Category Archives: parenting

The Toddler Time Trials

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Does anyone know where I can get a used starter pistol? The kids have begun riding their balance bikes in earnest, and they’ve already discovered the joy of racing each other down the hill next to our house. I think a starter pistol will make each race a bit more official. I’m working on a yellow jersey in a size 4T too.

As for that racing hill, there’s nothing to worry about: it’s just a ridiculously steep hill with a blind curve on either end and heavy traffic during daylight hours. At night, it’s a popular hangout for prostitutes, so broken glass and used condoms fill the gutters (no kidding). Oh, and it’s surrounded by poison ivy.

Standard Chinese Downhill Rules apply: cheating is encouraged and the kids can use any means necessary to knock each other off their bikes. These are their rules, not mine. My daughter’s favorite thing to do is let her brother get ahead of her, then speed up and sideswipe him. To be honest, I’m hoping the starter pistol will give me a bit more authority when I try to enforce basic rules like, no running over someone after they’ve fallen off their bike. You know what they say in those inner city movies: “no gun, no respect.” That certainly applies in my household too. It seems the older the kids get, the less control I have over any given situation. I can strongly suggest they eat their vegetables and not throw beer bottles at each other, but ultimately, it’s up to them what they throw at each other. The best I can do is surround them with soft items like plush toys and marshmallows and hope they make good decisions. Sadly, they always manage to arm themselves with something sharp that will likely result in a tetanus shot. The sharper the weapon, the funnier the situation is to them.

Oh, to be three and parented by a man with no sense of authority. Lucky little bastards.

 

 

Hot Tub Toddler Machine

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My sister-in-law was married recently, with my wife’s entire family descending onto a set of cabins deep in the woods of Western North Carolina. I’ve known The Bride since she was about 10, so it was a little surreal to see her get married. Not that I got to see much of it. I was busy chasing the kids around the field all weekend, always trying to corral them toward the kegs so I could top off my beer. But the ceremony was beautiful, my sister-in-law is married to a great guy, and I got to dance with my wife, which pretty much never happens. The weekend was also full of wonderful father-son moments for me and my boy. Sure, I was charged with taking care of both kids all weekend, but my daughter quickly found herself at the center of a gaggle of “big girls.” The pack of seven-year-olds spent the entire weekend taking turns braiding my daughter’s hair. So that freed me up to spend some quality time with the boy. Here are three tear-jerking father-son moments from the weekend. Cue “Cats in the Cradle.”

 Cooper had his first beer.

Not really. He had sweet tea for the first time. But I told him it was a beer, and he went around the rest of the weekend pulling on the coattails of random family members, asking, “will you get me another beer?” Classic.

 I figured out what toddlers are good for: cutting through long bathroom lines.

Nobody wants to see a three-year-old in a seer sucker suit pee himself. Did I imply to a line full of older ladies that my boy had to go sooner rather than later? Did I take advantage of their kindness and rush my kid into the bathroom ahead of them only to use the potty myself? Maybe. I think it’s important not to judge others too harshly.

 Cooper hit on two older girls at once. 

Specifically, he walked right up to two sisters (seven years old and five years old) and said, “you girls wanna get in the hot tub with me?” That alone is impressive for a three year old, but consider this: he wasn’t wearing any pants at the time. All of a sudden, “you girls wanna get in the hot tub with me?” has a bit more swagger when you’re completely naked. That’s my boy.

The Van Life

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We’re toying with the notion of buying a mini-van, a move that, according to absolutely everyone we consult, will eliminate any remaining vestige of hipness from our lives. Luckily, we’ve never been hip, so there isn’t much to lose. That’s not to say that when I was a young lad daydreaming about what my life as an adult would be like, I pictured cruising around in a white Toyota Sienna. A vintage Woody with surf boards hanging out the back is more what I had in mind for my future. I would catch killer tube by day, and sleep in the car parked at the nearest Circle K by night. To feed myself, I would bed a series of artistic, but gullible college girls, mooching off their unlimited meal cards at the university cafeteria. Dudes, raise your hand if you had a similar dream. Now, keep that hand up if you’re actually living that dream.

Yeah, me neither.

I have my beautiful wife to blame…er…thank for that. If it wasn’t for her, I’d truly be living in a van down by the river (how awesome would that be!?). And if it wasn’t for her, I’d drive my 1998 diesel Jetta until the wheels fall off, which by the looks of things, could be tomorrow.

