Halloween has come and gone- nothing left but a bucket full of candy corn and dum-dum suckers.  The crunch bars, M&Ms and butterfingers didn’t see the dawn of November 1st, so what remains is the ghetto candy that folks pass out when they don’t want to invest in a pagan holiday.  What’s up with that anyway? Where’s the good stuff?  What happened to that one crazy guy at the end of the street who would hand out full sized Zagnut bars to every kid that wandered up his driveway?   I loved that guy.  I need to look him up on facebook and give him mad props for his Halloween can-do spirit.  These days my kids are as likely to get a Slim-fast bar as they are a Milky Way; one guy actually had the audacity to give my boys a 4oz bottle of water and a roll of Tums, hello freak it’s Halloween, give up the goods!!!

But this post isn’t a simple rant about how Halloween was better when I was a kid (but it was if you’re wondering).  Actually I am posting because I was fortunate enough to witness another “random act of toughness”.  Several weeks ago, I told my readers (hi Pammy!) that I planned on starting a series of posts aimed at highlighting just how tough my 6-year old son (Cayden) really is.   This is my second installment.

On Halloween night, Connie, the boys and I were wandering around our neighborhood doing the trick or treat thing.  We have our routine- every year we walk the same path visiting the same boring houses getting the same boring candy.  Most of the kids along our route are under two years old and dressed up like an Anne Geddes portrait.   We adopted this route because when we first moved into our neighborhood, the kids were tiny and vulnerable thus safe, boring, quiet houses on Halloween night were probably the smartest choice.  Conventional wisdom suggests that you shouldn’t take your 2-year old to see the opening of Saw IV or the new Rob Zombie Movie- the same flow of logic that Connie and I used when deciding where to trick or treat.  We avoided the infamous Hampton Street at all costs as we knew that if we ventured onto its hallowed ground, the kids would never sleep again.

What’s a Hampton Street you may ask?  Hampton Street is where all the wacky folks in our neighborhood reside.  I am sure you’ve met their type before.  They are the kind of people who don’t celebrate Christmas or Easter because they’re saving all of their energy for a real holiday (i.e. Halloween).  These folks take it to the next level.  They buy 50lb plastic Tarantulas and enough fake webbing to capture a Boeing 747.  They sport the no-kidding made for Hollywood mask that costs more than a new Prius and they purchase authentic coffins to place in their front yards.  You’ll most likely hear them first because they’re blaring spooky music from a sound system that looks like it came straight from a Stone’s concert.   Of course, every single one of them owns a black cat.  But did you know they stop feeding them two weeks before the big day just to make sure they’re angry enough to take the finger off an unsuspecting 10-year old without the slightest hint of provocation?  Bottom line- Hampton Street is home to Maryland’s Halloween hard core zealots.

With an intro like that, you know that Connie and I took the boys to Hampton Street.  Right or wrong, we decided it was time to introduce the little men to the real meaning of Halloween- if you want the good stuff, you better bring your gonuts, cause it comes with a price.  So off we trounced down Hampton.  At first both of our boys were excited.  Each of them knew that we avoided Hampton in the past because it was reserved for big kids and allowing them to go was a right of passage, a vision quest if you will.

Mack was dressed as a Zombie Skate Punk.  He is eight-years old, thus much too cool to be a superhero, fireman or hockey player.  His costume came from buycostumes.com, a purchase Connie made to avoid going store to store looking for the perfect Halloween get-up.  When I saw it online, it looked pretty legit.  What came in the mail, however, was no different than the flimsy costumes of my youth- you know the ones I’m talking about, plastic coveralls with one-sided mask held to your face with the world’s cheapest rubber band.  Mack didn’t seem to notice, he felt like a no-shit Zombie skate boarding punk, how he knew what that felt like is beyond me, but he did.  Cayden selected a pretty sweet Darth Vader costume.  Leave it to Cay to want to be the villain, no surprises there.  His costume was pretty damn authentic the only difference between him and the real thing was about 4-feet and the fact that Darth Vader was probably slightly more merciful towards his foes and a bit more pleasant before meal time.

