The Cracker Barrel Incident

It was a late Sunday morning in the fall of last year when my wife suggested that we visit our local Cracker Barrel for a lowkey brunch with the kids. So, we gathered the flock and spent the requisite amount of time browsing through the giftshop waiting for our name to be called. If you have never had the experience of a Cracker Barrel giftshop, just imagine a place that sells Pink Floyd vinyl, rooster crockery and cold-pressed soap in equal measure.

Everything began as you would expect, the kids fought over the single wooden-peg game allocated to our table. A franchise staple, the object of the triangle peg game is to take the golf tees and jump them over each other to reduce the remaining number to one. If any of them managed to reduce the number of pegs to three or less there were immediate accusations of cheating and malfeasance by their siblings. Eventually, their attention turned to the menus so that everyone could pretend to contemplate their choices while eventually ordering the exact same thing we knew they would.

As is our custom, as soon as the server left my children began complaining about what they perceived to be an inordinate amount of time to cook pancakes. I informed them that it has been only about 42 seconds and it is unlikely that our server has had enough time to convey our entire order to the cook unless the two of them have worked out a series of clicks and hand signals to communicate.

The food arrived in a reasonable amount of time and everyone began tucking into an artery-hardening array of eggs and gravy. Toward the end of the meal, I noticed that my wife was staring at our first-grader with mild concern. I glanced over and satisfied myself that he was not choking, but he certainly did not seem to be enjoying his folksy breakfast experience as much as the rest of us.

Apparently, my son had managed to lodge his elbow between the slats of his wooden chair. Scoffing at my wife and son’s growing alarm, I pivoted and verbally instructed him to wiggle it a little bit whilst I continued stuffing my face with French toast.  My son, looking at me with disappointment for what would not be the first or last time in his life, told me that he had already tried that.

Exasperated, I got up out of my chair and walked over behind his. In all fairness, his folded arm was firmly wedged in the widest part of the chair spindle. Upon further investigation, it appeared that his wind-breaker (which had been draped across the back of the chair) had reduced the friction against his skin allowing his extremity to protrude much farther than it normally would have.

He had already extracted the wind-breaker in an unsuccessful attempt to free himself and was now growing desperate. Still chewing my food, I leaned down and attempted to force apart the slats as he pulled his arm toward his body. It was clear that either my muscles were far more atrophied than I had feared or the chair was far better built than I suspected. Either way, it was clear that my tendons had less structural integrity than their furniture.

My feeble efforts were noticed by a rather muscular server who caught on to the situation much faster than I had. Breathing a sigh of relief that this was now in the hands of a four-star Cracker Barrel veteran who looked like he was putting up three hundy at the gym, I took a step back and watched (with some satisfaction) as he was unable to make any more progress than I had.

He and I regrouped momentarily and decided that the best course of action would be for us each to sit on the floor, place our feet on the bottom rung of the chair and then pull-on opposite sides of the same slat. As you can imagine, seeing Swole McApron and myself sitting on the floor playing tug-o-war with a child was started to draw the interest of the other patrons who had now stopped eating. Within a few moments of our latest futile attempt to end the standoff, the manager had appeared to ascertain why one of his servers was on the floor attempting to demolish company property instead of slinging gravy.

The three of us then attempted – again in vain – to create enough space for my son to free his arm. At this point, all restaurant business had ceased and even the hostess had moved closer to bear witness to my son’s plight. As is often the case in any public crisis, people began offering unsolicited advice “try lotion!” “wiggle his arm more!” “raise children with better spatial-awareness!”

The manager began lamenting that they had recently changed chair manufacturers due the sub-par quality of past items and how easily they broke. I responded that it would appear the newest model had been constructed by the Amish on a direct commission from our Lord and Savior. The manager was very kind and I verbalized my desire to avoid any damage to the chair. I then offered to pay if it had to be dismantled (an offer which he politely declined). I assured him that we would do our best not to bring any harm to the chair forged in the heart of a dying star.

During all of this, my son had remained stoic but was clearly concerned the longer the ordeal went on. My wife was comforting him amid the sideline coaching and my other children continued eating their meal as if this sort of predicament was a common occurrence anytime our family was served an entrée. Had the jaws of life been involved, my oldest would have simply tapped the nearest firefighter and requested they pass the syrup. 