So, the mini van enters into the equation. Even though I’m not clinging to any delusions that I am young or hip (cool, rad, boss…what do kids say these days?) I’m still not gung-ho about buying a mini van. My wife says we need the space, but I see families of nine pile in and out of 1999 Honda Civics all the time. She says we need something more reliable than our 12 year old cars, but really, with the glaring oversights in manufacturing practices these days, what does the word “reliable” mean anymore?

In order to test out the world of mini vanning (yes, it’s a verb too), we’ve rented one for a week. My wife is hoping it will convince me that a mini van will make our lives so much easier. What she doesn’t realize is that there’s only one reason a man buys a van: the potential for mobile sex. That’s the long and short of it, period, the end. If you see a guy driving a van, be it a mini or full size, you can be certain he’s on the prowl. At the very least, there’s an inflatable mattress stowed in the back and a disco ball ready to descend from the ceiling given the right opportunity. That’s not a sunroof on the ceiling, that’s a mirror, baby!

But I digress.

I will admit there’s more room in the mini. It has more square footage than our house, which could come in handy. Since my daughter has developed a serious dress fetish, we’ve quickly run out of closet space. I could easily use the spacious trunk as my closet. Would it be weird if I wandered out there every morning wearing a robe and drinking coffee to get dressed? What if I wasn’t wearing the robe?

Just driving the MV around town for a day, I’ve noticed one undeniable truth: Blasting Jay Z from a mini van makes you look like a jackass. Cranking George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex,” on the other hand, is perfectly appropriate.

With all this talk about mini vans, I think we’ve overlooked the obvious solution to our problem. We need a solid family car–what about a golf cart. Before you scoff, I’d like to point out three things.

  1. Golf carts are awesome. You can’t deny that. The only thing more awesome than commuting to work in a golf cart, would be commuting to work in a dune buggy.
  2. Gas prices continue to rise and America is experiencing an oil crisis. Golf carts can literally travel for several miles on a single charge. Don’t you love the earth?
  3. Golf carts may lack standard safety features like seat belts and a windshield, but picture the kids riding to school, the wind blowing in their hair, their tiny legs securely strapped to the seat with a healthy amount of duct tape.

Imagine you’re in stand still traffic and all you have to do is drive up slowly to the car in front of you and ask, “mind if I play through?”

It doesn’t get much more practical than that.

Safety Dance

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This is how I know it’s Spring now that I’m kind of an adult: I’m craving increasingly lighter beers with citrus in them. I know, I’m a girl. Leave it alone.

This is how I knew it was Spring when I was a kid: The smell of smoke from all of the accidental forest fires around town, all of which were set by kids in my neighborhood. And by “kids in my neighborhood,” I mean my two older brothers. It’s not as sinister as it sounds. Every Spring, caterpillars would set up cozy little cocoons in the trees surrounding our house, and every Spring, my brothers, armed with Bic lighters and cans of WD-40, would hunt down the cotton-candy-like cocoons. For those of you who weren’t raised in a house with two cars up on blocks in the front yard: The great thing about WD-40 and a Bic lighter is the blow-torch effect you get when you combine the two. Don’t judge us too harshly: We didn’t have cable, so we came up with our own entertainment. Imagine two middle-school kids in whitewash jeans and RATT tank tops all jacked up on Rambo fantasies heading into the woods with redneck blowtorches, and you’ll get a good image of what I’m talking about here.

The truly disturbing part of this story isn’t the satisfaction that my brothers got from scorching sleeping caterpillars. It’s that my parents were perfectly fine with two children wandering around the neighborhood with homemade bombs.

Can you imagine parents letting their 11-year-old kid loose in the woods with a blowtorch in 2012? Hell no. I don’t even think I’ll let my kids walk to school alone when they’re 11.

But my brothers and I were lucky to be raised during the ‘80s, when kids spent their free time playing elaborate games of “war” armed with air-pump BB guns and Roman Candles.

Safety was a different issue back then. A non-issue, really. Seat belts were for pussies. Bicycle helmet? What bicycle helmet? Quality time with my dad was when he sat me on his lap while he was driving and let me steer the station wagon down the interstate at 80mph. MTV wasn’t allowed in our house, but driving a car at 7? Sure.

Today, there’s a five-point safety checklist I go through before I’ll even start the damned car with my kids in it. If I forget to lather my kids with sun screen for a 30 minute session in the park, I feel like calling DSS on myself. They wear Water Wings for their tubbies and have never even walked outside without hard plastic on their heads. I make the dad in Finding Nemo look laid back.

