tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12871246460010328382024-03-12T23:52:57.803-04:00The Dad SceneChronicles of a First-time Father, Writer, and Pop Culture Nerd.the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.comBlogger190125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-11327030597572397142020-04-23T20:19:00.000-04:002020-04-23T20:33:07.530-04:00The Internet Is a Wild, Wonderful Place<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">In the immortal words of Liz Lemon: </span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">“I want to go to there.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">You would think at this point that we’ve seen it all. Every cat video, every meme, every gif, every ridiculous comment posted online. Especially now, in quarantine, all of us glued to our screens, our device more an appendage than it’s ever been before (seriously, we’ve been preparing for this pandemic for at least a decade, in this regard), it’s good to know that things can still surprise (and potentially delight) you when you’re surfing the Internet. Case in point. This caught my eye and I thought, <i>That sounds kinda fun. Maybe the kids would like it.</i> Then I scrolled down.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times new roman";">Wow. Just … wow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Not mine.” That is intense. And hilarious. Of course, I get where he’s coming from, even if I vehemently disagree with his take. For the record, Kylo Ren is a fascinating character and Adam Driver is probably the best actor who’s ever been in a <i>Star Wars</i> movie. (Shout-out to Mal and Jason, intrepid hosts of the <i><a href="https://www.theringer.com/2019/12/24/21036939/binge-mode-star-wars-episode-ix-the-rise-of-skywalker">Binge Mode: Star Wars</a></i> podcast, for this insight).</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’m a fan of cataloguing and curating and organizing and that obviously extends to my kids’ interests. I mean, why have kids if you’re not going to create like-minded buddies to hang out with? (It’s not like you’re ever going to see your adult friends ever again.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So, for instance, we’ll listen to Lithium, the grunge and alternative station on XM Radio, because it’s important for them to be well-versed in ‘90s rock. But there will be no Collective Soul. Or Candlebox. Or Our Lady Peace. We have to have standards.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And yeah, I’ll cosign on the 11-year-old’s burgeoning interest in metal music. With limits. Black Sabbath? Sure. Classic. Slipknot? Nope. I don’t think so.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Yes, I have an 8-year-old who requests I spin Clash records for him on the turntable. That’s a real thing that happens. And he can quote from SNL, too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Of course, sometimes, things get by me. They like Imagine Dragons, for instance. That’s a failing on my part. I try to console myself with the fact that the 8-year-old thinks the only Elvis is Costello, but still, this is a mark on my record. So, for every one of those songs we hear we’re definitely going to hear two songs by The Decemberists or The National. I have to counteract that garbage </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times new roman";">that’s</span> rotting their brains. </div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It occurred to me recently that I think fatherhood used to be very different. That being a father also made you an adult. It was a position of some authority. And responsibility. Being a father connoted accomplishment. You know, fedoras and pipes and tie clips. Real adult-type stuff.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But now, it’s really just an extended adolescence. Nerd heaven. Especially with boys. Seriously, I’m not sure I ever have to grow up. And it’s every woman’s fantasy. Grow up, get married, and spend the rest of your life living in a comic book shop with three giant nerds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Think about it. Look around for a second. <i>Star Wars </i>movies and now TV shows. Superhero movies. Weird cartoons. Lego sets and action figures. There’s a new Pearl Jam album out. Adam Sandler is on TV singing goofy songs. Plus, Green Day is still a band. And so is Weezer! There’s a Nintendo system now that has all the games inside of it—no more cartridges. This is what it’s like to be a dad with boys in this day and age. 14-year-old me would be beside himself.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">This is fatherhood now. And it’s like it’s 1996. </span><br />
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the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-11817576058745568522020-04-16T21:37:00.000-04:002020-04-16T22:23:14.116-04:00Look Out, Banksy<div style="font-family: times; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">I've discovered something about life in quarantine with kids. I learned a valuable lesson and felt I should pass it along. If your child gets interested in </span><span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">anything</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"> for more than five minutes while staying at home at this time, just do one thing: Get out of the way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This is an amazing, fleeting experience. Appreciate it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Of course, you might get corralled into participating, in order to keep your kid from remembering how bored and cranky they are. Just know: This won’t last forever. And don’t worry. That Zoom happy hour will be here sooner than you know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I got corralled. I got … conscripted. To be an artist’s assistant for an afternoon. His medium: Street art. His form: Chalk. And no, the driveway was not quite big enough to contain the epic artistic vision of our 8-year-old budding Banksy. Only the street itself would do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Have you ever been told how to create art by a small child with a Kubrickian level of intensity and an Andersonian eye for detail and specificity? No? I have. And now I think I know what it would have been like to be an assistant at The Factory in the 1970s and being directed by Warhol to urinate on the canvasses. </span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>I mean, it’s not my vision, exactly, but okay …</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Of course there was a story and it was very elaborate. It involved purple, multi-tentacled aliens from some distant planet, zooming down to Earth, and our street in particular, in order to steal the Street Hockey sign that had been his previous masterpiece.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Let me back up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Quarantine does funny things to kids. Like, they decide that they must play street hockey, even if they have never played it before and the equipment has gathered dust in the garage for months. Possibly years. And because it is called “street” hockey, it must be played in the actual “street,” never mind how expansive or accommodating the driveway already happens to be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And no sporting activity can be undertaken in this day and age without thinking about branding and a proper logo. Hence, his previous chalk art creation announcing to the world what activity this is, because the net and the sticks and the tennis ball didn’t quite get it across.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And yes, it was such an amazing work of art, the only logical conclusion is that aliens would want to come halfway across the universe and steal it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I did my best, but he was a very exacting taskmaster and if there are any flaws in this mural, I guarantee you that they are 100 percent my fault.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I actually made the tentacles thicker, like this.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“That’s not the right purple.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Where are the controls? How is he flying the ship?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“That’s not the right purple, either. It’s this one.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Just let me do it.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Yes, I was fired from assisting an 8-year-old in making chalk art. How was your week?</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The 11-year-old, of course, went his own way. And he’d never admit it, but he gets his taste in music (and everything else) from me. No question.</span></div>
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the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-17503571652296610282020-04-08T19:18:00.001-04:002020-04-08T19:18:20.589-04:00An Open Letter to Fox<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Dear A-Holes,</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Are you kidding me with this? We’re all struggling to keep our families safe and healthy, to stay at home, to not go out of our minds. And what are you doing? What kind of nonsense are you contributing to the world at this point? What severe lack of judgment are you showing?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I have kids. Two of them. I’m doing my best to keep them safe and hopeful for a brighter future. And you are not helping.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">What in the world are you doing, making us wait all this time for another episode of <i>Lego Masters</i>? Like I said, I have kids. And I’m trying to keep them safe. And sane. But here’s the problem. They’re boys. They’re inherently crazy. And dangerous. And all that has been amped up to 11 at this precarious time in history. Did you know boys like to wrestle? And fight? They’re ridiculous little human beings and they can’t stop sitting on each other or smacking each other or body-slamming each other in the trampoline like they’re at Lollapalooza in ’93.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It is a full-time job (with zero benefits) to keep these maniacs from murdering one other.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And I can’t take them to a hospital! I can’t take them to get medical treatment of any kind. No clinics, no doctor’s office, nothing. If they get injured, I’m going to have to rig up a rudimentary Civil War-style field hospital in my living room to treat their injuries. And nobody wants that. It won’t go well. Whiskey sedatives and kitchen knives half-cauterized over an open flame are not appropriate elements of medical equipment to heal wounded children.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">For one hour a week, they are rapt. They are quiet. They are zombified. They are preoccupied by Will Arnett’s one-liners and the adorable bickering of Sam and Jessica, the hyped-up teamwork of Mark and Boone, the incredible Lego snobbishness of Tyler and Amy. They are not sitting on each other or trying to bend each other into pretzel shapes. For one lousy precious hour each week. And what do you do? You take that hour away from us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Did I mention they like to sit on top of each other? Like, all the time?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Look, I’m a fan. I appreciate a lot of things you’ve done over the years. <i>Parker Lewis Can’t Lose</i>. <i>21 Jump Street</i>. <i>Herman’s Head</i>. And what would my generation be without <i>Beverly Hills, 90210</i>? But for all these great contributions to pop culture, this week, you have utterly failed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Want to make it up to me? I better see Kiefer Sutherland in <i>24: Pandemic </i>during the 2020-2021 TV season. (That’s a joke, but I do want 10% if that actually happens.) Also, another season of <i>Lego Masters</i>. It’s the least you could do after pulling these shenanigans and letting us all down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Wait—what?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It airs tonight? And the theme is <i>Star Wars</i>? Yes! Why didn’t you say so?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’ve still got my eye on you …</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Sincerely,</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Concerned Dad of Two Raucous Boys</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">(and Former President of the Midwest Chapter of the </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Parker Lewis Can’t Lose </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Fan Club)</span></div>
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the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-52920892827136587412020-04-06T22:12:00.000-04:002020-04-06T22:12:47.060-04:00Is Parenting a Wormhole?<div style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">One of my favorite moments in 2003’s <i>Old School</i> takes place during the elaborate third act where the fraternity must pass a bunch of academic and physical tests to stay on campus. (Side note: This film was made by the Academy Award-nominated co-screenwriter/director of <i>Joker</i>, Todd Phillips—chew on that for a second. The world in 2020 is crazy in so many, many ways.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">In the debate portion, Frank the Tank (Will Ferrell) goes up against renowned political strategist (at least at the time), James Carville, a ringer brought in the by the university. But Frank turns the tables and delivers an amazing rebuttal on economic issues, shutting Carville down. When told he’s won the debate, Frank says, “What happened? I blacked out.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Welcome to parenting (during a pandemic … and otherwise).</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Being down the parenting rabbit hole is sort of like living in California (speaking from personal experience). There are no seasons, so time never passes. Years go by as if they are months and you are perpetually 23 years old there. It wasn’t until I first looked in a mirror after moving back to Michigan that I learned the truth. I saw my reflection and said, “Who the hell is that guy?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Seriously, I’m not sure what happened. My last entry was five years ago. I felt I had to update this old masthead because that cute diapered bum belongs to a kid who's started growing a moustache and gets weird when we talk about girls and rocks out to Black Sabbath and Nirvana. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’d heard there were tween years, but we seem to have jumped ahead to full-blown teenagerdom in 6th grade. It feels like I’m living with an 11-year-old version of Judd Nelson from <i>The Breakfast Club</i> and he’s cast me as the dweeb principal who’s cramping his style. Fun times.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Now this. It’s like I went out to get Flintstones vitamins and toilet paper at Target and got home to find out that we all now live in a Steven Soderbergh movie. And, by the way, if it had to be that, why couldn’t it have been <i>Ocean’s Eleven</i>? I mean, really. The worst ailment to befall anyone in that movie is a little bit of heartburn experienced by Brad Pitt’s Rusty Ryan in the final scene. To be fair, he brings it on himself. Have you seen the junk he eats throughout the entire movie?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Sorry, where was I? Oh, right. <i>The Academy recognized Todd Phillips for directing a movie.</i> What kind of world do we all live in now?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It’s time for pandemic parenting. We’ve seen all the memes and social posts. Talk about wartime! These are SOS and distress signals if I’ve ever seen them. We’re all slowly (or maybe rapidly) coming to realize something. Kids need to go to school. Because we are not meant to spend this much time with them. They are really not that fun every minute of every day in a confined space. It reminds me of when they were younger and every single episode of <i>Caillou</i> seemed to go on for a painful, interminable length of time. Now it’s like there’s a <i>Caillou </i>marathon and it’s the only thing on TV and you can’t change the channel or turn the TV off. Ever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Sure, it has its moments. Like, have you ever seen a bunch of 8-year-olds on a group video chat? I don’t think any of them was having the same conversation. It’s like the War Room in <i>Dr. Strangelove</i>. Although, probably slightly more productive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Of course we bide our time with too many episodes of <i>Clone Wars</i>, too many snacks, and too many wasted hours. But, we did also accidentally manage to encourage and facilitate some creativity, with perhaps the most unlikely of resources in the age of Disney+ and FaceTime:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Cardboard!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So far, we have an 8-year-old constructing a secret lab and collaborating with his 11-year-old brother on an elaborate marble run. They spent hours on this! Maybe we’ll survive after all. When asked what he’s working on inside the secret lab, the kid is very cagey. I think he is building a spaceship to get off this ridiculous planet and away from all the stupid humans.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">By the way, this refrigerator box has been folded up in the garage since last summer. Why? Because I got distracted by baseball practice and conferences and trick-or-treating and Lego building and I forgot about it. Parenting genius or lazy bastard who lucked out? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’ll let you be the judge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So, stay safe, stay healthy, try to stay sane. Take this time to reflect. Ponder the mysteries of the universe. Here, I’ll get you started:</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Academy has now given the guy who made <i>Road Trip</i> with Tom Green the exact same number of Best Director nominations as the guy who made <i>Do the Right Thing</i> and <i>Malcolm X</i>.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">2020, people.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-50879319624303176172015-04-30T22:07:00.000-04:002015-04-30T22:07:30.098-04:00Bed, Bath, and Out of My Mind<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, last night, there was a 15 to 20 minute period so comically absurd and bizarre that I wish I could describe it as
extraordinary and unique. Which I would, if it weren’t absolutely par for the
course and the type of event that pretty much defines my entire life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The wife went out to an event. So I was on my own for
dinner, baths, and bedtime. The amount of praise and respect that I demand for
this period of time—which is usually no more than 2.5 hours total—may seem
fairly unreasonable, but I think I deserve it. Especially after this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Of course, there are other opinions. Recently, when I
casually suggested that I was “Super Dad” in a week that I took one kid to
preschool, hung out with the other one while he was sick, and attended a field
trip to a farm where I had to handle multiple goats, my wife’s response was
that “Super Dad” was basically just “Regular Mom.” I’m not sure I see her
point.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, this scenario should explain absolutely everything
about my life. So, my kids and I come inside from playing tag (I didn’t want to
play tag, but again, Super Dad) and we’re about to get ready for a bath. “I
need to poop!” the 3-year-old tells me urgently. He has been very particular
lately about things like locations and times and tasks, so I must ask him
(presuming will only get me into trouble) which bathroom he’d like to use.
