How Can a Chair Cause so Much Trouble?

Several weeks ago, most likely while I was watching Jeopardy! (I have yet to make it through even a single round undisturbed), the following discussion took place.

Sumie:  Hon!  Come here, quick!


Steve:  What?


Sumie:  You've got to see this!


Steve:  I've got to see what?  (I didn't really want to see anything at that point.)


Sumie:  I just taught Mimi something.  


Steve:  You just taught Mimi what?  (It's amazing how often this kind of conversation occurs from opposite rooms of our, thankfully, small home.)


Sumie:  Just come here.  You have to see what she can do with her chair!


I walked down the hall and into Mimi's bedroom.  There I saw a pugnacious and overjoyed bundle of energy stretching tiptoe on her little chair, gleefully flicking her bedroom light on and off.  

Sumie:  Isn't it amazing?  All I had to do was bring the chair over here, put her on top, and show her how to flick the light.  


Steve (not exactly overjoyed):  Yes, that is fantastic...  Hey, um, where's she going with that chair...

Where she went was, of course, the kitchen.  The most dangerous room in the home.  Within half an hour Mimi learned that, thanks to her chair, she can access almost everything that Mama and Papa had previously put off limits.  Mimi now roams the house with her little chair actively seeking out the most expensive, breakable, susceptible to toddler spit, dangerous, toxic, staining, or irreplaceable items previously out of reach.  Below, we find Mimi ascending her chair.  What could she be after? 

If you guessed toddler-scalding hot water, you're right!  Mimi is overjoyed at this new prospect for inflicting searing pain and costly injuries upon herself when her parents' backs are turned.  

Granted, the chair isn't always used for evil.  Mimi often just wants to help out.  Here she is attempting to wash her spoon (which happened to be clean)...

...and  helping Mama wash veggies for dinner.  Yes, Mimi's assistance is still more hindrance than help, but, I have to admit, sometimes it's rather cute. 

Before Mimi discovered how to use her chair for mischief, Sumie and I thought we had the house fairly well baby-proofed.  How wrong we were.  Let's take the kitchen as example.  Previously, the worst Mimi could do was ransack the Tupperware drawer.  Now she can get into almost everything.  So far we've had to either push back or relocate the following:

• hot water pot
• bills and important notices
• knives and cutting boards (when preparing foods)
• our machete collection
• the AK-47 and the vintage Thompson sub-machine gun (well, let's face it, we've had to remove all our automatic weapons from the kitchen)
• Sumie's open-beaker assortment of hydrochloric acid
• and, last but not least, my William and Kate commemorative flamethrower (lighting the stove will be far less fun)

Even with all the changes, and the additional anxiety, it's been fun watching Mimi discover her first real tool.  This simple device, a portable step, has literally opened up a new world for Mimi, and she's having a ball exploring it.  Yes.  She's learning how to manipulate the world around her to get what she wants.  Much like she's already done for years with her parents.  

This One! (Wah!), That One! (Wah!)

Mimi has finally started using two- and three-word phrases.  She's making little requests (More please!), telling us who owns what (Papa's phone.  Mama's car.), and constantly explaining what she's doing (Mimi run!  Mimi car vroom!  Mimi concerned about possible gerrymandering in several battleground states prior to upcoming presidential election!).  With each new phrase, Sumie and I are getting closer to finally having genuine conversations with our little one, in both English and Japanese.  The process is astounding, but there is a downside.  Life with this little girl and her growing vocabulary is not all rainbows and sunshine.

Now that Mimi can communicate her preferences rather clearly, she rarely hesitates to do so.  Unfortunately, these preferences are dictated by toddler logic, which means that most are arbitrary, immediately contradicted, dangerous, or insane.  This morning, Mimi decided to use the phrase "this one" to communicate her unreasonable and ridiculous desires regarding socks. 

The day had started out well.  Mimi woke happy and let me dress her with minimal fuss or protest.  Until it came time for socks.  Upon my uttering "sock," Mimi ran for her sock drawer chanting "Mimi sock!  Mimi sock!" and, naturally, selected the only unmatched sock in the drawer as her pick of the day.  "This one!  This one!" she demanded. 

"Honey," I calmly explained, "we don't have the other sock for that one.  How about these?"

"No.  No!  Nooooo!  This one!  This one!"  was Mimi's reply.  

