Enchantment Under the Sea

My kid is growing up. Too fast. Sure, he’s still a kid, but pretty soon, he won’t be. It’s tough.

Last week, he attended his first school dance.

He’s in kindergarten. Kindergarten.

How did this happen? How did it come to this?

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.

His mother was disappointed.

“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.

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.

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, exist, as my friend Llewyn Davis might say?

I don’t think so.

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.)

I told him I didn’t think they’d be playing any Pearl Jam. Why not? he wanted to know. I’m not sure it’s an elementary school-aged type of thing, 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.

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.

He was shy.

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.

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.”

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.

Oh god, the awkwardness.

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 stopped his fit for a moment to see what his crazy dad was doing. And the Doozer loved it. Just ate it up.

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.

Everything really is awesome. I mean, my kid knows The Lonely Island now. How good is that?

Everything Is Awesome

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.

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.

When he was 3, we did try. And we spent less than a minute inside a theater, in a disastrous, aborted attempt at seeing The Muppets 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.”

Like he’s somebody’s grandmother.

For a while, I thought I might have to wait all the way until December 2015 when they release that first J.J. Abrams Star Wars 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.

The Lego Movie.

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).

He was sold. He just had two conditions: He wanted popcorn and jelly beans as a movie snack. That we could do.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. This is our new favorite movie, I kept thinking. We’re going to get the DVD and wear it out. I see a Lego Movie-themed 6-year-old birthday party, an Emmett with the Piece of Resistance Halloween costume. Also, when does the sequel come out?

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:

“I want to go! I don’t want to watch anymore! I don’t like this!”

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.

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.

Surely, he must realize that these minifigures are going to escape these dire circumstances and triumph over Lord Business’ evil plans?

“I don’t want to watch anymore! I want to go!”

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.

No second viewing, I thought. No DVD. No birthday party, no costume, no nothing. Guess maybe I jumped the gun on that whole new favorite movie thing. Thanks, Doozer.

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?

He told us it was the movie. Awesome!

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.

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 seems just as interested as ever.

So if you’ll excuse me, I have a DVD to pre-order on Amazon. (Quickly, before he changes his mind.)

New Year's Resolutions

Hey there, 2014. Let’s do this.

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. 

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.

So here we go, in no particular order:

Try to be more Zen. 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.

Drink more.

And get in shape already. If you get winded carrying your kid up the stairs, you are deathly unhealthy.

As ugly as they are, you should really probably invest in those athletic straps to keep your glasses on your head, because otherwise Little Brother is going to rip them off your face and smash them, like the miniature schoolyard bully he so clearly is.

Spend less time oohing and ahhing over baby photos. They’re in the room with you. Engage with them. (Ahem, Wife.)

Start sneaking toys out of the house in the middle of the night. Then feign ignorance about their disappearance. They’ll get over it. Eventually.

For god’s sake, man, keep your beard more trim. When you neglect that grooming, you are just asking for all that painful tugging that Little Brother is so fond of doing.

Drink more. Oh wait, did I already say that?

When you start to get annoyed and want to scream at them, try to think of the Menendez Brothers. And then attempt to reason with them more calmly.

Have more dates. You are a couple and not just parents. Wine on the couch in sweatpants while binge-watching Game of Thrones 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.

Train your 5-year-old to mow the lawn. That’ll work out, right?

Stop crying. All the time. Seriously. Get it together, man.

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.

Hey, kids. Aim low. That’s my best parental advice.

(Think it’s going to be a long year. Strap in.)

Love Actually Is Making a Superhero Dollhouse For Your Kid For Christmas

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.)

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 Star Wars guys and Scooby-Doo characters and animals and dinosaurs and knights and horses) to hang out. And sleep. And cook.

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.

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).

So, we got a bookcase from IKEA 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.

You know. For planning.

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. Hello? Where else is the Millennium Falcon going to land? 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.

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.

(Insert your own theory about our mental stability here.)

He better lose his mind over this thing, 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. (Do not taunt Happy Fun Ball!)

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.

Did we discuss the extra capes? Or the gumball machine? Or the still from the Rudolph 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.)

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.)

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.

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.

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.

Walking Dead (Or, How Parenting Is Like the Movie Inception)

Dear Sir,

I did not order this 4:50 wake-up call and I would like to complain to the manager.

Yes, I know I am technically the manager, but I ceded authority and control to you when you were born.

Please try to keep it down, little man.

Seriously.

Shut your yap.

Thank you,

Dada (formerly the manager)

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.

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.

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.

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 Inception. 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.

Okay, I guess it’s kind of the same thing.

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.

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).

Yawn. No, really. Yawn.

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.

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.

Don’t judge us.

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.

Deck the Halls

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.

The monsters.

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.

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. What did you do to me? I thought I was a functioning adult. Quit being so damn adorable all the time.

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.

I am the one that eats the candy.

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, Hot Fuzz-style. What’s this? Giant sock? Let me put it in my mouth like the ones from my feet. 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’m going to crawl under there. What is the thought process? How does he get there?

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.

Another (new) 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.

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 Star Wars. And Christmas. But not necessarily together. (1978’s The Star Wars Holiday Special notwithstanding.)

Ho ho ho. Pass the eggnog. It’s spiked, right?

Two-Headed Boy

Now that I’ve recovered from the turkey-induced hangover . . .

Remember Single White Female? Yeah, so there’s a gender-switched remake happening in my house right now this minute.

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.

“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. 

I’m pretty sure this is how cults start.

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.

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.

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.)

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 school, 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.

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.

“They’re crazy,” we said to each other.

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.

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.

Is this what Cain and Abel were like? Or the Menendez Brothers? I should really know that, but I can’t remember.

Or maybe I just don’t want to.