On the one hand, I feel sorry for my kids and their peers, as they’re being raised during the “Golden Age of Irrational Fears,” where everything is padded, locked, and kid proofed. They will probably never know the joy of playing Bow and Arrow Chicken (two people stand together, one shoots an arrow straight into the air. Last one to move wins. Awesome). If I could figure out a way to wrap my kids in bubble wrap before they played soccer, I’d do it. Life was just more carefree when RATT’s “Round and Round,” was getting heavy radio play. Each morning, kids were simply let loose into the neighborhood with their throwing stars, fireworks, and stolen Hustler magazines, free to reenact scenes from Lord of the Flies as they saw fit.

I couldn’t imagine being raised any other way.

On the other hand, I can’t believe we didn’t blow ourselves up. With all the flammable hairspray bottles lying around our house and almost complete lack of adult supervision, it’s a damned miracle any of us made it out alive.

So while I appreciate the laissez faire approach to parenting that seemed to be the federal mandate in 1983, I’m going to stick with my overprotective micro-management approach. Now, can anyone help me build a prototype of that bubble-wrap suit I keep dreaming about?

Children of Former Decades: What’s the craziest thing your parents let you do? Steering the family car on a road trip is up there for me. Encouraging me to strip antique furniture with industrial grade acids might also make the list.

The Princess Diaries: Volume One

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So, here’s something a little strange. My daughter sneaks out of her bed at 2am to “shop” for dresses in her closet. She has lots of dresses. Purple mostly, some pink. She pulls them out, looks them over, tries some on. Sometimes, she falls back asleep in the closet, pulling those dresses over her for warmth.

Cute? Disturbing? I can’t decide.

Ask her what she wants to be when she grows up, and she’ll tell you: “I want to be a princess.” Ask her what a princess does at work, and she’ll tell you: “twirl.”

She spends a lot of time twirling. And changing clothes.

The other day, within the same conversation, she said to me, “I just want to wear a little black dress.” WTF? Then she followed up that gem with, “just give me some space, daddy.”

I’m not really sure when it happened. She’s three going on 13.

Meanwhile, Cooper’s hell bent on “shooting” any moving object (with pretend lasers) and “fixing” any stationary object (by bludgeoning it with a plastic hammer). He’s such a stereotypical dude: He likes sticks and hitting things with sticks and occasionally peeing on things.

What’s amazing to me is how easily they’ve both fallen into these classic gender roles. You might think the kids are just imitating what they see from their parents, but you couldn’t be more wrong. Cooper’s never seen me pick up a hammer or fix anything and Addie rarely sees her mom in anything other than hospital scrubs. I do the cooking, my wife mows the lawn. I drive a tiny Jetta, my wife drives a four-wheel drive SUV. And yet my daughter will spend an entire afternoon spinning around in front of a mirror while saying, “I’m so pretty,” and my son is obsessed with monster trucks. Specifically, monster trucks that smash smaller trucks.

That’s not to say Addie is strictly a princess. She’s hell on a climbing wall, sending all kinds of routes with grace. She’s a fast little trail runner, too. And I’ve occasionally caught her smashing shit with a plastic hammer. She also loves chicken wings. I think that’s pretty cool.

Cooper has a soft side too, which I’m doing my best to nurture. Like his sister, he’ll occasionally strap on a skirt and twirl like a princess–a fact that drives certain grandparents crazy, I’m sure. I know some dads might take issue with their son wearing pink skirts and pretending to be a Snow White, but I like to think I’m more open-minded than that. I’m evolved: I’ll love my son if he grows up to wear pretty dresses…as long as he’s still the starting center fielder for the Atlanta Braves. That’s non-negotiable.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Toots and the McGoots

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There’s no way to say it, but to just say it: The kids and I have started a band. Scratch that. We’ve started a kick-ass band. To say we rock is an understatement. The kids typically share the drum set, while I wail on the electric guitar. Occasionally, my daughter will kick the piano keys. My son only says one phrase during each jam session: “Louder, Daddy. Louder.”

Our influences? Beastie Boys, Nirvana, and Justin Bieber (his edgier stuff before he sold out).

Obviously, since we’re dealing with two toddlers and an A.D.D. dad, the band name changes quite a bit. First, we were the Yogurt Explosion, but we decided that was too sophomoric. We do a pretty good job keeping our yogurt in its container these days. So right now, we’re calling ourselves Toots and the McGoots. I’m not sure who’s Toots and who’s the McGoots.

We share bylines on all of our original songs, but to be honest, I do most of the heavy lifting when it comes to the lyrics. Mainly because the kids can’t write yet. Every time I give them crayons and paper to work on a chorus, they just draw circles, which they then tell me are whales. They’re not whales. They’re circles, but I’m supportive.