So off we wandered- Connie, the Zombie, Mini-Vader and yours truly.  The first sign of trouble came when we spotted a large group of screeching teenage girls.  They went shooting past us like they just spotted the Jonas Brothers.  Obviously something in the direction we were heading had set them off- kind of like in those nature films when the wild beasts start to stampede because of the presence of a lion.  The kids giggled; Connie and I looked at each other nervously.  That’s when I spotted the Lion (metaphorically speaking of course).  About 5o yards to our right was a Hampton Halloween zealot dressed in a monk’s robe and wearing a very authentic looking demon mask.  He was moving stealthily from shrub to shrub waiting for the perfect opportunity to jump out and scare the living daylights out of whoever passed his way.  This guy didn’t care if you were 6-months old or 60, in a stroller or moving with the aid of a walker; his judgement may have been lacking but his effort was commendable.

I watched as the Demon Monk moved into position to pounce on my children.  Mack and Cay were so busy trying to crack the code on a box of Hot Tamales that they failed to notice that this joker had them in his sights.  Everything was set- my boys were looking down- the demon monk was in position- and Connie and I were braced for the ensuing mayhem.  Thats when all hell broke loose.

The Demon Monk sprung from his lair and growled at the boys.  Mack screamed while shitting his pants, dropped his candy and pushed his little brother into the path of the monster (obviously loyalty is a trait learned later in life).  Cayden reached for his light saber and dropped his box of Hot Tamales to the pavement.  As Mack ran screaming into the relative safety of my arms, Cayden assumed the basic warrior stance that I had taught him during our in home Marine Martial Arts training seminars.  The Demon Monk look perplexed.  Little boys were supposed to react like Mack, they were not supposed to defiantly challenge the creature to open combat.  Before I had a chance to intervene, Cayden took to swinging his light saber at the Demon Monk with all of the might his 40lb frame could muster.  The monster back peddled while looking over his shoulder for support from his group of Hampton cronies who had so enjoyed watching little kids run in terror just a few minutes earlier.  Cayden advanced- the Demon Monk retreated.  Obviously the guy in the monster suit had never met a child such as Cayden.  I’m sure he’ll pick his targets more carefully in the future as to avoid the embarrassment of getting his butt kicked by kids who can barely recite their ABC’s.

Cayden wasn’t even breathing hard after the encounter. He went back to retrieve his Hot Tamales and took the opportunity to ask Mack why he was whimpering behind my back.  Personally I think he knew why Mack was scared, but wanted to rub it in a little.  I guess that was Mack’s punishment for throwing his little brother under the proverbial bus.  The remainder of the night was spent hunting down the Demon Monk- Cayden wanted some more of that action, conversely the Demon Monk must have spent the rest of the night trying to stay out of our path as to avoid a second encounter with the little boy who shattered his Hampton rep.

I was sitting in the living room working on my computer when Connie walked in with a mysterious DVD.  I didn’t pay any attention, I was busy, and before I knew it she had the TV on and the movie playing.  No problem, a little background noise would probably help the creative process.  I continued to work on my computer, head down, pounding away on my keyboard, oblivious to the dangerous situation that was unfolding before me.

By the time I looked up it was too late.  To my horror, Connie had slipped in “Secret Traveling pants of the Divine Ya Ya Sisters”, or some shit like that, and unknowingly I had absorbed a large dose of “estrogen laden gamma-rays” that films of this genre are known to radiate.  You know the type of film I’m talking about right?  They have names like “Steel Magnolias” and “Under a Tuscan Sun”; and they steal, no they suck, the Man-ness right out of you.  Before you know it you’re in the fetal position with a box of tissues, probably the kind with Aloe Vera built right in, and you’re all weepy and wanting to be held but you have no idea why.  I immediately texted my buddies for assistance but that was a long shot, I would have to cope with this on my own, Oh shit! I looked up again.

I tried to yell at Connie to turn it off, but to my horror when I opened my mouth all I could say, in a rather high-pitched girlish squeal, was “Oh, this was an Oprah Winfrey book selection”; what the hell just came out of my mouth?  How did I know that?  I don’t watch Oprah, I watch “Spike” TV damn it!  This movie was more potent than I thought. If I remained in place much longer I would completely lose my grip on reality.  It was then that I noticed the movie’s full impact on my DNA; things got down right strange very, very quickly. 