“Upstairs!” he says.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So we head upstairs. I help the little one get
situated and start to locate clean pajamas for post-bath. (Seriously, Super Dad.)
The older one starts shifting his body strangely and gets a weird look on his
face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: You have to go too, don’t you?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6YO: I can wait.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(He is not convincing.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Don’t hold it in. It’s not good to hold it in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is only one bathroom available to him at the moment.
Downstairs. He is wary of being left alone down there. The little one is also
not keen on the idea. There’s a stereo in their room, adjacent to the bathroom.
I offer to play music for the little one while we’re gone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Holly Jolly
Christmas</i>?” he asks, excitedly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, it is April. Practically May. And my 3-year-old is only
interested in the Burl Ives Christmas classic. What about last week when you
were obsessed with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Song 2</i> by Blur and
I was so proud of you? No dice. Okay, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Holly
Jolly Christmas</i>, it is. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Set on repeat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I race downstairs with the older one. “If he gets music, I
want music, too,” he tells me. Yes. This is absurd. Ridiculous. But arguing
will only extend this entire process. I concede. I tell him I’ll get the laptop
and ask what he wants to hear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But he is fickle. He changes his mind. “Can you just turn
the volume up on the monitor?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do. So now, Burl Ives is singing about “the best time of the
year” throughout my entire house, at full volume, to accompany both my
children’s time in the bathroom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is actually happening.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next 15 to 20 minutes (I’m really not exaggerating this
figure, as much as it seems like I might be) are spent running up and down the
stairs, checking in, fielding completely random questions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3YO: Dada? I’m done!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Race upstairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: You’re done?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3YO: No.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back downstairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: How’s it going?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6YO: <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>Fine. Dad. You know what Lego set
I really want?<br />
3YO: Dada!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Scooby-Doo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6YO: No. Well, yeah, I want the Scooby-Doo sets. But do you
know what other set I really want?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3YO: Dada!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: I’ll be right back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Race upstairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Are you done?<br />
3YO: No. I dropped my sock.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back downstairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6YO: You know what puppet I want to make next?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: What puppet do you want me to make next?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3YO: Dada!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Sorry. I’ll be back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3YO: Can I see the poop?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: No.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3YO: Mama shows me the poop.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: No, she doesn’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back downstairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6YO: Is he still going?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3YO: Have a Holly! Jolly! Christmas!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Upstairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Are you done yet?<br />
3YO: Five more minutes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Nobody needs this much time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Downstairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6YO: I’m done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Finally. You’re so weird. Who poops at exactly the same
time?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His response is completely nonchalant and pointed as if I’ve
asked the dumbest question in the history of the world. “We’re brothers.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not a reasonable explanation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is why I don’t answer emails or
Facebook messages or call people on their birthdays. It’s why I can’t tell you which one is
Ariana Grande and which one is Iggy Azaelea. It’s why I don’t spend more time
writing or planning or thinking or being productive in
any way. Because this kind of thing is <i>going
on all the time</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over and over and over again. And so now, if you’ll excuse
me, I just want to take a nap. Until July.</div>
the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-61783845151892252992014-11-13T21:04:00.000-05:002014-11-13T21:04:35.875-05:00The Mom Scene, Part 2<br /><i>Apparently, there was more. Here’s a further dispatch from my wife’s adventures in the land of motherhood . . . </i><br /><br />3:30 pm: Everyone’s awake. Everyone has more energy than I do. Way, way more energy. I swear they’re doing crank when I’m not looking. The constant attempts at flying off the couch. The violent mood swings. The nosebleeds. It’s all starting to make sense.<br /><br />3:45 pm: Provide a healthy snack.<br /><br />4:00 pm: Wipe, sweep, and/or vacuum snack detritus from every surface of the house, including rooms they didn’t even enter. It’s like a really bad magic trick. They are Uri Geller with apple slices. More often than not, I find Cheerios inside the feet of the little one’s pajamas. What?!?<br /><br />4:15 pm: Head outside. It’s gloomy and everything’s still wet from the previous night’s rain, but the walls are closing in and at least one out of three of us is not going to survive inside any longer.<br /><br />4:17 pm: Wonder how anyone can be so singularly obsessed with ants.<br /><br />4:19 pm: Wonder how a person who has only been walking for a little more than a year can toss a Frisbee at the exact angle necessary to wholly decapitate a large, lush, flowering plant.<br /><br />4:35 pm: Play tag. Their legs are so short, how can they be so fast?<br /><br />4:36 pm: Oh, right. The crank.<br /><br />5:00 pm: They want the Stomp Rocket out of the garage. Only three out of five rockets get stuck in trees and/or the roof, and of those three, we manage to shake two down. The last one will require hurricane-force winds or a ladder. Either way. Not. My. Job.<br /><br />5:25 pm: The husband is home. I go into the bathroom to <strike>do a shot of tequila</strike> pee.<br /><br />5:28 pm: Enter the kitchen to find he has brought flowers. And beer. <i>And </i>wine. He’s not Dave Grohl, but he ain’t half bad.<br /><br />5:37 pm: I put some music on, the beer is good, dinner’s going. My kids are pretty cute when we’re separated by a sliding glass door.<br /><br />5:54 pm: Pretend like the dandelion I’ve just been given is the most special thing in the world, even though it makes me sneeze. And it’s the fifth one I’ve received this week. And when they opened the door to bring it in, 5,000 dirty leaves blew in with them.<br /><br />6:00 pm – 7:30 pm: A list of sentences uttered during the hour and a half that spans dinner and bath time, in no particular order:<br /><br />“No feet on the table.”<br /><br />“No feet in your mouth.”<br /><br />“We do not spit our milk onto our plates.”<br /><br />“Stop laughing at him.”<br /><br />“Do not touch your brother’s penis.”<br /><br />“Do not touch YOUR brother’s penis, either!”<br /><br />“Yes, I suppose that piece of potato sort of looks like a TIE fighter.”<br /><br />“Yes, your potato looks like a TIE fighter, too.”<br /><br />“He doesn’t need help getting his sock off.”<br /><br />“Or the other sock.”<br /><br />“That’s gross.”<br /><br />“Are you guys asleep yet?”<br /><br />“I pee-peeing in the baftub.”<br /><br />“EVERYBODY OUT OF THE TUB!!!”<br /><br />7:47 pm: The four of us are piled up on the couch. Their hair is damp and combed and smells of baby shampoo because I will never stop using baby shampoo on them, not ever. They insisted on wearing matching pajamas tonight, and I am wrecked with their cuteness.<br /><br />8:01 pm: Without warning, the little one grabs my cheeks, smushes them toward my lips and says, “Mama fish face!” and laughs hysterically. He stops just as suddenly, hugs me with all his tiny might, and says, “I love you, Mama. You are mine best buddy.” I kiss his soft little forehead and make a mental note to buy him more blue dishes.<br /><br />8:25 pm: We are looking out the window at the top of the stairs, saying goodnight to the moon. The big one: “Goodnight, everything in the whole entire universe.” The little one: “Goodnight, everything in the whole tired universe.”<br /><br />9:00 pm: They’ve been in bed for less than an hour and I’m looking at pictures of them on my phone. “What are you doing?” the husband asks. “Look how cute they are,” I reply. “I miss them.” He rolls his eyes more than is necessary and hands me a glass of wine. <br /><br /><i>Ed. Note: There was an appropriate amount of eye-rolling. </i>the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-32354018216827803402014-11-06T21:53:00.000-05:002014-11-06T21:53:20.832-05:00School of Rock<br />
When you’re a parent, you learn time is not on your side. On a regular basis, in a variety of situations, you find yourself thinking, <i>This, like all things, will end</i>. For me, lately, it is driving the Doozer to school. Someday he won’t need me to drive him anywhere. Or won’t want me to drive him anywhere. Which will be worse. So for now, I’ll enjoy it. <br />
<br />
And spend that time talking about Legos. Top five <i>Lego Movie</i> Lego sets. And Hobbit Lego sets that he doesn’t own, based on a movie he’s never seen. But they are online and in the Lego catalogue, so obviously he must know all about the backstory of those Lego sets, so I find myself recounting entire plotlines from Peter Jackson epics. <br />
<br />
Ad nauseum.<br />
<br />
But then we listen to music. This is our time to rock out. It’s one of the things that always takes me back to being a kid myself. Riding in the car with my dad, listening to the oldies station. He knew every word to every song and I know I’ll never forget those times with him.<br />
<br />
And now the Doozer and I have our own music in the car tradition. Recently, he requested, nay demanded, to hear more rock-and-roll songs. You know, the ones with the drums and air guitar. Not sure how it started, what song he heard that prompted the request (might’ve been a Green Day tune), but who am I to deny such a request. I will create a playlist of rock songs.<br />
<br />
(And yes, no matter what type of guitar we hear, it is always an air guitar. Also, the kid plays a pretty mean one himself.)<br />
<br />
He already loved the Foo Fighters and Jack White and Pearl Jam. (Yes, you are correct, I am absolutely doing a fantastic job as a parent. And then some.) But of course I will take this valuable opportunity to further his education and shape his young mind. I am more than happy to be the Lester Bangs to his William Miller.<br />
<br />
We’ve never gone in for the kiddie rock, with very few exceptions (Elizabeth Mitchell’s family sing-a-long version of “Three Little Birds” is lovely and one of our favorites). Our kids are going to like what we like. It gets harder the more they comprehend, the better their awareness becomes. And their ability to repeat things. Finding songs without inappropriate lyrics we don’t want him repeating in his first grade classroom can be a challenge. But this is one parenting challenge that we are comfortable with facing. And conquering.<br />
<br />
Of course, there are still questions.<br />
<br />
