tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779722384449124642023-11-16T07:55:32.482-08:00A Dad AgainTKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-52724280686177519552013-08-15T10:34:00.001-07:002013-08-15T10:34:29.833-07:00Holy Crap, Am I Sick of Poo
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If I never see another pile of someone else’s poo—never
mind. Not gonna happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least
not for a few years. But it can’t get any more poo-themed than recent months have
been for me. </div>
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Funny, but poo never seemed so prevalent before. Not when
Jackson was a baby or toddler, not during Max’s first few years, not even when William
first arrived. But poo has completely taken over. Uncle, I say. I don’t want to
have to smell it, I don’t want to accidentally touch it, and I definitely don’t
want to have to decide what to do with it.</div>
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Of course, there’s a good explanations for the notable rise
in the flow of feces in my life: With William well into the food-eating stage, I
have more loads to clean up than ever before. Three, to be exact, not counting
my own. Yeah, one of them’s a dog—what, like that doesn’t count? And piling on
to the, uh, pile, Sarah’s dog from her previous marriage (yes, there are such
things as dogs from previous marriages) also makes periodic appearances, and
brother, can that dog poo.</div>
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Oh, and then there are the neighborhood cats, which, since
the day we moved in, have treated our yards as their own personal litter boxes.
We went so far as to invest about $1,000 turning our weed-and-dirt side yard
(cat heaven!) into a Tuscan themed vineyard, with a stepping-stone and pebble
hardscape, only to have the cats poo in the pebbles. But I digress.</div>
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At the risk of ruining your lunch, I thought I’d provide a
primer on crapping categories by recounting a few of the more colorful poo-poo
incidents of recent months, most of which center around Max. (Sorry, buddy:
When you read this one day, I’ll owe you.) If you’ve got kids, these scenarios
probably sound familiar. If you haven’t had kids yet, well, consider yourself
duly warned:</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Scream-n-Smear</b></div>
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This one’s a doozy. One afternoon, we were at the playground
around the corner from our house, and I’d given Max his two-minute warning. As
I put William in the stroller, Max began to freak out behind me. I turned, and
he was just standing in the middle of the playground—which is crowded, mind
you—screaming bloody murder. Which, as the parents of children in the midst of
toilet training may recognize, is often a sign that a kid who’s been holding in
No. 2 for days is about to let loose. And let loose, Max did. But pooing in his
pants wasn’t embarrassing enough, not for my kid. No siree. Instead, as he
starts to soil himself, Max decides to pull his pants and undies down and walk
toward me, screaming, as poo dribbles down his legs, all over his pants and
socks and anything else unfortunate enough to make contact with him. Needless
to say, it was a long walk back home.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Impromptu Outhouse</b></div>
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This incident was much less dramatic than the Scream-n-Smear
but nonetheless far removed from a parent’s dream scenario. Max and I were at the
amazing Adventure Playground in Berkeley (Google it—it’s a perfect counter to
today’s overly hawkish parenting), and Max was having a grand old time playing
in his favorite attraction, an old wooden boat carcass. At some point I realized
that he’d been very quiet and I couldn’t see him anywhere. I yelled his name,
and the top of his head peeked out from the dark of one of the boat’s windows,
but he didn’t move any further. Worried, I asked him what he was doing, and he
answered, very matter-of-factly, “I’m pooing.” Less than 15 minutes into our
outing, and I have to run him to one of the smelliest restrooms in the Western
Hemisphere, perform a poo-in-pants-ectomy, customarily tossing the underwear in
the process, and head home to recuperate.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Checkout
Challenge</b></div>
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Every parent has experienced some version of the child
pooing in line at the grocery store or Target or Costco or Disneyland or
wherever. Our most memorable version, which I was not present for, came during
one of Sarah’s visits to her favorite East Bay nursery. As they were standing
in line, Max began screaming at the top of his lungs, distracting mommy and the
store clerk from their appointed transaction. Sareah immediately ran to the
nursery’s port-a-potty, and proceeded to hover Max over the “toilet” as he
continued to scream loud enough for all of the other customers to hear. Ah,
quality mother-son time.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mayhem at the
Memorial</b></div>
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I realize not every one has had a funereal poo crisis. You'll consider yourselves lucky as I describe the 30 minutes I endured at a recent memorial
for the father of one of Sarah’s good friends. As the family began to tell
stories about the deceased—always the most interesting part of any memorial, if
you ask me—I realized we hadn’t seen Max in a bit. I headed off to look, and
found him in a room in the house with several other children. Only he wasn’t playing
with them, he was standing alone behind the couch, which can only mean thing.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I said to him, determined not to let him stand there
stinking up a house that was in mourning. I swooped him up and carried him over
my shoulder out to our van, where he stood under a tree to finish relieving
himself. Fortunately, being aware that he was overdue, we had him wearing a
pull-up in case of such an emergency. But a pull-up can only do so much, and
this one succumbed to an epic poo that squeezed out of the diaper and up his
back. Sadly, I was unaware of this until I actually went to remove said diaper,
at which time I managed to get poo all over the floor mats of the van, not to
mention Max’s shirt, and part of one of the seats. It was quite a scene, one
that required almost the entire large package of wipes we smartly keep in the
car. (Thank goodness Mom thought to bring extra clothes.) Naturally, while I
was gone, I missed all the of the immediate family’s tributes. Foiled by poo
yet again.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Squirter</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Much less frustrating than Max’s public poo melodramas, but
certainly the most eye-popping poo William has taken to date. The poo itself
was straight-forward enough: As Sarah started changing a dirty diaper, she was
unaware that William wasn’t finished. Suddenly, a squeeze, and a stream of poo
a foot long came flying out of his rear end, landing in an extended line across
the changing pad, onto the top of the dresser, and—what makes this whole
incident noteworthy—stopping literally millimeters short of showering my brand
new MacBook Pro. No pun intended, but I’d have shit in my pants had that poo
rained down on my keyboard.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Bedroom Bombing</b></div>
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A classic moment of rebellion. Max, whom I’ve no doubt made
clear has been less than happy about William’s arrival and the resulting loss
of attention, has seemingly been using his bowels to get back at us. One
afternoon, he’d been napping in our room, which is always a risk. But he’d been
sound asleep, and I’d been working happily in the next room. When I heard some
movement, I walked in to find a shocking scene. First, there was the toilet
paper that had been streamed all over the room, which looked like it had been
the site of a ticker-tape parade. Then there were the various items from
Sarah’s makeup bag strewn about the bed. (Luckily, THIS time he didn’t actually
apply said makeup to the sheets. The previous time we weren’t so lucky.) As I
was standing there, slack-jawed, and was just beginning to come up with the
words to react, Max, who’s standing on the floor, points to a spot on the rug
and says, proudly, “Look!” And, you guessed it, a steaming pile of feces was sitting
there. A present to Mommy and Daddy. Oh, joy.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Buzzer Beater</b></div>
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This is the latest entry, having just occurred a week or two ago. And I
have to preface this story with a side story about how Max has taken to peeing
in the morning in the corner of his room, all over his closet door. The pee collects
in a puddle that trickles under the door, soaking anything it touches and, now,
forming a stain on the hardwood floor. Grrr. Anyway, he’d done that this
morning, resulting in much fireworks, as we’ve gone through this a dozen times
now. Fast-forward to early afternoon. I’ve picked him up from pre-school and
returned home to eat my lunch, give him a snack (he lunches at school), and put
him down for a nap. So I let him know it’s nap time and head up to his room to
put on a pull-up and tuck him in. As we get into his room, not more than 30
seconds before the pull-up would have been on him, he stops and announces, “I’m
pooing,” and proceeds to unleash his bowel and his bladder in his pants. I tell
him to stop and carry him to the bathroom, where he proceeds to continue pooing
and peeing, the latter all over the bathroom floor. And yes, another pair of
underwear found its way to the trash. (That makes at least 20 pairs over the
months.) As if all of that wasn’t enough, later in the afternoon, when we came back
from a pre-dinner park run, he went in his room and peed on his closet door
again.</div>
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Needless to say, we’re open to suggestion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-16390304219030445692013-04-09T21:33:00.002-07:002013-04-09T22:52:57.737-07:00Seven Years Later, My Boy Stands Strong<style>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Dear Jackson: </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Seven years ago tonight, I feared for your future. I didn't
know if I was up to raising a child without his mother's help, and I didn't
know if you were up to the emotional challenges of growing up without her. It
was a really scary moment, knowing that I’d be solely responsible for guiding
you from the age of 8 all the way until manhood. It’s a huge job—too much for
one person, it seemed to me at the time. Who would be my system of
checks-and-balances? Who would rein me in when I was flying off the handle? Who
would stop me from spoiling you? Who would make sure you occasionally ate
something besides red meat?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And ya know what? In many ways, it was too much. We got too
much of each other, and we argued like a husband and wife, often driving
everyone around us nuts. Some of your childhood characteristics became like
fingernails on a blackboard to me—probably because they reminded me of myself
at a similar age. And I know that my tendency for over-reaction pushed you away
more often than I’d like to remember. I can’t tell you how many times I sat on
the couch feeling like such a jerk, and wanting so badly to take it all back. But
just like I couldn’t bring your mom back, I knew I couldn’t undo my reactions.
I hope you can forgive me.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Still, despite the MANY mistakes I've made along the way, I
must have done something right, because you’ve grown into the vivacious, stubborn,
life-embracing soul I'd always hoped you’d be. You've been strong since day
one, and now you've gotten through the hardest stretch of your loss. They say
life progresses in seven-year increments, so perhaps you can look upon this
date as a rite of passage of sorts, a doorway to the land of emotional
freedom—the first day of the next stage of your life without Mom. There
shouldn’t have even had to be such a stage, but we play with the cards life
deals us. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And you, my son, have played your cards pretty well so far.
You remained upbeat more often than you had any right to be, and you stayed
engaged—with school, friends, activities, family, and anything else that
brought you joy. While many other teens—with far less emotional
justification—spend their time sulking and staring at computer screens, you
spend them skating, producing amazing videos for your own YouTube channel,
golfing for your high school team, and (occasionally) playing with your little
brothers. (Okay, sometimes you sulk and/or stare at your computer, too—no one’s
perfect.) </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">What’s more, you never stood in the way of my journey. You
embraced Taylor when I dated her, and you seemed to be genuinely happy for me
when I subsequently met and fell in love with Sarah, despite all the
indications that she would frequently take me away from you (probably a good
thing!). </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And speaking of Sarah, you never once made her feel
uncomfortable, no small miracle given that she was following in the footsteps
of a ghost. Your willingness to accept her as your stepmother is a big reason
why she’s so willing to be tough on you; believe me, Sarah’s toughest when she
cares deeply. Try to remember that when she’s riding you to do your chores.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I have no way of knowing what the next seven years will
bring (although a college diploma would be nice), but if they bring us as many
good things as the last seven have—hello, Sarah and Max and William, and
cousins Emma and Lennox and Sage and Riley and Charlotte and Clara, and Albany
and Cornell Avenue, and all the good times you've spent with Alex and Owen, and the countless other treasured aspects of our lives!—we will
be two of the luckiest people in the universe. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">All of this is why, as I sit here tonight, seven years after
ushering you through your terrible loss, I have complete confidence that you're
going to go out into the world and take care of business, and have a good time
doing it. A dad can't ask anything more. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I know that almost nothing I’ve written here is something
you haven’t heard before. But I wanted to get it all on “paper”, in one stream
of consciousness exercise, so you would always know how I felt about our most
tumultuous years.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I love you, Jackson. Your mom would be proud of you. I know
I am.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Love, Dad</span></div>
TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-70359583901564610322013-04-03T00:50:00.003-07:002013-04-03T00:50:44.682-07:00It's Official: I'm Now the Frontrunner for "Dad of the Year"
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If I didn’t write about today, I couldn’t call myself a
parenting blogger, because it's been a watershed moment in my long,
illustrious 20-plus year parenting journey. Today marked the first time I was
alone with two small children for an entire day. That's right, after more than nine months of maternity
and medical leave, Sarah has returned to work, and it’s been just my boys and
me for the last 15 hours. (Ah, there’s the sound of Sarah’s car returning now.