Child with arm stuck in chair at Cracker Barrel - A.I. (oil on canvas)

It was around this time that a gentleman appeared and offered to retrieve his cordless Sawzall from his truck. I was thankful for his offer but was reluctant to place a reciprocating metal blade that close to my child’s body. We agreed that would be a last resort and he stood at the ready.

Suddenly, my son’s stoicism broke and tears began to stream down his face. Concerned that our efforts had further pinched his arm, I leaned in and tried to comfort him. It took several minutes before I understood his heightened level of concern. He had overheard both my conversation with the manager and the gentleman with the power-tools. From those two conversations, he had inferred the following:

1.     Dad has assured the manager that we would not break the chair.
2.    A man had offered use of his Sawzall.
3.   The only logical conclusion was that the Sawzall was going to be used to amputate his arm so that, other than the bone fragments and blood, the chair could be spared any trauma.

Once I reassured him that I would sooner set fire to the building than cut off his elbow, he calmed down and someone emerged from the kitchen with a claw hammer and pry-bar. After several spirited attempts, the chair finally gave way with a loud crack and the ordeal was over.  

The crowd dispersed just as quickly as it had gathered and the manager kindly offered my son a complimentary dessert. Normally we would have taken the offer, but he was still understandably upset and my wife whisked him out to the car while I waited for the check. She said that as they moved through the gift shop, she overheard one female patron whisper to the other one, “That’s the kid with the arm!!”

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago. We are all seated around the table eating when my wife and I began talking about all of us going out to dinner over the weekend. I thoughtlessly mentioned Cracker Barrel and my wife echoed the sentiment and wondered aloud why it had been so long since we had eaten there.

As she was saying this, we both remembered that there was a very specific reason we had not been in awhile and immediately turned our attention to youngest son. His face was stricken, he had dropped his fork and was saying, “No! No! Cracker Barrel” while holding his arm.

With the promise of a quilt or coat between his body and the chair, we were successfully able to get him over his fear of Cracker Barrel (or just subjected him to further childhood trauma). If I find him seated in a wooden rocking chair facing the corner of his room muttering “ya’ll come back real soon!” we will just add a little more crypto to the therapy fund.

The Lollipop Incident

 As any parent knows, the school drop-off line is fraught with perils. The societal pressure for an efficient launch is suffocating, especially when you are coming in on two wheels because your children have already accumulated enough tardies to generate a truancy form-letter.

Nothing elicits more scorn from your fellow commuters than sitting behind you for an eternity only to find our that your passengers waited until zero hour to unbuckle themselves, locate their school-bags and finish reading the King James Bible.

Sometimes one of your children will scrub the launch at the last second. Two kids will be out of the vehicle while the third insists that disembarking before the front fender is aligned with gym door is utter madness. You are now bargaining with the third child while half-heartedly goosing the engine to give the appearance of getting out of the other parent's way without actually doing so. In the heat of the moment, you will also hastily agree to some ridiculous request that you will forget the moment you drive off because you just wanted them out of the car.

The reckoning for this verbal contract will come 9 hours later when you get them from after-care. There will be a tense discussion and somehow the same child that can't remember the location of their own shoes has become the family stenographer. I am then informed that, according to the transcript, I agreed that he could spend the afternoon micro-dosing FunDip and watching ASMR Roblox videos in lieu of homework.

A few years ago, I was chauffeuring my eldest two children to school and running late as usual. As we were on final approach to the drop-zone, I loudly instructed my offspring to prepare themselves for deployment. During this process, my son reached down to grab his bag from the floorboard and made an unpleasant discovery. There was a partially consumed lollipop stuck to the side of his bag.

My son had several options at the point:

1. Quietly alert me to the presence of said sucker so that I could dispose of it in a dignified manner.

2. Say nothing and return the item from whence it came.

3. Surreptitiously move it to his sister’s area and then blame her.

Never being one to conform, he decided that the path forward was to yell in disgust and indiscriminately launch the BlowPop into the air where it came to rest in his sister’s freshly-brushed hair. At that moment, we were a single car-length from disembarking and all Hell broke loose. My daughter began screaming as she gripped the handle and began pulling her hair out by the roots attempting extricate the scalp-missile.

When I confronted my son as to why he threw the sucker into his sister’s hair, his response did little to diffuse the situation. “I didn’t throw it into her hair on purpose! I just threw it and because she has a giant head there was no where else it could go!!”