“Why does that guy scream like that?” he asks.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>That guy</i> is Julian Casablancas.<br />
<br />
“It’s a type of singing,” I reply. “The guy from Pearl Jam does that sometimes.”<br />
<br />
“Not like this guy,” he says. He seems equally impressed and baffled by the shrieking lyrics of The Strokes’ “Juicebox.”<br />
<br />
I mean, really, what 6-year-old sings along to “Fell In Love With a Girl” at top volume? Or Weezer? Or the Stiff Little Fingers? (Thank you, <i>High Fidelity</i>.) The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The MC5. The Darkness. (Of course, it’s easier to hit that falsetto when you’re his age.)<br />
<br />
He is particularly impressed with Lenny Kravitz’s shredding skills. So, every morning, we’re taking it all the way back to 1993 in that car as he bounces gleefully, plays his air guitar, and sings along to “Are You Gonna Go My Way?” with a giant grin across his face.<br />
<br />
And he’s right. That Lenny Kravitz is pretty damn good at air guitar.the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-64201383583679676842014-10-23T21:53:00.000-04:002014-10-23T21:53:19.602-04:00The Mom Scene<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On a recent afternoon, I texted my wife to see how her day was going. And this was her response.</div>
<br />6:38 am: 6:38, 6:38, 6:38. Everyday this kid wakes up at 6:38. It’s like we’re in a ratings-desperate spin-off of <i>Lost </i>and the numbers 6-3-8 are super important but no one knows why. Not 6:37, no thank you. 6:40? Poppycock! I will rise at 6:38 every morning, regardless of the time I fell asleep the night before, and you will begin catering to my every whim. Got it, lady? <br /> <br />6:38 and 29 seconds: I scoop up Little Brother and hurry him out of the room before he wakes his big brother, who occasionally and awesomely sleeps ALL THE WAY UNTIL 7:30 AM. <br /> <br />6:39 am: Consider the alternative, to let him wake up the Doozer, lock them both in the room with a box of cereal and go back to bed. Decide that this is probably bad parenting, no matter how tempting. <br /> <br />7:00 am: We settle down with a large mug of black coffee and diluted apple juice in a sippy cup for a thought-provoking episode of <i>Max and Ruby</i>, in which Max derails Ruby’s attempt at organic, artisanal beauty products by eating her supplies. Ponder a business venture (run by cartoon bunnies) in which a locavore and a craftswoman could work together harmoniously. <br /> <br />7:12 am: Recall that when I was first pregnant, I thought I wouldn’t let my kids watch television. Snort audibly at my prenatal naïveté. <br /><br />7:30 am: Shower. Alone. With the door closed. A cherished luxury made possible only because my husband’s new commute is shorter than the old one and he no longer leaves the house by 7. <br /><br />7:45 am: Exit the bathroom to find the Doozer awake. I begin warning them both that we will have to go to Target this morning. Words I will repeat 300 times over the next hour and still, they will both act shocked and horrified when I herd them upstairs to get dressed after breakfast. <br /> <br />8:00 am: Make breakfast. <br /> <br />8:05 am: Call the kids to breakfast. <br /> <br />8:06 am: Call the kids to breakfast. <br /> <br />8:07 am: Call the kids to breakfast. <br /><br />8:08 am: Call the kids to breakfast. <br /><br />8:09 am: Pee. <br /><br />8:11 am: Call the kids to breakfast REALLY LOUDLY while physically prying toys from their chubby little fingers. <br /> <br />8:13 am: Unload the dishwasher and try to explain to a 2-year-old why he can’t have the blue plate for every meal and that his breakfast will taste just as good on the orange plate. Continue this conversation throughout the duration of breakfast, getting washed up, brushing teeth, getting dressed. Try to decide if we could avoid future iterations of this conversation by eliminating all the blue plates from the house, or by getting only blue dishes forever and ever until we die. <br /><br />9:50 am: Load everyone into the car with the 900 things they need to take a 1-mile trip and realize I forgot to eat breakfast. Hunger is totally fine. I don’t need food. <br /> <br />9:57 am: Head into Target, where we <b>[REDACTED]</b> until we agree to <b>[REDACTED]</b>. Continue our shopping trip when<b> [REDACTED]</b> and I plead for <b>[REDACTED]</b> until I give up, drive home, and try to decide which neighboring town’s Target is closer, since we’ve been <b>[REDACTED]</b>. <br /> <br />12:11 pm: I sit down at the lunch table with the boys. Not to eat, mind you. I don’t eat meals sitting down LIKE A HUMAN BEING anymore. Just to sit down, while the one who likes food is distracted by a plateful of it and the one who doesn’t care a whole hell of a lot for food (not my child) is physically strapped to his chair for the next 20 minutes. <br /><br />12:14 pm: A carefully sliced grape-half tumbles to the floor and bounces off my big toe. I ignore it. <br /> <br />12:15 pm: "Mama! A gwape! On the floor! Mama!! A gwape is on the floor!" I am stone-faced. I welcome and appreciate the opportunity to ignore your ridiculous emergency. <br /><br />12:17 pm: The clouds in the sky today remind me of one of our wedding photos, taken almost 9 years ago. I think about that perfect fall day in Michigan, crisp and sun-warmed all at the same time, friends and family and love and food and drink and promises of family and unity and TOGETHERNESS. <br /> <br />12:19 pm: Regret it. I could have been a nun! I could have gone to culinary school in Paris! I could have toiled on a fishing boat in Alaska, which probably includes the added and totally awesome bonus of never having to shave one’s legs! I could have slaved away at an unassuming desk job for an a-hole boss for a hundred years until I died without fanfare, but at least I could have EATEN MEALS SITTING DOWN. <br /><br />12:22 pm: The big one gets the little one’s grape from under the table and asks me in earnest whether it can be rinsed off or if I can get him a new one. (The big one’s a good person. He’s my child. This other one fell off a turnip truck and rolled onto our front lawn. “Please, can we keep him, please? PLEEEEEEEEASE?” “Uh, he’s kinda cute. Sure.”) <br /><br />12:23 pm: That would be funny if it was my actual birth story.<br /> <br />12:24 pm: Slice more grapes in half, wash knife. My life is repeating itself, only not in a cool <i>Groundhog Day</i> sort of way, just in a really mundane, no one enjoys halving grapes THE FIRST TIME kind of way. <br /><br />12:35 pm: Wash. More. Dishes. Again. <br /> <br />1:00 pm: Read, cuddle, coerce, threaten the little one to take a nap. Promise the big one I will play table hockey with him if he gives me ten minutes to relax first. Ensure ten minutes of quiet time by letting him play Angry Birds on my phone. <br /> <br />1:50 pm: Check email, Facebook. I learn that if I had not quit my previous job when I was pregnant, I would currently, at this very moment in time, be hanging out with the Foo Fighters at work. This was the kind of job where, if you were having a craptastic day, someone would grab a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses out of the kitchen, and shortly you’d have obtained enough liquid perspective to get through the rest of the day. <br /> <br />2:00 pm: Settle in for the fifth consecutive day of our Naptime Classic table hockey tournament. Try not to sob openly about my parallel life, the one in which I’m presently shooting the breeze with Dave Grohl and Pat Smear. <br /> <br />2:25 pm: I declare the Doozer champion, magnanimously neglect to tell him that I let him win, and set him up with some Legos so I can get some work done in the brief but wondrous window of time that is the Afternoon Nap. When the little one gives up his Afternoon Nap, you may just find me wandering under a freeway overpass, half-dressed and disoriented. Don’t send help. It’s better for everyone this way. <br /><br />2:26 pm: You texted to ask how my day was going.the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-40174838509568800392014-09-25T22:13:00.000-04:002014-09-25T22:15:38.404-04:00I Believe the Children Are Our Future<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s true. They are. I don’t quibble with that. The
late, great Whitney was onto something. It’s the second part of her sentiment
that troubles me.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Teach them well and
let them lead the way.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the problem. As a parent, I spend a great deal of
time feeling like Nick Burns, your company’s computer guy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Now, I’m aware that teaching kids is an important part of
being a parent. It might be the most important part. And it’s supposed to teach
you about patience and empathy and understanding. None of the above. If
anything, I feel like it’s made me less patient. Less understanding.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Move!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They’re just so slow. And sloppy. And erratic. All the time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They’re doing it wrong. To my mind, they’ve taken “You’re
doing it wrong” to a whole new level. Given it a whole new meaning. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re doing everything wrong.</i> Their
incompetence, inability to follow simple directions (or even to just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hear</i>, sometimes), frustrates me to no end. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also, I'm just kind of lazy. Teaching is annoying and I have
no interest. But also, they don’t want to learn. They just want to screw around
and smack me in the face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I will feed a kid to avoid picking up spilled food. I
will pick up toys because I’m tired of the room being cluttered. I will tie
shoes rather than instruct how to tie shoes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br />
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It’s like that old saying, if you want something done right
. . .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">children</i>,”
my wife constantly reminds me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t care,” I reply. “They should know better.”</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My expectations are not that high. I want them to remain
adorable small children who possess the grooming habits and basic life skills
of fully functional adults. Is that so much to ask?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1287124646001032838" name="_GoBack"></a>Never mind, I have to go organize 900
bins of toys.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-77490290667722938282014-09-18T21:42:00.000-04:002014-09-18T21:42:15.022-04:00Me Time
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you’re a family, you share everything. Space, meals,
the TV. Good times and bad times. And sickness. Oh, the humanity. The sickness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like the world’s worst game of tag, illnesses pass between
kids, from kids to parents, from parents to kids. They just tear through the
populace like a plague. Literally. You spend so much time teaching your kids to
share and then all of a sudden you wish you could make it stop. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you can’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had our share of sickness this summer. Having sick kids
is pretty horrendous. I mean, more than usual. But at the same time, I am
always amazed by how quickly they bounce back from it. Perhaps the
clearest indication of a sick kid is watching their energy go from a level of
about 5,000 to zero. Immediately. Then it’s always incredible when you are able
to give them some relief from their predicament.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just one dose of Tylenol and suddenly they’re flying off the
floor like Uma Thurman in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pulp Fiction</i>,
ready to run around and take on the world again. I wish that a single Tylenol
did that for me. Maybe I just need to take more of them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other amazing (and by amazing, I mean pretty horrible)
thing you witness is when your child throws up the first time. Another
milestone! But this one you won’t want to document. You’ll want to forget it
ever happened, but like a scene from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American
Horror Story</i>, it’s etched into your brain and you’re unable to
banish it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The horror and shock that comes over a kid when they get
sick for the first time looks like it is powerful enough to break their brain.
