body can inflict terrible damage on unsuspecting ear drums. Garage doors open, glass shatters, dogs jump off roofs, all from the deafening blast.
The storm passes. I’ve won the battle and she relinquishes back to her drawing pad to calculate her next move. An hour later she reveals it: dinner. Let me set this up for you – my daughter will eat just about anything between 8am to 6pm. Eggs, toast, juice, carrots, broccoli, small rodents, tissues, anything! As soon as we sit down for a formal meal her mouth transforms into a human missile launcher. My wife and I have learned to don protective gear for our safety. Virtually nothing enters the terrible fortress – the walls that once shrieked with horror now clamp shut. Anything that enters it either by coaxing or trickery is blown out at speeds of up to 200mph. Our cat Sadie, God rest her soul, was not quick enough to escape the fury of little Reilly. No amount of pleading, deal making, or psychology can gain entry through the gates. After the shackles of her booster seat are undone, she then inquires about other food items or small animals. This is when being a parent gets tough. The answer is “Honey, you have to at least try some dinner before you can eat that parakeet.” The banshee returns.
Do not get the wrong idea. I love my sweet little siren dearly. My wife and I try to do what’s best for her. We stick to our rules. But if I were given a choice between negotiating with her or work out a peace treaty between Palestine and Israel…How much of the West Bank do they want? It can only get better, right? Teenagers aren’t that bad.
Note: No cats were harmed during the writing of this article. For those of you who may have been offended by my joking – find a hobby.
As a project administrator, my work day can become very hectic. There are deadlines to meet, suppliers to yell at, customers who I’d like to yell at – so I yell at the suppliers again. It can be grueling. It becomes especially tedious when I have to negotiate pricing or cost-reduction programs. If you’ve ever bought a car, truck, or battle-cruiser, you know how tough negotiating can be. It usually comes down to “what do we gain?”, “what do we lose?”, “where is the common-ground?”, and “who’s buying lunch?”. I thought I was pretty good at it. I began to develop a steely will that would stand up to almost anything…then I had a child.
In business negotiations, where you have two parties working to understand each other, it can get a little heated. People do throw their weight around (it’s no fun being hit by a 300 pound beer-belly, let me tell you!) But, usually, everybody behaves in a dignified manner. However, when the day is done, the work-bell sounds, and I negotiate my way home, I know my most challenging foe awaits. A lovely, quiet abode. The windows glow with the warmth of a puppy’s belly. Taking the path to the backdoor, I can glance through the kitchen window and see my lovely wife busy making another great home-cooked meal. I begin to hear gentle whispers in the autumn breeze. It’s the sofa beckoning for my caress. Then I walk through the door and it begins again.
My daughter is almost two years of age, yet she could make any seasoned diplomat quake with fear. Her sweet, cherub face and misaligned blonde pony-tails belie her sinister manipulations. It all starts fine. There she sits in the living room scribbling away, no doubt writing her next tactic in a strange form of toddler-ese, when she hears me walk through the door. Right away she’s up and running. Since her legs are all of ten-inches long, it takes awhile for her to reach me. In the meantime, I greet my wife who bears a welcome smile and scars from the day’s battles.
When my daughter finally arrives, about ten minutes later, she welcomes me with open arms, chants of love, and sticky lips tainted with strawberry jam. It’s the cuteness that’s so disarming. No sooner has she greeted me when she’s up on her step-stool reaching for something left on the kitchen counter that she’s not supposed to have. You know the items: graham crackers, candy, glasses, pens, pistols, etcetera. I gently squat to her level and inform her that she’s not supposed to have that and distract her with some other item. The tactic misfires and she lets out both barrels.
God has blessed my daughter, as He has all little girls, with a wonderful gift. The ability to scream at the same frequency as a car alarm. The tears fall, the face reddens, and the pouts begin, but enough about what I’m doing. It’s amazing that such a small body can inflict terrible damage on unsuspecting ear drums. Garage doors open, glass shatters, dogs jump off roofs, all from the deafening blast.
The storm passes. I’ve won the battle and she relinquishes back to her drawing pad to calculate her next move. An hour later she reveals it: dinner. Let me set this up for you – my daughter will eat just about anything between 8am to 6pm. Eggs, toast, juice, carrots, broccoli, small rodents, tissues, anything! As soon as we sit down for a formal meal her mouth transforms into a human missile launcher. My wife and I have learned to don protective gear for our safety. Virtually nothing enters the terrible fortress – the walls that once shrieked with horror now clamp shut. Anything that enters it either by coaxing or trickery is blown out at speeds of up to 200mph. Our cat Sadie, God rest her soul, was not quick enough to escape the fury of little Reilly. No amount of pleading, deal making, or psychology can gain entry through the gates. After the shackles of her booster seat are undone, she then inquires about other food items or small animals. This is when being a parent gets tough. The answer is “Honey, you have to at least try some dinner before you can eat that parakeet.” The banshee returns.
Do not get the wrong idea. I love my sweet little siren dearly. My wife and I try to do what’s best for her. We stick to our rules. But if I were given a choice between negotiating with her or work out a peace treaty between Palestine and Israel…How much of the West Bank do they want? It can only get better, right? Teenagers aren’t that bad.
Note: No cats were harmed during the writing of this article. For those of you who may have been offended by my joking – find a hobby.
posted by James C. at 8:43 PM
2 Comments:
well, I'm laughing. :)
James, this is great work, and quite humorous! I'll have to direct my friend Jenny over here. Whenever I get a little "strange" on the phone, she accuses me of having spent any amount of time with you. Why is that?
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