It was a highly successful appointment. We gained valuable new information we’re sure will help us better manage his allergies.

And manage is what you do with allergies like Slim’s.

But gaining that information came with a price. Not in the form of medical expenses; the cost of a hotel room; the corn dog and Kraft macaroni and cheese lovingly prepared by the culinary artisans at Applebee’s (yes, Kraft macaroni and cheese); the elusive Skylander’s Giants character Chop Chop Slim scored at the Toys “R” Us conveniently located directly across the parking lot from Applebee’s; or the sweet lenticular 3D Star Wars playing cards we picked up at Barnes and Noble to support the 9-year-old’s burgeoning cribbage habit.

No, the real price for that information came at the expense of Slim’s back — and his physical comfort — in the form of a prick test.

Actually, two prick tests (which are actually more of scratch tests). A few of the allergens reacted so strongly on the initial panel that the administering nurse worried the results may have been compromised, so we left for a few hours and returned to have a second panel conducted excluding those allergens that were definite positives from the initial test. Which was followed up with a blood draw because they were still having trouble sorting out what was actually causing positives and what wasn’t.

And Slim’s reaction to all of this?

Nothing. It’s all old hat for this allergy kid.

He played Plants vs. Zombies on the iPad while the thirtysome scratches were administered (twice) and during the accompanying 15-minute wait for the allergens to do their thing.

He joked with the nurse that if he ever met this guy Pistachio (#29), he was going to rip his arms off and beat him silly with them. We all had a good laugh at that.

A couple of times he said his back was itchy, but that was the extent of his complaints. And that’s consistent with how Slim’s handled his condition all along.

His allergy journey began at age two (technically, I suppose, it actually started a few years prior when a different sort of prick test came back positive, if you know what I mean) after he ingested a fraction of an Oreo with peanut butter filling. Things immediately went awry.

Let me tell ya, if you’re looking to get people hopping in an ER, walk in holding a wheezing, hive-covered toddler with his eyes swollen shut and say, “We think he might have a peanut allergy.” Your wait time becomes exactly zero minutes.

Thankfully, Slim’s never had another scare like that.

He had his first prick test at age five — for environmental allergens — and the results suggested he’s basically allergic to Earth. His doctor said she’d seen tests with more severe reactions, but never one with as many.

Allergies affect Slim’s health to some degree every second of every day. Feeling “good” is a relative term for him, and it entails a strict, inflexible regiment of medication, diet, and a whole lot of lotion (he’s got severe eczema to boot).

But he doesn’t complain. It’s just what life is for him.

I realize many parents have children who face challenges far more severe than Slim’s, but he’s our kid, so I’d rather he didn’t have to deal with any of it. But he does, and the way he does — with such courage and strength – is both humbling and inspirational to me.

As he lay on the examining bed — for the second time — distractedly planting his assorted flora in an effort to eradicate the slowly-marauding legion of undeads while waiting for the legion of allergens on his back to wage its own attack, I leaned down and whispered, “You’re a brave kid.”

Then I corrected myself. “No, scratch that: you’re a brave person.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

I don’t think he caught the pun, but that’s okay.

He was too busy ignoring those miserable little pricks.

*******

“Back, vegetable, back! I’m allergic!”

In related news, I’m trying to convince Slim he may be able to occasionally play this whole allergy thing in his favor by claiming he’s allergic to certain things even if he isn’t. For example:

• Foods he just doesn’t want to eat (“I’d love some of that lime Jello mold with shredded carrots and cottage cheese, but I’m allergic.”)
• Clothes he doesn’t want to wear (An argyle allergy is very, very rare, but it could happen.)
• Shows his younger siblings want to watch (The entire world should be allergic to Max and Ruby.)
• Math homework (“Sorry, Mr. Teacher. I couldn’t complete that worksheet. I’m severely allergic to long division.”)
• Girls (He’ll outgrow this one eventually.)