They’re just so . . . surprised by the whole thing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What is this?</i>
their pale, desperate faces seem to be saying. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is possible? Why didn’t anybody warn me about this? I will kill
you for allowing this to happen. Oh, look, a squirrel.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, there was one good thing about getting sick this
summer. (Or so I thought.) When I came down with something particularly nasty
(and it hadn’t come from the kids in the first place), the wife made an
executive decision to get them out of the house and away from their ailing
father. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Protect the children!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure, I was laying on the couch under a blanket wishing that
I was dead, but at the same time, I suddenly found myself experiencing
something I’d almost forgotten existed, something that I was certain had
entered the realm of myth, akin to spotting a unicorn or Nessie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alone time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No whining, no diapers, no tugging on my beard. No excitable
2-year-old smacking me in the face. No Nick Jr. or Disney Jr. or insistent
pleas to run myself ragged playing our 1,273<sup>rd</sup> game of tag. The
chance to put on an R-rated movie in the middle of the day. Which I promptly
did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I noticed something. Or rather, heard something.
There was a strange sound that I couldn’t quite place. Something spooky. Eerie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was quiet. The house empty. I was alone. And then
something even stranger happened. I realized I missed them. I <i>missed</i> them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Really?</i> I thought. <i>Really? </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Little jerkstores. Be glad to be rid of them, don’t count the
minutes until they return. But that’s what happened. I’m stuck with
these people. And yes, they make me crazy. But I can’t imagine a single day
without them. And when they’re not there, I feel kind of lost. Aimless. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then of course they’re back and the whole vicious cycle
starts all over again and I find myself hoping, wishing again for some kind of
terrible illness, the enduring of which seems worth the brief respite of peace
and quiet it will afford me. Because I’m a terrible parent. Or maybe just a
parent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going to go with the latter. <a href="" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
<!--EndFragment-->the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-29825230185890130482014-09-11T21:39:00.000-04:002014-09-11T21:39:17.834-04:00When I Grow Up
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not long ago, just before the school year began, the Doozer
and I were out in the yard, playing around, when he stopped and asked, “What
did you want to be when you grew up?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At first, it seemed like it was out of the blue. But it was
clearly something that had been on his mind, something he’d earlier discussed
with his mother. And his question was innocuous enough. Just curious, not
cutting. But still. It could easily be interpreted as, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This isn’t what you really wanted, is it? You have to have had other
ideas. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tell me you had other
ideas.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought for a moment about how to answer. I mean, here’s
the thing. I used to have hopes, dreams, ambitions, aspirations. Now I look
forward to a day when I don’t have to wipe another person’s bum. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I told him my dream. About being a writer. And then
something occurred to me, which I hadn’t necessarily thought of before, or
thought of in these terms.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ll tell you a secret</i>,
I added. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Your mom and I. We’re not really
grown up. Not yet.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He didn’t entirely understand. Gave me a quizzical
expression. For his experience of the world, the wife and I are as old as the
moon. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How could we not be grown up?</i>
He said as much.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried to explain. Life is a process. Ongoing. Things
change every day. People change every day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More quizzical looks. And then a plea to play tag. Our
entire conversation forgotten.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But still, that conversation got me thinking. What kind of
parent would I be if I didn’t dream? If I didn’t have desires or ambitions or
crazy hopes? How do I inspire him and his brother to have dreams, if I don’t at
least try to demonstrate what it looks like to dream?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the first day of first grade, just like on the first day
of Kindergarten, he told us he wanted to be a Lego designer when he grew up.
I’m thinking if you take a gander at your Facebook news feed and check out
the signs other kids held up on the first day of school, you would not see
this one. Firefighter, maybe. Or cowboy. Princess. But not this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His obsession with Legos has led him to the Lego website,
where he spends a lot of time watching videos and looking at images of sets he
would like to own. But his favorite part is the videos where the designers
discuss their process and show off all the details of their sets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’s interested in a process, not just a thing. That
spark needs to be nurtured. Of course, will Lego designer even be a job when he grows up? I don’t
know. And he’s 6, so obviously he might change his mind. He will probably change
his mind. But this seems like an important part of being their dad. To encourage
them to dream. To reach for the stars. And think big. Maybe that’s my whole
job, actually.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apart from that whole stupid wiping bums thing. God, I hate
that part. <a href="" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
<!--EndFragment-->the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-46199452051537166502014-09-04T21:08:00.000-04:002014-09-04T21:08:52.280-04:00What Happened on My Summer Vacation<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not a man. I mean, based on conventional meanings. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As
far as I understand them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being the father of two boys has cast a bright light on my
masculine shortcomings, my deficiencies in all things male, at least in any
traditional sense. This thought (which I have often) returned to me when we
were on vacation last month and it suddenly became my job to build a campfire. And
I realized I had never built one before. By some miracle, I managed to do it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mCWJooSk7lk/VAkLDesBj1I/AAAAAAAABh8/ZGXJgJHD3N0/s1600/fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mCWJooSk7lk/VAkLDesBj1I/AAAAAAAABh8/ZGXJgJHD3N0/s1600/fire.jpg" height="149" width="200" /></a></div>
Also, I chased a bat out of the kitchen, as well. Yeah, that
happened. Although I’m still not convinced these things make me a man. (Subject
for another time perhaps.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You could trace this back to my own childhood. After our
first son was born, old toys started to be excavated from our childhood basements.
And our relationship, outlooks, personalities, etc., can be pretty well summed
up by the fact that as a child, my wife played with a Fisher-Price camping set,
while I had a Holiday Inn playset (which is apparently a thing they used to
make).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m all for the outdoors. Through the windows of a
passing car perhaps. Or from the balcony of a nice hotel room with room service
and premium cable channels. But we have boys and they like to be
outside. No matter how many books or movies <s>we</s> I push on them, the siren
call of grass and sand and dirt and water is simply too much to
resist.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, they didn’t notice any scenery outside the car
window. Someone loaned us
portable DVD players to keep them entertained on the long drive. The psychological impact of this,
how quickly they became acclimated to this set-up, was astonishing to behold.
Our older son has spent six years in a car never once seeing a TV. But now
he and his brother don’t understand why TV isn’t on in the car<i> all the time</i>. It
changed their entire outlook on the world. If TV is in cars, imagine all the
other limitless possibilities of the universe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or more aptly, what other awesome things are our parents
keeping us in the dark about? Nothing. We swear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Go to bed.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I find that vacation can be a lot like it was for the
Griswolds. Stretches of fury and frustration punctuated by moments of beauty
and harmony. Such as watching your kids splash in a lake or get melted
marshmallow all over their face. Their expressions as they watch
horses clop down the street or giant container ships pass before them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or like when your 2-year-old invents a new way to eat an ice
cream cone. Just when your cynical mind thought it had seen everything in life,
your kid starts eating ice cream bottom up, cone first. Now, if you have even a
passing familiarity with how an ice cream cone functions, you’ll know instantly
that this is not an effective strategy and there’s a reason people don’t eat
them this way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-adzdt9cYriQ/VAkLZbGRJjI/AAAAAAAABiE/aVMhcj5FbAY/s1600/IMG_0574.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-adzdt9cYriQ/VAkLZbGRJjI/AAAAAAAABiE/aVMhcj5FbAY/s1600/IMG_0574.jpg" height="191" width="200" /></a></div>
Of course, try being logical and explaining this all to a 2-year-old.
