Hoarding For Kids

In my weekly dispatches from Baby Center, that intrepid outfit that is with me every step of the way to encourage me on my journey of parenting—or rub it in that I’m not doing as well as I should be, I’ve never quite figured out their exact m.o.—I recently noticed a transition. The subject line of these emails now no longer refers to “my preschooler” but “my big kid.”

Big kid. Thanks a lot, Baby Center, way to rub it in.

Anyway. This particular installment was all about collecting. And it was something I could immediately relate to. I’m a collector. Of everything. This is well-documented. So this is totally a bonding experience for me. I love it. More than I should, probably. The desire to amass large amounts of something, anything, put them on display, show them off to others. This is right up my alley.

We have superheroes and Matchbox cars, Star Wars figures and Legos. That’s the big one. That’s the “major collection” that Baby Center was referring to. They’re so prevalent, in fact, that “Lego” is one of the first, most intelligible words that Little Brother can say. True story.

But it’s bad. We’re running out of room because of Legos. We’re going to have get a new house with an entire wing devoted to these tiny bricks. Maybe the Doozer could just build us a new house out of Legos. I’m pretty sure that we have enough.

Of course, he’s totally sucked me in to this activity. I’m way into it. I’ve reverted to the kid version of me who used to do Legos. The sense of accomplishment that I get from helping to assemble a toy that has been designed for the intellect and motor skills of 7- to 12-year-olds. Pathetic. Truly pathetic.

Sometimes these collections merge. And interact. The Doozer is genre-agnostic, apparently. We’ve seen a variety of action figure mash-ups. Scooby-Doo characters versus superheroes. Ghouls and ghosts invading the Star Wars universe. One day there was even a skateboarding George Washington minifigure visiting a Lego house. (The Doozer’s totally going to grow up and write for The Simpsons, isn’t he? That’ll still be on the air then, right?)

Is it wrong that I want to perpetuate this? Jamie Oliver recently posted a photo on Facebook of his own Darth Vader action figure case, saying he was bequeathing his collection of action figures, now that he’s 38. (I took this to mean that I still can hold on to mine for a few more years.)

Post by Jamie Oliver.

Then Simon Pegg revealed to Marc Maron on WTF that he’s a 43-year-old man who has a proper Boba Fett helmet. It all made me feel a bit more normal, even if the wife disagrees on this matter.

But does she have a point? Do I actually have the personality of a 5-year-old?

Don’t answer that.

But again, seriously, space is an issue. Now with two kids, pretty much every room is a playroom in our house. This is not right. We need a new place. With a dedicated space where we can lock them in. Kidding, kidding. We wouldn’t do that. All the time. We’d let them out.

On occasion.

Warning: May Be Hazardous To Your Health

Our home is a house of sickness. Of plague. Enter at your own risk.

The interesting thing (one of many) about being a parent is how things seem endless. Having kids is weird. On one hand, time is flying by and your baby—who was just born—is suddenly entering kindergarten and getting ready to go off to college. But at the same time, bizarrely, many things seem to stretch on for so long you think they will never end.

I used to live in New York and I remember being in subway stations very late (or very early depending on your point of view) and waiting a very long time sometimes for a train to arrive. And there was a part of me that always thought, I’m going to be here forever. This train is literally never going to come. I am stuck here now. Forever.

That’s kind of what it’s like to be a parent.

Sleep, for instance. It’s easy to believe you will never again get a proper amount of sleep. Ever. That you will just continue along on your days, in an ongoing haze of sleepiness, never quite knowing if you’re awake or if you’re dreaming. It’s like Inception, only the really boring version without any ceiling acrobatics or snowbound hideouts.

And now illness. Pestilence, etc. For the last several weeks, at any given moment, at least one member of our collective has been down for the count with some form of fever or wheezing or sneezing or whatever the ailment du jour happens to be.

And it’s a vicious cycle, it just keeps going. The kids get well and the parents go down. Parents start to feel like they’re on the mend and the Doozer starts complaining of an earache. A stomachache. Little Brother has a coughing fit at 3 in the morning and then he’s wide awake and wants to play.

Stop it.

I’m coughing as I type this. Like I’m some Romantic poet dying of consumption as he composes these final lines. Hopefully they’re worth it. We’ll see.

Kids get sick. It’s a thing you hear about, something you just kind of know. But like so many other things, you can’t really comprehend it until you’re in it. I mean, they get sick. Like crazy. And then they make you sick. Because they’re so thoughtful. It really is the gift that keeps on giving. And the Doozer hasn’t even started kindergarten yet.

We’re screwed. We’re just going to be sick in some form for another decade. I’m going to have to start wearing one of those medical masks. Like Michael Jackson. We all thought he was crazy, but apparently he was on to something there.