I pulled open my shirt and to my horror all of my chest hair had fallen out and I’m not positive but I believe  I started to lactate. Holy Mother of God, what’s happening to me?  A cheap domestic beer would probably have turned me around but suddenly all I craved was some chamomile tea and a piece of Melba toast.  While searching for my Melba toast I noticed my cuticles needed pushed back, ten minutes ago I did not know what a cuticle was; now I had an emery board in my hand buffing my nails to a smooth glossy finish.  I was in a lot of trouble.

I walked back into the room to solicit Connie’s help and ended up watching 15 more minutes of her movie, by then I was awash with foreign thoughts the likes of which I had never contended with.  I suddenly had an uncontrollable urge to put down every toilet seat in the house and buy several pairs of strappy sandals that looked great on my feet but were to uncomfortable to wear.    My eyebrows were out of control and I had a strange desire to pour wax all over them and then rip them from my forehead.  These thoughts were not my own, my manliness was deteriorating before my very eyes and I felt helpless to stop its downward spiral. I almost asked Connie if she had a spare pair of Yoga pants that I could borrow; my jeans felt much too coarse on my sensitive skin and besides they presented a less than flattering picture of my behind.  God please help me, I almost asked Connie if I looked fat in these pants.

I don’t know how the evening ended.  I am pretty sure that I shared all of my hopes, dreams and fears in butt-numbing detail; in fact I may have done so via conference call with all of the other women in my family.  They seemed very responsive to the “New Shane” and invited me to lunch with them when they next came to visit, in fact they promised to include me in all of their activities to which I clasped my hands together and thanked them profusely.  The last coherent thought that I can recall was the sinking feeling that the movie selection was not a fluke.  The word conspiracy fluttered through my mind as I exfoliated with Noxema wrinkle reduction cream just before bed…Once more I had been outsmarted.

For the longest time my boys and I would engage in a little hand-to-hand combat after the evening meal. The protocol was quite simple. I would leave the dinner table, walk into the living room, push some furniture out of the way and then flop my fat-happy self down on the floor. Once my carcass hit the carpet it would only be a matter of seconds before little boy bodies were hurling themselves at me with reckless abandon. One of the great things about being a little kid is that your skeletal structure is mostly comprised of the same material that fruit roll ups are made of. That’s to say, when you hit an inanimate object you don’t really break, you more or less bounce. On the other hand, I have 38-years of physical abuse in the bank, 20 of which were spent in the Marine Corps which is none too forgiving on things such as knees, spinal columns, and other miscellaneous joints. I am not made of Jello. I am made of muscle and bone held together by a very fine webbing of tendons/ligaments that are about as sturdy as a single thread of cotton candy. If stretched or torqued the wrong way I am liable to experience incredible jolts of ass-puckering pain which will likely cause me to forget my name and curse uncontrollably; but still I fight.

Why do I challenge my boys to nightly grappling matches? The number one reason is because they are still young enough for me to appear to have super human strength and a degree of invincibility. This is something they will remember all their lives; the exact reason most men believe that even though their father is 95 years old, wheelchair bound and toothless he is still capable of unleashing a serious can of whoop-ass. The other reason I wrestle with the boys is because it is what men do. You’ve all seen monkey island at the zoo, the only difference between them and us is that Connie will not allow us to fling poo.