They look at you with those f-off eyes like you’re the world’s biggest idiot.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ahh, it’s good to be a dad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Watching them on vacation frequently took me back to my own
childhood vacations. Not that I remember them all that clearly, but I’ve seen
photos. Actually, slides. (“It’s not called the Wheel, it’s called the
carousel.”) Entire vacations would be documented, minute by minute, to replay
ad nauseum for disinterested relatives and neighbors. This practice has of
course been distilled now as we try to find that one perfect moment, that one all-encompassing
shot to post on Facebook that will make our life look fabulous and make us the
envy of all our friends and acquaintances. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someday, will our kids go through old Facebook posts to
remind them of times gone by? Will there even be an Instagram? Will the images
jog their memories and be pleasing to recall? Can one image really conjure up
all the magic of a childhood journey to a new, exciting place?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If we did our job right, and didn’t go all Clark Griswold
and punch an animatronic moose in the snout, maybe they will just remember. I
know that I will. I’ll remember all those moments, the ones not recorded for
posterity or shared with the world via the Internets. Small, quiet moments that
exist now only in my memory. Like the moment where – no, on second thought,
never mind. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That one’s just for me.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ncfLBTUBazc/VAkMSAtHKlI/AAAAAAAABiM/CiaSvxs39XU/s1600/beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ncfLBTUBazc/VAkMSAtHKlI/AAAAAAAABiM/CiaSvxs39XU/s1600/beach.jpg" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-87886305484079374282014-07-21T22:15:00.000-04:002014-07-21T22:15:05.374-04:00Summer Hiatus<br />
I heard recently that the stories of my adventure in fatherhood had been missed. And I found that heartening. (Okay, so one person mentioned to my wife that I hadn’t posted in a while, I’m not comparing myself to George R.R. Martin.) And it’s true. I haven’t written in a while. It’s not because my kids have not been entertaining or amusing, that there hasn’t been anything to write about. But I’ve been busy. Preoccupied. <br />
<br />
With making time stop.<br />
<br />
Spoiler alert: So far, despite Herculean efforts, I am not succeeding. Now, why would somebody want to do such a thing? Okay, so it’s not that big a mystery. Most people want the same thing. For time to slow down. But what was the impetus in my case? <br />
<br />
The Doozer finished Kindergarten. <br />
<br />
It was a month ago now. More. I mean, he’s officially a first grader. And I can’t handle it. I don’t know what to do with a first grader. I can remember what it was like to be one myself! I’m not ready to have one in my house. What do I do with a first grader? <br />
<br />
But the world doesn’t care about that. It’s indifferent to my suffering. I can catch up or not, it’s going to keep turning. And time is going to continue to march forward.<br />
<br />
I just want this moment to last forever.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9qahiP2hf4Y/U8h_0xwiXSI/AAAAAAAABhM/bQLfgm7Rbeo/s1600/pajamas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9qahiP2hf4Y/U8h_0xwiXSI/AAAAAAAABhM/bQLfgm7Rbeo/s1600/pajamas.jpg" height="320" width="196" /></a></div>
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I am afraid that fatherhood has made my heart fragile. The Doozer got a medal at the end of his soccer season. And there were tears. Little Brother brushed his own teeth. More tears. I think I might be too sensitive to be a parent. It seems difficult to believe our parents’ generation was like this. And definitely not their parents’ generation.</div>
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I don’t want them to grow up because I worry about the future. Their future. College, jobs, the world itself. Will it even be here? Have we doomed them simply by bringing them into the world? I don’t think I used to think this way. Why do I now? <br />
<br />
I can’t see <i>Boyhood</i>. I mean, I really want to see <i>Boyhood</i>. I’m going to see it. But I know full well I will bawl my eyes out the entire time.<br />
<br />
So I want to hold onto every moment from this summer and live in each of them just a bit longer. Little Brother’s ridiculous excitement over seeing his first fireworks. (Or just being up past his usual bedtime.) Eating dinner on the patio and flipping out about planes flying overhead, like he’s Tattoo awaiting the guests at Fantasy Island. The two of them talking to Siri, saying things like “Hamburger” and “Monster” just to see what she’ll do.<br />
<br />
And giggling. My god, the giggling. The pure, unadulterated joy of it. And hearing a 2-year-old demand to hear Foo Fighters when riding in the car. Dancing like a maniac to Jack White’s <i>Lazaretto</i>. Thrilling at the sight of fireflies from the upstairs window at bedtime. Saying good night to trees. Trees. Pretending the kiddie pool is a dunk tank and falling backward into it. Again, with great peals of laughter.<br />
<br />
The giggling. If it could just go on forever.<br />
<br />
Okay. I have to stop. I can hardly see through the tears as I sift through these memories. I told you, fragile heart. And complete inability to stop time. So I will try to capture these moments and hold them. Like fireflies in a jar. Let them stand still. For a moment. Forever.<br />
<br />
God, parenting really sucks.the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-82129822744410383662014-05-01T21:44:00.001-04:002014-05-01T21:44:50.732-04:00Kicking and Screaming<br />The Doozer had his first soccer game. So far, Pelé, he ain’t. <br /><br />Also, they played their first game after only two practices. What does anybody expect out of this operation? Of course, they did manage to win. 2-0. Yes, after approximately 50 minutes of mass chaos, the Doozer’s team emerged victorious with their first shutout. <br /><br />Not that our son had anything to do with it. <br /> <br />Sure, he was rotated through different positions. He played defense, midfield, and forward, where he even got to kick off the ball at the center. And then he just watched it go, while every single other kid on the field chased after it. And he turned and waved at his family. <br /><br />He didn’t so much run up and down the field like the others, as much as skip. And watch the ball as it rolled around. And right past him. <br /> <br />Multiple times. <br /> <br />As I watched this all unfold (in between tag-teaming Little Brother and chasing him down across vast green fields), something strange happened. I started to feel self-conscious. On the Doozer’s behalf. Which is weird, because he certainly wasn’t feeling that way. He was having a blast. <br /><br />But suddenly, the world was split into jocks and nerds all over again. I started to worry what the other kids, the other parents, the coach would think about our son. <br /> <br />“Is our kid the team space cadet?” I asked my wife. <br /> <br />She rolled her eyes (as she is wont to do). “He’s having fun.” <br /> <br />And she was right. He was. But still. I worried. I want the whole world to love and adore my kid as I do. I don’t want him to be laughed at or dismissed or judged. Now or ever. It dawned on me that I never really figured out how to be a real grown-up before I went and did something really grown-up like <i>have </i>kids. Probably should’ve worked on that. <br /><br />There’s nothing I want more than to teach my kids how to be confident. And self-assured. Be true to themselves. And let their freak flag fly. But how do you do that when you struggle with it yourself? <br /><br />As I continued to watch, I began to think, What does this matter? This ridiculous soccer game being played by maniac children. It doesn’t matter. Right? In the grand scheme of things, in light of everything going on in the world, in this crazy, mixed-up universe, what does this matter? And how my kid chooses to play—or not play, as it were—in said game. Sure, it’d be nice if he was the next David Beckham and strangers came up to me to applaud his otherworldly performance. But he’s not. So what? Who cares? <div>
<br />Why am I still thinking about this? Days later. What is wrong with me? <br /><br />At the next practice, when the coach was assigning positions, he asked the Doozer where he wanted to play. <br /><br />“Defense!” the Doozer replied, with surprising enthusiasm. <br /> <br />“Okay, go,” the coach told him. <br /> <br />And with that the Doozer ran—or possibly skipped—downfield toward his position. But then suddenly, he stopped. And turned to me. <br /> <br />“Dad, what’s defense?” <br /><br />It was the best moment of my week. Or maybe of my life. I mean, I created that delightful little human being. And he is perfect as he is. <br /><br />I was wrong about everything. Suck at soccer all you want. And please don’t ever change.</div>
the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-87067410890674411572014-04-24T22:29:00.001-04:002014-04-24T22:29:45.955-04:00Of Soccer, Schedules, and Seven Kingdoms<br />Parenting is a lot like that 8 a.m. class you had in college. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You’re never going to be on time. And when you do manage to show up, you probably won’t be able to stay awake the whole time. When the final comes, you’ll be lucky if you get a passing grade and if it doesn’t completely wreck your grade point for the semester. And you might very well have to repeat the class. But odds are, you won’t do that much better the second time around. </div>
<div>
<br />We’re adjusting to a new schedule. The Doozer started soccer. Which is great in a lot of ways. Except for where it makes being his dad even more of a time suck than it was before. And still there’s only one hour of practice and one game (also an hour) per week. Two hours out of seven days. Which doesn’t seem like a lot. But it is. Really.<br /><br />There goes reading that new Dave Eggers book. Ever. <br /><br />If I can’t handle this, how can I handle it when he’s really, truly involved with stuff? And I have to drive him everywhere? Maybe we should just lower the driving age. Parents have stuff to do to, you know. We are still our own people. Mostly. <br /><br />Remember eating pizza at 3 a.m.? Sleeping until noon? That happened. That was our life once. Man, we had it good. And I’m sure none of us really appreciated it. Because we’re all big, fat jerks.<div>
<br /></div>
It occurs to me that being a parent doesn’t make you a grown-up. Sure, it can accelerate that process. but you’ve got to be open to it. Nobody can rush it, it happens at your own pace. Or maybe not at all. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How do you find the balance? Between everything your kid needs, all the time and attention, and the few things left that you need. I’m terrible at schedules. Structure. Formality. You know, once upon a time, kids were raised on hippie communes. How did that work? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Wait, where was I?<br /><br />Right. Soccer. Which now has to be worked into our life alongside everything else. Sleep, meals, baths, homework. I’ve got stuff to do to, you know. These comedy podcasts are not going to listen to themselves. And <i>Game of Thrones</i> is just going to pile up on the DVR if we don’t keep up. Actually, I guess we could watch that together. You like dragons, don’t you, kids? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Okay, so maybe that’s not the solution. I caught myself. I’m not the worst parent ever.</div>
<div>
<br />Shut it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I feel like I keep losing my train of thought. Oh, right. My mind is fuzzy because I’m worn out from all the scheduling. And soccer. Have you seen tiny people play soccer? No? Don’t. Trust me. Your life is better off without that in it. Okay, that’s not entirely true. Our son scored his first goal. That was sweet.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Maybe they’ll turn that Eggers book into a movie. I can see it on DVD. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In 2041.</div>
the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-37535240858822624172014-04-17T21:54:00.000-04:002014-04-17T21:54:48.860-04:00Toddlers, Tantrums, and True Detective<br />
Here we go. Again.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Welcome back to the Terrible Twos. I hate it when these things come true. When your kids sink to that level. When they are predictable, giving credence to the tired clichés and worn-out tropes of parenting. So disappointing, so pedestrian. Come on, you’re better than that.<br />
<br />
Aren’t you?<br />
<br />
This is not an original theory, but I say that the Terrible Twos are a misnomer. They start before age 2. And they can definitely last past age 2. The only consistency is that they suck. Hard. Regardless of when they occur. Of course, that makes this no different really than any other stage of being a parent.<br />
<br />
But this time, it’s different. This time, there is an additional element in the mix: the Doozer. When he was 2, he only had us to emulate and pattern his behavior after. And we’re pretty mellow. I mean, we’re adults. We don’t throw temper tantrums or yell for no reason or smear food all over our face and hair at every meal. We are civilized. Children—toddlers, specifically—are bloody savages.<br />
<br />
And the weirdest part is that the Doozer is pretty mellow himself. He’s cautious, he’s a rule follower. Sure, he’s 5, so he can be rambunctious. He has more energy than my feeble brain can even comprehend. But mostly, he is very well-behaved, thoughtful, considerate. Relaxed.<br />
<br />
Here’s the thing, though. A 2-year-old emulating a 5-year-old is very different. Little Brother’s interpretation of the Doozer’s behavior is like the death metal speed freak version of being a 5-year-old. Seriously, the Doozer jumps around a little bit and when this behavior is modeled, Little Brother turns into Alien from <i>Spring Breakers</i>, crazy-eyed and waving guns around, flashing his gold grill with his middle fingers in the air, all like, “F you, guys! Spring break for-eva!”<br />
<br />
I will never forgive you for this.<br />
<br />
It reminds me of that old Bill Cosby routine where he threatens his children over their unruly behavior. “I brought you in this world, I can take you out!” This sounds great on paper, but would never work in real life, Mr. Cosby. Kids are immune to threats. Have you ever met one? You had a whole show about all the darned things that they say.<br />
<br />
Maybe our kids are just built that way. But you cannot reason with a kid in the throes of the Terrible Twos. Little Brother’s favorite word is “No!” And his second favorite word is “No!” His favorite phrase is “I do not want that!” Okay, we get it. You’ve gone all Ed Harris in the <i>The Rock</i> on us and you’re not going to back down. Fine. But could you at least try to dial the volume down? A little?<br />
<br />
You’re killing me. Stop wailing like some distraught socialite watching her husband be taken to jail for securities fraud in a TV movie. Enough with the histrionics. And the sudden, random crying jags. And really, stop with the whole thing where the crying just stops and you turn on a dime into the world’s sweetest, most smiliest kid who looks at us like, <i>What?</i> Like nothing happened. Like <i>we’re</i> the crazy ones.<br />
<br />
We’re on to you. We see how you strategically deploy your arsenal of cuteness and sweetness to keep us off our game. Very crafty. But really, we are on to you, sir.<br />
<br />
And for the love of god, just go to sleep already. When we put you in your crib and turn out the lights, that is not a signal for you to start spewing out some nonsense monologue like you’re the lead in some Ionesco play. Keep it down and go to sleep so that your mother and I can continue binge-watching <i>True Detective</i>. (So that when you do get quiet, we get spooked about your whereabouts and worry that the Yellow King has snatched you up. Man, was that a vicious cycle.)<br />
<br />
If I can offer you anything, it is this: Listen to your brother. You know, that Kindergartner who lives in our house that you are completely obsessed with? Like he’s the Beatles? Right, that guy.<br />
<br />
When your 5-year-old brother wants you to quiet down and give it a rest, there is something wrong. It is time for a long, hard look in the mirror. It is time to think about your behavior and maybe start to analyze how well it’s working for you. Take a personal inventory, kid.<br />
<br />
And an actual nap wouldn’t hurt either.</div>
the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-6402250590681352014-04-03T22:46:00.000-04:002014-04-03T22:46:14.304-04:00Midterms<br />
We’re more than halfway through the Doozer’s Kindergarten year. And it was time for a school visit. That’s right,
parent-teacher conferences.<br />
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We are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> old.</div>
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Anyway, conferences were actually called “Celebration of
Learning” and they took the form of our child acting as a miniature tour guide
(with a clipboard and a checklist) leading us around his classroom and pointing
out the highlights. He was very officious with that little clipboard and very
dedicated to the operation. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The first stop was the spot where kids check in when they
arrive in the morning. A large touch-screen at the front of the room has two
columns marked Home and School. Beneath the headings are all the names of the
students in the class. The Doozer went right up to his name and with one quick
finger-swipe, moved his name from the Home column to the School column. It was
awesome. I want one.</div>
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<br /></div>
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No, really, it was cooler than anything I had in 12 years of
school. And college. Okay, so there was beer in college, that was pretty cool,
but other than that . . .</div>
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<br /></div>
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So we worked our way through the rest of the checklist. The
Doozer showed us his journal full of stories (lots of memoir-esque pieces about
times he played toys with Little Brother and went out for ice cream), a science
station where we experimented with the waterproof-ness of various pieces of
fabric, his mailbox, his cubby, his locker – no, really, his locker. What is
this, high school?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Not long after this visit, we received his report card.