By now, I have flawlessly executed the I-swear-on-all-that-is-holy-if-I-have-to-come-back-there rotation in my seat and I am loudly demanding that he issue her an apology. Amid her wails and tears, he grumbled something akin to, “I very sorry that you have a gigantic head" whilst shrugging as if he had left nothing out on the field.

It was at this moment that an upbeat teacher assisting with drop-off began opening the door to facilitate my progeny’s exit. She pulled on the handle while cheerily intoning “Good Morning!!” If she expected this to be reciprocated, she had selected the wrong family.

Ignoring both the optimistic greeting and the person who issued it, my daughter threw the hairball-on-a-stick to the ground and slid out of the car with tears running down her face. She certainly could have just moved toward the school and tried to salvage this dumpster-fire of a morning. Instead, she waited until her brother’s legs had emerged from the vehicle before slamming the door as hard as she could behind her.

The teacher, concerned that my son was gravely injured, looked at my daughter and gently scolded that she must have forgotten her brother was in the car. Without hesitation, she replied, “No, I remembered” before breezily skipping off toward the entrance.

We had been stationary for what feels like an eternity and somehow all my children have not yet cleared the vehicle. I sympathized with my son's plight also understood that there are only so many times a person could be teased about their head circumference without some repercussions.

My son, defiant to the end and shins afire, managed to croak another scathing observation of his sister’s cranial proportions while she was still in earshot before he hobbled away.

Her smile and encouraging countenance all but gone, the teacher looked at me and mumbled something about having a pleasant day to which I answered, “good luck” before squealing off like I had just pulled a bank heist.

Competitive Cheerleading

 It all begins innocently enough. Your child talks about going to the local gym to take some tumbling classes. Before long, she takes notice of the group of cheerleaders running through their routines on the other side of the facility. Their skill and coordination make such an impression on her that she expresses interest in how one might go about joining their ranks.

Before you know it, you or your spouse find yourselves at a parent meeting, surrounded by championship banners, and it dawns on you that the tumbling classes were just a gateway drug. What started with a casual back-handspring tutorial will ultimately lead to a moment where you, along with your spouse and daughter, are walking through a railway in downtown Atlanta at 5:30 AM in the pouring rain because you are too cheap to pay $35 for an Uber to take you three-quarters of a mile to the Georgia World Congress Center.

If you are as fortunate as we were, your guide to this brave new world is a highly-organized veteran of the competitive cheer scene patient enough to answer the questions of people whose only experience is with swim meets and robotics tournaments.

Commitment is emphasized, high-pony tutorials are given and overly bedazzled clothing and accessories are acquired. It is explained that your child will be participating in hours of practice several days each week. Their attendance (barring a well-documented industrial accident) is mandatory which makes sense as your child will be responsible for catching someone else’s.

Like any competitive pursuit, cheerleading has its own lexicon and traditions.

At our first competition (known as “comps” on the street), I had placed our cheer backpack on the ground next to me. Ostensibly, the cheer backpack allows the athlete to carry their aesthetic arsenal of makeup, hair products, bow container, snacks and tactical-grade caboodles. In reality, the backpack will spend most of the time being schlepped around by the parent. Which is why, on this particular occasion, it also contained my Kindle.

So when a group of young ladies began casing the bag as they walked by, I continually moved the bag closer and closer to me. Those entry fees are no joke and I wasn’t taking a chance on felony sparkles and the gang fencing my gear. Only later was it explained to me that one of the traditions is for the athletes to decorate clothes pins and clandestinely attach them to the backpack, hair, coat or portable oxygen tank of other attendees. Getting “pinned” was a right of passage and a bonding experience.

Then, while the three of us were sitting at a table waiting for her team to begin warmups, a competitor looked at my daughter and said “I hope you hit zero!” before smiling as she walked away. Unbelievable. Our first competition and this little glitter-hussy is throwing shade at my baby girl. I stopped just shy of yelling “Your mom hit zero….developmental milestones!!” before it was explained to me that this was sincere encouragement. To “hit zero” is to have no deductions for mistakes during your performance.

This spirit of comradery permeated all of our interactions with other teams, parents and coaches. This was a welcome change from other kid’s sports where parental frustration can lead to verbal or even physical altercations. Not once did I witness an enraged parent yelling comically-specific cheer insults like, “Your kid wouldn’t recognize a pike if she pulled one from the lake!” or “That ponytail has more flyaways than a pilot’s resume!”