So me and the boys are having a nightly match. I am flat on my back and have Mack wrapped up, completely unable to move. I often wrap my legs and arms around Mack and then make him work for several minutes to free himself; this is extremely good exercise. It was while I had Mack wrapped up that Cayden decided to come to the rescue. I have talked about how tough Cayden is in past posts, but what I didn’t mention is the fact that he is the dirtiest fighter on the planet. He does not follow any rules of engagement, meaning nothing is off limits, he is in it to win it. So Cayden runs into the room and makes his approach from the direction of my feet. At this point Mack is pretty much on my head so that didn’t leave a lot of openings for Cayden to get in his cheap shots. I saw him coming, I saw him pause, and then terrifyingly I saw him raise his Croc clad foot above my groin. At that point I knew what was coming so I tried to find my happy place quickly. Graciously Cayden waited until I found Camelot before stomping on my groin like he was putting out a camp fire. Honestly, I have seen jackhammers beat concrete into dust with more compassion than Cayden showed me that evening. I am not positive but I think he stomped my crotch at least a dozen times in a period of 20 seconds, could have been more but I lost consciousness somewhere in the middle of my beating. The only thing that stopped Cayden from continuing was he had gone 15-seconds beyond his internal snack alarm and needed to refuel on some simple carbs, so off he went to track down some animal shaped crackers.

As I applied ice to my crotch I began to question our nightly ritual. Are the boys too big, too powerful, too vicious to fight with every evening? Or am I just getting soft in my middle-agedness? I went with option two and started training for the rematch.

We all have bad days on occasion and sometimes we even have a couple of bad days strung together in succession. Well, this is my story of a couple of bad days.

“Hey Honey there’s a storm a brewin’!”

We recently bought a boat; a beautiful 2005, 21ft, center console fishing boat. Before my male readers start congratulating me for “Being the Man!” and asking me questions such as “How did you get your wife to agree to such a financially irresponsible purchase?” it wasn’t my idea. The boat idea was 100% Connie, I was nothing more than a reluctant accomplice. Like every good husband I kept my mouth shut, most of the time, and helped my spouse navigate through the painful boat research protocol that commandeered every free moment of our lives for a period of no less than three-months. I was less than excited about being a boat owner; but damn it! We’re a family and if one of us wants to invest in a giant money sucking hole in the water, then we will all march into financial ruin together.

So we bought a boat, had it for a week, got it out on the water four times. Right now it’s Saturday morning and we are prepping for the first of a series of hurricanes/tropical storms/tsunamis all aimed at destroying our quiet little corner of Maryland. Not sure if you know this but boats don’t do well in severe storms, in fact they have a tendency to fill up with water and sink, or even better, get picked up by monstrous waves and thrown against other high value items such as homes, cars, boats and an occasional unsuspecting pedestrian. Where was all this happy news in the “Maryland Boater” propaganda magazine that the dealer gave us? Even doctors have the decency to warn you that the routine surgery you’re about to undergo could kill you; not boat dealers, hell no, they’ll send you right to your death (physical or financial) without even batting an eye.

So I sit here in my kitchen waiting to see if my boat will pass through my front yard. I imagine it will look like “Katrina” footage; boat floating by, most likely capsized, with a family of strangers pushing it along with garden rakes waving at helicopters in the hopes of being rescued. I know this sounds extreme but let me explain the rest of my week and maybe you’ll agree that this is a likely scenario.

“Keep your hands to yourself”

Every mechanical thing that I touched this week immediately ceased to function. I got to the office on Tuesday turned on my computer and was greeted by the blue screen of death (B-SOD). The B-SOD was nice enough to inform me that all of my physical memory was on its way to the dump and that I should prepare to recreate, from scratch, every item that I had worked on for the past 3-months. Oh Happy Day, what good news. I immediately picked up the phone to call the Pentagon Tech Department (resident computer hostage negations team) to see if they could convince the B-SOD to takes its ugly business elsewhere but alas, the phone decided to join forces with the computer and boycott Shane for the day. I picked up the stapler to bludgeon my phone but it sprung open and spewed staples across my desk directly into my coffee cup. Feeling as if I was about to lose control (as if beating my phone with a stapler was not evidence enough) I pushed away from the desk and walked away. I decided a brisk walk to the bathroom would help me regain my composure plus afford me the opportunity to relieve my bladder (I’m a multi-tasker). Not going to lie, after the computer, phone and stapler I wouldn’t have been surprised if my junk fell off the minute I undid my fly, but some risks are necessary so I moved forward as planned. I took my position in front of the self flushing urinal and the minute I began to relieve myself the urinal sprung into continuous flush mode quickly overwhelming the urinal basin and flooding the immediate area. I rapidly moved over to the sink to avoid the ankle deep water, waved my hands in front of the faucet sensor and nothing happened. I stood in front of six sinks before I found one willing to cooperate. I turned to the automatic paper towel dispenser (you’ve got to be friggin’ kidding me), looked at it with disgust/despair, and waved my hands in front of it. I stood there for 5-minutes waving my hands frantically in front of the damn sensor thingy, but it simply would not budge. Eventually the gale force winds created by my flapping arms were enough to dry my hands and the pool of water created by the urinal that I had offended minutes before. I walked away dejected.

