When I Grow Up

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?”

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, This isn’t what you really wanted, is it? You have to have had other ideas.

Tell me you had other ideas.

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.

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.

I’ll tell you a secret, I added. Your mom and I. We’re not really grown up. Not yet.

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. How could we not be grown up? He said as much.

I tried to explain. Life is a process. Ongoing. Things change every day. People change every day.

More quizzical looks. And then a plea to play tag. Our entire conversation forgotten.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Apart from that whole stupid wiping bums thing. God, I hate that part. 

What Happened on My Summer Vacation

I am not a man. I mean, based on conventional meanings. 

As far as I understand them.

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.

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.)

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).

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 we I push on them, the siren call of grass and sand and dirt and water is simply too much to resist.

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 all the time. It changed their entire outlook on the world. If TV is in cars, imagine all the other limitless possibilities of the universe.

Or more aptly, what other awesome things are our parents keeping us in the dark about? Nothing. We swear.

Go to bed.

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.

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.

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.

Ahh, it’s good to be a dad.

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.

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?

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.

That one’s just for me.

Summer Hiatus

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.

With making time stop.

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?

The Doozer finished Kindergarten.

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?

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.

I just want this moment to last forever.

And this one.

And this one. (Bubbles!)

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.

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?

I can’t see Boyhood. I mean, I really want to see Boyhood. I’m going to see it. But I know full well I will bawl my eyes out the entire time.

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.

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 Lazaretto. 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.

The giggling. If it could just go on forever.

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.

God, parenting really sucks.

Kicking and Screaming

The Doozer had his first soccer game. So far, Pelé, he ain’t.

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.

Not that our son had anything to do with it.

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.

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.

Multiple times.

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.

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.

“Is our kid the team space cadet?” I asked my wife.

She rolled her eyes (as she is wont to do). “He’s having fun.”

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 have kids. Probably should’ve worked on that.

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?

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? 

Why am I still thinking about this? Days later. What is wrong with me?

At the next practice, when the coach was assigning positions, he asked the Doozer where he wanted to play.

“Defense!” the Doozer replied, with surprising enthusiasm.

“Okay, go,” the coach told him.

And with that the Doozer ran—or possibly skipped—downfield toward his position. But then suddenly, he stopped. And turned to me.

“Dad, what’s defense?”

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.

I was wrong about everything. Suck at soccer all you want. And please don’t ever change.

Of Soccer, Schedules, and Seven Kingdoms

Parenting is a lot like that 8 a.m. class you had in college. 

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. 

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.

There goes reading that new Dave Eggers book. Ever.

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.

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.

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. 

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? 

Wait, where was I?

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 Game of Thrones 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? 

Okay, so maybe that’s not the solution. I caught myself. I’m not the worst parent ever.

Shut it.

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.

Maybe they’ll turn that Eggers book into a movie. I can see it on DVD. 

In 2041.

Toddlers, Tantrums, and True Detective

Here we go. Again.

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.

Aren’t you?

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.

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.

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.

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 Spring Breakers, 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!”

I will never forgive you for this.

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.

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 The Rock on us and you’re not going to back down. Fine. But could you at least try to dial the volume down? A little?

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, What? Like nothing happened. Like we’re the crazy ones.

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.

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 True Detective. (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.)

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.

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.

And an actual nap wouldn’t hurt either.

Midterms

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.

We are so old.

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.

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.

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 . . .

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?

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.

Seriously, so old.

Anyway, he received high marks across the board, proficient in every subject. Except one. The only less-than-proficient mark was in math.

That’s my boy.

Apparently we are not only united by our love of Star Wars and the Arctic Monkeys, but also our inability to handle the simple concepts of addition and subtraction.

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.

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 reminded them of it. What is that? Where does that come from?

And how do I avoid screwing it up?

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.

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.)

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.

Good luck, sir.