Mimi ran from me, shrieking at her father's despotic insistence that she wear two socks.  I chased her down and again offered her the matching pair.  "This one?" I asked...

Mimi looked at me and, as I expected, used her phrase.  "No.  This one!"

Clearly, there was no arguing with her.  It would have to be "this one."  So I did what all responsible parents do in such situations.  I pulled a fast one.  "OK, honey," I said,  "we'll use this one!"  Mimi was overjoyed as I took the sock from her hand.  She immediately sat down and raised a leg in triumph, waiting for me to put on the hard-won sock.  I, however, had deviously switched socks on her as she was sitting down, placing the mismatched sock in my pocket (it's still there, actually).  Mimi never noticed the difference.  Evil?  Maybe.  Dishonest?  A little, I guess.  But it got the job done.

The "this one!" morning sock confrontation was gentle sparring compared to the "that one!" battle-to-the-death cage match over diapers that occurred last night.  So gruesome and horrendous was this inexplicable display of toddler willfulness that it could not be filmed or photographed.   

It was 9:00 o'clock and time to change for bed.  Normally this is not an issue.  We strip Mimi down, slip on an overnight diaper, and then zip up her pajamas.  Last night, though, Mimi decided that she didn't want to wear an overnight diaper.  No, she wanted to wear "that one!" a normal diaper that just happened to be there on the floor where we were changing her.  Sumie was changing her and started to struggle.

    "That one!"  screamed Mimi.
    "No, Mimi,"  replied Sumie serenely.  "We need to wear the overnight diaper."
    "That one!  That one!  That one!  Aaaarrrrrr-waaaaahhhh!"
    "Fine, you can wear this..." and then I butted in.
    "No way.  That girl is wearing her overnight diaper.  I'm not waking up to change her halfway through the night simply because she's being silly."

A massive struggle ensued with me, having a nearly 1000% weight advantage on Mimi, eventually getting her into the overnight diaper and pajamas.  The argument, though, did not end there.  Papa hadn't won just yet.  Fully dressed for bed, Mimi ran over to her normal diaper and started chanting "That one!  That one!" while attempting to unbutton her PJs.  The time had come for timeout.

I placed Mimi on her timeout chair, which is the easy chair in the room we were already in, and told her she had to sit there for one minute.  Mimi wailed.  Screams of "that one!" came every ten seconds between gigantic sobs and hitched breaths.  She'd nearly worked herself into hiccups, but still she kept chanting "that one!"  Sumie, always the conscientious mother, had the grace to cover her face as she laughed uncontrollably from the floor.  I felt a bit bad for Mimi but it was, above all else, ridiculously funny.

After a minute had passed, remarkably with Mimi remaining on her chair, she'd calmed down somewhat and joined us on the living room floor.  She still wanted to wear the normal diaper - her murmurs, sniffles, and wary pointing made it obvious - but she'd come to the conclusion that it just wasn't worth fighting anymore.  Exhausted, she was out cold in her crib within five minutes. 

I'm sure that soon we'll move beyond these battles of will and eventually be able to explain to Mimi why we make certain decisions.  Oh God.  She'll constantly be asking us "Why?  Why?"  Maybe that'll be worse!

MessMaker 5000 - The Final Word in Filth

Nearly two years ago, around mid-May 2010, Sumie and I received our first MessMaker 5000.  We'd considered getting one shortly after we got married, but ended up waiting about four years before moving forward.  When we finally decided to go ahead with the purchase, we were both excited and anxious.  I suppose the waiting period does that to you.  A lot of thoughts go through your head over 9 months.  Will it actually destroy as much as I've heard?  Is it a life changer?  Can I really not do without something that will almost assuredly put a fist through my vintage speakers? 

When we first received our MessMaker 5000, I was a bit confused by its performance.  Our model didn't seem to make much of a mess - it could only filthify itself and anything within a 2-foot radius - but it sure as hell was loud.  It was also very distracting.  Every 2-3 hours it would go off, demanding milk.  And it was expensive!  I suppose I fell prey to the same marketing plan everyone else does.  "MessMaker 5000 - Yours for only one night of fun and no money down!"  I have to admit, the initial investment was negligible.  But good lord, after only two months of use, I was shelling out money left and right.  In NYC the going rate for MessMaker upkeep was $1,700 per month.  And that was basic service.  We had friends who had gone with in-home MessMaker maintenance and it was costing them upwards of $3,600 a month.  Granted, they didn't have to drop off their MessMaker in the morning and pick it up at night, but man, that's a lot of money for something that does little more than vomit milk on your shirt from time to time. 