At long last, William can nurse.)</div>
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Make no mistake—there was a lot of build-up to this day, on
many levels. There was my own anticipation (or perhaps I should say terror?) of
it, knowing that I’d suddenly be operating without a net (Sarah), and that I’d
be at the mercy of two little sets of needs. There was Sarah’s mental and
emotional preparation for being separated from her precious little William for
the first time. And there was the coaching of Jackson and Max to get them ready
for what will be expected of them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But mostly, there was Sarah’s fear of leaving them alone
with me. You see, I have a reputation for being slightly distracted. If you’ve
ever gone to get a snack, decided on the way to finally replace the battery in
that smoke detector, realized as you were looking for a battery that the drawer
handle was loose, and then, while struggling to find a screwdriver in the
garage, started reorganizing your tools because the screwdriver was in a stupid
place, then you know what I’m talking about.</div>
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For some reason, Sarah had developed this crazy notion that
I might not be able to focus on both of my little boys at the same time. That I
might start playing with Max and forget that William was underneath that
pillow. Or that I might get caught up taking pictures of William and forget
that Max got out of preschool 45 minutes ago. Or that I might start talking
with a neighbor out front and not notice Max pushing the stroller across the
street with William in it.</div>
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Okay, so maybe she had something to worry about based on my
track record. But to be fair, my track record—at least the track record she
could refer to—was all established with her at home. In other words, it’s no
track record. Because anyone who’s spent any time parenting alone will agree,
it’s absolutely nothing like parenting knowing that your partner is in the next
room. You can’t take the same liberties. You can’t resort to the old “I thought
you were watching him.” And you certainly can’t leave the preschooler and
6-month-old alone in the kitchen and go tend to your weeding.</div>
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I tried to explain this to Sarah, telling her that when I
know I’m the only show in town, I’ll step up the plate. She would just look at
me, with her head cocked and one eyebrow raised, and give me one of those
sardonic “uh-huh”s we’ve all heard.</div>
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But guess what? I was right! I know it’s only been one day,
but I’d have to say, with all objectivity, that today I may have put on the
all-time greatest example of stellar parenting. I texted about playdates, drove
to and from said playdates, anwered work emails, made bottles, fed the baby,
changed diapers, ran errands (including picking up Diaper Genie refills for the
parents of Max’s playdate!), made more bottles, fed the baby again, got kids to
nap, changed more diapers, answered more work emails, supervised backyard play,
made more bottles AND changed more diapers, cooked dinner, bathed the
preschooler, made one last bottle, read stories, got two tired boys to sleep,
and then collapsed in a heap.</div>
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Now I know what you all are thinking now: Where can I get
that job!? No, seriously, you’re probably wondering how long I can last before
having a nervous breakdown. But just as I would say to Sarah, I’m here to tell
you I have no such concerns. Truth be known, I actually had a really good time surviving the gauntlet, and I feel confident that I can usher these kids
through literally hundreds of similar days alone over the next few years, with very few
hospitalizations, while Sarah works hard to support this family. </div>
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Yessirree, I’m one progressive man. Now what the hell did I
do with that screwdriver?</div>
TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-23155162999451398222013-01-17T21:02:00.002-08:002013-01-18T00:00:28.361-08:00Solving the Nation's Problems, One Dad at a Time<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Today I took Max to the “kindergym” at our local YMCA, as I
have many times before. Long-timer readers of this blog may recall the Y’s
kindergym as the setting for my brief series of “When Moms Attack” posts that
chronicled issues I had there with a particularly annoying mother who found my
style of play to be overly exuberant. But this is a post of a totally different
flavor. (Although, I should share that a friend who happens to know said mother
told me that her husband has filed for divorce and says she’s a total loon.
Vindication!)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rather than dwell on that unsavory confrontation, which led
to my feeling like a child on timeout on subsequent kindergym visits, this time
I’m happy to report on getting perhaps the greatest compliment I’ve ever
received. I have to admit, I was on a roll with the boys today. As I played
with Max and a particularly favored kindergym cohort of his, Kai, I was making
good use of all the equipment and props to keep the boys laughing and running
and coming back for more. Their favorite was when I picked up one of those
nylon accordion tunnels kids like to crawl through, put it completely over me
from head to toe, with the top end hanging in front of me, and walked around
like a big tube monster trying to drop that open end over their heads. Much
frivolity ensued.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All the while, there was this nicely dressed older woman
with an SLR camera snapping shots throughout the room, and she had a special
interest in documenting the interactions between me and the kids. (It turned
out she was photographing the scene for a marketing push the Y is preparing to
make.) I could tell she was enjoying the way I played (as were several of the
moms standing by—shocking!), but I could not have been prepared for what she
ended up saying to me. Amid a stream of gushing comments about my energy and
willingness to invest the time with my kids, this nugget of praise just stopped
me in my tracks:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, the troubles we could solve in this country if we put
one of you in every home.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I surely don’t have to tell you that this is the kind
of comment that can make a dad’s day. But it was especially welcome given that
Sarah had just made an astute observation about what she perceives to be a
hiccup in my parenting armor these days, namely that I seem to her to be
emanating the aura of a man who feels “trapped” in the whole married-with-kids
paradigm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’s right, to a degree. But it’s not as nefarious as she
probably sometimes fears. In fact, I don’t know a father of little kids who
doesn’t feel trapped on some level. Or a mom, for that matter. It’s the nature
of the beast. Maybe Sarah just hasn’t gotten there yet—she’s only 3 years into
this after all. I’ve been doing it for more than 20, including the years I
spent step-parenting before Jackson was born.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a huge difference between being a first-time parent
(or even a second-time parent like Sarah who’s still pretty fresh to the whole
parenting thing) and being a 20-year vet who’s been through the teen battles,
the infant/toddler/preschool years, more teen battles, more infant-toddler/preschool
years, and who STILL faces more toddler/preschool years and even more teen
battles, and who will probably be 70 by the time all these kids are off on
their own. (Good grief, after writing that sentence, I realize it’s a small
miracle I haven’t been institutionalized.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s also a huge difference between a person who remained
kid-free and got to sew her wild oats throughout her 20s and most of her 30s,
and a guy who wishes he’d been so smart but who stupidly traded in his wild
oats in his mid-20s.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But none of this takes away from the love I feel for my
boys, or the joy they cause me every single day. (We’ll conveniently leave the
pain and suffering out of this conversation.) It is possible for a person to
simultaneously live in a world of regret and joyous embracing. Believe me, I
try to forget what I unwittingly gave up in exchange for my first
marriage—international travels, a budding (but nowhere near lucrative enough)
music career, years of slovenly Sunday afternoon football watching, and the
women (!)—but it’s a tough load to free myself from.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I’d love Sarah to understand is what a breath of fresh
air she has been to me. No, I never envisioned having a second kid in my
40s—never mind a THIRD—and some days I look around and think to myself, what the
hell have I done!? But I also know that my regrets a) have absolutely nothing
to do with Sarah, and b) are impossible for her to address.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think one of Louis C.K.’s routines about being a dad sums
it up best, and I’m paraphrasing: “Don’t get me wrong. I love my kids more than
I’ve ever loved anyone or anything. They give my life meaning. They make me
love myself more, and they make me love other people more. I can’t imagine my
life without them, and yet I rue every decision I ever made that led to their existence.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If that doesn’t sum up parenting, I don’t know what does. And
if any parents were to react with horror to that, suggesting that they could never
feel that way, I'd be convinced they were either totally full of shit, were placed here by aliens,
or were wealthy enough to have someone else do the hard work of raising their
kids. And I bet that no one ever suggested that putting them in
every home would solve the nation’s woes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yep, it’s a good day to be me. Gotta enjoy those when
they come.<br />
<br />
-----------------<br />
<br />
Note from Dad: This is the 50th A Dad Again post--a milestone that's been a long time in coming. Thanks so much for reading. Please keep coming back, and get your friends and family to check it out, too. Maybe one day this blog will actually have a real audience!</div>
<!--EndFragment-->TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-65363367680719150672012-12-19T14:18:00.003-08:002012-12-19T14:25:26.067-08:00Calling for Patience in Reacting to Newtown<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s impossible to be a parent and not have a
strong, emotional reaction to what happened last week in Newtown, Conn. The
idea that a 20-year-old man—regardless of how sick he was—could walk into an
elementary school and use assault weapons to execute 20 six- and
seven-year-olds is a beast to get one’s mind around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The really scary thing is this: kids getting
shot is nothing new. Ask anyone who lives in the rough parts of Oakland, where
a cadre of young children were innocent victims of drive-by shootings on the
streets in late 2011—a six-year-old out for a shopping stroll with his family;
a five-year-old whose only mistake was joining his father for a quick stop at
the family’s taqueria when a hail of gunfire claimed him; and an 11-month-old
(!), who was in his father’s arms at a rap video shoot in a liquor store parking
lot when a bullet passed through his neck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Or the families of the 180 American children
11-year-old or under that the Centers for Disease Control reported killed by
gunshot during 2010. Or the 85 American preschoolers—85!—who died by gunshot
during 2007, according to the Children’s Defense Fund. (To put that in perspective,
during the same year only 57 law enforcement officers were killed in the line
of duty.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In fact, </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">David Hemenway, a Harvard professor of health policy and
director of the Harvard Injury Control Research Center, told <i>The New York
Times </i>earlier this year,
"Children ages 5 to 14 in the United States are 13 times as likely to be
killed with guns as children in other industrialized countries.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Yikes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">No
wonder my brother, Greg, posted this search for sanity on Facebook over he
weekend: “</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">...I have spent the entire
day on the edge of constant tears. And I want to do something about it, but I
just don't know what. The only thing I can do right now is to urge every one I
know to think about what they can do. Let's start a conversation. This is the
place to start. All I know is that something needs to be done. Does anyone have
any suggestions? I know that I can write my congressman about my outrage, but
will that be enough? I'm just at a loss right now and I need all of your help.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">I haven’t commented on the post
because it’s such a personal topic that generates such emotional responses, and
I know my posts can sometimes come off as the proverbial sharp stick poking the
angry animal. And as much as I understand Greg’s reaction—and EVERYONE’s
reactions—to the unspeakable evil that erupted at Sandy Hook Elementary School,
my reaction has been quite different. Because I don’t think there’s a damned
thing we can do. Who are we supposed to feel outrage at? Do we really expect a
privileged club of (mostly) pontificating old men in suits to protect our
children from random maniacs? Fat chance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">While that may sound
cynical, my feelings are more reflective of what I believe is a need to accept
the risks of living in this crazy free-for-all of a society that we’ve chosen to
create. You cannot give millions upon millions of people the right to defend
themselves and then think you can stop the one-in-a-million sicko from carrying
out a fiendish plot. And if it wasn’t guns, it would have been a crossbow, or
explosives, or a chemical weapon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">(I have to disclose here
that this fatalistic response contrasts with the devastation I felt after
hearing of the Aurora, Colo., movie theater massacre. Perhaps the newness of a
movie theater getting shot up shocked me in a whole new way, whereas I’m
apparently braced for school shootings, which have become sickeningly
commonplace.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">What’s more, if there’s one
way to make what transpired in Newtown even more repulsive, it’s to take advantage
of this emotionally moment for the country for political gains, like we should
just start flailing, pointlessly, at an enemy—psychosis—we can’t understand or
control, and that will pop up violently at random, infrequent intervals for as
long as our species survives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">I was pretty disgusted
Sunday night when, after a much needed two-day national discussion, about 20
people gathered at a neighbors home to have a potluck and watch the Patriots-49ers
game and try to have some frivolity, and a few minutes into the game, the
evening was interrupted by a live broadcast of President Obama’s speech from the
vigil at Newtown High School. And I felt even more disgusted that I was
disgusted. It was a horrible event that justified the gravity, no doubt. And it
was clear the President was really hurting. But somehow it felt political to
have the whole thing forced down our throats as millions of us gathered in
front of televisions to escape, not be reminded. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">I couldn’t help but think
it was a thinly veiled attempt to nudge our sympathies in order to gain support
for an eventual agenda. And even if it’s a noble agenda, the timing of it is
wrong-headed. Next thing you know, we’ll have locked-down schools, kids being
frisked every morning, armed guards being placed at school entrances—oh, wait,
we already have that at many schools. Sigh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">Don’t get me wrong. There
will be a time to act. But now is not that time, because action will require
politics, and now is definitely not the time to be politicizing what is clearly
a hot-button issue. Now is the time to mourn and process and reflect. Anyone of
sound mind will tell you that when you’re mourning the loss of a close loved
one, the last thing you should be doing is making any big decisions. The
emotions that accompany grief just aren’t conducive to effective decision-making.