Even though we’re still looking for a label, we’ve got a full album worth of songs. We’ve titled the record,  Don’t Call the DSS. It’s a concept album in the vein of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. If you start our album half way through Apocalypse Now, the music synchs up perfectly with the action on the film. When Martin Sheen meets Colonel Kurtz and “Yep, That’s Poop” kicks in, I get chills.

The record kicks off with Honey, We’re Out of Wipes, which is the single we’re we’re hoping will get a lot of radio play. It’s really melodic. Then things get a bit Ska with Is That Poop? We sample the Clash’s “London Calling” for this one. Then it gets heavy with three punk songs in a row: 3am Puke Fest, Fuck Sleep, and Yep, That’s Poop. Then we slow things down a bit with Don’t Worry, It’s Just Yogurt, a sweet love song that sets the listener up for Petrified Turkey Sandwich in the Glove Box and the finale, A Sixer Fits Nicely in this Diaper Bag, a classic country ballad that was also the inspiration for the album title, Don’t Call the DSS.

The toughest aspect of playing in a predominantly toddler band? Trying to get a three-year-old drummer to follow my chord changes. Booking gigs has been tough too because of bed time constraints. But every band has to start somewhere. Toots and the McGoots may only be playing my basement right now, but with the massive loopholes in child labor laws, the sky’s the limit.

Here’s a short clip of the drum solo in the middle of 3am Puke Fest. Enjoy.

Viva La HouseBoy!

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I became a little teary eyed during a commercial for a combination steamer/vacuum this morning. It was just so beautiful. Not only does this product vacuum up all the crap your kids leave behind, it “sanitizes the floor with steam” at the same time. The woman using it said so. And she looked so happy.

My emotional response to this commercial means that the transition from dude to house wife is almost complete. The next time you see me in public, I’ll probably be wearing Jeggings and a little tipsy from too much afternoon Chardonnay.

I thought about trying to fight the transformation by doing some pushups or hitting a strip club, but who has the energy anymore? And let’s face it: I’m more comfortable discussing the latest episode of Fashion Star with the other moms at the park than I am talking football with my dude friends. So I’ve decided to embrace it. I can’t wait until the kids are a little older and I can spend my days reading vampire/werewolf books written for teenage girls.

Now, a quick reading of this blog might lead you to believe that I’m saying all housewives are poorly dressed, slightly drunk devotees of crappy vampire lit and reality TV. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying the most fun housewives are poorly dressed, slightly drunk devotees of crappy vampire lit and reality TV. Ladies, you know who you are. Keep it real. Never change.

Wait, can I even use the term “housewife” anymore? Probably not. I bet it was retired along with “stewardess” and “secretary.”

Personally, I like the sound of “houseman.” It’s a little bit degrading, but a little bit naughty, too. Sure, your houseman cleans your gutters, but he also cleans your gutters, if you know what I mean. (Wink, wink)

Several of my friends were “houseboys” for sororities in college. They cooked, did a little cleaning of the massive Southern mansions the girls lived in, and had a lot of sex with the residents. None of them seemed to complain about the “houseboy” title.

Viva la “houseboy”!

 


Thank You, Socially-Inept Grocery Bagger Person

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A note of thanks to the 16-year-old grocery bagger at the Ingles check out line who felt the need to tell me how “twisted” he got on paint thinner the night before…in front of my children. Thank you for being a cautionary tale that I can hold up to my kids and say, “see kids, you shouldn’t huff household products.”

And to the other grocery-bagger person, the young lady who, on a separate occasion, took several minutes to explain in excruciating detail how she only drinks bottled water, not that crap from the tap. And how she’d like to buy a Brita filter for her sink, but then everyone in the family would use it, even to wash the dishes, which is just stupid, and expensive, and she can’t afford that, to buy filtered water for washing the dishes, so she’ll just keep drinking the bottled water. The carbonated stuff, not that crap spring water. Thank you. Thank you for being a brief distraction from the normal check out line chaos, where my children systematically lick every single pack of gum, magazine, and knock-off Match-Box car in the “impulse buy zone.” Thank you.

Most people would simply mumble, “great, and you?” when I ask, “how are you doing?” But not you, Socially Inept Grocery Bagger Person(s). Not you. You seize the opportunity to really connect with me, a stranger who will be out of your life as soon as you finish double bagging every single item in the cart. And thank you for that, too, the compulsive double bagging of absolutely everything. Not just the heavy items, like milk, but the light ones too. Even the four-roll of toilet paper, which weighs maybe 10 ounces and has no sharp edges. As an amateur who occasionally dabbles in bagging, I’d put the toilet paper in a single plastic bag, but not you. You’re a professional, so you double bag it, going that extra step, using up an entire dinosaur in the process. Thank you. You’re awesome. Never change.