After about a year our MessMaker became mobile.  As the months went by and the MessMaker learned to stand, open cupboards, unspool toilet paper, drool aggressively, and produce noxious waste, we really began to get our money's worth.  As promised, our home became shabbier and shabbier while the MessMaker grew ever louder, curious, and violent.  Now, at nearly two years into MessMaker ownership, I think we're finally starting to experience full filth mode. 

Like all MessMaker 5000s, ours requires constant distraction in order to operate at peak efficiency.  The other day this meant I had to set up a wooden railway.  I suppose this was required so that the MessMaker could place each piece of track in a different room of the house and the individual cars could be hidden in the kitchen, bedroom closet, and toilet.  Anyway, that's what happened.  Our MessMaker is a bit quirky and prefers to destroy vintage toys over new ones.  Note the 1960s packaging.  Perhaps our MessMaker fancies itself a modern Sally Draper. 

All MessMakers are inherently creative.  Perhaps that's why so many households have one.  Here, our MessMaker has found a new way to create filth: feeding ham to inanimate objects. 

One of the primary ways MessMakers create filth is by demanding something, playing with it for 2 minutes, and then abandoning it.  Now, this wouldn't be such a big deal if the owner could immediately put the item away.  But MessMakers are programed against that kind of rational behavior.  Once something has been brought out, even if it's not being played with, it must stay out for a minimum of 4 hours or the MessMaker will revert to tantrum mode.  As a result of this programming, our living room looks like this...

our hallway like this...

and the MessMaker's storage facility like this.

Below you can see our MessMaker in action, examining a car and determining the optimal place where it will cause serious injury. 

Occasionally, the MessMaker will take a break to do something seemingly constructive.  Here ours is drawing at the kitchen table. 

MessMakers are specifically designed to look cute when completing simple tasks, so don't be too taken in.  When I saw my MessMaker scribbling at the kitchen table this morning my heart melted.  But that's just what it wanted.  5 minutes later, when I removed the MessMaker from the table, I found 1,500 pen marks gouged into the kitchen table.  Yes, the MessMaker cunningly balances filth with cuteness.  This enables it to destroy your belongings with impunity.  I have to admit, it's a rather ingenious strategy.  

Those without a MessMaker in the home may think that one is more than enough, but amazingly, most people who purchase one MessMaker eventually end up getting another.  Even Sumie and I, despite our MessMaker 5000's tremendous reliability when it comes to destroying our home, are considering investing in a second one.  Foolish, I know, given that MessMakers tend to outlive their owners and only grow more expensive with each passing year.  Still, there's something very endearing about the MessMaker line of products.  I think it's that darn cuddle factor they've programmed in.  There really is no getting around it, no matter how filthy your living room may get. 

Compromising Hairstyles

Mimi was born with a mop top.  At one week she boasted more hair than her follically-challenged father.  At least in the back.  

Sumie and I considered trimming the mop from time to time, but we couldn't bring ourselves to submit to it.  The longer it grew, the curlier, and cuter, it got.  And so, the months flew by and the hair continued its rapid advance downward.

At 17 months, though, push had come to shove.  Something had to be done.  The situation was so dire that Mimi couldn't even play the piano without her hair blocking the keyboard!

Knowing that there's not a hairstylist alive for whom Mimi would sit still, I took the job into my own hands.  What drove me to it?  Well, this morning I caught a glimpse of my own hair in the mirror.  

 Genes aren't kind and I knew that if I didn't do something, Mimi could soon be suffering from the same plight as her father.


A bang trim was in order.  I set up her highchair and tied her favorite sleeping blanket, which needed to be washed anyway, around her neck, old-timey barber style.

I then wet down her hair with No-More-Tangles.  This made for some straight, manageable, but greasy hair.  A few forward strokes from the brush and my canvas was ready.  Except for one thing.  It was moving all over the place.