Knee-jerk over-reactions occur. I know. I’m the reigning King of Knee-Jerk
Over-Reactions. Knee-jerk reacting is exactly what we did in the wake of 9/11,
when we let our emotions get the best of us and our leadership foisted upon us dangerous
legislation that ate away at fundamental rights we’re still trying hard to
regain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">I know it’s easy to
intellectualize the events of last Friday in this fashion when I’m not one of
the parents in Newtown who are enduring a hell no one should experience. I’m
sure if I was one of them, or someone who knew one of them, I would be calling
for blood. And yes, re-instituting the ban on assault weapons would seem to be a
start. But perhaps more than that is needed, and by quickly passing that
through, we might, at the least, make it less likely agreement will be reached
on additional action. At worst, we could begin a path that leads to another
attack on personal liberties for the sake of security.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">Instead, let’s all just pause,
think about the victims, maybe try to get to know a little about who they were,
and pay tribute to them in our own little ways. Then, in time, we should engage
in meaningful discussion about mental illness and the need to reach out more effectively
to those who have it. And we should have healthy debates about our gun laws so
that we can all further develop our thinking about them and how they should be
altered. Then, when everyone’s calmed down a bit, we can start making some
decisions. Good, sound decisions. The foundation of effective parenting, and,
presumably, of effective governing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-88321877596708256452012-10-31T11:27:00.003-07:002012-11-01T00:16:38.964-07:00So THIS is What Parenting a Baby is Really LikeI tried so hard to hold my ground last year as Sarah and her mom worked me relentlessly on the topic of Sarah and me having a second child together. I kept saying I was due for a difficult baby (both Jackson and Max were incredibly easy babies and awesome sleepers), and that having two little ones would be exponentially more difficult. They told me I was worrying for nothing, that another child would probably be just as cooperative as Max, that it was critical we give him a playmate--preferably a girl.<br />
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Guess who turned out to be right? </div>
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<div>
I realize it's early, and once things settle down I can draw new conclusions…but so far, the verdict is in, and William is definitely a "fussy" baby. Six weeks in, and he has yet to sleep more than 3 hours in a row, and even that's quite rare. It's too early to declare him colicky--we're both holding out hope that his fussiness will subside over the next week or two. As it stands now, Sarah spends most nights up and down, up and down, generously allowing me to sleep because when morning comes, Max will be my responsibility. Then, most days, William fusses throughout the day, falling asleep for brief moments in our arms and then awakening again as soon as we try to put him down.</div>
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For 15 years, I've wondered what other parents were doing wrong that was preventing their children--and them--from sleeping consistently. For 15 years, I've been thankful that I wasn't being subjected to the kind of exhaustion so many parents lament. For 15 years, I've lived in la-la land. Welcome to reality, Tony. Sleepus interruptus has officially arrived in the form of William Oliver, and it's as hard as I'd feared and imagined. Harder, even.</div>
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Having a fussy baby and a pre-schooler at the same time has now moved high on my list of things I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies. In fact, I think our approach to jurisprudence needs to be rethought. Never mind prison--I say that when people are convicted of horrible crimes, they should be punished by having to raise a fussy baby and a rebellious pre-schooler for as long as a judge decrees. Believe me, anyone forced to do such penance will be transformed. I know I am.</div>
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There is nothing quite so frustrating as spending hours of your life desperately trying to get a baby to sleep--walking, singing, coddling, swaddling, feeding, burning, bouncing, patting--and then, when it seems the little one is down for the count, you try to put him down, oh so gently, so as not to disturb him, only to watch in horror as within seconds he's squirming and whining, and that fantasy of a few quiet moments to lie down in peace goes up in flames.</div>
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Yes, these are the times that try men's souls. I'd say they're the times that try women's souls, too, but let's face it--moms are better equipped to deal with fussy babies. The physical and emotional ties that bind baby and mother together enable mom to deal with sleep deprivation and round-the-clock fussiness with more patience and understanding that I could ever muster. Me, I find myself going all Samuel L. Jackson on the little sucker, letting loose with regular choruses of "Please go the fuck to sleep!"</div>
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So there you have it--one 46-year-old dad's struggle to cope with a house where sleep is elusive, a pre-schooler demands round-the-clock entertainment and attention, and an exhausted wife walks the house like a zombie wondering what hit her.</div>
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I know it all sounds so good that you wish you could change places with me. Sorry, you'll just have to be satisfied being stuck in your peaceful, sleep-filled, movie-going, restaurant-eating existences. Suckers!<br />
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<i>UPDATE (Added after realizing that I posted this in a hurry initially and probably should have saved to finish later):</i><br />
<br />
All kidding aside, the past six weeks have given me some great gifts:<br />
<br />
1) I've learned just how much inner strength Sarah has--and it's substantial. The woman is endlessly patient as she spends hour after hour nurturing William no matter how tired she is, or how exhausted her arms are, or how helpless she is to make him feel better.<br />
<br />
2) I've also learned how many gassy vegetables there are, as Sarah has become disturbingly dependent on zucchini.<br />
<br />
3) I've developed an even greater level of appreciation for the first months I spent with my other, non-gassy, non-fussy children.<br />
<br />
4) I've gained new insight into my relationship with my brother by watching the impact William's arrival has had on Max, and the degree to which he's had to give up the spotlight. Greg--it was all a setup! (Not that my brother ever takes the time to actually read my blog.)<br />
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5) I've gotten yet another lesson in the power of parental love, as no matter how much William has kept me--and to a much greater extent, Sarah--from getting solid sleep, our hearts melt every time the little bugger manages to work up a smile for either of us.<br />
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6) Perhaps most important, William's arrival has injected me with a needed dose of self-reflection, and it may be just the jolt I've needed to put my life in the proper perspective. I believe he's helping me learn to accept the things I haven't been able to do that maybe I wanted to do by now, while appreciating the things that I (we) so often take for granted.<br />
<br />
Seriously, though, buddy--that's enough with the gifts. This fussy baby stuff is hard work for an old guy. Let's get to the fun part, hopefully sooner rather than later.</div>
TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-11222915788208756572012-10-25T00:01:00.000-07:002012-10-25T00:01:07.583-07:00Severing the Kontzer Bloodline--and My YouthDuring a recent social gathering, a few of my guy friends were sitting in a circle comparing vasectomy tales when the one woman listening in, weary from all the talk of scrotums and masterbating into cups, chimed in: "All of my girlfriends in their 30s have no idea what they're in for."<br />
<br />
Sister, you said a mouthful. Oh, yuck. Probably could have worded THAT better.<br />
<br />
In any case, I tell you this story because, having successfully brought a third son into the world, I, too, subjected myself to the snipping of my vas deferens. It's a fatherhood rite of passage that's strikes me as being not unlike the proverbial succession of lemmings leaping off a cliff to their deaths. And it speaks volumes about what parenting brings into men's lives that after knocking up their wives a couple of times, they willingly run to their doctors' offices to get injections in their nut sacks and allow a relative stranger to sever a part of their reproductive system.<br />
<br />
Me, I'd actually never really considered whether I'd ever get fixed until a few months ago, when Sarah broached the topic. And although I'm pretty confident there's not a man in the known universe who can even mention the word vasectomy without cringing slightly in his mid-section from phantom sympathy pains, I had to admit that the arguments for it made perfect sense. I mean, Sarah had just endured two grueling pregnancies in less than 4 years, so asking her to voluntarily subject herself to the much-more-invasive tube-tying procedure wasn't really an option. Spending the remaining pre- and peri-menopausal years of Sarah's life dealing with, arguing about, and cursing birth control devices and methods sounded like a pain in the ass, and would quite likely result in another baby anyway. And the reward for agreeing to get snipped -- a lifetime of carefree, unprotected sex -- was well worth the sacrifice. Of course, that's easy to say in retrospect.<br />
<br />
As of my writing this, it's been 13 days since the procedure, and I'm almost completely healed. And while the procedure itself was a relative breeze, the first week of recovery surprised me in its consistent level of discomfort. Imagine, if you will, feeling like an especially sensitive part of your skin was being pinched constantly by a pliers, and you start to get the feeling. Add the particular location, and you have a recipe for a very awkward week.<br />
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It's also way too early to make a final determination of the procedure's efficacy. In fact, it'll be four months--four months!--before a semen analysis can confirm that I am, in fact, sperm-free. Good thing that as a new father, those four months don't figure to be the busiest of my life on that front.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I digress...back to that discussion a few months ago with Sarah. I don't remember precisely where/when it happened or exactly what was said (Sarah probably does--how do they DO that!?), but I remember that she made a compelling case, and I agreed it sounded like a good idea. Although somehow it took me weeks to make an appointment with my primary to get a referral, and then weeks more to make the fateful consultation appointment.<br />
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In the last 24 hours before the procedure, I started to really get nervous. The mental image of that injection was almost too much to bare, and I was haunted by all the pained looks I got from men when I informed them of my plans. Then again, these were men who had not, in fact, had vasectomies yet. You can tell the ones who roll their eyes at all the panic wasted in anticipation of what is really a pretty humdrum affair.<br />
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Well, I should correct myself--the actual procedure is humdrum. But much of what happens around it is not. Like sitting, sans pants, on the procedure table while two young nurses bustle around the room in preparation, getting instruments displayed on a tray, placing surgical towels around my privates until only the scrotum is visible. And then they place the light in position, and voila, showtime at the Ball Sack Theater! Seriously, I was literally lying there, with my nuts on a brightly lit stage, as these two women made small talk with each other and me. Awkward! And then the lead nurse's departing words? "Hang tight." Very funny, lady.<br />
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So there I hung, tightly, for at least 10 very humbling minutes. For some reason, I found myself wondering what the hell I'd do if there were suddenly a huge earthquake. Apparently, having one's balls on display makes one feel vulnerable. Almost immediately upon his entrance, the doctor was giving me the much feared injection, which, to be honest, was almost undetectable. I've had pees that burned far worse than anything I felt then, or, for that matter, throughout the rest of the procedure. As he proceeded to make two small incisions, and then snipped, cauterized and clamped my vas deferens, the doctor talked non-stop politics with me, finding lots of effective distraction in the topic of the first Obama-Romney debate, which occurred just a couple of days earlier. (The thought of Romney running things was far more painful than anything the doctor was doing to me.)<br />
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When he'd finished, the doctor slipped on his gloves, and walked out of the room with the nurses close behind, instructing me to put my clothes on--slowly--and then wait for him to come back with some post-surgery instructions, which centered around icing, meds, tight underwear, and a complete lack of physical activity.<br />
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Suffice it to say, I've never felt more focused on my nether-region than I did for the days that followed, and that even includes when I was 19 and hadn't gotten laid in more than a year. But I'm happy to report that after a week, the surgical wound started feeling a lot better, and the benefits of the surgery started to appear on my mental horizon. It'll only be a matter of time before Sarah wonders what she's gotten herself into.<br />
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Speaking of women not knowing what they're getting themselves into, that brings us back to the social gathering the other night--notable because I was actually one of the guys sharing my vasectomy story. And when our female friend pointed out the age-specific nature of our topic, it hit me--forget turning 40, NOW I'd officially arrived in middle age. And that, more than anything, may be the most important legacy of the vasectomy. It is the official declaration that your youth is over. That your usefulness to the continuation of the species has expired. That your days as the generation in charge are numbered.<br />