The Big 0-5

Ed. note: This post was initially drafted well over a week ago, so all references to child’s age are in the future tense, which is no longer accurate. Birthday prep was so time-consuming that it prevented the author from completing this essay in a reasonable amount of time. So instead of turning 5, the author’s son is now actually 5 years o--oh my god, how did that happen?

Dear Son,

I’m not great at dispensing advice. I’m usually somebody who’s seeking advice from other people. But now that I’m a dad and you’re in the picture, I think I’m going to have to step up my advice game. So here’s something that might not make sense now, but will someday:

Time is not your friend.

It’s true. It’s not. It’s more of an adversary. If you’re Spider-Man, time is the Green Goblin. If you’re Luke Skywalker, time is Darth Vader. Right? Time is not your friend. In fact, it’s really one truly evil mofo.

The occasion for this bolt of wisdom is your coming birthday. You’re turning 5. But you know that already. You’ve been counting down the days. I’m not sure if you’re so much excited about getting older, or the fact that you’re having a party on that day. Probably the latter. And it reminds me of a line of dialogue from one of my favorite movies. You don’t know it.

“I have glimpsed our future and all I can say is, go back.”

You don’t get this reference now. But maybe someday you will. Maybe we will share a love of Cameron Crowe movies. I mean, I already got you into Star Wars and Elvis Costello and The Muppet Show. Cameron Crowe and Wes Anderson movies can’t be too far behind.

But that’s not for a while yet. I don’t know why I want you to be old enough to watch that stuff. Because I mostly don’t want you to be any older than you are right now this very second. It’s too much fun right now. And I’m already nostalgic for these days. I don’t want them to be a distant memory. I want them to just continue and not to end.

Here are just a few reasons why right now is such a great time.

Reading lessons. Dance parties. Music in the car. Kinda, sorta helping in the yard. Brother baths. Tickling. Piggyback rides. Milk-drinking contests. Making up words. Playing tag. Your epic joy when playing tag, perhaps the silliest game anyone ever invented. “I’m running in slow motion.”

That’s an inside joke. We have inside jokes. And you don’t even know what an inside joke is. You can’t beat that.

Sure, you’re not always a barrel of monkeys. I’m not going to lie to you. But for the most part, you kind of are. Not so much when it’s 6 a.m. or when your nose is hemorrhaging at 2 in the morning. But otherwise. You’re kind of more fun than I ever could’ve imagined you to be. There’s pretty much no way to fully convey to you or anyone else what it’s like to hang out with you these days. It’s just awesome.

Happy birthday, Doozer.

Love,
Your Dad

Life Among the Savages

“Our life is over.”

This phrase appeared in a recent email from the wife, describing the discovery that Little Brother (at all of 16 months old) was actively attempting to climb out of his crib. Like he was a Cirque du Soleil gymnast. Of course, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. It is quite possible that our children are trying to kill us. And I’m pretty sure our lives ended the moment the first one was born.

As for Little Brother, he’s already tried it with the portable crib, plus managed to clamber up onto a sofa, an armchair, a toddler piano, his older brother’s bed, the kitchen table. But still, we thought we had more time. Because the Doozer, on the other hand, never tried climbing out of his crib. Maybe once, but the wife put the fear of God into him and he never tried it again. That’s good parenting.

And I know it’s wrong to pick favorites, but that little one is really testing my limits.

Even the Doozer knows it. “He was a real pain in the patoot today, wasn’t he?” This, to his mother, one night at bedtime. "I think I just got Eddie Haskell’ed,” she said when she came downstairs. Sure, they’re turning on each other a bit. Little one bit the big one on the cheek. Big one rats out the little one every chance he gets. And soon enough, they’ll abandon their war of attrition and just completely join forces with one another like Voltron and turn on us. And then it’s all over.

Why do we have kids again?

Oh, that’s right. Because when we asked Little Brother to give the Doozer a kiss, he approached it like eating a peach, wide-mouthed and slobbering, tongue darting everywhere. We practically fell out of our chairs laughing at this. I guess that’s why we have kids.

Is that enough?

I’ve been reading a lot of parenting books lately. Not the instructional types, but the anecdotal, memoir-types. I just finished Drew Magary’s Someone Could Get Hurt. And Jim Gaffigan’s Dad Is Fat. And it’s nice to know that at least we’re not alone. That this tornado of madness and destruction and occasional hilarity is afflicting everyone with children, apparently. I find it comforting to read about other horrifying parenting experiences. Or witnessing them in person. 

Trust me. You could want to kill your children, but spend five minutes in a grocery or a big box store and you’ll see at least seven children more worthy of strangling than your own. And that can make you feel a little bit better. For at least one more day or so.

Your life really does become unrecognizable to you. It is that different. This is not an exaggeration. Then if you spend any amount of time with friends who don’t have kids, you start to see your life through their eyes—and it looks even more insane than it does from the inside.