The actual cutting was, by far, the most difficult part.  I really didn't want for Sumie to come home to find her daughter wearing an eye-patch, though I guess it would've made the selection of her Halloween costume a no brainer.  After several attempts at cutting her bangs like one would at a salon, and being repaid with fierce head shaking, I took up a new strategy.  Starting on Mimi's right, I gathered a few strands of hair, perhaps 20% of her bangs, and then snipped.  I repeated the process across her forehead until I reached the other side.  Amazingly, it came out fairly even!  Not sure how that happened, but I'll take it. 

Mimi was unsure of the new look at first,

but I think that she was reasonably satisfied.  After all, the price was right! 

Somehow I don't think we'll be able to wait another 17 months before we take a pair of shears to Mimi's locks.  Maybe next time we'll actually brave a salon.  I just hope we can find one that offers general anesthesia.

Bored? Here's a Bucket!

Occam's Razor (roughly phrased and blatantly simplified for my own purposes): 
When faced with multiple hypotheses, all other aspects being equal, the simplest explanation is generally correct. 

It's a rather straightforward concept and a great principle to keep in mind: don't confuse the issue with elaborate explanations, though they may sound more impressive.  For instance, the other day I couldn't find my car keys.  After two minutes of desperate and distracted searching, my fecund mind began to picture my innocent wife snatching said keys from the counter, thrusting them into her purse, and taking them with her to the hospital via bus.  Obviously she had done this intentionally.  Perhaps because I had told her in no uncertain terms the night before that I needed the car.  She wanted to punish me.  But for what?  It was while considering the 34th vindictive possibility for her "rude personal transgression against me" that I discovered the keys hiding in my pocket.  "Ah yes," I thought, "that certainly makes more sense."  Sorry, hon.   

As a new parent, I've found that sometimes I am similarly over elaborate when it comes to entertaining my child.  In a previous post I had mentioned that a barren back yard is hard to play in.  It needs equipment.  Thus, I went out and bought some.  Several days of play, though, has taught me that I was perhaps over-thinking the problem.  Before I bought that first ball the yard was already equipped with a hose and a bucket.  Mix in a sunny day and you have endless possibilities for play. 

To be fair, this wasn't any ordinary bucket.  It was an ordinary watering bucket.  And, for reasons I still can't explain but kind of understand, Mimi loved it.  She wanted to water everything.  Except the plants.  Completely filled it would weigh well more than Mimi, so I was kept rather busy refilling that jug every 2-3 minutes as Mimi scampered about the back yard bringing refreshment to cement and dead wood. 

Eventually, of course, she tired of the bucket.  This meant it was time to bring rain on a sunny day.  Take that, Credence Clearwater Revival!

The nozzled hose became my weapon of choice.  The spigot turned to full power, I would take my aim as Mimi walked unsuspectingly along the garden square. 

My own child ruthlessly in sight, I would fire a two to three second burst high into the air. 

A second or two later the rain would come crashing down, oddly localized right over Mimi's head.  This was generally followed by manic giggling (from Mimi, not me). 

Thanks to the can and the hose, we turned what could've been 10 to 15 minutes of outside boredom into over an hour of enjoyable, and cheap, adventures.  I can't wait till she gets a bit older so I can turn that hose on her full force.  Just like my parents did to me.  I understand it now.  It's all about gentle payback!

Sun, Sand, Surf, and Spew

I've always loved convertibles, but they've played only a minor role in my automotive life.  My 914, which I had for a scant 3 years, was a targa, so at least I could take off the roof.  Not that it was ever really on.  It actually snowed on me in that car.  For me, and pardon the cliche, there's nothing better than an open road in a car with the top down.  And I want to make sure Mimi develops a similar mentality ASAP.  So, when my Mom offered that we take her convertible Volkswagen Eos on a sunny drive up into the Marin headlands, I jumped at the chance.
Heading north across the Golden Gate Bridge we soon found ourselves headed for Mount Tamalpais and Stinson beach.  This meant time on Highway 1, which is, I have to say, God's greatest gift to the automotive enthusiast.  Mimi had fallen asleep, so we kept the top up all the way to the beach.  Upon arriving, on an atypically bright and sunny day, we realized something.  Today wasn't just Mimi's first trip in a convertible, it was her first time at the ocean!

We found a nice spot well removed from the surf and set out our trusty picnic mat.  Mimi, somewhat perplexed by the unstable brown stuff underfoot, stuck to the mat at first.