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Amazing how symbolic a little snip can be.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-8013898955417033562012-09-16T23:50:00.001-07:002012-09-16T23:51:07.626-07:00Dinner and a BabyQuite the date Sarah and I had tonight--dinner from the hot counter at Whole Foods, followed by a trip to the labor and delivery unit of our local hospital to begin the act of inducing labor. I'm thinking of trademarking this experience as a "birthing date." More on that later.<br />
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Of more relevance at this moment is, of course, the pending birth of my next (and last) son, William Oliver. It's been quite the waiting game this week. Sarah had suffered so much through the final weeks of this pregnancy--and really, through ALL the weeks of this pregnancy--that she was already resigned to the idea of inducing at first opportunity rather than endure the hell of waiting nearly two weeks beyond her due date, as she had with Max. In particular, nerve pain (peripheral neuropathy) and back pain had taken their toll, often driving Sarah to tears.<br />
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Then, she actually started showing signs of labor this week…on Tuesday, her cervix had dilated to 1 cm (yawn!), and then the contractions started Thursday, spurring us to head on a fun-filled run to the hospital, excited that maybe this baby would come of his own volition…but soon after being admitted into L&D triage, and despite the fact that contractions were coming consistently four minutes apart, we were told that things weren't all that active, and that we were looking at an early labor. They had me walk Sarah around the hospital for an hour (and what a thrill THAT walk was!), after which they monitored her again for another hour before confirming that things were still quiet on the Western front and sending us home.<br />
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Much disappointment ensued. Sarah felt let down and impatient. Her mother, in town to stay with us and help with Max, could barely stand to watch her daughter's suffering. And I had to accept that I wasn't done sleeping in the basement. Then the waiting began in earnest. We hoped her labor would kick in the next day, and when it didn't, Sarah called to find out about getting in Friday night to begin an induction. Alas, the unit was too busy to take us, so they told Sarah to call first thing the following day, Saturday. She called at 5:30, was told to call back at 9, and then again at 5, and then was told that several emergent labors had come in, and she was out of luck. They put her on the list for Sunday evening, and lo and behold, nothing prevented that plan from playing out, and so here we sit at 11:20 on Sunday night, Cervidil inserted and morphine injected (the latter so she can sleep pain-free), and now we wait for her cervix to cooperate.<br />
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The modern birth room, for those who haven't experienced it, is a long way from the no-frills delivery rooms of bygone eras. It's bigger than many hotel rooms, has a huge bathroom with a jacuzzi tub (mom is VERY stoked about this--there were no rooms with tubs available for her previous delivery), a utilitarian couch for dad, a flat-screen TV, and an assortment of instrumentation that looks like it could perform a vehicle smog check. In short, it's a peachy setting to have a baby, regardless of what the anti-hospital-birth sect might lead you to believe.<br />
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Which brings me back to that idea of the "birthing date." Based on the experiences I've had with Sarah, I see no reason that larger numbers of women--especially those having difficult, trying pregnancies--shouldn't embrace the idea of the planned, scheduled birth. Being able to calmly stop for dinner with your wife, and then head to the hospital for your induction appointment almost transforms the act of childbirth into a night on the town--with a huge payoff at the end.<br />
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No, guys, it's not quite the same as getting that first kiss, or being invited in for a nightcap, but when it comes to excitement and joy, it's sure to deliver an even bigger bang for the buck.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-29993613310575325592012-08-15T15:54:00.002-07:002012-08-15T15:54:30.273-07:00The Love That Almost Withered Away<b>WRITER'S NOTE: Last night, I tried to compose a post capturing the wide swath of parenting experiences I've been having as we bear down on the due date for our impending arrival, but my brain just wasn't cooperating. The post meandered through a bunch of entertaining details, but didn't tie them together well. It was frustrating given how long it's been since my last post, but I resolved to get the post right before publishing it.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Then, today I came across this journal-style essay I wrote nearly four years ago, at a moment of uncertainty in my relationship with Sarah. Today was the first time I'd read this since, and I was powerfully transported to a moment that I remember as being quite scary. But as I read, I was also reminded of the amazing woman I have often taken for granted as we've barreled head-long into the wild parenting journey together.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I thought you'd all find it pretty riveting stuff--no one more so than Sarah. It's for you, Baby, that I post this now. I know this pregnancy has been tough on you, and that these last weeks in particular are turning out to be pure torture. I know there are days when you're not sure how much longer you can make it. But remember that no matter how grim things seem, no matter how scared you might get, there's a light at the end of the tunnel, and you've got a hopelessly devoted man who's there to help you every step of the way. Read on...</b><br />
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Sunday, August 31, 2008</div>
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Ah, Sarah…just thinking about her brings a peace over me…yet
I write this as she sleeps in my bed blissfully, having just given me the
latest of life's shots to my solar plexus…</div>
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The fact that I haven't pointedly written about her, other
than in emails (to her and others), speaks more to my laser-like focus on her
over the past 8 months than it does to any possible lack of
inspiration—conversely, she inspires me far more than any other woman I've been with. And oddly enough, what has inspired me to write now, at 5 am on a
Sunday morning, is the nightmarish conversation that broke out as we were in
bed, getting ready for what I sincerely thought was going to be our first lovemaking in nearly a week.</div>
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Instead, my reward for my patience was a sudden declaration
that she was feeling unsexual and was having some second thoughts about
whether our relationship is right for her. And by "our", she meant
not just her and me, but also Jackson. Apparently, a string of interactions
between Jackson and me that fueled a restaurant scene at dinner tonight has her
considering whether she's biting off more than she can chew.</div>
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Of course, this is something I can understand with profound
intensity. I faced this same quandary at the far more naïve age of 28, when,
after a one-year break-up, I foolishly returned to Rox, who would become my first wife, believing that she was
the one for me. What resulted was 11 more years of mostly frustration,
resentment and loneliness that culminated with our split and, not long after that, her suicide. I remember often
feeling that I wasn't sure my life with Rox was right for me, but I didn't want
to let anyone down—not Rox, not Alex or <st1:personname w:st="on">Owen</st1:personname>
(my stepchildren), and down the road, not our little baby Jackson.</div>
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In the meantime, I let myself down by doing what I'd always
sworn I wouldn't do—namely, marching unconsciously into a life I didn't really
want. Don't get me wrong, I loved bringing <st1:city w:st="on">Jackson</st1:city> into the world, and he's really the only
reason any of it makes sense today. But if I had it to do all over again, I'd
never allow myself to commit to the life I did. I'd have the ability to see
how wrong Rox—and her situation—was for me.</div>
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I don't want Sarah to feel like she'd be making that same mistake. I know the love I
share with Sarah runs very deep. I've never felt about anyone the way I do
about her, and she says she feels the same. She's just
seeing a future—or at least a near-ish future—filled with conflict and stress
and public scenes as <st1:city w:st="on">Jackson</st1:city>
heads full-bore into puberty. And quite honestly, if I was in her shoes, I very
well might make a beeline for the hills.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then again, there's that love thing, and it's intense. What
we have isn't something you walk away from before it runs its course. What we
have isn't something you cut off before you've seen what it can grow into. What
we have is strong enough to buoy us, lifting us over any challenge in our way.
What we have is special, very special.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last thing Sarah said to me before we started to doze
off was not to get carried away and think she's breaking up with me. It may
just be one of the occasional freakouts she was prone to in the first months of
our relationship, she said. It may be the current onset of PMS talking, she
said. But I know better. I know a person in serious doubt when I hear one. I
hope I’m wrong, and that her concerns at the moment represent a temporary set
of feelings. And yet, something tells me this is the beginning of the end.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To know how this would devastate me, one would have to
understand the amazing connection we've discovered in each other. One would
have to have watched the seamless way we feed off each other, communicate with
each other, and make love to each other. This is not your garden-variety
romance. This is the kind of romance books are borne from. It's the kind of
romance that all future romances are compared against. It's a stroke of luck
the likes of which doesn't come around very often in a lifetime.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is to say, I don't want to lose her. I mean, I really,
really don't want to lose her. And yet I feel helpless to do anything to stop
her growing away from me. I'm starting to see her fickle nature, and am
increasingly worried that the mask that love has placed over her eyes is
starting to come loose, and that she's seeing the situation with clearer vision
now. And I can't help but think this isn't a good thing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it's inevitable that I lose her. Maybe it's been
foolish of me to think that a woman possessing the combination of sexiness,
peace with herself, and ease of personality that Sarah brings to a relationship
can possibly stay satisfied with a frenzied, widowed single dad who has an
emotionally charged 11-year-old boy hanging off of him. Maybe it's too much to ask to keep it alive. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I'm not about to let a little reality cloud my love for
Sarah. I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with her. Whether
that means marriage or a child isn't important. What matters is that I get to
be with her. And yes, <st1:city w:st="on">Jackson</st1:city>
is a bit of an obstruction, as any child would be. But this is a relationship,
and a future, worth fighting for. That said, I'm not sure there's anything for me to fight—the ball's really in her court, and my sense is that with
Sarah, my best strategy is to leave her to her thoughts and let her figure it
out without my interference. Easier said than done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I really want to do is go slide into bed, arouse her,
and make passionate love to her. That won't leave any doubts in her head. But
now I find myself, for the first time in months, wondering if I've made love to
her for the last time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If that's the case, I know I'll take away a number of things from our time together. For instance, I'll understand better than ever the danger of taking such
wonderful connections for granted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sarah, if you're listening from your blissful slumber, don't
let this die. Don't walk away from what we have. Give this a chance to blossom
into the depths of love that both of us had grown to think was impossible to
find. We found it—that's half the struggle. Making it work, that's the hard
part. Here's hoping we get the chance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>WRITER'S EPILOGUE: Baby, thanks for giving us the chance--we certainly haven't wasted any time making the most of it. Now it's all about holding it together!</b></div>
TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-56900745731280180212012-06-11T16:03:00.002-07:002012-06-11T16:10:19.408-07:00Even Parents Need to Get Their Freak OnSo when last we met, I promised to post about the "goth moms" I met at a nearby park. Of course, that was over a month ago, and the memories have faded--my latest lesson about the importance of striking when the iron's hot, which is something that's been missing from my blogging efforts in general.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In any case, a promise is a promise, and I do remember what struck me about the goth moms that day. I was monitoring Max at the time as he worked in rapid fire fashion through the various elements of the playground--climbing, digging, running, yelling...the usual. At some point, my ears started picking up some of the goth mom conversation, and I was enlightened by the utterances of one mom in particular, who had clearly been putting plenty of thought into how a goth mom comes off to other non-goth moms.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In particular, this mom was talking about her concerted efforts to tone down her gothness in and around schools. I'm not sure if this was a current issue for her, or if she was planning for one day down the line. But as she articulated her realization that her appearance could be off-putting to other moms, I couldn't help but appreciate her self-awareness. And that appreciation quickly morphed into my own increased awareness of the kinds of issues alternative moms (and dads!) must contend with, especially the societal judgments that come in the form of disapproving looks, unwelcome comments, and a widespread assumption that parents are supposed to trade in their youthful philosophies and become--gasp!--adults once they have children.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Let's face it--goth types face much of this stuff even without kids, much the way hippies, punks, glam-rockers and hip-hopsters did in their heydays. But when one adds parenting to their list of duties, they find themselves forced into intimate settings with people they'd otherwise stay far away from--whether that's interacting with other parents during drop-off and pick-up from school, participating in early childhood classes, organizing play dates...you name it. Even someone like me, who's a pretty "normal" guy, often finds himself sitting beside, talking to, or even exchanging phone numbers with people I couldn't stomach in another setting, all because I happen to have sired offspring. And you know what? My life is much richer for having not only welcomed and embraced those interactions, but even formed some highly unexpected friendships.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Something tells me the goth moms that day will one day feel the same--if they don't already, and clearly the mom I overheard is well on her way. Hopefully, she and her friends will continue to remain true to who they are, raise their children in an alternative way, and proudly fly their freak flags for all to see. But the truth is, it's hard to maintain one's "freak" status for long after having children. And it's not just that the world around you wants you to conform--it's that there's no time. Raising children is such a round-the-clock proposition that once you factor it in along with running a household and making a living, it's nearly impossible to remain the person you've always been. Instead, you evolve into the parenting version of you--you know, the one that looks and sounds a lot more like your own parents than you'd have ever imagined possible.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Who's got time to spend hours in a salon getting that latest tat when there are diapers to be changed and laundry to be washed? How does one get their multi-colored mohawk just right when there are parks to visit and dinner to get on the table? And once the kids are in bed, all those dreams of leaving them with a sitter while you go out and relive your youthful nights at the clubs quickly dissolve amid the fog of exhaustion. Just ask me about my 50-dollars-a-night jazz career, which I really had little choice but to tank once I became a dad.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is what's so awesome about my neighborhood, which is filled with parents who are partiers at their core. Our solution? Bring the party to us, with an almost endless stream of fire pits and similar get-togethers that allow us all to fly our admittedly mellowed freak flags in small doses, all without venturing more than a few feet from our homes. Sometimes, these events are kid-friendly, sometimes not. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's not exactly what Barry Commoner had in mind during his futile 1984 presidential bid, but it's certainly similar in spirit. If that goth mom happens to read this, she's welcome to bring her bad ol' goth self to any of our gatherings. And she won't have to tone down her look one bit.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
By the way, if you're interested in getting to know this goth mom better, head over to the blog she writes for, <a href="http://offbeatmama.com/" target="_blank">Offbeat Mama</a>. Her handle is Hunny Du. (And the blog in general is fabulous anyway.)</div>TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-91364911378087624212012-05-03T22:26:00.000-07:002012-05-03T23:33:01.220-07:00Please Let It Be a Girl, Please Let It Be a Girl, Please...Oh, Damn, There's a Penis!With apologies to my small, devoted readership for being absent so long, the past two days have brought me irresistible material. I'll start today with the more personal story: Sarah and I found out that the child we're expecting in September will be, gulp, a boy.<br />
<br />
This, of course, brings all sorts of items to the table for discussion, such as how a guy with a blog entitled "A Dad Again" could delay this long in writing about being A Dad Again...Again. Or what sins I must have committed during my previous lives to deserve this special form of punishment. Or what the point was of spending nearly $50 on a home gender test from Wallgreens if all we were gonna do was pretend it never happened and hope against hope for a girl anyway.<br />
<br />
Then there's the little matter of my projected age of 65 when this unborn child graduates high school. It's pretty sobering. I'll be 52 when we walk this kid to his first day of kindergarten. I'll be nearly 70 when/if he graduates college. And it's definitely uncertain whether I'll live long enough to meet any grandchildren that result. Which, of course, could be a seriously lucky break for those potential future Kontzers.<br />
<br />
On a more serious note, there's the impact this is having--and will have--on Sarah. She was in tears upon finding out the news today, her visions of dressing up a little girl in cute summer dresses, of taking her shopping for school clothes, of counseling her through her first boyfriend, of picking out a wedding gown together, of having a new best girl friend, all dashed. Once the emotions have settled, she can begin looking forward to a testosterone-filled life filled with sports, B.O., meat products and lots of broken stuff. Followed by a life of constant frustration over how infrequently her boys call her.<br />
<br />
But enough about mom--this blog isn't about her. Besides, trying to get to the bottom of what a woman is feeling about the child she's carrying is a task I--or any man, for that matter--am just not up to. What I am up to is offering up a simple, straightforward list of the good and bad I expect from having yet another son. Let's start with the bad:<br />
<br />
-My car insurance rates just went up 600 percent in reaction to the news.<br />
<br />
-I'm a big brother. I know what big brothers do to little brothers. I also know what Max is capable of. Yikes.<br />
<br />
-Q, our family dog, who's been constantly poked and prodded by Max and hated every minute of it (another post that has gone unwritten!), is going to have an absolute nervous breakdown.<br />
<br />
-All those hours spent debating girl's names? Total waste!<br />
<br />
-Worse, we have to spend those hours once again, this time debating boys' names.<br />
<br />
-I'm going to be stepping on a lot more small, plastic, painful toys soon.<br />
<br />
-I'm also going to be breaking up a lot of fights over those small, plastic, painful toys.<br />
<br />
-Getting out the door with a toddler and in infant while Sarah's at work? Sounds like fun! (This admittedly has nothing to do with the pending arrival being a boy--so what, I make the rules around here.)<br />
<br />
-Oh, goodie, we get to be urinated on during diaper changes again!<br />
<br />
Now, on to the good:<br />
<br />
-Throwing Max and the new arrival in the same bedroom just got a LOT less complicated.<br />
<br />
-Barring unforeseen circumstances, I should never have to pay for any weddings.<br />
<br />
-Our future budget for toys just got a lot smaller.<br />
<br />
-There'll be another face besides mine for Max to claw and grab. Oh, wait, maybe that shouldn't be on the "good" list.<br />
<br />
-I never have to worry about being ganged up on by the women in my house.<br />
<br />
-The Kontzer Men's Club membership will reach 6, triggering our "free bowl of matzo ball soup" promotion.<br />
<br />
-Once Sarah hits menopause (and sorry, Babe, but the clock's tickin'), the menstrual cycle will be a thing of the past!
-I won't ever be accused of ogling my daughter's hot teenage friends.<br />
<br />
-I won't ever be accused of beating my daughter's teenage boyfriends.<br />
<br />
With that, I'll return you to your regularly scheduled programming. Stay tuned for my next post, which will center on a group of "goth" moms I overheard, and then met, at a nearby park yesterday. Have to say, I never thought of putting "goth" and "moms" in the same thought before.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-78078013572832341492012-01-26T22:47:00.001-08:002012-01-27T00:45:15.824-08:00When Moms Attack III: Make Her Go Away!Typically, when one is producing a second sequel to a horror story, the introduction of a new menace is in order. But this is no ordinary sequel. In this third installment of When Moms Attack, our antagonist once again is the infamous "Dickhead" mom from the previous post. Only this time, she's moved on to another totally inappropriate action.<br /><br />Mind you, this is not so much an attack on my person, or my personal space, or my potty training failures. Rather, this is an attack on my sensibilities. Of which, as many of you know, I have little, so causing them to bristle requires a pretty serious act.<br /><br />Then again, the woman in question, having caused me to reconsider every warm and fuzzy thought I've ever had about modern day moms during our last interaction, has placed me firmly in a constant state of bristle whenever she's near. Sadly, this extends to her toddler son, whom I can no longer see as anything other than an appendage to the person I so despise. Each time he approaches me, I treat him like a babbling, diaper-clad virus to be avoided at all costs. But as usual, I digress.<br /><br />So, a couple of weeks ago, I walked into the kinder gym session, and there was Dickhead Mom, her presence immediately putting me on edge. (Thanks to her earlier castigation of my play style, kinder gym now feels like that meeting of the Empire's brass in the first Star Wars movie--you know, when Darth Vader chokes that dude with his thoughts? Guess which role she's playing.) Making a special effort to steer clear of her part of the room (victory, Dickhead Mom!), I managed to avoid any potential incidents.<br /><br />That's when she plopped herself down, right in the middle of the play area, where everyone's moving around and all the action's happening, unclasped the left side of her nursing bra, and popped her 9-month-old onto her breast--no cover, no discretion, no seeming thought given to how this would affect everyone around her, from the young children terrorizing the room to the less-endowed moms straining to avert their glances. Granted, this had absolutely nothing to do with me, per se, but it struck me: Wasn't this the same woman who had questioned my behavior in playing too roughly with a couple of the boys? What, the comfy pad in the corner isn't good enough for her? She had to turn her nursing session into performance art?<br /><br />That proved to be just the preface, though, because when I returned last Thursday, there she was again. And once more, I steered clear, this time braced for some public nursing. I was not disappointed. This time, at least, she stayed at the edge of the room--albeit still uncovered--and chatting with a dad holding a newborn. It speaks to my distaste for this woman that I could glare at her out of the corner of my eye and wish unspeakably terrible things upon her even as she breast-feeds her baby. <br /><br />Then, IT happened. She pulled the baby off of her breast, and sat there, continuing to converse with this new dad for at least 5 seconds--it seemed like 10 minutes--before covering up her totally exposed breast. Okay, I admit it, I looked. But whereas I may have looked with great admiration at her buxom-ness had she not declared herself my mortal enemy, I instead saw her uncovered knocker as a great, nippled monster invading my toddler sanctuary.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUgrgsY9to7jigzW6Y12QsBrF6RzG75NfBoRFptAjlKcJnRpAvn1mkND0J4-YzOnn0wO9PMrL2yC6y12QlcXdoiKd9V0GNP6MqglQecj9ttN-FvBtbSg88beMnNFbIR8lenRWkiXra3vGL/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:right;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 209px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUgrgsY9to7jigzW6Y12QsBrF6RzG75NfBoRFptAjlKcJnRpAvn1mkND0J4-YzOnn0wO9PMrL2yC6y12QlcXdoiKd9V0GNP6MqglQecj9ttN-FvBtbSg88beMnNFbIR8lenRWkiXra3vGL/s400/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702226817408339570" /></a>Let me make it clear that I do not normally have any problem with public breast feeding. I'm not sure I even have any problem with public breast feeding that ends with an inordinate amount of breast exposure--I am a guy at heart, after all. But this was no simple breast exposure incident. This was no Janet Jackson-style wardrobe malfunction. And it certainly wasn't some kind of free-wheeling public nursing statement a la the bra-less Maggie Gyllenhaal, above. This was an affront to any dad who's ever played a little too rough. This was an attack on what little is left of my self-respect.<br /><br />Naturally, I didn't do anything. I didn't want to be perceived as some petty amateur who whines at the first sight of his tormentor's tits. I hoped that one of the other parents--moms, where are you!?--would appeal to her sense of decorum and ask that she check her exhibitionism at the kinder gym door. No such luck. I'm not even sure anyone else in the room noticed, which is hard to fathom.<br /><br />Now, I find myself in the odd position of having nightmarish visions of this demonic boob taunting me from the distance. I may never look upon breasts the same way. Okay, so that's stretching it, but I think you get my point.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-59069750116192957722011-12-13T16:21:00.000-08:002011-12-13T17:25:56.878-08:00When Moms Attack II: The Horror ContinuesWhen last we convened, I shared my thoughts about a couple of moms who I felt had stepped over lines of decorum during recent interactions with me. Since that time, I've been especially worried that the first of those moms, whose gaffe of asking for a play date prematurely was much more understandable and innocent than the Germanic mom's ulcer-inducing suggestions on the potty training front, would stumble upon my post, put two and two together, and decide she had no choice but to pick up and move to Fresno. I guess I left the post as it was in the hope that if she did happen to see it, she'd be able to have a sense of humor about herself. Besides, I figured I'd go on to new topics, and mom craziness would recede into the archives of this blog.