Correction. We didn’t receive anything. Report cards are not mailed home as
they once were. We received a notification that said report card was available
for viewing online.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Seriously, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> old.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Anyway, he received high marks across the board,
proficient in every subject. Except one. The only less-than-proficient mark was in math.</div>
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<br /></div>
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That’s my boy.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently we are not only united by our love of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Star Wars</i> and the Arctic Monkeys, but
also our inability to handle the simple concepts of addition and subtraction. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, there are some things that can’t be measured by a
report card. Proficient is an insufficient descriptor when it comes to the full
character of your kid. It was just this morning when I was negotiating with the
Doozer about balancing reading and screen time this evening. We made a plan to
spend some time on the computer together when he was done with his reading.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not long after, he reminded his mom that she had given him a
consequence for some misbehavior the night before. He was not supposed to spend
time on the computer today. That’s right. His parents forgot about a
consequence they doled out, and he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reminded</i>
them of it. What is that? Where does that come from?</div>
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<br /></div>
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And how do I avoid screwing it up?</div>
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<br /></div>
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No, really, this is the true test of parenting. Forget about
keeping them alive, making sure they’re fed and that they sleep, and that their
diapers are promptly changed. Not screwing them up. That’s the biggest challenge we’re going
to face.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Genuine, innate goodness. True honesty. Legitimate
character. The Doozer gets the absolute highest marks in these categories. (Of
course, his tiny shadow is a completely different story. If I was working on
Little Brother’s report card, he’d get high marks in animal noises, willful
independence, and sweet dance moves. However, if he was graded on being a
decent roommate or a reasonable human being, the outcome would be very
different. But that’s a story for another time.)</div>
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<br /></div>
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Now I just have to figure out how to help steer him into
these qualities and keep him away from cynicism, bitterness, and negative
energy for as long as humanly possible. Way easier said than done.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Good luck, sir.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-8031345182495632752014-03-06T21:11:00.001-05:002014-03-06T21:11:23.036-05:00Second Year
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<br />
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We have a 2-year-old. It’s official. We
have no more babies. </div>
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<br /></div>
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In fact, he was more than eager to tell me just that. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Recently, I was conversing with the Doozer about the present
sleeping arrangements in our house (the two currently share a bedroom, not ideal
for anyone, including us). And when I put forth the theoretical notion that if we
moved to a new house, they could each have their own room, the Doozer
wasn’t interested. I mean, not even a little bit.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>But</i>, I pointed out, <i>wouldn’t you like to sleep alone, have
your own room, and not share it with your little brother who cries and fusses
and wakes you up and generally seems to bother you?</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Yeah, but I would be lonely without him,” he said. Seriously. Are
you trying to kill me? Are you trying to break my heart? He went on to tell me
that he would slee<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>p with his little brother forever. As long as he’s a
baby. Not exactly the definition of forever that I’ve heard, but okay.</div>
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<br /></div>
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From across the room, Little Brother (who was engaged in
something and showed absolutely no sign of paying attention) stood up and
declared, “I not a baby right now. Dad.” Dad. Not Dada, not Daddy. <i>Dad.</i> Full of
scorn and outrage and bitterness.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay then.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, two years. That sure went by in a flash. And what a life in those two years. So much he’s experienced and so much more to go. Crying. Screaming. Complaining. Whining. Just kidding, it only seems like these are his only activities. There were other highlights.</div>
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<br /></div>
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He stopped calling himself Ju-June Medicine and started pronouncing his name correctly. He decided he did not like fish crackers—which he told me through a mouthful of the same crackers, while he held two fistfuls of them at the same time. This winter, we learned he loved taking off boots and socks while riding in the car—especially in sub-zero weather. Who does this? </div>
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<br /></div>
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He fell in love with Tegan and Sara. He fell out of love with Tegan and Sara. He had his pseudo-goth phase when he became obsessed with Lorde. He learned to dance and wield his spoon/fork hybrid with something resembling accuracy and dexterity. He tossed one of his big brother’s favorite stuffed animals into the bathtub. I only had my back turned for a second. (Of course, it was better than the time—times?—he urinated in the tub while sharing a bath with his brother.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He joined a Baby Fight Club. At least, we think he did. Otherwise, we have no idea where all the bumps and bruises came from. Except of course for that one-person demolition derby he keeps having that nobody else is participating in. Because
he’s a weirdo. And a maniac. I have decided that his lucha libre moniker would have to be El Destructo.</div>
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<br /></div>
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He decided his mother’s name is “Mwawm.” That’s the best way I can present it, phonetically. It’s crazy. What kind of accent is that? He heard Pearl Jam and said, “Mama, I do not like this guy.” Whatever, he probably doesn’t like you either. I guess you’re still my son. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Happy birthday, kid. I love you. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And I will try not to throw you out a
window, you tiny maniac.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-64554337591822784532014-02-27T20:46:00.000-05:002014-02-27T20:46:53.797-05:00Enchantment Under the Sea
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My kid is growing up. Too fast. Sure, he’s still a kid, but pretty
soon, he won’t be. It’s tough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last week, he attended his first school dance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’s in kindergarten. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kindergarten</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How did this happen? How did it come to this?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dance was an all-student event, part of a school spirit
week. So far, he had not been too inclined to participate. It was a short week,
but the first day, all the kids were encouraged to come in with a funny hairdo
or colored hair. No go. The Doozer wanted no part of it. The next day, he did
wear his school T-shirt and agree to attend the dance. With me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His mother was disappointed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But, Mom, you got to take me to the talent show, so it
wouldn’t be fair to Daddy if I don’t take him to the dance,” he offered, by way
of rationale. Apparently, we are raising a skilled courtroom attorney. I mean,
that’s rock-solid, you can’t argue with that logic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the reasons he was interested in the dance is that he
loves music. And dancing, actually. In fact, living room dance parties are a
regular activity in our house these days. This is what we do now. I was never
much for dancing myself (okay, that’s not entirely true), but since we started
introducing our kids to music that isn’t specifically made for children, they
have been moved to move and will break into rapturous dancing within seconds of
iTunes being launched. Just seeing the little musical note icon onscreen gets
Little Brother shaking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And for me, this is a big part of parenthood. Not just
teaching them to navigate the world, right and wrong, things like that. But to
appreciate art and culture. Helping build their relationship to pop culture.
Even just to dance around the living room, giggling like maniacs. Art will move
you, make you laugh. It is important. Yes, you can learn about math and
science, how to balance a checkbook, drive a car, how to function like a
human being in the world, but without art, what’s the point? Just, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exist</i>, as my friend Llewyn Davis might
say?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t think so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And right now, it’s music. And a school dance. We talked
beforehand about what kind of music they’d play. One of the Doozer’s current
favorites is Pearl Jam. (That’s right, I did that. I got my kid into Pearl Jam.
Dad of the year, over here.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told him I didn’t think they’d be playing any Pearl Jam. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why not?</i> he wanted to know. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m not sure it’s an elementary school-aged
type of thing</i>, I told him. That’s all. Basically, son, when you scream out
“Mind your manners!” in the backseat of the car like a mini Eddie
Vedder-in-training on the way to school, you’re pretty much the coolest
kindergartner that ever was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the end, while the dance offered some highlights,
including free pizza and a photo booth with goofy props and costumes (the image
of our kid and his pal flashing a giant, Flavor Flav-ish dollar sign still makes me laugh), there was not much actual dancing done. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was shy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was not his living room. That comfortable space where he
shakes with abandon, where he can fully let his freak flag fly. There were “a
million hundred thousand” kids at the dance. Or some other number based on his
sketchy grasp of math and numerals. And so he was shy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Though they did play some his favorites. We made sure to
tell his mom about “Royals” and “Safe and Sound” and “What Does the Fox Say?”
and his favorite: “Everything Is Awesome.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We got a little toe-tapping here and there. Some very quiet
singing along with Tegan and Sara. But I get it. Totally. Being in that
gymnasium brought back a lot of memories of my own school dances. Sweaty palms
and nervous fidgeting. Girls I didn’t have the courage to talk to. Worrying
about my moves. All these things that I can’t possibly prepare him for. Or
possibly explain. He’s just going to have to experience them for himself.
School dances. Crushes. Awkwardness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh god, the awkwardness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But until then, we’ll have our own private dance parties. Just
this morning, to assuage a crying, thrashing toddler refusing to eat his
breakfast, I cranked up “Get Lucky” on my wife’s iPhone and started dancing
around the kitchen with all the Nile Rodgers-inspired grooviness I could muster.