Heck, I’d claim allergies every now and then if I could get away with it. Some things I wish I was allergic to:

• Vegetables in general (Bleh. I only eat them because I feel obligated as a semi-adult.)
• Reality television (Celebrity diving? Really?)
• Going to Walmart (This one really flares up when I’ve got the kids with me.)
• Anything claiming “SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED” (Lying bastards.)
• Arguing children (If only my ears would swell shut.)

*******

Anything you are (or wish you were) allergic to?

The old one had been dead for about a year-and-a-half, which is a pretty standard timeframe for me to get around to doing something (SEE ALSO: tax preparation, toenail clipping, vasectomy scheduling).

It’s like I always say: “There’s no I in team, but there’s at least one – and possibly even two – in procrastination, depending on one’s spelling ability.”

Ditto for apathetic. And idiot.

Anyway, it’ll be nice to roll up the quarter-mile of extension cord we’d been dragging around the house.

Better than receiving the battery itself, however, was the included “instruction manual” — a double-sided sheet outlining a series of warnings in five different languages (one of which is almost English-like) that makes those cautionary statements related to the Happy Fun Ball! seem relatively reasonable.

In the interest of your safety, here are some of the warnings:

Noooooooooooooooooooo!

Never throw the battery pack into fire, as that could cause the battery pack to explode. (Which would be TOTALLY AWESOME, but whatever.)

Never expose the battery pack to any liquid. (Particularly Bud Light Lime.)

Never expose the battery to direct sunlight. (It’s a Cullen.)

Never hammer a nail into the battery pack. (Your natural inclination when receiving a laptop battery.)

Never store or use the battery pack in a locked and unventilated vehicle, where excessive internal temperatures may be encountered. (But it’s okay to store it in an unlocked vehicle.)

Always keep the battery pack out of reach of infants or small children. (The same holds true for glitter.)

Never shock the battery pack by dropping it or throwing it. (Or putting it in a figure four leg lock.)

Additionally, one should never shock a battery pack by…

…telling it that Hostess no longer makes powdered sugar doughnuts.

…showing it an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras.

…handing it a credit card statement with $750 in charges for acorns in Ice Age Village.

…having it walk in on its parents attempting the Butter Churner.

…forcing it to change a meconium-smeared diaper.

…sending it to a Chuck E. Cheese with $50 and four young children.

Ah, screw it. I’m just gonna chuck it in a fire and see what happens.

“No, Hellcat, you can’t paint my face…”

Hellcat and I have a special relationship. It basically amounts to me doing whatever she says, whenever she says.

At least that’s how Kick Ass Wife — likely rolling her eyes – would describe it.

(Coincidentally, this is the exact same relationship KAW has with her dad, but don’t tell her I said that.)

So it was that I found myself prone on Hellcat’s bed last night.

HELLCAT: “Daddy, will you lay with me?”

ME: “No. Your mom said nobody is laying with you.” (Yes, I play that card. Frequently.)

HELLCAT: “But –”

ME: “Okay.”

What can I say? She’s convincing.

So I crawled up into bed with her, and she immediately asked me to tell her a story.

ME: “No. We read books right before bed.”

HELLCAT: “But –”

Me: “Okay.”

I know, I know. Just quit with the eyerolls.

Anyway, I asked the 5-year-old mind melder what she wanted a story about. She said the dentist.

ME: “Like you’re a dentist?”

HELLCAT: “No, like I’m going to the dentist.”

ME: “I’m not going to tell you a story about you going to the dentist.”

HELLCAT: “But –”

So I told her a story about her going to the dentist.

In fact, I just retold the factual account of her actually going to the dentist a couple of months ago. No frivolous details. No embellishment with leprechaun hygenists or a whimsical dentist using a unicorn horn to check for cavities or a magical prize drawer containing cotton candy floss. Just a retelling of a boring-ass trip to the dentist.

She loved it.

After the story, I decided to try to levy a parenting moment out of the bedtime in hopes that I’d feel better about being such a pushover.

“You know, you could be a dentist when you grow up, ” I said hopefully. “You could be Dr. McFadden!” (I’m already assuming a disposition lending itself to a nickname of “Hellcat” isn’t going to result in a flurry of marriage proposals.)