That brown stuff looked familiar, though, and before too long she'd made the connection.  It was the same stuff she'd dumped all over herself in that cement box in the park in NYC.  "This is sand!" she realized, "I'd better start throwing it at people."  And so she did.  Within two minutes half the picnic mat had been buried. 

A water lover like her father, Mimi was soon drawn to the waves.  With Mama's help she made her way through the unstable and tricky drifts to the cool, damp, and infinitely more stable sand at water's edge.

 The excellent footing gave Mimi newly found confidence and it was all we could do to keep her from racing into the waves.

Her first real wave, though, which came up to her knees, was a bit of a shock.  "Why is this so cold?" she seemed to shriek.  "And what's happening under my feet?  The ground seems to be going away!"  Before long, though, she'd gotten her beach legs and was making the most of it.  She eventually tired Sumie out and we had to send in a substitute.  Grandma was happy to oblige.

We eventually returned to the car, crusty but happy, and put the top down for the drive home.  Mimi loved it.  She can be a bit of a screamer in the car sometimes, but the full view of the amazing scenery was providing a welcome distraction to both baby and parents.  I began to think that maybe I should get a convertible someday, too.  I tend to enjoy driving more when there's no screaming.

But, even with the excellent views out of a convertible, there's no getting around the fact that Highway 1 is a very enjoyable but very twisty road.  The kind of road that brings things up that are better left down.  Five miles in I glanced over at Sumie, who was looking a little green, but hanging in there.  She'd stopped talking, which meant she was feeling a bit nauseous, but could handle it.  Mimi was quiet.  I thought that maybe we'd make it to the main road without incident.  And then, just as I was getting comfortable, came the unmistakable sound of vast quantities of semi-digested milk, juice, and Japanese pretzel sticks being hwarfed violently back into the light of day.

5 minutes later, after changing Mimi's clothes once again and wiping down her unfortunately still rather stinky carseat, Mimi seemed to be in good spirits.  We bundled back into the car and I gingerly made my way down the mountain to the main road without further incident.

Despite the vomit, I'm still quite intrigued about a convertible as a family car.  When the top's down it's far easier to get the kids in and out of car seats.  And we live so close to the beach, amidst such wonderful scenery, that it's virtually criminal to deprive them of an unobstructed view.  It's going to take a lot of research, but I have time.  I have no idea what car we'll eventually get, but I do know that we'll be going back to the beach.  Though Mimi won't be able to say so in words, I'm sure that she'll insist on it.

Dinner for Two? We're out of Practice!

As a family, we're pretty good at dinner.

We generally cook for ourselves, eat together around the kitchen table, and make less of a mess each day.  Well, at least Mimi does thanks to her new bib, a gift from her adopted Grandmother, Mrs. Hoshino, in Japan.

We can even entertain with general ease.  Last week we invited our friends Hanayo and Juan over for steak and salmon.  A delicious dinner was on the table 30 minutes after firing up the barbecue.  I cannot begin to express just how comforting it is to be able to grill again.  There's something in every man's soul that screams to set fire to meat.  It also means that I'm less likely to do the dishes!

Nearly 16 months of dinner for three has taught us how to cook quickly and efficiently.  By learning how to cut down on our prep and clean-up time, we've been able to eat as a family each evening without it feeling like a chore.  We were feeling good about our dinner skills.  But all that changed Saturday night.

With Grandpa Reber out of town on a hike, Grandma decided to come in and stay an evening with us in San Francisco.  This meant that for the first time since Mimi's birth, Steve and Sumie had the opportunity to go to dinner as a couple.  We were excited.  We'd had the occasional lunch together when Mimi was in daycare, but we'd not been on a date in 16 months.  Perhaps more.

And so we prepared.  Thanks to a local foodie show, we settled on a nice little restaurant in Hayes Valley called "Sauce," which offered portobello mushroom fries, tater tots in truffle oil with gruyere and bacon dipping sauce, and many other tasty tidbits that reward the palate and punish the waistline.

The food was great, the ambiance relaxed, and the restaurant relatively quiet.  Everything we were looking for.  But despite the great setting, something was off.  After nearly a year and a half of eating with baby, Sumie and I were woefully out of practice when it came to a couple's night out.