I survived the rest of my day by steering clear of anything mechanical. I left as early as I could and jumped on the first extremely crowded train that I could find on that sweltering 90 degree day. My uncanny ability to stop things from functioning must have applied to deodorant as well because I didn’t run into a single person who smelled even remotely human. At least I would have the solitude of the car ride home to decompress before seeing the boys.

Yes Officer of course I locked my car…

So I jumped off the train smelling much like the homeless wino who occupied the same square foot of space as I for the 45-minute train ride. I walked over to the parking garage where my Dodge Ram was quietly awaiting my return; trotted up the three flights of stairs to my regular parking space; walked over to row 3B and found nothing but an empty slot? That’s strange, I must have been more tired this morning than I thought. Why don’t I just wander around the parking garage for 30-minutes or so and look on every floor for the car that I am certain I parked right in this spot? My search was in vain, my 2005 Dodge pickup was gone, I had been hood-winked, Bamboozled, violated, someone stole my damn pickup! Either that or my truck heard about my luck with mechanical objects and in the interest of self preservation had decided to drive as far away from me as possible. Along with the pickup they also got (2) Green folding camp chairs, (1) booster seat, all my country music CDs, and Mack’s Tony Hawk skateboard. Whoever did this better hope that Mack never finds them; he is beyond livid. As a side note, Cayden offered to scratch and bite the perpetrators if I could locate them. I guess he was a little upset as well.

The officer I spoke to was very nice, that’s a plus. I told him he should canvas every gas station within a ten-mile radius as my truck only gets 3-miles per gallon. At least I had that going for me; whatever idiot stole my truck just chained himself to a gas pump, have fun buddy, next time steal a Prius, moron.

The insurance lady was nice too. So nice in fact that even after she told me that I would not be reimbursed for rental car expenses I still wished her a great weekend. Why not, let it go. I am good, I got a full jug of Mr. Rossi sitting on my counter at home, I got some healthy kids torturing each other in the basement, a hurricane is a coming, but at least I don’t have to worry about my truck being damaged. Ha! I wonder if the knucklehead who ran off with my truck knows he did me a favor?

Not sure if anyone is aware of this but recently me and the boys got an opportunity to escape for a “Man-Cation”, that’s right, it’s not a typo I said “Man-Cation”, the ladies were not on the invite list for this one. It seems a good buddy’s parents live a couple of hours down the road and they have the perfect spot for boys of all ages to enjoy themselves. Six acres on the water with plenty of woods, a swimming pool, boat dock etc; this place had it all. So all the men-folk climbed up into my big red truck and drove to southern Maryland. Now I am aware that I could have taken Connie’s minivan, gotten better gas mileage and enjoyed the comforts associated with a fully loaded luxury vehicle, but minivans just don’t have that “Man-cation” feel we were looking for. Besides, nothing counteracts testosterone like a “Soccer Mom” bumper sticker and baby on board warning triangle; so I believe the $3,200.00 fuel bill was money well spent to maintain the Manly aura of our adventure.

The three men under the age of eight (Mackinley, Larry (formerly known as Cayden), and Jack) were extremely excited to venture into the wild with us. Mack must have heard us talking about the stark conditions that we would be enduring because when he jumped in the truck he was better armed than most presidential security details. I patted him down prior to deploying in order to prevent the local authorities from apprehending him and placing him on the terrorist watch list, but he still had a few pieces of hardware stashed on his person just in case.