<br /><br />Alas, little did I know I'd have an exchange that would take the whole "When Moms Attack" thing to a new level, especially given that the first two moms didn't exactly attack as much as say the wrong things. This latest mom? Well, she really did attack.<br /><br />Let me take you to the scene last Thursday morning at the kinder gym again (what is it about that place!?), where I was being my typically spastic, out-of-control self. I should make it clear that when it comes to playing, I'm most definitely not a mom, and I have the penis to prove it. So when I go to the kinder gym (this session is NOT called "baby gym" for a reason, as it's supposed to be for 2- to 4-year-olds), I go to play. Not watch the kids play, but actually play. This has resulted in my forming pretty close (and sometimes physical) relationships with several of the regulars. And when I say regulars, I'm talking about the kids, not the moms. (Ba dum, bum.)<br /><br />The way this behavior manifests itself is as follows: Two kids in particular, both at the older end of the 2-to-4 spectrum, like to assume superhero personas. One actually shows up in a Batman shirt and cape, while the second simply has the woman who staffs the session write "Spiderman" on his name tag. Naturally, this role-playing has resulted in my referring to them, unexpected as it may seem, as Batman and Spiderman. Naturally, I feel obligated to assume the role of the Joker or Green Goblin or whatever fictional villain I want to be, and I chase the boys around, gently tackling them, softly throwing large, padded nylon blocks at them, and generally causing chaos. (Max typically hangs at the periphery of the insanity, avoiding the real rough housing and instead diving in when things are a bit more mellow. He clearly gets a bit jealous of Daddy playing with other kids--it's kind of adorable.)<br /><br />Sarah witnessed this scene a couple of months ago, and has since warned me that she thought I'd end up making some of the moms uneasy. No one who knows me well will be surprised that this input only emboldened me, as I think the one thing some moms need more than anything is to be made uneasy. So I'm an instigator--sue me.<br /><br />Back to last Thursday. It was a particularly energetic day because my recent visits have been hampered by a series of ailments--gout (don't ask), strep throat, and a bout of the flu--that rendered me too listless to exert myself. (Mind you, before someone points it out, I didn't actually go to the kinder gym while contagious with strep or actually suffering the flu--I was there during the recovery periods.) In other words, the fact I was healthy and energetic was a cause for serious celebration (and extra exuberant play) among the boys. We were running all over the room, and all the kids who weren't playing with us were taking great interest. Some of them probably even tried their luck at throwing those cushiony blocks.<br /><br />This is when the mom in question walks up to me and, gesturing me to the side of the room, says, "Can we talk for a minute?" <br /><br />Uh-oh.<br /><br />A bit of background about this woman might help: she is apparently a long time sporadic attendee of these sessions, but I had seen her for the first time just a month or two earlier. I remember it because this mom, who is youngish, and reasonably attractive (but presents herself as a very uptight, librarianesque figure) showed up that day in a sun dress that brought a lot of attention to her admittedly spectacular breasts. And those breasts were a constant that day, not just because I'm a man and thus biologically predisposed to gawking at spectacular breasts, but because her cleavage was so apparent and pronounced that a few of the other moms rolled their eyes with what can only be described as a combination of disgust and envy.<br /><br />This mom was also memorable because she brought both of her kids--one who's nearly 4, and a second that's about 9 months--to the kinder gym. Totally understandable, but also an action that should be accompanied by a certain awareness that you're plopping your 9-month-old down in a room filled with crazed toddlers, introducing all sorts of potential risk.<br /><br />So when this mom pulled me aside, I was braced for a scolding, but I expected it to be civil, along the lines of "I know you're a dad and so you like to play a little rough, and I think that's great, and it's obvious the kids love it, but I'd sure appreciate it if you could pull back just a bit because I'm concerned your exuberance might lead to someone's child getting hurt." And that would have been a completely reasonable request.<br /><br />Instead, however, this is what she said: "Y'know, we're trying to raise our sons more like daughters now and teaching them to be more sensitive and respectful, and when you teach them to throw and hit, they're just gonna grow up to be dickheads. So do you think you could dial it down a bit?"<br /><br />Being the people pleaser I am, I responded with a humble "Okay, I understand," and that was that. Except that I felt parentally castrated. It was as if I'd been given a timeout for excessive playing, and I spent the rest of the session sitting on my hands and telling all the kids--who came up constantly asking me to play--that I had to take a break because one of the mommies felt I was playing too rough.<br /><br />I did have one key (albeit silent) supporter, though: Batman's mom. She always sits on the side, laughing heartily at my "abuse" of her kid and always putting me at ease when I think I may be going overboard. You gotta respect a mom who embraces rough male play. She thought the other mom was out line, and said she's always been kind of uptight about things that make her uncomfortable at the kinder gym.<br /><br />What I wish I'd said to the big-breasted mom when she confronted me was this: "So if I understand correctly, you're concerned that by pretending to be the villain to their superheros and running around playing with little boys exactly as they love to be played with, and admittedly risking collisions with other little ones who no doubt would recover as all toddlers do, I'm somehow increasing the likelihood that these kids will end up beating their wives and kids? Because if that's what you're suggesting, I gotta say you're fucking nuts."<br /><br />By the way, not only does this woman need to think twice about bringing her 9-month-old to a toddler play session if she's all worried about incidents, but she also needs to acknowledge that her older kid--who has repeatedly (and innocently) thrown hard objects at me when all the other kids seem to understand that they need to limit their throwing to those soft cushiony blocks--already has a throwing problem and is thus well on his way to becoming a dickhead with or without my influence.<br /><br />I guess the moral of the story is this: If you want someone to train your son to be a dickhead, I'm your man.<br /><br />Or maybe it's this: Moms with spectacular cleavage who bring their babies to toddler play sessions and have toddlers who throw to injure should probably look inward before holding innocent dads responsible for the worst instincts in men. On second thought, that's kinda wordy. Lets stick with the first moral.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-18061184196886292182011-12-06T15:10:00.000-08:002011-12-06T16:37:48.678-08:00When Moms AttackI've had a couple of Max-related interactions in the past week that have left me contemplating what constitutes stepping over a line when talking with the parent of a little one. Mind you, for a change, I wasn't the one stepping over the line. Rather it was two moms who flummoxed me with their comments. (Moms? Comments that flummox? Nooo!)<br /><br />The first of these interactions may sound harmless enough. I was at the neighborhood playground, enjoying the last minutes of light while Max pushed trucks around in the sand, when a mom who's new to the neighborhood arrived with her four-year-old son. This was my second time bumping in to her, the first having also been at dusk at the same playground. She seemed, in both conversations, to be a nice, reasonable mom I'd be happy to get to know.<br /><br />That was when the "P" word was uttered--as in "playdate"--and everything changed. Because while playdate may seem like an innocent, and maybe even cloyingly annoying--modern parenting term--it is accompanied by all sorts of rules of engagement. And this woman was trampling all over those. <br /><br />Let's start with the fact that we had met spontaneously twice, for a few minutes each time, at a neutral location, in dim lighting. For those inexperienced in the ways of edgy parenting, asking for a playdate at this stage is like going to a bar, spotting a woman you've seen there once before, and casually asking her if she'd like to come by one afternoon for some nookie. <br /><br />I'm sure there are others out there who will disagree with my assessment, but I was bristled by what I felt was a presumptive request at this stage in our "relationship." And it further annoyed me that because she'd invited us to a birthday party the previous week for her son, and because Sarah had RSVP'd via email (we couldn't make it), she had Sarah's email address, which she made clear she'd use to start discussing a date and time. I couldn't help but think of how Jerry Seinfeld (the TV character version) got himself in hot water by calling a woman whose number he got off an AIDS walkathon list. Let's be clear: we weren't RSVP'ing so they could immediately plug us into their "database of future playdate suckers."<br /><br />Of course, this could all come down to us having different definitions of the word "playdate." In my mind, a "playdate" is when one parent/child visits the home of the other parent/child. In other words, it implies being isolated with the other parent, and committing your child to an unknown period of time in the presence of another child with whom he may or may not want to play. The other mom, however, may have had different expectations of a "first playdate," which in her eyes might only entail a harmless rendez-vous at a public (i.e. easy to escape) location. But if her definition differs that much from society's at large, then she should have made that clear, n'est-ce pas?<br /><br />When I got home and told Sarah about this perceived breach in parenting decorum, she seemed to think it was no big deal. Undeterred by her complacence, I made it clear to Sarah that if she got an email about this, I was strongly urging her to suggest a time to meet at the playground. I pleaded with her not to invite the woman over to our house. Not only did I not want to find myself having to be the host should Sarah get called away, I simply was not ready to give this person access to our inner sanctum.<br /><br />But there was another element of confusion surrounding the situation, that being the age difference between the boys. I mean, who the hell suggests a playdate for her 4-year-old son with a 2-year-old! Duh, isn't that age inappropriate? And who wants to subject their 2-year-old to a 4-year-old he barely knows? It's preposterous!<br /><br />The second interaction, which occurred the following morning, was even more disturbing. It occurred at the local YMCA, where we take Max once or twice a week to enjoy the so-called "Kindergym," which is exactly what it sounds like--a small gym filled with a bunch of plastic toys and padded shapes and mats in which toddlers can safely run around for a bit, hopefully without seriously injuring themselves or anyone else. So there I am, minding my own business as I follow Max around the room, when I think I get a whiff of something, so I pick up Max and sniff his diaper quickly. (Thankfully, no need for the HAZMAT team). A woman I've never seen before--a tall, big-boned, Germanic looking woman--sees me and asks if I'm working on potty training.<br /><br />Now here's where I need to inject some advice. First, to anyone who might find themselves in my position: If someone asks you anything about the topic of potty training, do anything you can to avoid or otherwise get out of the conversation that would follow. Act like your phone is vibrating and you need to take this call. Pretend you hear your mom calling you. Scream "fire!" Anything. Because nothing good can come of discussing potty training with anyone other than your co-parent. There are few things in life of which I'm more certain. <br /><br />Now, to those who think they might, in some fit of insanity, make a similar inquiry: There are very few questions you can pose that will generate a more instantaneous sense of disgust of, or a stronger instinct to flee from, you. Let's make this very clear: Potty training is a--how shall I put this?--less-than-appetizing topic best limited to the confines of your own home because, when you get right down to it, it's none of anyone's damned business.<br /><br />That said, the wave of irritation, panic and desperation that certainly was evident on my face was clearly not enough to stop this woman, who apparently was dead set on making sure I'd never invite her to one of our legendary Fall Fiestas. Or even something mind-numbing like a Bar Mitzvah, although I've been to Bar Mitzvahs that would have been a perfect punishment for the crime. But I digress.<br /><br />This woman proceeds to ask me how old Max is.<br /><br />"Almost two," I answer.<br /><br />"Oh, no, I mean exactly. In months," she says. My concern for where this exchange is headed deepens.<br /><br />"23 months," I answer meekly. The woman gasps.<br /><br />"You're past the window," she says in a tone that suggests I've failed my child on some deep, inexcusable level. "They're at the easiest to work with between 19 and 22 months. But I can teach you a sure fire way to potty train him in 3 days."<br /><br />What I want to say at this point is, "Shut the hell up before I punch you in the mouth, bitch!" But what comes out is, "really?" Uh-oh.<br /><br />She proceeds to tell me all about how if you put your life aside for 3 days and take off your child's diaper, and (this is important!) don't put it back on, by day 3, the child will be using the potty flawlessly. My creative version of her description of events:<br /><br />Day 1: Child poops and pees all over himself and your house. Some items are salvageable, and vegetation should be able to grow again in 75 years. Psychotherapy during the evening suggested.