Our conversation, though engaging, focused on the following:  Mimi, finances, three-year-plan (where will we live and how will we afford it), work, and life-balance.  It was all good, necessary conversation, but not exactly what one would expect on a romantic night out.  By dessert our talk and our topics had finally started swinging around to us; the two of us.  It had taken nearly two hours, but we eventually did get beyond the baby, the house, and work.

The drive home was fun.  We both realized that, as a date, it wasn't all that successful, but in recognizing that, something clicked.  Family will always come first, even, at times, at the cost of our personal relationship.  But if we try, if we give it some time, we can always find that connection we shared when it was just the two of us.  With Mimi in our lives we not only have a new source of joy, a new way of living, but also a new means of making us reaffirm what made our relationship so special in the first place.

Backyard Shenanigans

For ten years I lived without a backyard.  And it wasn't all that bad.  On the West Side of Manhattan we had Riverside Park and on the East, John Jay Park.  Many city dwellers think of their neighborhood parks as extensions of their homes; their "backyards," so to speak. 

But now, in addition to Golden Gate Park, we actually have some space in the back of the house to call our own.  And that's posed a problem.  Our "adopted backyards" had always come fully equipped.  All we had to do was bring a picnic mat and we were set.  Our actual backyard, though clean and tidy, is rather barren.  I hadn't considered it before, but a barren backyard is no more useful than an empty room in the house.  Handy, but not that functional.  I needed some stuff.  But what?

Patio furniture would have to wait.  It's been ten years since I've had a backyard and I'm not ready for that kind of commitment.  Not yet.  I decided to start small with a few surprises for Mimi.  The first, and I had forgotten just how important having one of these around can be, was a new soccer ball.

We play a little game called "get the baby."  Mimi will run to one end of the patio and I'll kick the ball toward her.  If I hit her, I yell out, "Gotcha!"  She's taken to repeating after me.  "GAHSUTHA!"  She's getting pretty good at stopping the ball now.  Maybe she'll be a goalkeeper someday.

The other surprise was a little ride-on fire truck.  This took some figuring out for Mimi, but she was soon scooting along the pavement on her own. 

There's a slight slope to the patio leading from the garage down to the garden railing.  This is Mimi's race track.  I'll prop up the rear of the fire engine on the garage door ledge and then Mimi will shoot herself down the hill with a mighty kick.  The girl enjoys speed.  Hmm, maybe if she keeps this up I'll be able to bring her to her first track day in 12 years or so.  I guess that means I should get to work on a track day racer, right?

Of course, unlike adults, toddlers are amazingly adept at finding things to do even in the absence officially sanctioned leisure equipment.  Mimi will take the steps down from the patio to the garden, with Papa's help, at least 5 or 6 times a day.  First, she scopes out the situation.

Then, she contemplates that first step.  Is it worth it?

Sometimes it still feels a bit overwhelming.   

But, with Papa's help, she always makes her way down successfully.  Again on flat land, Mimi races around the track.  Often with Papa running behind her shouting "GAO!" like some kind of overweight and uncoordinated Japanese tiger.  "Well, at least he seems to be having fun..." she seems to smirk. 

Her races run, Mimi will take to organizing the garden.  This usually consists of picking up dead leaves from the cement path or moving the wood chips from the garden's center to the planter bucket which has no bottom.  Why this is done, I have no idea.  She seems to seek order in things outside the house.  Sad that her organizational impulse for the outdoors is consistently supplanted by a destructive impulse when she comes inside.

Before I know it Mimi will be taking to her first tricycle.  I can't wait to see her pedaling around that back patio.  It'll be cute.  And maybe, just maybe, she'll be distracted enough for me to get some reading in.  One of my personal favorite backyard activities.

Unintended Acceleration: Some Thoughts for all who Drive

Yesterday, while pulling out of the garage, the oddest thing happened.  As I slowly backed from the garage into the street, checking my side mirrors for parked cars and my rear-view for oncoming traffic, I noticed my car speeding up, ever so slightly.  I applied more brake, but the car only continued to speed up.  I hit the brake harder, only to pick up more speed.

The total distance was perhaps only 20 feet, the speed, maybe up to 10 mph, but it was genuinely frightening.  It felt as if the car was fighting me.