The atmosphere was incredibly supportive and most parents wore “cheer gear” in solidarity with their team. One glaring exception was the gentleman in front of us at a Nashville event whose hoodie identified him as a card-carrying “Panty Dropper” complete with a crude illustration. I marveled at the thought process that led to this moment. Perhaps this was the least offensive garment he possessed?

This brings me to the scoring. I have attended multiple cheer events produced by several organizations and I still have no idea how the scoring works.

From what I can gather, there is an arbitrary base score which appears to be unrelated to the difficulty of the routine elements. For instance, at the nationals each team was given 46 base points on a 100-point scale. Points could then be added or deducted by the judges at the high table based on crowd interaction, synchronization, execution, sportsmanship or any other number of subjective factors. There may have even been an undisclosed “rizz-multiplier” involved.

Furthermore, each team is classified by level, division, size and a few other characteristics to the point that I rarely knew who we were competing against. I would find myself trying to mentally parse “Level 2.1 Division 3 Mini Prep Co-ed Anemic All Stars” and decide whether or not I should hope someone tripped. This would also lead to large events where you might be the only team in your particular sub-genus.

The intonation of the event announcers ranged from beauty pageant to tractor pull (the latter making it delightful when a team like the Carolina Cuddle-Sparks was announced). Several of the events even had their own mascots. One looked like result of an unholy union between the Phillies mascot and a decommissioned Fraggle Rock character while another appeared to be inspired by the Abominable snowman despite the event taking place in Florida.

Security and ticketing also varied wildly from venue to venue. Some events featured metal detectors and TSA bag-searches while others were lax enough that you could roll in a cooler of human organs and weapons-grade plutonium without scrutiny. Tickets could be as high as $75 per adult for two-day competitions. Which, as it turned out, was the cheapest aspect of this enterprise.

Many of the overnight competitions required a booking at a hotel chosen by the event and each and every one of them was well-aware they had a captive audience. Most were valet-only and one charged up to $60 per day just to park. Suffice it to say that my Hampton Inn rewards points remain unused.

There were always merch tables with the expected fare of overpriced t-shirts, but it was the ducks that really caught me off guard. Multi-colored stuffed ducks (known as “good-luck ducks”) were selling at exorbitant prices. Even the smallest versions were $40 - $50 and the entire setup looked like a Temu rags-to-riches story.

The food was also a crap-shoot. Most featured the usual culinary fare of $13 hot dogs, but one innovative venue utilized a Hunger Games / cafeteria approach.

They had a menu listed, but when I approached the food counter there seemed to be an inordinate number of people milling around. I eventually caught a gentleman’s attention and politely requested chicken tenders.

He scoffed and informed me that I could have whatever I wanted as long as I was the first one to retrieve it from “the chute” once they dropped it. He nodded toward the assembled crowd as if to imply that only the strongest among us would be consuming poultry that day.

So, we all stood around pretending to be engrossed in our phone screens while secretly formulating our strategy. Every time the concession-coaster made noise, societal norms were dropped and choices were made. Eventually I got out with three tenders, a cookie, and not a shred of my dignity.

The routines themselves were always impressive and indicative of the sheer amount of work put into them. As best I can discern, the music must contain intermittent lasers sounds, triangle hits, a pulsating bassline, unintelligible lyrics (with the exception of a mid-song voice-over announcing the team’s name) and just enough recognizable melodic elements to remind you of a song without being familiar enough to necessitate royalty payments.

The overall audio landscape gives the impression of a rave with a cat walking across the buttons of a sound effects control board. I could not help but wonder what would happen if a team showed up and performed a somber interpretative dance to Go Rest High On That Mountain just to keep the energy in check.

The entire enterprise is brought to a close with the awards ceremony. It is here, that the true currency of competitive cheer is distributed: the banner.

The banner will be added to the gym’s collection and serve as a testament to the effectiveness of their program. In addition to the banner, select teams received a “golden ticket” which waived their entry fee for another (more expensive) upcoming competition. There were usually medals distributed to all participants as well.

We were constantly informed that events we attended were “officially sanctioned” by the USAF to ensure the safety of the participants. A voice intoned that the judges and staff were rigorously screened and held to the highest standard. The implication being that at that very moment, somewhere in America, there was an unsanctioned cheer event taking place in a burnt-out warehouse amid a doping scandal.