The ride down was pretty uneventful we talked sports, home improvement, commented a few times on how smart we thought men were; basically the stuff guys talk about when women are absent. We made sure not to say anything negative about our spouses (not that we ever would) but considering the current audience even the slightest barb was sure to find its way back to our better halves, so best to keep our mouths shut. When we arrived into the wild we were greeted by my buddy’s parents, who turned out to be phenomenal people. The wilderness was not as wildernessy as I had anticipated; great big house, great big swimming pool, on and on and on. The closest we would probably get to roughing it would be the trek to the refrigerator to get a cold one, perfect.

Like most men we wasted to no time in getting started. As men we do not feel the need to engage in obligatory small talk, so a quick handshake and a hug were all that was needed when the grandparents greeted us. You could tell they wanted to talk to us, but men don’t have time to sit around and blah, blah, blah all afternoon. So all that nonsense about heat advisories, poison foliage, big foot sightings and boat engine failure would have to wait until after we completed our hike through the woods past the giant footprints, next to the pretty flowers we picked, to get to the boat we would be going out on all afternoon; by the way did anyone bring sun screen? As I said no time to talk, we’re on a man-mission.

So off we went, cruising along the water in our 17-foot boat in the blazing heat looking for fish to terrorize. We were smart enough to bring a cooler but stupid enough to forget the bottle opener. At one point I considered sticking the top of the bottle against the propeller in order to neatly chop off the cap; obviously my proximity to heat stroke had warped my sense of judgment making me oblivious to the fact I would likely chop off my hand. Mack came to my rescue however and produced an edged weapon that came complete with an old school bottle opener, good man. Beer effectively canceled out the impact of boating on the surface of the sun for everyone over the age of 21, but three of our crew we’re still far from the legal age of consumption. We monitored them closely, but warm Dr Peppers did not have the same cooling effect as Mr. Budweiser so we knew we had to act quickly before they melted before our eyes.

This is the part that I chose not to tell Connie when I returned from Southern Maryland. We had long given up on catching fish, they had obviously swam out to cooler waters, besides Mack’s casting technique was more frightening than enticing, and the chances of running into a fish capable of chasing down his bait was highly unlikely. So we put down the rods and decided to go swimming. To test the depth of the water I used the “boy-cast & retrieve method”, simply explained, toss the lightest individual into the water and then pull them back into the boat. Cayden’s waif like build won by a landslide so I tightened up his life jacket and hurled him over the side; he was delighted. Next thing you know my buddy Chris and I are chucking all three of the boys out of the boat and they are doing their best to get back in; laughing hysterically I might add. From a distance this must have looked a bit bizarre and I am sure the other boaters were perplexed at the sight of two guys apparently chumming the water with 5-8 year old kids, but I assure you it was all in good fun and completely safe. We got a lot of dirty looks that day.

We eventually made it off the water and spent the remainder of the afternoon swimming in a tamer venue (Chris’s parent’s shaded swimming pool). We also made the boys drink water (a lot of it) as we slathered them in sun block. Of course all of this happened after 5:00 p.m. so our display of responsible parenting was more for us than them. Besides, we both knew that the sight of “Lobster-Boys” would raise some questions so at least this way we could say “of course I put sun-block on them” with a degree of sincerity.

All said and done I think Chris and I did a tremendous job with the boys over the weekend. Sure we had a couple of minor hiccups (i.e. complete lack of proper hydration and melanoma avoidance measures) but all said and done not bad for a couple of guys right?

The rest of the Man-cation was totally benign, completely void of hazards, all most tranquil and unless Connie finds out about the fireworks, cigars and one slightly dead Muskrat that is the story I am sticking to.

With summer upon us I know that many of you are looking for ways to shed a few pounds in order to look good in your summer wardrobes i.e swimsuits. Both of my kids are incredibly lean so I watched them carefully over the past few weeks to see if I could identify their methods for maintaining their rock hard physiques.

The following list was generated from those weeks of research and observation. I would encourage all of you to give these techniques a try and see if you can meet with the same level of success.

The work out is a bit unconventional, but should be pretty recognizable to those of you with children.