To which said Hellcat replied – with a look equal parts conviction and disdain, visible even by the meager illumination of a nightlight — “I’m not going to be a dentist. I’m going to be a Walmart worker.”

To which I replied — with a look equal parts conviction and disdain, visible even by the meager illumination of a nightlight — “What?”

Don’t get me wrong. I have no issue with Walmart other than whenever I go there it seems about a thousand other people are doing the same thing, and I’m generally not a big fan of situations involving other people, thousand or otherwise.

And definitely don’t think this has anything to do with feminism and sending a message to our daughter that little girls can grow up to be whatever they want to be, just like boys. Hellcat can look at her mom and figure that out. She’s no dummy.

Graduated with a minor in barista sciences.

No, my only hope for our kids is that they grow up and find something that makes them happy.

And — more importantly — pays somewhere in the six-figures range.

Hell, I wouldn’t care if Hellcat worked at Walmart. Scanning things, sorting things, stacking things. I’m sure it’d make her very happy.

Ditto for being a “chai maker,” which she proclaimed was her destiny after “graduating” from preschool. (CARD: Congratulations on managing to turn 5!)

No, I’d be proud if she did either of those things. If doing so paid an annual salary of $250,000+.

Because at least one of these kids is going to have to support us when we get older. I mean, I’m a writer, for Christ’s sake! Chai makers are practically Trump-like compared to me.

So I’ll keep telling Hellcat stories about dentists and doctors and professional football players and Cirque du Soleil performers (they probably make some decent coin) in hopes that I can eventually break her and convince her she wants to grow up and be one of those things.

Unless she says she wants a story about a Walmart worker.

Then I’ll just lay down and tell that tale.

Seriously. Enough with the eyerolls already.

What did you want to be when you grew up? Did it work out? Anyone actually know what Cirque du Soleil performers make? I’ve been working on my flexibility. Think I might take a swing at it…

When Kick Ass Wife and I moved here and took our first teaching jobs almost 15 years ago, he and I coached basketball together. A hundred or so hours of bus trips later, we knew each other pretty well, and that friendship has remained til this day.

He’s a salt-of-the-earth type person, someone you feel fortunate to have crossed paths with in life.

And he has a great sense of humor.

So it was that I composed this letter and sent it with Slim (sealed in an enveloped) to deliver to his PE teacher the day of the mile run:

In the end,  Slim — oblivious to the nature of the letter he had delivered – ran the mile, which was fine with him because he’s one of those sick individuals like his marathoning mother who actually enjoys running.

My friend – who penned a witty rebuttal which brought me to tears – got a chuckle as he put the poor little bastards through their paces.

And Kick Ass Wife — who teaches at the same school the kids attend and works with a group of really terrific people – got a cowboy hat, compliments of a colleague who caught wind of Slim’s letter of excusal.

Hopefully she’ll try it out when the mile run comes around again this spring.

Yeehaw, indeed.

“Eat snow, Shredder!”

Tax Credit #4 and I spent the afternoon playing in the snow yesterday.

We’ve received a fair amount of white stuff over the last couple weeks, which is awesome. It provides opportunities for the types of memorable, enriching activities I want our children to experience.

Like redneck sledding.

And snowball fights.

For me, it’s hard to imagine a childhood void of the thrill of scooping up a handful of fresh, wet snow, packing it as tightly as you possibly can, and drilling a fellow human being directly in the face from a painfully-close range.

However, with a little guy like Tax Credit #4, snowballs and snowball fights have a little different feel to them.

Here are some helpful guidelines for snowballs and toddlers.

1. You’ll need to make all the snowballs for the child because mittened toddler hands are as useless at tits on a crow.

I don’t really understand what that means, but Kick Ass Wife’s grandmother says it all the time and she’s awesome. So I love it.

Anyway, each time #4 attempted to fashion a snowball with his club-like mitts, he became increasingly agitated.

“THIS SNOW’S BROKED!” he finally yelled.

So I corrected his grammar and piled up a pyramid of power-packed projectiles he could use for his personal arsenal.

Which he decided to snack on.