<br /><br />Day 2: Child starts to get annoyed with the constant presence of pee and poop on his butt, legs, feet, toys, and anything else unfortunate enough to exist within a 3-foot radius of his privates. Amid the resulting fits of frustration, toys are thrown, food is flung, and most breakable kitchen items meet their demise. First voluntary flirtations with the potty provide glimpses of hope. Presence of an anger management counselor strongly recommended, as is consumption of at least one strong alcoholic beverage once child is in bed.<br /><br />Day 3: Tired of living in a constant flow of his own waste, the child makes regular runs to the potty, where he steadily adjusts to a new paradigm. Sure, lots of pee and poop misses the target during the trial-and-error portion of the proceedings, but hey, at least you're not changing diapers! By the end of the day, the child not only has mastered the potty, he's also cleaning his own room, washing and folding his own laundry, and even volunteering for some light vacuuming duty. The son shines through the roof, creating an other-worldly glow throughout the house, mom dances around the living room in a free-flowing nightgown, showering the room with handfuls of flower petals, and a leprechaun arrives with a pot of gold.<br /><br />Of course, at this point in the "conversation," I'm no longer registering anything the woman is describing, mostly because what little piece of me isn't trying to gracefully monitor Max while at least looking like I'm vaguely interested is busy visualizing shooting her with an elephant dart.<br /><br />I guess the moral of the story is, have a child at your own risk, because there's a whole world of parents out there who will be drawn to you like moths to a flame, but sadly, unlike the flame, you can't cause them to spontaneously burn alive.<br /><br />Thankfully, I returned home, happily changed Max's diaper, and promised myself that he will never, ever play with another child in our home because that would mean I have to interact with a mom, and clearly I can't have any of that.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-29551357165067338312011-11-03T01:00:00.000-07:002011-11-03T18:10:23.413-07:00Fighting For Our Children's FutureTime to take a break in the mostly lighthearted nature of this blog to provide some insight on the Occupy Oakland protests that have captured the world's attention. I finally made it down to the site Monday night, Nov. 1. It was relatively quiet--several hundred people milling about--organizers holding a low-key meeting, intellectuals debating the issues at hand, and lots of homeless guys asking for handouts. I was glad I went at that time--it was an easy way to get a sense of the effort without the chaos. I got to peruse the Occupy Oakland library collection, talk to a few people, check out the tent city, and listen to some of the meeting.<br /><br />But the following day, Nov. 2, was a whole different ballgame. This was the day of the general strike, a day filled with one rally after another as the crowd swelled throughout the day, climaxing with a march to the Oakland Port that lasted into the wee hours. The atmosphere was very positive and energetic at the noon rally I attended. The speakers were animated, the signs expressive and colorful, and the crowd filled with every kind of person you can imagine. It was clear something special is going on--we may not know exactly what it is yet, but anything is better than all of us sitting on our couches griping about things.<br /><br />I was very bummed not to be able to attend the evening march, but was very proud to have several friends and neighbors who hung out throughout the night, and who had the presence of mind to engage in an exhaustive series of texts that told much of the story. Rather than try to relay their story myself, I'll let them tell it in the form of highlights from the text string. It all started when I texted my Albany neighbor and friend, Ulan, who has been visible at Occupy Oakland for many days despite hobbling around in a cast due to surgery for a torn Achilles. It was 4:18 pm Wednesday when I asked him where he was, and whether he'd joined the 4 pm march (there was a second group leaving at 5 pm). Here are the highlights of the ensuing string, which had six or seven people on it:<br /><br />Text from Ulan, 4:44 pm: "On the bridge. Bikes are at the port. U gotta be here. It is awesome!!! Must be 20,000 people. 500+ bikes."<br /><br />Response from me, 4:45 pm: "I'll have to settle for living vicariously through you. Couldn't pull it off--just the wrong night."<br /><br />Next text from Ulan, 5:21 pm: "30 min later and they are still streaming over the bridge. And there is another group that left at 5."<br /><br />5:22 pm, from Ulan: "Someone was talking to his friend at 14th and Broadway and said there is a continuous march of people...2 miles!"<br /><br />5:23 pm, from Ulan: "It is warm. A perfect day to change the world. ;-)"<br /><br />5:32 pm, text from another neighbor, David Skinner, who's been even more visible at the protests than Ulan: "Kristin [his wife] is sick (food). I am evacing (sic) her out from the port. Headed to the hood. Then back. Need something from the hood? Let me know."<br /><br />5:40 pm, from Ulan: "A whole other group has come. Wow. The bridge is flooded with oldies again."<br /><br />5:41 pm, from David: "KFA!" (For those who don't know, this stands for kick f*cking ass!)<br /><br />During this time, Ulan sends a series of photos and videos via text, all documenting the events at the port--people gathering, climbing on top of trucks and roofs, and general revelry over the show of solidarity. <br /><br />One of these photos, sent at 5:50 pm, is accompanied by this message: "The bridge is 1/4 mile back. I am at the gates of the port. Half the people are further in. It just doesn't stop."<br /><br />5:52 pm, from David: "Saw 30 cyclists with banners coming up San Pablo as a supervehicle 20 min ago."<br /><br />5:55 pm, from Ulan: "The bridge is still packed." The implication being that protesters are still flowing into the port. Text is followed by a video snippet of an even more crowded port packed with protesters, all of whom seem very well behaved, and who have blanketed the roof of every truck and container in view.<br /><br />6:09 pm, from Ulan: "Bridge is still packed. Going on 1.5 hours of people walking (across it)."<br /><br />6:46 pm, from another Albany neighbor, Laurie Wong-Roberts, who is not at the protest but is monitoring the text string: "WOW! LOVE IT!!!! Thanks, all, for occupying!"<br /><br />7:06 pm, from David: "Report from OGP [Oscar Grant Plaza, the Occupy Oakland renaming of Frank Ogawa Plaza]. Chill. Down to regular non-sardine levels. No OPD on site. Alameda fire fighter union is grilling gratis making many friends. 14th and Bway still occupied. Drums and dance." The message includes a photo of the firefighters serving up grub.<br /><br />7:26 pm, from Ulan: "Shift change at 8. Staying put for a while. :) Expect to see my photo in the Tribune tomorrow." (Alas, no photo of Ulan in this morning's paper.)<br /><br />7:42 pm, from David: "Too many have left the plaza. 14th and Broadway is starting to see traffic. I hope the thousands of port marchers return soon. With the intersection gone police will follow." (This analysis proves eerily true as later texts show.)<br /><br />7:44 pm, from yet another Albany neighbor, Sheri Spellwoman, mother of two young girls, who had come home during the afternoon but managed to make it back for the port protest: "They are asking for more bodies here until the shift change at 8."<br /><br />7:48 pm, from David: "I had to leave 14th. Cars coming through and I am concerned someone is going to mistake the ped/protest areas for the thoroughfares and hit someone." (Another eerie prediction from David--not much later, a couple of people are struck by cars in that spot.)<br /><br />7:48 pm, from David: "Enough people at the port?"<br /><br />7:50 pm, from Ulan: "Plenty of people are here. No worries. The port is shut and will stay so!!!"<br /><br />7:53 pm, from Ulan: "Folks leaving. Woot!! Nice and loud. :)"<br /><br />8:03 pm, from David: "Got an orange vest. Am now the traffic cop of 14th and Bway."<br /><br />8:11 pm, from Ulan: "Music semi just rolled up the bridge filled with a couple of dozen hangers on. OPD moved so they could pass. The port is NOT going to open. Nope. Nadda."<br /><br />8:27 pm, from Ulan: "How's the plaza?"<br /><br />8:35 pm, from David: "We're holding. With effort."<br /><br />8:36 pm, from Sheri: "People are talking about blocking the port until 3 am. Isn't this strike over at midnite?!?!?"<br /><br />8:39 pm, from David: "It's all about shifts. Hold steady if you need where you are and we'll hold here. Talked to some bicyclists back from the port. Bway is holding."<br /><br />There is then a break in the messages. I assume there is little activity during this time, or perhaps everyone is too engaged to text.<br /><br />10:22 pm, from Ulan: "More people."<br /><br />10:50 pm, from David: "Big block."<br /><br />Then another hour of quiet before the, uh, poo hits the fan.<br /><br />11:53 pm, from Ulan: "Riot is about to start. Fuck."<br /><br />11:57 pm, from David: "Police are starting shit."<br /><br />Midnight, from Sheri: "Fuck!"<br /><br />12:02 am, from David: "Police riot starting." This text is followed by a photo from David showing police in riot gear on Broadway and a huge bonfire in the background.<br /><br />12:04 am, from Ulan, in response to David's photo: "Yes they are. We are on the other side...the one with all the fires."<br /><br />12:08 am, from Kristin, David's wife who has long been home after getting sick: "Stay safe!! OO [Occupy Oakland] tweeted rubber bullets and tear gas being fired at 17th and Bdwy."<br /><br />12:09 am, from David: "Not yet. One flash bang. It embarrassed them."<br /><br />12:09 am, from Sheri: "I ran right into it!"<br /><br />12:10 am, from David: "Moving in now."<br /><br />12:10 am, from Sheri: "Lots of shots being fired."<br /><br />12:22 am, from David: "No shots now. Police are securing a building that was occupied and supporting fire control against the fires on Telegraph. Mood is lightening. Fire is out."<br /><br />12:43 am, from Ulan: "Home safe. So is Sheri. David seems to be ok. Checked in with him."<br /><br />12:46 am, from Ulan: "That Black Block is weak. They want to incite but they don't really want to fight. Fools."<br /><br />12:47 am, from David: "Peace has returned." Text is followed by photo of much calmer scene on Broadway.<br /><br />12:59 am, from me: "What insanity! Thanks for keeping us updated, guys...I feel like I was almost there with you...glad you all stayed out of harm's way!"<br /><br />1:01 am, from Ulan: "It's those Black Block kids. We have to find a way to fix this. It's a good process to go through. And we will find a way through."<br /><br />As you can see, this string provided compelling theater for someone who couldn't be there. And on some small level, it justified Sarah's fears about my taking Max down to the port march. Granted, there wasn't any violence until nearly midnight, but still--she was right to be fearful of what might happen.<br /><br />Let's hope Albany's little band of activists continue to play a role in the uprising, wherever it leads us...regardless of that path, as I hinted at in the headline for this post, the primary concern should be to create a vision of this country's future that will help to ensure that our children have the best possible chance at happiness. Without that, we'll have accomplished little, if anything.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-52328343442917767982011-10-28T22:48:00.000-07:002011-10-28T23:39:32.466-07:00Toddler-speak: A Language All Its OwnIf you've ever been in the presence of a toddler delivering one of those ridiculously cute monologues in which only the toddler in question seems to have a clear idea of what s/he is saying, you've literally been watching language take root in a forming mind. Over time, though, toddlers quickly start to pick up real words and turn their unintelligible gibberish into somewhat-intelligible gibberish. In fact, the pace at which toddlers begin to pick up words is downright dizzying. Imagine learning, speaking and comprehending dozens of new words each day without even making a concerted effort--it's enough to give even the brightest mind a headache. To the contrary, we're probably forgetting as many words every day as they're learning. Well, some of us, anyway.<br /><br />Max is in that stage now, and every day he supplies us with head-turning moments, like today when he and I returned to the Oakland Zoo's parking lot (don't worry--no Occupy protesters are camping out there) and as we approached my car, he said to me, clear as day, "daddy's car." I almost spit soda all over his face.<br /><br />That said, toddlers don't typically get words right the first time--it's more of an evolutionary process in which a sound becomes a couple of rough syllables which then become a toddler-ized version of the word. Case in point, Max's pronunciation of the word "clock." He learned this word probably two months ago, and yet he still is completely unable to incorporate the "l", leading to many hilariously embarrassing scenes--such as walking through Costco and listening as Max, believing the round thermometer in every fridge to be a time-keeping device, blurts out "COCK!" at the top of his lungs over and over again.<br /><br />It's pretty clear toddlers get a free pass for this sort of thing, as Max gets nothing but smiles from even the most stone-faced old women. I think you can picture what what happen if I blurted the word cock out loud repeatedly in a store. Suffice it to say, handcuffs would probably be involved.<br /><br />Another example is "bodadda", which as any person with half a brain can surely figure out is toddler for "motorcycle." It's amazing how quickly the adult brain adapts to hearing "bodadda," calmly handing the child his prized motorcycle with each utterance of bodadda, as if it's the most natural pronunciation imaginable.<br /><br />One of my favorites is "Eddie," which happens to be the name of Max's grandpa, my dad. Surely by now you've deduced that this actually means "airplane"--what else? But given that my dad is known to be a bit, uh, spacey, watching Max look to the sky and excitedly chant "Eddie!" is an endless source of amusement for me. He has no idea how apropos this particular toddlerization is.<br /><br />What really gets me, though, is that even as Sarah and I are constantly entertained by the various Maxisms we're treated to each day, it's the words he says correctly that end up wearing out their welcome. In a recent post, I regaled you about Max's use of the word "apple." Sadly, that hasn't stopped--it remains a stand-in for expressing general hunger, or identifying foods he doesn't know the names of. But at least his universe of food words is constantly expanding--the list now includes cheese ("tees"), animal cookies ("ammo COO-kie", with the "COO" being emphasized with a big rise in his voice), avocado ("a-doh-a-doh", or the like) and orange ("oh-gee").