I mean, they’re awake so early. And they’re so full of energy. Just give us a break. Give it a rest. I’m not sure if this was originally said about parenting, but you know that phrase, Sleep when you’re dead? What is that? Why would you say that? Why is that something to look forward to? I don’t want that. I want to live. And get a little bit of sleep while still living. Is that so much to ask? Won’t these kids just grow up already and get out of our hair? And let us f’ing sleep?

Okay, so I don’t entirely mean that. The Doozer starts kindergarten this fall. And I am not prepared for that. I don’t want him to be that old. Or any older. Sure, with age comes wisdom and maturity and all that and I won’t have to deal with all the same bullshit he throws at me now. But there’s just going to be more bullshit. Older kid bullshit. Teenage bullshit. (He shudders.) Maybe he’ll at least sleep in. And I’ll feel more comfortable letting him wander away from me and do his own thing. Without keeping tabs, worrying about him all the time. Who am I kidding? That’s probably never going to happen.

Right now, I have a number of friends who are pregnant. For the first time. So to them, I offer this brief preview of how their life is about to change. Irrevocably. Unimaginably. And forever. Here it is:

Our life is over. It was fun. Perhaps we can be a cautionary tale of what it means to have children. In fact, that’s going to be the title of my own parenting book, I think. Welcome to Parenting: Your Life is Over.

Happy reading.

Choose Your Own Adventure

There are patterns that emerge when raising one’s children. Routines that get established and adhered to with a bizarre fierceness. In fact, after watching him arrange things just so last night on his shelf before going to bed, I called the Doozer “Particular Pete” for his insistence on making the world around him conform to his very specific desires. He was not a fan of the name.

But then there are surprises. Things that don’t go the way you expect them to. Just when you think you’ve got your kid figured out, they go and throw you a curveball. And so it was that our very own Particular Pete, who has ideas and opinions about everything that goes on in his world and around our house, told us he wanted to be surprised by his upcoming fifth birthday party.

(Our kid is five. This in itself is a surprise. The wife and I cannot quite figure out how this has happened. But I digress.)

We’d been talking about what kind of party he might want off and on for several weeks, maybe even months. And then all of a sudden he informed us that he didn’t want to know what it would be. Up until this point, he hasn’t picked out a theme for any his parties, they’ve all been surprises. And so he wants to stick with that tradition (for now).

For a kid who insists on picking out his own clothes—whether they actually match or not—and who is completely at ease dictating orders to his parents about how pretty much everything and anything should be done, this was quite a surprising turn. Not to mention, something of a challenge. I mean, we were just given carte blanche to design a birthday party that he will enjoy.

I’m thinking it might be a test. He wants to see how well we know him, how closely we’ve been paying attention. To suss out if we really know—and truly care about—what he likes.

So, these are a few of his favorite things:

Legos
Elvis Costello
Ratatouille
Smoked gouda
Birdwatching
Cooking pretend meals in a toy kitchen
Running in flip-flops

Reading lessons
Harmonica
Hugging his brother
Complaining about his brother

Milk drinking contests
Card games
Smartphones
Routines

The reptile house at the zoo
Vegetable gardening
Watching ants
Asking long streams of questions
Angry Birds
Candy
Brother baths

This is a lot of responsibility. There’s a lot of pressure to get this right. Like I said, it kinda feels like he’s testing us. So, how do we incorporate these elements into a fantastic shindig? Let’s see. We serve milk and gouda and vegetables from the garden. Instead of games, we watch ants. And birds. He performs a harmonica solo to “Pump It Up.” Then we let some snakes loose in the house. Ta-da.

Best fifth birthday party ever.

Happy Father's Day

I’m a dad.

No, really. It’s true. But here’s the thing. It sort of seems like that is all I am now. My identity begins and ends with dad. Everything else seems to have faded away. I was a person before this, right? With a personality, with interests, with defining traits? Where did that all go?

So what brought on this philosophical conundrum you might ask? Well, I’ll tell you. This year, on Father’s Day, we went to Home Depot. Literally on Father’s Day. At which time I became painfully aware that I am officially a dad. And also, maybe the lamest person ever.

Yeah. That happened.

You hear “Dad" and “Dada" so much that you start to forget your actual name. No one else needs you in their life quite the way that they do. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a role quite like this one, a place in the world this defined. I guess I’m not always sure who I was before this.

There was a time where I might sleep off a hangover on a Sunday morning. When Father’s Day was a day to make an obligatory phone call to my own dad. And now I’m the person that this so-called holiday is honoring? What the hell?

They’re there to see me off in the morning, they’re there to greet me the moment I get home. Sad to see me go, genuinely excited to see me return. This is weird. I’m skeptical. What do you want? Like that guy who offered to help me shovel my driveway that one time during the first winter in our first house. What was that about? What did he want? Just being nice? Suspicious.