2. Beyond making snowballs, your only other contribution is being a target.

I know it seems snowball “fight” would suggest two opposing sides with the expectation that both are trying to hit the other, but that’s not how it works.

WARNING: DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT HITTING THE TODDLER WITH A SNOWBALL.

No matter how light and playfully I toss snow at Tax Credit #4, he acts as though he’s been struck down with a bowling-ball sized ice bomb anytime snow so much as grazes him.

TC#4: “DAD! WHY’D YOU DO THAT!”

ME: “Because we’re having a snowball fight?”

TC#4: **TANTRUM**

Snowballs: It’s what’s for snack.

And if even a single crystal of snow accidentally comes in contact with an exposed surface — say his neckline just above the collar of the coat — it’s meltdown city, baby. Game over.

No, if you know what’s good for you, this melee will involve you standing stock-still while the toddler pelts you — ironically – with the snowballs you made.

And remember, a toddler is about waist-high to the average adult, meaning the most-likely place of impact will be your groin.

TC#4: “Gotcha!”

ME: **COUGH** “You sure did!” **COUGH**

Believe me, even while bundled up in a snow suit to the point of almost zero dexterity, a 3-year-old can throw with a surprising amount of velocity, so don’t pack the snowballs you’re making for your child to throw at you too tightly.

3. Suggest you and the toddler team up to throw snowballs at the groin of a third-party target, like a tree.

After several direct shots below the belt, I decided it was time to come up with some type of game that didn’t involve so much abuse.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” I said, spitting up blood, “Let’s pretend that tree is Shredder and we’re Ninja Turtles!”

“Oh, yeah!” Tax Credit #4 is all about the Turtles, so luckily for me he was all-in.

At this point, he’d exhausted his first cache of snowballs — all of them having been either eaten or hurled at my crotch — so I sat down to make more ammo.

And ice down my snowballs.

I tell ya, if toddlers would just hit you in the face like they’re supposed to, snowball fights would be a lot funner.

And a Hello Kitty microphone and multiple wardrobe changes and raw primal aggression in the case of singing.

So last night when she announced she was going to color a picture for me, it was no surprise she reappeared minutes later with five. And — contrary to Kick Ass Wife’s baseless assertions that Hellcat is a daddy’s girl — she included her mother as a recipient on all but one of them, as well.

After all, Hellcat is nothing if not thoughtful.

As we thanked our precocious artist and made our best-educated guesses at the species of those animals not conveniently labeled (if you’re curious, that is a lion, not a “scared wiener dog” as Perpetual Motion chimed in), I decided it was a perfect opportunity for a little innuendo, as though there are non-perfect times.

“Your mom is probably most impressed by this one,” I explained, pointing, “because she can’t help but think of your dad any time she sees an elephant.”

“Why?” asked Hellcat.

“Because elephants have really… long… memories, just like me.”

After sighing and eye rolling in the manner our kids have become accustomed to, Kick Ass Wife said, “Actually, the reason I think of your dad when I see elephants is because the size of their brains is much smaller than the size of their bodies would suggest.”

“Ohhhhhhh, Dad!” exclaimed Slim in that manner common to 8-year-old’s-who-aren’t-minding-their-own-business-just-before-their-faced-fathers-send-them-to-their-rooms.

Luckily, elephants have thick skin, too.

Laughs are good. So are Yoda slippers.

Have you ever gotten out of the habit of doing something for so long you’re not really sure how to get started again?

If so, you understand how it’s been for me and showering as of late.

Oh, and blogging.

To be fair, I’ve been tied up with some other responsibilities – race strategist for Usain Bolt at the London Olympics (“Run really fast”), guest choreographer for Beyonce’s Super Bowl halftime performance (“You know, I don’t think you can ever go wrong with the chicken dance”) — but, for the most part, I just haven’t really felt like writing.

However, I was reading through some old posts recently – like this one, this one, and this one — and they reminded me I used to find quite a bit of humor in the insanity of our day-t0-day life.

So it’s time to get back in the proverbial saddle and chafe some areas that haven’t been chafed for a while.

And on that note, I’m going to shower.