Thumbs Up, Mother Fu—-S!

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Disturbing fact about myself: I give the “thumbs up” gesture a lot. It’s like I’m running for office. A single “thumbs up”  to the guy at the deli for slicing my turkey just right. A protruding thumb out the window to the lady who let me pull out in front of her in traffic. A Clinton thumb to the barista at the coffee shop just for handing me my coffee. It’s gratuitous, and borderline compulsive. I never did it before I had kids, but now I hang out with two toddlers all day, and according to the magazine articles I’ve skimmed, parenting at this stage is all about positive reinforcement.

So, my life right now is a bunch of thumbs ups, high fives, and really expressive “good jobs.” Any little thing gets a gold star. If they go all day without cutting off a finger with their Play-doh scissors, I practically give them a puppy. It’s a cheery optimism that’s necessary for toddler development, but it’s bleeding into my adult life, and it’s not always appropriate. Like say, at Lowes when some guy helps me find the t-nuts–a hug might not be the most appropriate response on my part.

Some other annoying parenting habits that I’ve picked up:

Pointing out really trivial details. It’s great to engage my young ones with observations of the world around us, but it’s not necessary on dude’s night out.  “Guys, did you see how shiny that car was? It was so shiny!”

Referring to myself in the third person. I don’t know why parents call themselves mommy and daddy when talking to their kids, but we all do it. “Daddy likes his chicken.” “Don’t pee on the doggy, that makes daddy sad.” It’s so annoying. I hate myself for it, but I can’t stop.

Assuming the world revolves around me, just because I have little kids. I’m literally shocked when the grocery store isn’t open at 2am when I need milk. What the fuck is up with that? I’m pissed when people invite my family to do something on a Saturday in the middle of nap-time. (When my kids don’t sleep, daddy drinks). And to all you old people, handicap people, and mothers-to-be taking up the good parking spaces at Dillards–can’t you see I have two toddlers here and trying to get them across the parking lot is like playing a game of Frogger? Try being a little more considerate next time.

Not giving a shit what I wear in public. I always wondered why my dad wore sandals with socks and cheesy ties that played music (often, he’d pair the sandals with the musical ties). Now I know: Because he didn’t give a shit. I am now in that same boat, and it’s actually kind of liberating. I wore my slippers to the grocery store the other night. I’ll wear white socks with brown shoes and neon yellow jackets. I don’t care what the world thinks of me. Why? Because I helped create two awesome kids (with my penis!) and my wife is super hot. Suck it, world–I’ve got nothing left to prove.

 

Booby Traps

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We had one of those beautiful days where the kids were super cute. Cooper called Baby Jesus on my iPhone and Addie ran from her shadow at the park. They said “thank you” when I handed them juice and they built a block tower together without coming to blows. Perfect little angels. Of course, they were just setting a booby trap. They were lulling me into a false sense of security and would at some point during the day launch an all out assault of toddler chaos. Think Nazi Germany wooing Russia before invading them.

Yes, I just compared my children’s subterfuge to that of Nazi Germany. Hang out with two three-year-olds long enough, and you’ll find it’s not that much of a stretch.

There was no way to tell when the kids would turn on me, only that they would as soon as I let my guard down. Perhaps while I tried to sneak in a quick shower, they’d pull the blender out of the cabinet and make a “peanut butter and daddy’s wallet” smoothie.

In the meantime, the sneaky munchkins kept being cute, smelling our rosemary bush and saying it smelled like spaghetti. Holding hands and saying, “it’s a beautiful day.” Trying to hula-hoop together in the same hoop. Adorable! Real melt your heart kind of shit.

Honestly, it was a maddening day waiting for the bomb to go off. It was like being stuck in the first hour of a Hitchcock movie–all anticipation and foreshadowing and no violence.

And then, the violence came.

It happened at nap time. Well, it was supposed to be nap time. I turned my back on them for 12 seconds and they used their milk to grease their crib railings to facilitate a quicker escape. Without a proper nap, they were free to fulfill their true toddler nature, which began with a sizable tantrum because I would not let them finger paint on the couch and ended with both of my kids peeing off the top of the slide at the playground. No shit. The night ended with me wondering how much trouble I would get into if I duct-taped them to their beds.

I’m still not sure about the legality of that parenting technique, but I’m sure if I explained myself to Social Services, maybe showed them a few videos, they’d understand.