I didn't panic, though.  Instead, I eventually backed my foot off the brake and shifted the car from drive to neutral.  The engine was screaming at this point at 6,000 rpm, but the car had stopped.  I looked down at my right foot.  It was planted on the brake pedal, but had slipped, almost imperceptibly, onto the accelerator as well.  As such, the harder I had pushed on the brake, the further down I had pushed the gas, causing the car to accelerate.  I slowly shifted my foot entirely to the brake, the revs dropped, I put the car back into gear, and went along my way.

Now, as a person who loves cars and prides himself on his ability behind the wheel, this is rather an embarrassing story.  I've been driving for nearly 20 years without an accident (knock on wood) and know the mechanical systems of my cars well.  Yet yesterday I nearly lost control of my car simply backing out of the driveway.  It's because I can't believe I did this, that I made this stupid mistake, that I need to share the story.

Several years ago there was an outcry, and some claimed a scandal, regarding "unintended acceleration" in certain Toyota vehicles.  While Toyota did find that some of their cars may, in exceedingly rare instances, suffer from a stuck acceleration pedal due to pedal or floor mat design, there seems to be no evidence of cars accelerating "on their own."  The NTSA found that this was almost always caused by driver error.

Unintended acceleration has been blamed for 89 deaths, according to complaints fielded by the traffic safety administration. But in a separate study of Toyotas involved in accidents, the agency concluded that most cases of sudden acceleration were probably because of drivers stepping on the gas when they thought they were stepping on the brake.

     -New York Times:  http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/09/opinion/09wed2.html

As someone who experienced the very unsettling sensation of my car accelerating against my will yesterday, I can understand why so many people claimed that they had experienced a mechanical error.  It really did feel as if the car had taken control and was "disobeying" me.  It's very disorienting and disquieting.  For some time after, even though I knew the unwanted acceleration had been my fault, I had a feeling of "distrust" towards my car.  "How could I make such a stupid mistake?  It must be the car!"

But this is a very dangerous attitude to have behind the wheel.  Cars break down or fail from time to time, but we humans are far more fallible.  I've been walking since the age of one, and yet I manage to trip slightly or stumble at least once a day.  Even worse, I've been eating since the day I was born and somehow still manage to bite my tongue from time to time.  And yet when these things happen I never blame the shoes I'm wearing of the food I'm chewing.  So, why was I so quick to blame my car?

I think it's human nature to occasionally scapegoat our tools when we ourselves make egregious errors with them.  With every video game system I've ever owned, from Atari to PS3, I have, at some point, blamed the controller for causing me to fall down a pit, lose control of my race car, or mistime a shot at an enemy who then, happily, killed me instead.  Almost without fail, however, when something electronic or mechanical doesn't do what I want it to, the fault is my own.  I've set it up wrong, misread the directions, gotten the controls confused, failed to plug it in, etc...  When I eventually calm down and retrace my steps, I invariably find I was the one at fault.

The vast majority of accidents on the road occur because of driver error.  That's a fact.  We can all keep ourselves a little bit safer by keeping this idea in mind.  Unintended acceleration is a prime example.  In most cases, the driver is doing something wrong.  And, because of the initial error, when it comes time to correct the mistake the driver only makes it worse.

My experience with unintended acceleration - and driver error - got me to thinking about how we can better protect ourselves behind the wheel from, well, ourselves when this kind of thing happens.  Despite all the press Toyota received from the initial complaints, nothing much helpful was shared when it was determined that the accidents were attributed to human error.  If it is human error, how do we improve upon it?  I don't claim to be an expert and make no guarantees about the strategy below working every single time, but, upon reflection, this was at least helpful for me in my situation.

If your car seems to be accelerating against your will...

1. Don't panic or make any sudden movements.  This kind of over-reaction can just make matters worse.  Slamming what you think are the brakes can result in just pushing the accelerator further down.  Turning the steering wheel violently to get off the road can result in a skid.
2. Shift the car into Neutral or, if needs be, Park.  The most important thing to do is to disconnect the engine from the transmission so that it can no longer drive the wheels.  This means shifting into neutral in an automatic or simply putting in the clutch in a stick.  Drivers should know how to do this quickly and without thinking.  Shifting into park could damage the transmission, but that's far better than crashing the car.   
3. Don't Immediately Try to Turn Off the Engine.  Once you put the car into neutral the engine may be screaming, but don't turn it off just yet.  Turning off the engine can be quite dangerous, particularly at freeway speeds.  Not only will the steering column lock, making it impossible to steer the car, power steering and power brake systems will no longer have power and will require far more force to operate.  Let the engine scream until you can stop safely.
   