WARM UP-

-State the following for 300 sets of 15 repetitions “I’m so Booooooored”
-For those with an intermediate to high fitness level combine statement with a sigh/ shoulder slump rotation after each rep.
-Flexibility is key, so feel free to throw in additional warm-ups sets whenever you have a spare moment.
-Guaranteed to increase the heart rate of anyone within earshot.

WORK OUT-

“The Spoiler” (muscle group engaged: Back)
-Open and close refrigerator door at a rapid pace for 10 sets of 10 repetitions.
-Leave the refrigerator door open at the conclusion of each set.
-Take a quick lap; locate and annoy a sibling, watch 6-minutes of mindless television and then return to starting position.
-Magically, when you return the refrigerator door will be closed and ready for the start of your next set.
-Before beginning subsequent sets ask the big, angry looking guy next to the refrigerator for some cold water; hydration is key to muscle growth.

“The Tornado” (muscle group engaged: cardio/ancillary muscles.
-This exercise must be conducted near a clothing source.
-As fast as you can try on every article of clothing located in your dresser.
-After each total body clothing change heave the items as far from you as humanly possible.
-The goal of this exercise is to completely cover all surrounding carpet and to spike your parent’s heart rate up to 680 BPM.
-Folding and putting away clothing items is an exercise designed for a more mature body type. Never attempt this exercise especially when you are in close proximity to an adult, namely the large, angry looking guy you saw down in the kitchen.

“The Bounding Monkey” (muscle group engaged: glutes/hamstrings)
-Jump, full force, on the nearest mattress (preferably located on the upper floors of your home) for 3-sets of 15-repetitions per.
-At the conclusion of each set launch yourself from the mattress and land squarely on the floor with both feet.
-Final rep should be forceful enough to disengage plaster from 1st floor ceilings.
-Successful completion of each set is signaled by the statement “(insert name), stop jumping on the bed your going to come through my ceiling!”

“The Hammer Toss” (muscle group engaged: Deltoids)
-Procure (1) brand new claw hammer from your fathers sacred work bench that you have been told to never touch.
-Utilizing stealth move in the most expeditious manner to your home’s back-yard.
-With all of your might chuck the hammer as far as it will go.
-Exercise is normally only good for one repetition per week.
-To recover hammer for future workouts, follow your father while he mows the lawn, loud clanging noise and abrupt seizing of the mower’s engine signals successful hammer recovery. When father’s head faces back to the front and fire stops spewing from his mouth offer to put the hammer where it belongs, he will be exceptionally appreciative.

“The Insomnia-ator” (muscle group engaged: Abdominals)
-Exercise is only effective when conducted after 8:00 pm.
-To begin exercise climb into bed and lie in the prone position.
-On the command “Good Night guys” commence repetitions.
-Every 15-seconds sit up in bed and loudly voice one of the following statements:

“Mom, I need a drink”
“Dad, who built the Pyramids?”
“Mom, does the color yellow taste like sunshine?”
“Dad, (insert siblings name) keeps touching me”
“Dad/Mom why do you look angry?” Immediately followed by “I just wanted one more hug”

-Exercise duration: 1.5 to 2 hrs. or until parents visibly demonstrate a “Berserker” level rage.

“Tug & Snatch” (muscle group engaged- Biceps and forearms)
-Training partner required.
-From what I have observed in order for this exercise to be effective it must be continuously executed from sunrise to sunset.
-To begin exercise identify training partner (normally younger sibling) and wait for that sibling to place an item in his/her hand (nature of item is insignificant).
-Run towards the sibling and seize a piece of the object and with both arms pull the object vigorously toward your upper torso while sounding off with an authoritative “Mine”.
-The training partner (sibling) will enthusiastically return the item to its original starting position without prompting.
-This exercise will continue until one of the following occurs:

Adult intervenes and claims the exercise item.
Training partner finds a new object of greater value.
Someone gets injured and requires medical attention.

Dancing, Cartwheels, summersalts, and vibrating in place due to untapped reserves of energy are also part of the regimen but I am unable to articulate these activities into an easily understood format. Observe your own kids for a while to gain a better understanding.