Cutting deep, and right to the bone

It has been a rough few days here at Garfield Prison. #2 developed a fever and rash over the weekend and was diagnosed with strep throat with a side of scarlet fever. But, thanks to Alexander Fleming, we have medicines to combat that, and they work fast on youngsters. 

24 hours after diagnosis and the start of antibiotics, #2 is back at full strength. Perhaps that strength was gained by passing the strep onto the Guard. Yep. The Guard has it too. Joy. 

Headache, chills, sore throat, all the good stuff. But the Prison still needs a guard. The Warden is off at some secret society of uppety ups so here we are. Trying to entertain the prisoners with recordings of the Voice. Was going ok until a fight breaks out. #2 started a fight with #3. #2 was sent to his cell and he was pissed. 10 seconds later a mini prison riot nearly erupts and the Guard gets hit in the head with something as the following is screamed multiple times; "I am going to PITT!!"  Yeah, that stab in the back was deep, painful and right to the bone. The prisoner knew what the effect would be. 

The prisoner threw this:

The back story is this: The Warden attended Pitt. The Guard, Penn State. We are truely a 'Prison Divided' when it comes to college sports and the subtle hints at our attempts of brain washing. 

Maybe the hints were not so subtle since this backlash at punishment cut so thoroughly to the bone. That hurt. Made the guard swallow hard (inflicting serious physical pain in the process due to the strep throat I might add), regain composure and let the comment slide. The object pictured has now been stored away for safe keeping for a future date. I think that date will be #2's wedding where the favor will be returned. 

Time for a time out to set the record straight

Please let me take a moment to step away a bit from the normal posts. 

This space has been used in a way to vent the frustrations of the Guard in his duties within the prison while trying to controll the inmates. By shunning the socially acceptable norms of referring to the Guard as Dad, the Warden as Mom and the prisoners as children, this blog was meant to attempt to portray the sometime dark, dirty, and sometimes hidden struggles of raising a family with small and energetic children. By assuming the alter ego of the Guard and not referring to the prisoners by name, it was meant as a way to create a satirical look behind the closed doors and curtains during the most trying of times. 

Parents love to brag about their children. With the popularity of social media, many parents will post the cute stories, pictures and events within their family. Dirty laundry is normally not something you want to share since we all want the world to see how proud we are of our children. But as most parents will tell you, there are those trying times times that are just plain frustrating. 

I have taken some indirect heat for some of my stories here. Speaking as Dad now-- my children really are great. They are smart, funny and creative.  They are very supportive of one another, and have a great bond as siblings. They love each other, and they love their parents. And their parents love them very much. And there is tremendous pride when we watch them interact with the world around them and watch them grow, learn, and mature. 

My point in all of this is that if you are reading this blog, know that it is intentionally one sided, and there are some (not many but some-- I am not creative enough to make this stuff up from thin air) liberties taken with the stories. It is meant as satire, but more importantly, as a means for me to verbalize and laugh at the hard times. As someone who does not communicate well, and who typically bottles up frustrations to the point where I am like a fresh bottle of Coke that you shake really hard, this little space here allows me to slowly releive some of that pressure. After a particularly trying situation, the act of turning it into a story is almost therepudic. 

So, the moral of this post is really that like many blogs (or anything on the Internet it seems), the lines between fiction and non fiction are very blurry. And this is done intentionally here.  The Guard and his prisoners represent one small aspect of our life. Life as a father with his children represents a much larger portion of our life, but that portion is not what this blog is about. There are many good and funny stories, but they just don't fit the spirit of this space. I am sorry if there are some of you who want to hear the positive and funny stories. I will try to sprinkle them in, but truth be told, I try to enjoy the good and funny situations in the moment. The bad, well, this allows me to escape and take a break for a few moments so I am not that massive exploding Coke bottle.  

Why?

I have held the job as Guard for over 6 years now. Not a long time in the grand scheme of things, but long enough to ask myself 'why?' A lot. Each day. Multiple times a day. 

It is often in a slightly different context, but the underlying theme is almost always relating back to the behavior of the prisoners. 

Why do we get such glowing reports from teachers at their vocational training, yet their behavior within the prison walls is so utterly horrible?

Why do they agree, after a 10 minute lecture, that they will behave, yet a mere 27 seconds after that agreement, the armistice treaty is forgotten and world war 3 commences?

Why do Legos, no matter how long you spend cleaning them up, always seem to find themselves directly under a bare foot in the middle of the night?

Why do prisoners always find that one permanent marker to place their autograph on a newly painted wall, when there were 7,357 washable markers to choose from?

Why do they feel the need to be so shy and quiet in public, refusing to answer questions of friends and family in a audible level that the human ear can detect, yet in the comfort of the prison, the volume increases to ear destroying levels?

Why do they insist on all talking at the same time, with volume quickly escalating to a crescendo that can only be overcome by an even louder demand to stop?

Why do they insist waking up at the crack of dawn on the weekends, yet on school days, it is like raising the dead to get them to wake up?

Why is the response ALWAYS 'why?' when they are asked, then requested and finally demanded to do the simplest of chores?

Why will they insist they are full after eating dinner, yet go directly to the refridgerator to look for more food as soon as they put their plates away?

All these questions beg self reflection of my own inner struggle with my own 'why?'--  why did I ever wait so long to become a Guard?  I will be near 60 by the time the prisoners are on their own. The answer is then obvious when I ask myself why I am jealous of cohorts who have survived their sentences and are planning to watch their prisoners become Wardens and Guards.  

There are many more. Many. Many. More.   Rivaled only by the questions that begin with 'How in the....?'  And those questions will be reviewed some other day--  world war 7 needs a peaceful truce negotiated.  Again. 

It's a rude world outside these prison walls

Warden's orders are that the Guard and #2 and #3 need haircuts. Go. Now. 

Arrive at usual place. Our clan is closely followed out of parking lot by a 'to-be' rival prison group. Guard holds door for prisoners and rival clan pushes past us in our moment of kindness and rushes to counter to get in line first, putting in the names of her and all her 4 snot nosed prisoners ahead of us. Our reward? An hour wait. We leave before Guard becomes leading story on the 6 o'clock news. 

Go to next place. Packed. Another 60 minute wait. Nope. 

Third place?  Empty!  Score. Until we stood at counter for 5 minutes, finally leaving when Guard over hears one of the 'stylists' state that she wished it was closing time because she hates cutting kids hair. No problem, we hate you too. Buh-bye. 

Now we are at the fourth place. 5, then 6 then 7 minutes with no one greeting us (and they are not busy either), and now we are in search of our next stop. 

Fifth place will surely be our salvation. We are greeted immediately and told there is 'at most' a 20 minute wait. Awesome right?  42 minutes later with no end in sight and the prisoners (who were surprisingly really really good) start to complain of hunger. And they are correct, it is past chow time. So we leave. 

Five strikes and we are out. No hair cuts and one very frustrated Guard who has exceeded his patience quota for rude and nasty people. Back to the sanctity of our prison. Hair cuts will come another day. 

Maybe this is our answer: