Dazed and Confused

So, school’s out. For the summer. Yeah. That happened.

I have no idea how. The Doozer has completed an entire year of school. Preschool, sure, yeah, but again—an entire year of it. It’s over.

How did this happen?

Of course, we do have a stack of artwork to attest to the passage of time. His early, Pollock-influenced, spattered canvases: raw, spare, impulsive, informal. And then there are the more recent additions, the more complex constructions, the ones that required scissors and glue and sometimes multiple types of materials. He learned to use scissors. He learned to use glue. A lot can happen in a school year.

He’s taller. He has bigger feet. He got a baby brother. He discovered the Avengers. And realized that his favorite kind of cheese is smoked gouda. Mastered the Kindle. And Angry Birds. He made friends. Kind of. Got a girlfriend (we think). He used tools. Memorized the dialogue from Cars and the lyrics to “Rumor Has It.”

He grew up. He’s growing up.

The picture of the two of us on the front stoop from the first day of school? I could’ve sworn that the wife took it yesterday. We look the same. And totally different, I realize now. It was just yesterday. And it was also forever ago. Part of me wants to live in that moment forever.

All of me knows that I’ll never have that moment again.

It was only nine months or so, but it was also a lifetime. A blueprint, for the years to come. He’ll just go to school more and more. There will be more accomplishments, more projects, more teachers, more assignments, more friends. More, more, more. Then Little Brother will join him and everything will double. Experiences will multiply. I imagine it will be hard to keep up.

School years will end. Summers will pass. Time will go on.

I know I can’t keep it from happening, but perhaps I can slow it down. Enjoy every peal of laughter as the Doozer runs through the sprinkler on a warm, sunny day. Smile at the smear of soft serve ice cream across his face on a Friday evening. Sing exuberantly along with him in the car to the songs of Adele (until he insists that I stop). Watch him on every trip to the zoo or the lake or a family barbecue, see him smile, hear him laugh, feel his boundless energy. Be the boys of summer. Every day. Every hour. Enjoy. Appreciate. Love.

Because soon again the leaves will change, the temperature will drop. T-shirts and shorts will be traded for new sneakers and sweatshirts. Summer will end and school will resume. And in a few more falls, the Doozer and his Little Brother will both be headed off, away from home. More school days, more experiences, more life.

We have just a few short summer hours to spend together. Better make the most of it.

Eight or Higher, Bro

In this week’s season finale of How I Met Your Mother, new parents Marshall and Lily found themselves having to draw a line in the sand with their single, childless (and slightly self-involved) friend, Ted. While tending to their newborn, Marvin Wait For It (aka, best middle name ever) Erikson, they had to explain to Ted that they were now in charge of a human life and could not handle his issues, unless they rated an eight or higher on a scale of importance.

At the time, he was trying to figure out how to respond to a text he’d received from a girl he just met. The more Ted tried to elicit advice about this non-situation, the more Marshall repeated the phrase, “Eight or higher, bro. Eight or higher, bro.”

It was funny. It also got me thinking. About what separates us now, those of us with children and those without. It really is a thing you cannot explain.

I’ll admit, this must look crazy at times (or all the time) to someone on the outside. You’re exhausted, always. Not just physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Just drained. There's not much room left in your brain for other stuff. You try not to fall behind. To maintain communication and friendships and everything else. And you fail. Because you're responsible for another human life. It’s not just a time management issue. I mean, you try to approach it that way. But you can’t.

Because, again, you’re responsible for a human life. We are keeping them alive. Every minute of every day there is that one goal: Make sure that they keep breathing. That’s a heavy responsibility. This entity’s entire well-being and survival is based solely on my ability to not drop the ball. That’s a lot of pressure. There is nothing else like it. And if you’re already a person susceptible to anxiety, it only gets worse. Every waking moment is a potential horror show.

And really, you brought this all upon yourself.

When news came recently that a friend was expecting their third child, we predictably expressed complete and utter bafflement as to how one would approach and manage such a situation.

“Are we just not good at this?” my wife wondered aloud.

I did not respond.

But it got me thinking. Maybe we’re not. Maybe we have no business being parents. If we can’t maintain contact with our friends, if we can’t go about our lives and be ourselves and not just completely fall to pieces and accomplish absolutely nothing except for merely keeping our progeny alive, then perhaps we aren’t cut out for this racket?

Of course, we are routinely presented with examples of parenting worse than our own. On a recent trip to the farm with the Doozer’s preschool, I spotted the rotten apples mere moments after arrival. They inevitably acted out and time after time, parents expressed surprise and disbelief about their behavior. Really? I kept thinking. Really? I could tell your kid was a little shit the moment I laid eyes on him and now you’re acting like he’s never done this before? Right. Nice parenting.

And also, thank you for making me feel just slightly better about myself. At least momentarily.

Of course, I’m sleep-deprived. So you could easily dismiss all this as the lunatic ramblings of an overtired, stressed-out, growing-dumber-by-the-moment parent of a newborn. Overly tired and seriously hopped-up on coffee. Desperately attempting to crawl out of the black hole that is the experience of being the parent of a newborn child.

So, I'm sorry if I forgot your birthday, or haven’t called you back in a while, or generally seem to have dropped off the face of the earth. I’m a jerk. Granted. But I’m also a parent. Which is not to suggest that I’m better than you if you’re not. Not at all. Dumber than you, perhaps. For having chosen this path. Who knows. Time will tell.

Now let me go check if those kids are still breathing . . .

Title TK

Ed. Note: Although we received a draft of a new blog post for this week, it has turned out to be nothing more than completely incoherent gibberish. If we did not know any better, it would appear to have been composed by candlelight with a broken crayon, after a four-day, meth-induced jaunt of vicious debauchery and complete sleeplessness.

It would seem that the author may have gone off the rails due to the exacting pressures of keeping a newborn child alive, as well as the side effects of general sleep deprivation. But don’t worry. We’re sure the situation will turn around. Eventually. Keep watching this space for further dispatches from the frontline of new parenthood. Coming soon. We promise. We think.

Honestly, though, we think he may have been inebriated or something when he was writing, we can’t really think of any other reasonable explanation, but at the same time we cannot be certain and we definitely don’t want to pass judgment, but really, seriously, who drinks like that when they have a newborn child in their care? What kind of person does that?

Okay, maybe you can be the judge. Most of what we got was just a random (and repetitive) assortment of notes and keywords (at least, that’s what we think this is): Sleep. Diapers. Diapers. Sleep. Poop. Lightning McQueen. Poop. Sleep. Stab my eyeballs. Filthy, dirty urchins. Lazy. Useless. Dirty. Food everywhere. War of attrition. F’ing McQueen! Why do people think this is funny? Beer. Binky. Binky. Swaddle. Binky. Beer. Poop. Noise. Screaming. Death. Sweet relief. How awesome is Girls? Somebody kill me. Diapers!

Again, we apologize for the technical difficulties. And we assure you that we will have it all sorted out by next week. Or the week after. Or possibly in 17 years and 10 months.

As always, thank you for reading. And . . . good day.

Man to Man

I’m not the biggest aficionado of . . . the sport, so I didn’t entirely understand the reference when I first heard it. When we were awaiting the arrival of our second child, and on the rare occasion that we expressed to outsiders our concern about being able to handle the new dynamic, we often heard, That’s easy, That’s still man-to-man defense. It’s not like zone.

I guess I still don’t know what any of this means.

It’s amazing to me how insanely difficult it is to get out of the house. For anything. For any reason. There’s just so much stuff, for one. So much stuff. Like, so much stuff that it requires multiple trips from the house to the garage to load the car. To go to, like, the grocery store. Ridiculous.

This week, I was recruited by the wife to accompany her and both our children on a class field trip for the Doozer’s preschool to a real farm. There was no way she was going to embark on this endeavor alone. She wasn’t prepared. I understand. I wouldn’t be, either.

I’m glad to report that we survived. And I wouldn’t even go so far as to describe it as an ordeal. We managed. We were late. Obviously. But we still managed.

And this is our life now. Man-to-man defense. And it does feel like defense. It’s like these two children are the barbarians at the gate, trying to crash our lovely grown-up existence and reduce our world to rubble and chaos. As a result, we must divide and conquer, man up and face them head-on, preventing the complete and utter annihilation of our way of life and well-being. It means devising a divide and conquer strategy on a daily basis, tagging in and out of challenging situations, steeling ourselves to confront these pint-sized terrorists.

So, at the farm, while watching our son clamber over bales of hay, feed a goat, milk a cow, and sit on a very small horse (not ride, mind you, just sit), I also calmed a fussy baby, changed his diaper on a picnic table, and generally kept him occupied. And for the most part, yes, it was a success.

Although, I did discover a downside to this new arrangement. With your focus fixated on both your kids (and possibly even just one at a time), it’s difficult to let in other stuff. You know, for instance, the directions of a farmer on how to properly feed a pig. Which is kind of important information if it is something that you have never done before—and are going to allow your three-and-a-half year-old child do it.

So, I only heard part of the directions. And after lunch, allowed the Doozer to stick his hand through the fence into the pig pen and drop part of a strawberry and a wrap onto the ground. And as the giant pig charged across the enclosure toward my son’s outstretched hand, it dawned on me that Farmer Don might have said something about not doing it this way. About dropping food from a greater height, above the fence. And possibly even to have an adult do it.

Luckily, the Doozer pulled his hand back and watched through the fence as the pig ate the remains of his lunch off the ground, none the wiser. Looking around, I saw no scolding reactions from fellow parents or the wife. That was close. But yes, I’m the guy who almost allowed his son to have his hand bitten off by a giant pig. Yep, that’s me.

So, man-to-man defense at the farm can be qualified as a success. The same cannot necessarily be said of the period later that evening when I was left alone with both children for several hours as my wife attended to what was surely very important business of some kind, as I attempted to wrangle a screaming baby and an overtired toddler at bedtime and feeding time, without the aid of even a small amount of alcohol to help me maintain composure.

But that’s a story for another time.

Baby B.S.

You forget. Time passes, memories fade. It’s inevitable.

And also incredibly dangerous.

It has now been over three years since we had a newborn under our roof. Enough time has passed that we forgot—or intentionally blocked out—all of the negative elements of that scenario. Most days, we look at the Doozer and see him just as he is, often unable to connect present-day Doozer to newborn Doozer of three and a half years back. So just enough time has passed that you feel secure in having a new baby. You’re sure you can handle it.

And then it all comes flooding back.

Little Brother very quickly reminded me that babies are, quite simply, evil. Devious. Manipulative. Sure, you ooh and ahh all over them, they’re so adorable and funny and snuggly and they smell really nice. But it’s all a ruse. They’re on a secret mission to destroy you.

Or possibly not-so-secret.

It’s crazy how much of this I’d forgotten—or again, blocked out. There is so much baby bullshit to deal with. So much. And it just doesn’t stop. Ever.

For instance, you cradle the kid in your arms, gently rock and shush them to sleep. They pass out and you go to set them down. Gently, mind you. Extremely gently. Like Indy replacing the idol with the bag of sand in Raiders of the Lost Ark gently. And just as you tip your fedora, confident that the transition from arm to soft, comfortable surface was so smooth there is no possible way the kid could wake up, his eyes pop wide open and he stares you down, his expression clearly saying, Whoa, wait a minute, what do you think you’re doing? We’re not done here. Pick me back up right quick, pal.

And you must repeat this insufferable scenario several more times before he finally gives in and goes to sleep. It’s infuriating.

When the Doozer was a newborn, his thing was sticking his tongue in and out of his mouth at a rapid pace. We’re not sure why he did it. It was odd, but also endearing and humorous. Little Brother’s “thing” on the other hand, so far seems to be convincing us that he’s finished with his business, waiting for us to pull of his dirty diaper, and then, mid-transition to the new, clean diaper, unleashing another torrent of baby poop, so that he soils two diapers and you have to wait and get a third to finish the job. And he just stares at you blankly.

You’re not fooling anyone, kid. I’m on to you.

Like the swing. We get you this awesome swing with little animals on it, it plays nice music, it rocks you gently—and you scream like a banshee when you’re in it. But if I swing you—in the exact same fashion—while you’re in the car seat, you quiet right down and sometimes even go to sleep. Clearly you’re just messing with me here, you’re not even trying to be subtle about it. Frankly, I’m starting to resent it.

Not to mention your strategic deployment of baby cuteness. And those ridiculous old man faces that you keep making. You know we’re powerless against them and you seem to know exactly when to make them in order to defeat us.

The other thing I’ve noticed is that once you get used to life with a toddler, it becomes difficult to recalibrate to a newborn. Like getting dressed, for instance. With the Doozer, it’s become a two-man operation, I’m basically just assisting him in certain areas, but he can pretty much dress and undress himself at this point. And with Little Brother, he just lays there. And I have to remember now how to get a tiny arm in a sleeve—with no assistance whatsoever, and possibly even some resistance to the entire operation. How long does this last?

It gets to the point where you just stare at the newborn, flabbergasted, and you’re like, What is your problem? What is your deal? Do something. Contribute. Get involved. Seriously, you just f’ing lay there all the time. What is the deal?


Stop blowing bubbles. And why do you smell so nice? Knock it off. I’m on to you. I’m hip to your game. You’re not going to get me. I will not be destroyed. You will not destroy me.

Seriously, why do you smell so nice? What is that smell? And stop making that funny old man face. It kills me. You look like a retiree in Florida, getting ready to play shuffleboard. How do you do that?

You’re going to pay for this kid. I don’t know how. But you are.

The Epic (and Unending) Saga of Lightning McQueen

I’ll say this up front: I’m a fan of Pixar movies. Okay, I’m a fan of movies. In general. Yes, I’m a grown-up, but I still like to watch cartoons. But here’s the thing. Most of the Pixar movies are not simply for kids. They often play on the nostalgia of adults, for when they were children, as opposed to playing directly to children. I’m not sure why I feel the need to justify this. There are clearly movies that are geared directly toward children and I would not watch them. Well, if I was forced to, now that I’m a parent. But as an adult without children, I did watch animated films. I don’t think this is abnormal.

Now, there’s a lot of crap out there for kids, which is moronic and, on some level, I think, unhealthy. There was a great piece in the New Yorker recently about this very subject, particularly children’s television. And as a parent, I’ve done my best to steer my kid toward things more . . . I don’t know, enlightened. Sophisticated. As much as I want my kid to love movies like I do, to have an interest and affection for the better pieces of popular culture, there are things that filter in, things you never would’ve chosen to introduce to them in the first place. And I’m sure it’s only going to get worse, as time goes on.

But things happen. The kid goes to school, preschoolers are obsessed with Lightning McQueen and Mater, they bring in juice boxes with their images , they sport sneakers and T-shirts with these characters, and it begins to raise questions. The kid starts asking about them. A lot. The grandparents hear the kid mention this McQueen character, and suddenly, you have Lightning McQueen items in your house.

And then you face a moral dilemma: You see Cars showing on cable and you think, It can’t hurt to DVR it. He races all those cars around the room, he’d probably like to see them on TV.

But here’s the thing. You cannot be trusted. Being a parent has compromised your judgment. The years with your kid have taken their toll. It’s like being a low-level of drunk all the time. You are impaired. Things you never in a million years would’ve thought were a good idea when you were childless now seem reasonable.

Like showing Cars to your three-year-old.

Now, I know that he’s not me. And that he does not share my level of intellect. I know that what a toddler finds entertaining and what I find entertaining might not be the same thing. It’s unreasonable to expect that he might be interested in Mad Men, or even that anything he’s interested in could rise to that level of quality and sophistication. I can use Mad Men as a measurement for other things that I watch, but I cannot apply the same standards to my kid.

So, we showed him Cars. I start playing it off the DVR and the first thing I notice is the running time. It was shown with commercials, but even so, it took up an astounding two hours and 30 minutes worth of space on the DVR. Two hours and 30 minutes? What was I thinking?
 But then a peculiar thing happened. The film opens with a lengthy sequence of a race. And Lightning McQueen (the textbook reckless, hotshot rookie) is part of a three-way tie at the end of that race, which leads to the major plot point of a tie-breaker race to be held in California a few days later. At about this point in the recording, we hit the first commercial break.

And the Doozer wants to start over again. We tell him there’s more, Lightning's going to California and there will be another race. Nope. Not interested. He wants to see the beginning.

Over and over and over again.

For weeks, we watch the first 15 to 20 minutes of Cars as though it is its own self-contained story (it is not). The cliffhanger at the commercial break—will Lightning get to California to schmooze with racing sponsor Dinoco before the other cars—is completely lost on the kid. He couldn’t care less. He becomes obsessed. With that race. And every bit of action that occurs in that short time span. Hell, it’s not even the entire first act of the movie.

He learns all the dialogue. He learns the words (or at least his version of them) to the Sheryl Crow song that plays over the opening of the film. Which, by the way, references Bud Light in the first line—this song was written for this film, right? Which is for children? I’m confused.

But I digress. Eventually, we convinced him to go past that first commercial break. Each time, we’d get deeper and deeper into the film. Further along with the plot. I’m not sure how far we got, but maybe about an hour in, he’d lose interest or simply want to go back to the familiar part of the film, that first race until the commercial break.

But here’s the funny thing. The movie that I was unsure I even wanted to show the Doozer has suddenly got its hooks into me. I start to get desperate to know if Lightning McQueen finished repaving the road in Radiator Springs and got to California for the big race. What happens?

The Doozer was unmoved. I could not convince him to want to know what happened next. He was content to be entertained by the portion of the story that interested him. He’s got the lines of dialogue memorized (which I must admit, is something I do, so this is clearly my son). He loves the Fast and Furious gag on the freeway. Seriously, he walks around the house doing this affected, nasally, cholo voice, saying, “We got ourselves a nodder . . .”

Finally, after weeks (months?) of watching that portion of the film, I convince him to power through to the end. And I get to have closure with the story of Lightning McQueen. Finally.

But now he knows there's a Cars 2 and wants to watch that.

Damn you, Lightning McQueen! What have I done?

Bromance

It dawned on us during the wife’s pregnancy, one night when we were engaged in the lengthy, complex (and honestly, sort of exhausting) routine that precedes the Doozer going to bed at night, that we were about to completely ruin his life. And what horrible people we must be.

There was just no way that we could keep up this level of attention and devotion to him. And inevitably, he was going to hate us. Or his brother. What had we been thinking? We were about to create a giant tsunami of confusion, frustration, resentment, fury, and possibly homicidal intentions. Seriously, what had we been thinking?

We tried explaining to him what it might be like once his brother came along. We tried to explain that the whole bedtime routine might need to be altered or shortened or something. He looked at us skeptically. And said, “Just put the baby down on my bed.” We’ll see, we told him. He had it all worked out. And was not prepared to be questioned.

And the actual experience has borne out our concerns, in some ways, not in others. The disruption of our collective universe has been extensive, though perhaps not as damaging as we were concerned it would be. It was hard to gauge initially, since the first week that Little Brother was home, the Doozer came down with the flu. He was cranky and irritable and not himself, so this strange little screaming creature in his house was not so warmly received.

It started with entreaties to the baby to “Stop that” every time he started crying. Especially (and god forbid) if it was during a viewing of Dora the Explorer. We attempted to explain to him that this approach wouldn’t work—if it did, we’d be telling the baby that all the time.

Then there was the simple . . . inconvenience of having Little Brother in the house. “Can you move the baby so I can sit on the couch?” he’d ask, as if the baby were just an oddly-shaped pillow that could just be redistributed around the room to increase his level of comfort.

He would want to pick the baby up on occasion and hold him, though he would almost immediately lose interest and try to squirm out of the predicament. He still hasn’t gotten the concept of holding Little Brother’s head up, rather, he sticks his arms straight out in front of him, like he’s doing an impression of a forklift. Not the ideal baby-holding position. He’s also still trying to wrap his arms around the baby’s torso and lift him like he’s a sack of potatoes. Which, I guess, he kind of is, but still, again, not the ideal baby-holding maneuver.

There’s also the size ratio that escapes the Doozer. He attempts to show his affection by laying on top of his brother and crushing him with a bear hug. And the bear hug is sincere, I’m sure, but none of us want to see Little Brother actually crushed.

It reminds me of a story another father once told me (he had three sons) about one son holding the youngest boy, his face locked in a perma-grin, insisting that he really “loved” the baby, while slowly squeezing tighter and tighter, in a version of a hug, that bordered on disturbing and dangerous. We haven’t had that experience yet. But it’s early days.

And then there’s a moment that surprises you, where the Doozer reveals his true feelings and takes you aback. He and I were on our way out of the house for a weekend event at his preschool (basically a dad’s day, though it was framed as an event for the “adult” in your child’s life who doesn’t typically take the child to school; i.e., the dads) and he said to the wife, “Mama? Will you please take very good care of the baby while we’re at Special Person’s Day?” Completely straightfaced and sincere. As if she hadn’t thought of such a thing.

She promised she would. And then we realized, that as time goes on, so will he.

Now all I have to do is watch, wait, and take notes for the next 10 to 15 years and I will be able to write the ultimate bromance movie, to perhaps rival anything in the Apatow canon.

Yes, I plan to exploit my children’s precious bond for profit. Why not?