Why are they so interested in me, I wonder. I am not that interesting. Am I? I don’t think I have ever been that interesting. Maybe just because I’m the tallest person in the room? There’s something to that. They look up at me. Do they also look up to me? For now, maybe. That’s a lot of responsibility.

It’s exhausting.

So, Home Depot was pretty crowded on Father’s Day. This is where the dads hang out, y’all. If we have a scene, I suppose it is there, amongst the lumber and the power tools and all the other DIY household items. I’m not good at any of it. All these “dad” things. Never learned them. It’s weird being a dad. It feels like I forgot to do my homework all the time. No matter how many times I go to Home Depot (yay, homeownership!) there are always things I will walk past and think, What is that? What do you do with that thing? How does that work? No idea.

I still hear “Dad” sometimes and think, who are they talking to exactly? And why are their voices so high-pitched? Who is this “dad” they keep referring to?

Oh, right.

Do you ever get used to it? I mean, this is four years in now, almost five. Which is pretty deep. There must be a point where this becomes normal. I mean, there are people who you absolutely recognize as “dads” whether they even have children or not. But having children must make you feel like a “dad” at some point, right? Or at least an adult? Sometimes I just don’t.

At least there’s the Lonely Island out there to help me make some sense of this new reality. (And in case you’re not already familiar with their work, this is NSFW.)

The City of Brotherly Love

Ah, summer.

With every season, there comes a certain set of rituals. In summer, it used to be things like drinking outside (often during the day) and making plans around the concert schedule at the local outdoor amphitheater. Today, we know it’s summer because we find ourselves purchasing a new pair of Keens for the Doozer. Now, it’s two pair of Keens, one for each Doozer. This is summer.

And that’s okay. I guess.

This year, on our annual expedition to REI for summer footwear, we selected the pair for Little Brother first and then gave the Doozer a choice of color options for his pair. He didn’t even need to think about it. He saw the pair on his brother’s feet and immediately decided he wanted the exact same pair, the exact same color.

Here I thought the little brother was supposed to look up to the big brother—I mean, that happens, but still. I never had a brother. I don’t know what’s going on here. Little Brother is obsessed with the Doozer—seriously, obsessed—calling out his name all the time when he’s not physically in sight. But there’s a fascination with “our baby” that the Doozer has that seems to be comprised of several different—and often opposing—elements.

There’s love, certainly. But there’s also a bit of jealousy. Maybe resentment. A sense of competition. It must be terribly confusing for a tiny human to show up in your home and usurp some of your position in the place. I can also imagine that it might seem to the first little human that the new little human has actually completely usurped the original’s position in the family.

Which is how we found ourselves over this past winter having to track down a pair of one-piece, footed pajamas for the Doozer. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find such an article of clothing for an almost-five-year-old person? Do you know how rare it is that one-piece, zip-up pajamas with attached feet are made in the appropriate size for someone about to enter kindergarten? Let me save you the trouble. They are not easy to find.

We recently took a trip to Portland. Before leaving, we asked the Doozer if we brought him something back, what would he want? Not familiar with the concept of souvenirs from exotic, far-off places, he told us, “Legos.” Which we ended up getting him, along with a storybook that highlighted several Portland landmarks, Larry Gets Lost in Portland.

For Little Brother, we picked out a tiny T-shirt from Voodoo Doughnuts, featuring their tagline, which is hilarious, though not altogether appropriate to be emblazoned across a one-year-old’s chest: “The magic is in the hole.” Naturally, ever since our return, we have heard frequently about how the Doozer himself wishes he had his own Voodoo Doughnuts T-shirt.

He’s perfectly fine matching his brother. Footwear, outfits, whatever it is. It’s weird, but it’s also genuine. I don’t think it’s entirely about having equality, or not being excluded from something Little Brother gets to have or experience. I think it’s more than that. Somewhere along the line, I think it occurred to him that they are a team. I’m not sure how that happened, where that notion came from. And for now, it’s kind of a beautiful thing to watch.

There’s lots of hugging. Impromptu brother concerts (or, just banging indiscriminately on vaguely musical “instruments”), giggles and splashing in the bathtub, for brother baths. I’m sure someday they will turn on each other and start going at each other like a bunch of rival newscasters in Anchorman. Or that they’ll band together and use their skills for evil as opposed to good, uniting to stage a serious uprising against the wife and I.

But for now, I’ll enjoy the cacophony and the adorable photo-ready clothing. I will endure getting drenched at bathtime and the challenge of finding coordinating outfits. I will bask in the glow of brotherly love and appreciate my front-row seat for this ridiculous show.

Maybe I’ll even get my own pajamas with feet.