My daughter learned collaboration and discipline while I learned that sometimes it is worth it to spring for the Uber.

The Cookie

It all began with a plastic replica of a chocolate chip cookie. I believe it came into our home via a Melissa & Doug play-food set. My 11 month-old son has become fond of crawling around the house while toting it in his hand. He was doing just that one particular evening as he made his way into the guest bathroom.

It just so happened that my 3 year-old was completing her business around the time he wandered in. Finding her little brother’s presence disconcerting, she called for our assistance in removing him. Just as my wife grabbed him, he managed to toss the cookie into the bowl mid-flush. In defiance of each and every one of God’s natural laws, the cookie disappeared down the rabbit-hole.

Its journey was short-lived, as the bowl immediately began filling with excessive amounts of water. Thankfully, it stopped just before overrunning the rim. I gave everyone stern instructions not to use the toilet in my absence (I had to run and pick up a grocery order within the next 15 minutes) and I would address it when I returned.

I tucked my firstborn son and daughter into bed while my wife disappeared into the nursery to put our youngest to bed. Quickly grabbing my keys, I ran out the door to get the groceries. On my way home, I received a text from my wife indicating that my daughter had come back to the nursery concerned that there was “lots of water in the toilet.”

Surmising that our daughter was utilizing this unnecessary observation as an excuse to get out of bed, my wife sent her back to her room with a stern warning. I informed my wife that I was on my way home and would make sure that she was still in bed when I arrived.

Three minutes later, my phone rang. When I answered it, I was greeted by my wife shouting “There’s water everywhere! How do I turn this off?” Her questions were in danger of being drowned out by multiple weeping children and someone lamenting, “The cookie! The cookie!”

It appeared that my daughter had been experiencing some intestinal discomfort while I was at the grocery, and had used the toilet again. She then apparently held the flush lever down until she was in danger of being swept into the den by the current.

At the time of my arrival, the hall carpet was soaked and there must have been a half-inch of standing water on the bathroom floor. Quickly grabbing a shop-vac and an adjustable wrench, I waded into the fray. After getting up as much of the standing water as possible, I set about disconnecting the toilet.

If you have never done so, I can assure you that there is no graceful way to solo-lift an installed toilet in a confined space. I closed the door so that my family wouldn’t have to witness me attempt to dead-lift the equivalent of a porcelain birthing-ball.

Once the commode was clear of the bolts and flange, I quickly glanced down the sewer pipe to confirm that the cookie was not lodged. In this brief moment, several of my neighbors must have tandem-flushed the remnants of an ill-advised meal because I felt the air move just before the dry-heaves kicked in. I instantly though of the scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark where the guy’s face melts off. It smelled like weaponized shame launched from a diaper-genie. 

Convinced that the cookie’s journey had ended prior to the pipe, I stuffed some plastic bags into the sewer connection and continued my investigation. I tipped the toilet forward before probing the trap for contraband. Meeting some resistance early on, I continued in this way until the cookie emerged. My victory was to be short lived.

Within a few moments, a reverse suctioning noise emanated from the S-bend as a rather sizable bowel-movement was liberated from its perch and found its way onto my shoes. It was here that I paused, turds still precariously balanced on my feet, and contemplated the interesting places that life takes us. Parenting is a perpetual series of humbling events, and there are few things as humbling as contemplating whether to shake poo off your shoes or abandon them and submit yourselves to a back-flow foot-bath.

Around this time, my daughter emerged and asked if I “saved” the cookie. In exasperation, I told her that the cookie had “seen things” and had to be put down. She would emerge requesting progress reports every quarter hour for the remainder of the process.

I mopped up all of the water left in the bathroom and then proceeded to tackle the carpet with a Hoover Steamvac. It is a wonderful machine to have, but sounds like a jet engine when powered on. I thought about waiting until the next day to tackle the carpet (since everyone in the house appeared to be asleep) but I really wished to avoid subjecting our flooring to an overnight fecal marinade.

So I fired up the carpet cleaner, and after a few moments, my daughter tapped on my shoulder and motioned for me to turn it off. Nearing the end of my patience, I turned off the carpet cleaner and gave her my full attention.

“Daddy?”

“What?”

“I just wanted to tell you that the carpet cleaner is loud.”

I advised her that, in the interest of self-preservation, she should refrain from further commentary and stay in her room.

Melissa and Doug better hope I never gain access to their corporate restroom facilities….