It caught him off-guard. Little Brother<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a> stopped his fit
for a moment to see what his crazy dad was doing. And the Doozer loved it. Just
ate it up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kitchen dancing. This is parenting. When I’m tired,
frustrated, despondent—I can always think about living room dance parties and
know that I’m not all bad at this thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything really is awesome. I mean, my kid knows The Lonely Island now. How good is that?</div>
the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-79264476611529281872014-02-07T20:42:00.000-05:002014-02-07T20:44:30.082-05:00Everything Is Awesome<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
To say I love movies is perhaps something of an
understatement. (I’m sure my wife would tell you that.) Perhaps obsession is
more accurate. To the point where I think of episodes in my life as scenes from
the movie of my life. (Follow?) As in, this is the scene where my sons and I
dance around the living room to a killer soundtrack by Elvis Costello. This is
the scene where we drop him off for the first day of school. This is the scene where
he meets his brother for the first time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, obviously, sharing movies with my kids is big. Introducing him to the Incredibles or the Muppets or Buzz and Woody,
these have been some of my favorite experiences as a parent. And since he was
3, we’ve been trying to get him to a theater. I have a very clear memory of my
first movie with my dad (no, really) and it was an experience I couldn’t wait
to have, a memory I wanted to create with our son.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he was 3, we did try. And we spent less than a minute
inside a theater, in a disastrous, aborted attempt at seeing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Muppets</i> with Jason Segel and Amy
Adams. It was too loud, too dark, we saw a few seconds of a trailer. Ever since, he’d always say, “I’ll wait for the DVD.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like he’s somebody’s grandmother.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a while, I thought I might have to wait all the way
until December 2015 when they release that first J.J. Abrams <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Star Wars</i> movie (he’ll be the most
appropriate age of 7 at that time), but then something else happened. And this
time, we had him. With just three little words.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Lego Movie.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This one seemed custom-built, specifically designed
for him. One, he loves Legos. Two, the main character shares our
son’s name (more or less). Three, they both have brown hair (he pointed out to
us). Four, they both have cowlicks (we pointed out to him). Five, in the TV ad,
they played “Wake Me Up” by Avicii (one of his favorite tunes).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was sold. He just had two conditions: He wanted popcorn
and jelly beans as a movie snack. That we could do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So we’ve been waiting. And then, out of nowhere, we heard
about an advanced screening, the week before the movie opened. And we scored
tickets. The Doozer was very excited.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That morning, there was a blizzard. Which we braved in order
to get him to the theater. They handed us 3-D glasses. Hopefully that wouldn’t
be a problem. He didn’t say anything about it, but really, I can’t imagine what
it would be like to see a move in the theater for the very first time and for
it to also be in 3-D. That has to be jarring, as much as he seemed to roll with
it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All around us, kids were laughing hysterically. Meanwhile, the
Doozer asked for jelly beans. Then popcorn. He watched the film, very serious,
almost stone-faced. His expression inscrutable. The wife and I kept sharing
looks. Was he enjoying it? Was he asleep? It was hard to tell behind those glasses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every once in a while, he’d chime in about a particular
minifigure in the film that overlapped with his collection. Or when things
would appear that he’d seen in Lego sets on the Internet or in a store. So he
was at least paying attention.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, I’m loving every second of it. The movie is
brilliant and hilarious and inventive—pretty much everything you would want
from a Lego movie. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is our new
favorite movie</i>, I kept thinking. We’re
going to get the DVD and wear it out. I see a <i>Lego Movie</i>-themed 6-year-old
birthday party, an Emmett with the Piece of Resistance Halloween costume. Also,
when does the sequel come out?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, things started to get hairy onscreen for our
heroes toward the end of the second act (as they are wont to do). And finally
the Doozer had a reaction to the film:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I want to go! I don’t want to watch anymore! I don’t like
this!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We tried to cajole him. To reassure him. Suggested that he
cover his eyes. Just for a moment. But he was adamant. He wanted to stop
watching. He wanted to leave.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t get it. I mean, he’s watched lots of movies, doesn’t he know what’s going to happen? He’s seen the Grinch
have a change of heart and return Christmas to Whoville; he’s seen the
Scooby-Doo gang solve countless mysteries and reveal that scary monsters are
just disgruntled guys in suits; he’s seen Rocky and Bullwinkle escape from the
dastardly clutches of Boris and Natasha; he’s watched Carl Frederickson rescue
Russell the Wilderness Scout, Kevin the Bird, and Dug the Talking Dog from the
nefarious explorer Charles Muntz.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Surely, he must realize that these minifigures
are going to escape these dire circumstances and triumph over Lord Business’
evil plans?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t want to watch anymore! I want to go!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so the wife took him to the lobby for several minutes. I
stayed in my seat, watching the film, my joy diminishing by the moment. Sure,
the film was still entertaining, but it was just different now. Our son was
scared. He didn’t like it. He was over it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No second viewing,</i>
I thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No DVD. No birthday party, no
costume, no nothing.</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guess maybe I
jumped the gun on that whole new favorite movie thing.</i> Thanks, Doozer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The credits rolled and the Doozer had not returned to his
seat. I was crushed. But then, it turned out he and his mom had stood in the
tunnel, watching the end of the movie. We asked him about his favorite part of
the day. The movie? The snacks? The fact that his brother wasn’t there? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He told us it was the movie. Awesome!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back at home, he asks me a lot of questions about what
happened. He’s unsure about certain plot points. I tell him that he will
probably understand it more after he sees it again sometime. He informs me that
he never wants to see it again. Awesome.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then, as the days go by, he keeps bringing it up. He’s
still asking a lot of questions about the movie. Talking about it. Talking
about the toys. About Lord Business and Wildstyle and Cloud Cuckoo Land. Almost
a week later now and he<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1287124646001032838" name="_GoBack"></a> seems just as interested as ever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So if you’ll excuse me, I have a DVD to pre-order on Amazon.
(Quickly, before he changes his mind.)<br />
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/fZ_JOBCLF-I" width="400"></iframe>the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-31227444931382934542014-01-09T22:56:00.000-05:002014-01-11T09:02:27.851-05:00New Year's Resolutions<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hey there, 2014. Let’s do this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most people would agree that, generally, new year’s resolutions are useless. Stupid. People don’t stick to
them. They’re these pie-in-the-sky ideas, too ambitious, too lofty. But
if there’s one thing I’ve learned about being a parent it’s that you must learn about being a parent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you can’t learn from your experiences—and in
particular, your mistakes and failures because, come on, there’s so many of those to choose
from—then you are doomed to just repeat those mistakes and failures over and over again, ad nauseum, with each subsequent kid. And won’t that be fun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here we go, in no particular order:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Try to be more Zen. </b>Accept that for the foreseeable future, your 1-year-old will
care more for a cartoon rabbit on TV than for you. (Yeah, I’m talking about you
Peter Rabbit, you furry little shit.) Also, you will never find all the Cheerios that have been hidden in the couch. Get over it. Oh, and at least once a week your feet will randomly stick to the floor. Deal with it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Drink more.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>And get in shape already.</b> If you get winded carrying your kid up the
stairs, you are deathly unhealthy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>As ugly as they are, you should really probably invest in
those athletic straps to keep your glasses on your head</b>, because otherwise
Little Brother is going to rip them off your face and smash them, like the
miniature schoolyard bully he so clearly is.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Spend less time oohing and ahhing over baby photos.</b> They’re in the room with you. Engage with them. (Ahem, Wife.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Start sneaking toys out of the house in the middle of the
night. </b>Then feign ignorance about their disappearance. They’ll get over it.
Eventually.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>For god’s sake, man, keep your beard more trim. </b>When you neglect that grooming, you are just asking for all that painful tugging that Little Brother is so fond of doing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<b>Drink more.</b> Oh wait, did I already say that?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>When you start to get annoyed and want to scream at them, try to think of the
Menendez Brothers.</b> And then attempt to reason with them more calmly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Have more dates. </b>You are a couple and not just parents. Wine
on the couch in sweatpants while binge-watching <i>Game of Thrones</i> is not a date.
Not really. Stop convincing yourselves that it is. You were fun once. You did
stuff. You went out. Stop being so old.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Train your 5-year-old to mow the lawn. </b>That’ll work out, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Stop crying.</b> All the time. Seriously. Get it together, man.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, so a year is a long time. We’ll see how it goes. Of course,
these days they seem to be flying by. So I better get cracking. I’m angling for Father of
the Year in 2014. Okay, too high. Too lofty. Halfway Decent Father of the Year
2014. That’s doable. I think. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hey, kids. Aim low. That’s my best parental advice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Think it’s going to be a long year. Strap in.)<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1287124646001032838" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
<!--EndFragment-->the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-25907863861335495582013-12-30T20:38:00.000-05:002014-02-09T21:13:16.421-05:00Love Actually Is Making a Superhero Dollhouse For Your Kid For Christmas<br />
It seems to me now that you don’t really know how much you love your kids until it’s 1 a.m. on Christmas Eve and you’re hand-cranking tiny hooks into the wall of a “superhero dollhouse” (that the wife and you have constructed out of an IKEA bookcase) to hang miniature keys, arrows, and “extra capes” on. (No, really. This is our life.) <br />
<br />
Here’s the thing. In his infinite imagination (which, believe me, I am glad that he has), the Doozer mentioned a few months back to his mother that he’d like a dollhouse. But not for dolls. He wanted a place for his superheroes (and <i>Star Wars</i> guys and Scooby-Doo characters and animals and dinosaurs and knights and horses) to hang out. And sleep. And cook. <br />
<br />
He’d played with one at his grandmother’s house and he was fascinated by all the little things in it, the food, the furniture, the accessories. But the dolls, not so much. <br />
<br />
Thinking about the kid’s concept, my wife was inspired by some images on the Internets. On Pinterest, maybe. (Thanks a lot, Pinterest.) We looked at some actual dollhouses, but many came completely furnished and didn’t always seem to meet our needs (or rather, his). <br />
<br />
So, we got a <a href="http://www.ikea.com/us/en/catalog/products/30264419/#/80135298">bookcase from IKEA</a> with four cubes/compartments. The four rooms of the house would be a kitchen, a bedroom, a living room, and . . . a planning room. (We still haven’t come up with a truly decent name for this space.) This room would be like the command center and so it has maps, computers, binoculars, tools, a globe. <br />
<br />
You know. For planning.<br />
<br />
On the top of the house, we decided they’d have some grass and a rooftop vegetable garden, since the Doozer loves working alongside his mom in the actual garden. Since I’m a boy, I suggested that we should also have a landing pad up there. <i>Hello? Where else is the Millennium Falcon going to land?</i> Of course, the garden needed a white picket fence. And a cobblestone path connecting the garden and the landing pad. Affixing a miniature white picket fence all around the perimeter of a bookcase posing as a superhero dollhouse is one of the stranger things I’ve found myself doing in my life as a parent.<br />
<br />
And since it’s Christmas, they would definitely need a gingerbread house and Christmas cookies in the kitchen. Not to mention their own Christmas tree, wreaths, and Christmas lights. <br />
<br />
(Insert your own theory about our mental stability here.)<br />
<br />
<i>He better lose his mind over this thing</i>, I started to think to myself. Although he did also get the Scooby-Doo Mystery Mansion, which for a few minutes on Christmas day seemed like it might beat out the superhero dollhouse as favorite toy of the year. Did I mention it comes with something called “goo?” This is a highly suspect material that I imagine might produce some kind of lawsuit in the future. (<i>Do not taunt Happy Fun Ball!</i>)<br />
<br />
But back to that house. Did I mention it’s on wheels? Because it’s big. And heavy. Hey, what good is a superhero dollhouse if it isn’t capable of tipping over and flattening one of your kids like a pancake? I should say the wheels come with brakes, so that Little Brother doesn’t ram it into a wall or a door or a window. Which would definitely happen otherwise.<br />
<br />
Did we discuss the extra capes? Or the gumball machine? Or the still from the <i>Rudolph</i> show playing on the TV in the living room? We went all out. Painstaking. Detail. This is what it’s like to be married to an artist. (Okay, so I got pretty into it, too.)<br />
<br />
We wheeled it out at the end, after everything from Santa had been opened (or ravaged) and so everybody was a little Christmas’ed out at that point. So the response was a bit more muted than perhaps we’d hoped. (He actually seemed more excited about gummy candies he found in his stocking, but in his defense, they were one of the very first things he opened.)<br />
<br />
I was just told (facetiously) that we were making other parents look mediocre. Which is all the praise we needed. Forget how much our kid might dig it, if we can make other parents look bad, so much the better. We got comments like AWESOME and AMAZING (their caps, not mine). Although, I think another word for it might be STUPID. Or CRAZY. Those also work.<br />
<br />
And now that we’ve set the bar this high, we’re only going to have to top ourselves next year. Or just get used to disappointing our children, because I really don’t think we’ll be able to go above this one. We love you guys, but I don’t think we can find a bigger way of showing it.<br />
<div>
<br />
Who am I kidding? They’re going to lose all interest in it in a month and six months from now won’t even remember that it exists.</div>
the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-66983571633589215102013-12-20T21:10:00.000-05:002013-12-20T21:10:17.354-05:00Walking Dead (Or, How Parenting Is Like the Movie Inception)
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dear Sir,</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I did not order this
4:50 wake-up call and I would like to complain to the manager.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes, I know I am
technically the manager, but I ceded authority and control to you when you were
born.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Please try to keep it
down, little man.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Seriously.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shut your yap.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thank you,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dada (formerly the
manager)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m pretty sure we can all agree—parents and non-parents
alike—that 5 a.m. is a completely unreasonable time to get up. I am not a
farmer. I have nothing to milk. And this is doubly—perhaps triply—true if it
happens to be a weekend morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been said, or written, or so I have heard, that when
you become a parent, you just get used to sleeping less, that you grow
accustomed to being tired. Really? Who are these people that think this?