4. Come to a Gentle and Reasonable Stop.  Pull to the side of the road safely - no sudden movements - and then turn the car off.  

These steps seem very simple and obvious, but it's amazing what a little disorientation and a little panic can do to someone behind the wheel.  The best thing one can do is to simply remain calm.  We owe it to our passengers.  They're rather important.

Sorry today's blog was a bit pedantic and preachy, but my experience yesterday really had an impact.  If you found this post at all instructive or helpful, please feel free to share it.  I honestly don't remember learning any of this is Drivers' Ed, which is a shame!

A Weekend of Family, Friends, and Homesickness

This Saturday we braved the weekend traffic for a family birthday in the east bay.  Mimi's cousin, Lucy, was turning two and with the girl cousins currently well outnumbered on that side of the family, it was imperative that Mimi attend.

Here's the birthday girl, along with her Grandpa, Dad, and Uncle enjoying the beautiful weather.  The sunshine fit in well with the yellow themed party. 

The yellow theme ran to the food as well.  This was great news for the kids as they were able to gorge themselves on mac and cheese.  Yellow cupcakes followed.  They were very good.  So good, in fact, that Sumie decided to snatch Mimi's cupcake while she wasn't looking.  Poor, poor child.  Cupcakeless, Mimi decided she'd use the rest of the afternoon to get a little work done on the car.

On Sunday a friend of my mine from high school dropped by the house along with her husband.  They arrived around 2pm and we spent the next few hours catching up while taking in a few of the exhibits at the Academy of Sciences.

Back at home, while preparing chicken karaage (Japanese-style fried chicken) the relative calm of that serene afternoon was rent asunder with the arrival of Kae, Eddie, and Mimi's cousins Nana and Sayuri.  It was great fun, but now, having experienced three young children running at full speed in a 1,200 square foot home, I'm thinking Mimi might need only one brother or sister.

Around 9:00pm, shortly after everyone had headed for home and Mimi for bed, Sumie and sat down to watch a little of the 9/11 memorial services and dedications.  By 10:00 there were tears in my eyes.

Neither Sumie nor I lost anyone in the September attacks.  But they still hold a powerful sway on us.  That terrible day ten years ago, just before the events unfolded, found me in my tiny living room in Japan and Sumie at JFK Airport awaiting a mid-morning flight from New York to Tokyo.  I was watching the news in Japanese.  I couldn't understand much, but the pictures helped.  And that's when the newsflash came on.  One of the twin towers was on fire.  That was as much as I could make out.  Minutes passed.  And then live, on the screen before me, the second tower was hit.  What the hell was going on? 

It would be nearly 12 hours, and a very sleepless night, until I heard Sumie's voice confirming that she was safe. 

When I came to New York to live in August of 2002, the tragedy was no longer raw, but definitely present, particularly downtown.  There was still fear in the city, yes, but far greater was the pervading community of remorse, resolve, rebuilding, and rebirth.  Sumie and I lived in the city those ten years of regeneration following the attacks, and they were very special years.  Despite New York remaining a city famous for its contradictory human congestion and anonymity, there was definitely a shared spirit, a sense of recognition and fellowship, between those who chose to make the city their home.  New Yorkers may have a reputation for being rude, but if you're one of them, you know full well that your fellow New Yorkers have your back.

And so, when the tears came late on Sunday evening, it was not so much in response to 9/11, but just a severe bout of sheer homesickness.  It was a shocker.  I'd never experienced homesickness before.  Not when I moved to Davis for college, to Japan, or to NYC.  Sure, with each transition there were things and people I missed dearly, but never that urge of needing to return home.  At least until last night.  It was powerful and only now is it really starting to wane.

Don't get me wrong.  I love San Francisco and coming here to live near our family and friends was by far the best move we could have made.  But it's not home.  Not yet.  Manhattan, beyond being one of the great cities of the world, gave me my wife, my first career, my first home, and my first child.  No matter San Francisco's benefits, and they are significant and many, it will simply take time to accumulate the life experiences essential for turning a wonderful place into a beloved home.