You don’t get used to it. You think you do. You have one kid and they start
sleeping through the night and so you start sleeping through the night and
you’re good. But then you have another kid (a really stupid idea) and the whole
vicious cycle starts all over again. You’re not sleeping anymore. Then
you’re being woken up super-early.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it’s not just tired, like, oh I just mowed the grass and
I’m going to sit down with my feet up and drink a beer for a minute. Not that
kind of tired. More like I’ve been on a drug-fueled, Thompson-esque tear
through Las Vegas and I’ve been awake for three days straight, holy shit, is this really what my hands look like kind of tired.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I have no idea how you grow accustomed to it. It is
disorienting and discombobulating. Still. This is why parenthood is a lot like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Inception</i>. It’s really hard to tell if
you’re dreaming or awake. You’re in a perpetual state of semi-zombieness which
leaves you confused about your reality. The only difference is that you’re
changing diapers and spoon-feeding a baby instead of mounting an assault on a
mountainous compound or fighting thugs in zero gravity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, I guess it’s kind of the same thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My bed is so tempting now. Like it’s never been before. And
yet, the hours between 8 and 11 p.m. become so valuable, because they are the
only opportunity to do anything remotely productive, to feed your own brain, to
detach from the world and you just want that time to go on forever, but you
also want to go to sleep right now this minute. But I can’t bring myself to go
to bed earlier. What am I, my grandpa? I like the nightlife. I like to boogie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I used to have me time. I used to have nothing but me time. But
now it’s all kid time, all the time. Even after they go to bed at night. You’re
not dealing with them, but now you’re talking about them. At length. And at
this time of year, you’re wrapping their presents and building their precious
superhero dollhouses for them—something that doesn’t exist in reality, so you
have to improvise and invent the thing as you go along (yeah, that’s an entire
post unto itself).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yawn. No, really. Yawn.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seriously, as I write this, I’m not sure how my eyelids are
staying open. When I’m done, I’ve got to work on presents, talk to my
wife, plan every day until Christmas to make sure we have enough time to get
everything done. And it’s all the fault of the two sleep-averse maniacs
upstairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Long ago, we decided that when they are teenagers, we are
totally going into their rooms and shouting and making noise and waking them up
at 3 a.m. This is only fair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t judge us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Who am I kidding, we’ll be grateful for the sleep. There’s no way we’re dragging our asses out of bed at 3 a.m. Ever. For the rest of our lives.<!--EndFragment-->the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-64866391886022793432013-12-12T22:10:00.000-05:002013-12-12T22:10:43.983-05:00Deck the Halls
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Another year, another holiday, another chance for tiny
terrorists (I mean, our children) to run wild on sugary treats and destroy
fragile decorations that represent cherished memories.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The monsters.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the same time, they are really fun when it comes to other people’s decorations. And I know it’s a bit of a cliché at this point, but their
immense wonder is really staggering to behold sometimes. Their genuine
enthusiasm at seeing colored lights strung up outside of a stranger’s house
practically makes me sob every time it happens. They are so excited about those
lights. One night, Little Brother actually shouted out, “Christmas lights, I love you!” No, really. That happened.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It just kills me. I’m an emotional train wreck. Sure, I thought I was
before, but my kids, I don’t know, it’s like they’re two little engineers
shoveling piles and piles of coal on the fire, until the train is exceeding
its speed limitations and starting to bust apart before it even jumps off the
tracks. <i>What did you do to me?</i> I thought I was a functioning adult. Quit being so
damn adorable all the time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, sometimes I wonder if the Doozer even knows (or cares) that Christmas is coming. We got him a kit for a gingerbread house and he insisted that it be a spooky gingerbread house with ghosts and zombies and bats—today is December 12, kid, can we stop celebrating Halloween already? Seriously, why do you keep bringing home Halloween books from the school library? They have hundreds (maybe thousands) of books—do they not have any about Christmas or, you know, any other subject that isn’t Halloween? By the way, it is December 12 and I have decided that whatever Halloween candy of yours that is still around is now fair game. Yeah, I said it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am the one that eats the candy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I am not the one who hangs the stockings from the mantle. No, really, we can’t even hang up the stockings because we’re convinced Little Brother is going to
pull one down and cleave his skull with the stocking holder, <i>Hot Fuzz</i>-style. <i>What’s this?
Giant sock? Let me put it in my mouth like the ones from my feet. </i>The first day the tree was up, he crawled under it and into the corner of the room. My wife was not so pleased, but he thought it was hilarious, sliding on his belly, like going under
barbed wire. First morning! How does he know that this is what he’s meant to
do? He sees the tree and he’s like, <i>I’m going to crawl under there.</i> What is the
thought process? How does he get there?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s like living with a miniature version of Evel Knievel. He’s really not going to be happy until he’s wrecked
everything of value. Hey, Handsy McGrabs-a-Lot, chill out already. Really, why did we have kids again? They ruin everything. You can’t have nice things. I find myself walking in the door every night and I just start shouting “No!” It’ll apply at some point, I’m sure, even if it’s not apropos at that exact moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Another (new) <a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>fixture of the holiday season is Pepper, our Elf on the Shelf. The Doozer gets super-excited about seeking him out every morning, wondering where he will be and what he will be doing. Is it just me, or is this a crazy weird phenomenon? And what does he really think about that thing? What goes through his head? I mean, our kid is pretty savvy, so is he just playing along? Does he suspect us of being “Santa” yet? I hope not. If he is just playing along, I’ll take it. Throughout the process, he taught Little Brother to call him a “cheeky elf.” That’s worth the price of admission.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The Elf on the Shelf is not the only bizarre element of Christmas these days. Have you been to any store lately with Christmas decorations? The other day, I saw a light-up Darth Vader with a Santa hat.
We’ve lost our minds now, right? And this is coming from a guy who loves <i>Star
Wars</i>. And Christmas. But not necessarily together. (1978’s <i>The Star Wars
Holiday Special</i> notwithstanding.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ho ho ho. Pass the eggnog. It’s spiked, right?</div>
<!--EndFragment-->the dad scenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09369932893960466235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1287124646001032838.post-52386013482079882912013-12-05T21:40:00.000-05:002013-12-05T21:40:35.094-05:00Two-Headed Boy
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that I’ve recovered from the turkey-induced hangover . .
. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Single White
Female</i>? Yeah, so there’s a gender-switched remake happening in my house
right now this minute. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Little Brother has become a complete acolyte (and copycat)
of the Doozer. Repeats words. Follows him around like he’s a celebrity. Wants
to consume him. From the moment he wakes up and then all day long until bedtime.
He’s probably dreaming about him, too. He’s obsessed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hi, buddy!” he exclaims when the Doozer enters a room. His
excitement that this person is even in the room is so joyous and
uncontainable. He forgets all about us. We totally cease to exist. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m pretty sure this is how cults start.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fortunately, so far at least, this adoration hasn’t gone to
the subject’s head. Luckily, the Doozer hasn’t figured out how to be evil, how
to manipulate his brother’s interest and use it to his advantage, make the
little guy carry out his sinister bidding. We’re not there yet. But I’m sure
it’s only a (short) matter of time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, in kindergarten, the Doozer has homework. For one thing,
he brings a book home every night and reads it aloud to us. It comes home in
a bag with a little monster finger that he wears, so he can follow along
with the words on the page. Without fail, every night, when he finishes, Little Brother scrambles up on the couch, dons the monster finger himself
and hilariously mimics the act of reading the book and following the words.
Only, his version is utter verbal nonsense.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While we find this very amusing, perhaps you could
figure out how to use a fork properly. Your brother does that too, you know.
(Mostly.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His love or adoration or insanity or whatever it is, it’s so
all–consuming that when the Doozer is not around—when he’s at school, for
instance—Little Brother will often wander around in a daze repeating his
brother’s name and the word <i>school</i>, a sad inner monologue turned outward mantra
of existential despair. He literally does not know his place in the world if
he’s apart from his desired Doppelgänger.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it goes both ways. The Doozer has crazy affection for
his miniature sidekick. And all of a sudden they’re in this mutual admiration society, like the time we were taking a 40-minute drive to a wedding and they
spontaneously began playing the game “Zombie” in the backseat. Not familiar
with it? It’s pretty simple. Whenever one of them says the word “zombie,” they
both begin growling and shrieking at each other (à la zombies) at a fairly
grating, ear-splitting decibel. For half an hour.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They’re crazy,” we said to each other.</div>
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And here’s the thing, the older one is crazy enough. But the
younger one just seems to be trying to up the ante. All the time. He seems to be doing an impression of the Doozer, but with unnecessary additional theatrics. Apparently, this is how he’s interpreted what
it means to be five. It means simply to be crazy and to be loud. You’re not a
1970s punk rocker, you can be quiet every once in a while. </div>
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Sometimes I even think they want to be twins. Or the same person. It’s creepy. They’ll cling to each other. I mean they hug
and they’re affectionate and all that, but I also feel like they’re trying to
merge/fuse into one creature, one single entity. Our very own two-headed boy.</div>
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Is this what Cain and Abel were like? Or the Menendez
Brothers? I should really know that, but I can’t remember.</div>
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Or maybe I just don’t want to.</div>
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