<br /><br />Getting back to his worn-out words, I could do without ever hearing the word "car" again. He says it with such relentless regularity that I try to ignore it--naturally, with little success. Toddlers do not take ignoring well. In any case, we must have about 93 toy cars of varying types around the house, and every time he picks one up--no, make that every time he sees one--no, make that every time he THINKS about one--he says "car" repeatedly until Sarah or I give him proper recognition. There's a demon-father inside of me who'd love to pull a Sid (from Toy Story) and blow up one toy car every time Max says the word. But that would be cruel. At least, that's what people tell me.<br /><br />So for the time being, I'll have to resign myself to attempting (again, unsuccessfully) to block out these toddler mantras, and focus on those golden moments when, for the first time, he attempts to say a word--or manages to say it perfectly. But you'll have to excuse me now--the cock is telling me it's time for some apple.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-30060988332470010702011-09-27T13:43:00.000-07:002011-09-27T16:40:46.209-07:00How to Avoid Really Screwing Up Your ChildAnyone considering becoming a parent for the first time should be clear about the one absolute truth of parenting (and, for that matter, life in general): No one escapes unscathed. <br /><br />Having a child means having your emotions rubbed raw like never before. You'll feel love and hate, joy and sadness, affection and suffocation, pleasure and pain, all to degrees that will shock you. You'll have your heart lifted one moment, and stomped upon the next. Your good intentions will frequently be received with all the love and acceptance one could hope for; other times those same intentions will be thrown back in your face with an added dose of vitriol. You'll be alternately depended upon and disdained.<br /><br />In other words, get ready for one wild ride.<br /><br />This (re-)occurred to me as I've been digesting the wedding I attended this past weekend. The betrothed--Sarah's niece and her high-school sweetheart--are a very nice couple. They both are launching careers in fields that are always in demand: She's a registered nurse, he's an electrician. The thing is this: She's 21, and he's just a year or two older. And no matter how much they love each other, how strong their relationship is now, I'm painfully aware of the odds being stacked against them. They barely know themselves--who does at 21?--and are certain to evolve in significant ways over the coming years. Some parts of that evolution will make them stronger, some will push them part. And as we all know, young married couples have a habit of making babies, and as we all also know, babies change EVERYthing. (I won't even get into the lunacy of having a baby in the hopes it will smooth over problems in a marriage.)<br /><br />Most couples in their 20s--especially those in their early 20s--are simply not equipped to deal with the range and depth of emotions having a child triggers. They've never imagined the intensity of love and devotion and responsibility and exhaustion and stress that parenthood delivers to one's doorstep. I know this from experience--when I was 27, my then-future stepdaughter (who was in her teens) came to me with news that she was pregnant. I won't bore you with the details, other than to say I was sadly unprepared for this situation and handled it brutally, nearly destroying my relationship with my wife-to-be in the process. (In retrospect, that might have been a good thing, but that's beside the point.)<br /><br />Granted, I'm not advocating people do what Sarah and I have done--have a child at the dawn of our middle-aged years. It's the opposite of having a child in your early 20s--instead of being emotionally challenged, you're physically challenged. I'm not sure which is worse sometimes, for the parent, that is. For the child, there's no question in my mind--what you can do for them emotionally is far more important.<br /><br />I guess what I'm saying is--and perhaps the newlyweds will end up reading this, in which case they can take it as advice--the most important thing you can do for your future offspring is make sure you're both as prepared for the emotional roller-coaster as possible. That means giving your marriage time to ensure it's solid enough to survive the gauntlet that is parenthood. Your children will thank you when they become well-adjusted people with parents who understand themselves and each other.<br /><br />Case in point: The day after the wedding, as we were preparing to return home, my mother-in-law started working on Sarah, trying to convince her to leave Max with grandma for a few days, after which we'd return to pick him up. (We live less than 100 miles apart.) As Sarah resisted, MIL turned up the guilt-infused pressure, and eventually wore mom down. So we drove off without Max, and the transition into our few days of toddler-less life was not easy for Sarah. She was jittery and nervous, and seemed poised to return the following day. But as time went by, she settled into her brief respite, and we've had a wonderful few days without Max. I believe that if we'd been much younger, Sarah would have had a much harder time letting go, even temporarily, and providing her with the right emotional support would have been a challenge for me.<br /><br />The payoff will be this: Mom and Dad will have had a much needed break, as well as a chance to spend quiet, quality time together; the mother-child bond will have grown even stronger (that whole absence makes the heart grow fonder thing); and Max will have started developing his sense of independence at an early age. Win-win-win. <br /><br />Contrast this with what likely would have happened if were were 15-20 years younger: Sarah would never have relaxed, and I'd have said all the wrong things, resulting in a healthy dose of marital conflict being piled on top of mom's mounting panic and guilt. Then she'd probably have returned to get Max after a day, angering her mom and robbing Max of that all-important independence development.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-39514697599621574042011-09-14T22:05:00.000-07:002011-09-14T22:28:45.281-07:00A Simple Answer Never Sounded So GoodYesterday evening sure seemed pretty typical on the surface. I was preparing dinner (white bass sauteed in a Japanese soy-mirin-ginger marinade over quinoa), while Max was playing in the next room, Sarah was at a Pilates session, and Jackson was out skateboarding. At some point, I realized I hadn't heard anything from Max in a few minutes, so I called out to him, asking what he was doing. Until very recently, those calls were totally futile, with him lost in his own little world, and my voice flying over his head unnoticed. In recent days, he'd at least had the good sense to make some kind of sound, letting me know he was alive and well.<br /><br />But at this particular moment last night, the quantum leap many parents dream about finally occurred, totally unexpectedly. (Let's face it--no matter how many kids you have, all the big advances remain fresh, earth-changing moments.) As I waited for a response that would prevent me from having to march into the living room to verify Max's whereabouts, the answer came back at me, loud and clear: "Bookie!" This is, of course, his toddler version of "book," and I had to make sure what had happened was as meaningful as it seemed. I shuttled out of the kitchen, peered around the corner, and saw him sitting in our leather chair, book in his lap, just as peaceful as could be. Upon sensing my presence, he looked up at me, book held in both hands, and flashed an expression that seemed to say, "yes, Father? Is there something else you need? I'm a bit busy right now."<br /><br />And with that, the barriers to communication began their precarious fall. To be fair, Max has been answering questions for a couple of weeks now, offering up simple responses such as shaking or nodding his head, or saying something like "apple"--which, per my previous post, remains his code word doubling for both "food" and "hungry." But this--answering a question decisively from the next room--was a major step toward the day when we'll have real, substantive conversation. <br /><br />Of course, first we'll have to get him to stop throwing himself on the floor in a pool of distraught protest every time something doesn't go his way, but hey, no one said it was gonna be easy. So, first we put a stop to the toddler tantrums, and then we can move on to debating the finer points of existentialism. No need to be impatient.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-1499881006961622752011-08-10T22:21:00.000-07:002011-08-10T22:22:34.712-07:00Did Someone Say Apple?Ever have one of those days when some cheesy '70s tune, or worse yet, the Elmo's World theme song, just will not leave your head? Y'know, you find yourself singing, humming or even whistling the insidious melody subconsciously, in your car, while on hold, as you cook dinner, during lovemaking…okay, so maybe I get this worse than the rest of you, but I'm sure you get my point.
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<br />Well, as I've learned of late, it's possible to have a similar experience with a word. Employing meticulous methods of scientific research (i.e., me, sitting in our leather chair and fiddling with my laptop while Max tears the living room apart), I have discovered that if one hears the word "apple" more than 900 times in a day, a state of temporary insanity is induced. This happened to me the other day, while Sarah was at work. (Not sure I've mentioned this before, but she's an O.R. nurse at a major Bay Area hospital.) I'm not sure when it happened exactly, but at some point, I found myself dreaming up some pretty sadistic uses for a Granny Smith.
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<br />It's really quite amazing how quickly a word can evolve from adorable new novelty act to exasperatingly mind-numbing torture device. A week ago, if Max said "apple," I ran for my camera. At some point today, he said "apple" and I kicked the dog. To be fair, it should be noted that Max isn't meaning to be repetitious—he apparently has "apple" confused with "food," or perhaps "eat", because he said it about every single item at the expansive produce store in our neighborhood. The faster I moved in an effort to distract him, the faster he let the "apples" rip.
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<br />In keeping with my recently adopted "burning at both ends" theme, it's occurred to me that Max saying "apple" 78 times in 30 seconds isn't unlike Jackson asking me for money dozens of time during a single summer morning. Actually, at least the toddler has the advantage of cuteness. Jackson is certainly more fragrant, but that hardly works in his favor, as anyone who lives with a 14-year-old boy would surely attest.
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<br />Yep, that's right, I said 14. Because, as it just so happens, today is Jackson's birthday. Not that the number 14 sets off some kind of longevity alarm, but each passing year of his life seems to be a more powerful reminder than my own birthdays are that I'm getting older. Somethings happens to us when we have that first child; it's a dividing line separating two completely divergent lives—the parent, and whatever it was that came before. I can barely remember that Tony now. I think he went through a lot of jobs and was completely flummoxed by women. But he had a lot of fun, too.
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<br />Some days, when my skull is ringing from the repetitive stresses of having kids, I wonder what the hell I was thinking all those years ago. But then I see Jackson's face light up when he's happy or Max being the goofy, hilarious, uninhibited toddler most of us wish we could still be, and it's all worth it. Well, all of it except that damned Elmo's World theme. Holy crap, I hate that freakin' tune.
<br />TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-88157071134387353562011-06-30T21:24:00.000-07:002011-06-30T22:47:31.956-07:00Telling Teens and Toddlers Apart: A PrimerQuiz time: If a teen whines and a toddler screams in the forest, do the trees start making themselves martinis? Answer: If the trees know what's good for them.<br /><br />I make this point--that martinis and parenting are among the most logical bedfellows this life offers--as a way of introducing a new direction for this blog. It occurred to me recently that after 18 months of sporadically documenting my adventures parenting a baby for the second time, I've under-emphasized perhaps my greatest source of material, namely my first baby, Jackson, age 13 years, 10 months, 19 days.<br /><br />(I wanted to give this reborn blog a new name: Burning at Both Ends. Alas, that name was taken by another blogspotter, and since I have no interest in moving my personal blogging to another platform, I await the next title to wash over me. Suggestions are enthusiastically welcome.)<br /><br />More than anything, it has become impossible to ignore the numerous similarities between teens and toddlers. To wit:<br /><br />-Both are in a state of testing limits almost constantly--one might not check in for seven or eight hours despite clear direction not to let that happen, the other will stand on a rickety chair amid a shower of "No!"s. <br /><br />-Both are experiencing intense frustration over what they're not permitted to do, or what someone won't do for them, and are willing to throw serious tantrums to express their displeasure.<br /><br />-Both accumulate an amazing assortment of bumps, bruises, cuts and abrasions pretty much every day--one while endlessly practicing increasingly insane skateboard tricks, and the other by walking into, falling off of or tripping over pretty much everything in his way.<br /><br />-Both can be impossible at the dinner table, with one turning down foods based on pre-judgments and exhibiting the manners of the Tazmanian Devil, and the other flinging plates, cups, silverware, condiments, lazy Susans--whatever he can grab--onto the floor.<br /><br />-Perhaps most importantly, both present constant foes to my every need, whether it be by asking for rides or waking up from naps at the most inopportune moments, or ripping through a moment of peace by peppering me with a sudden barrage of rapid-fire questions or throwing a Tonka Toy over the back of the couch onto my face.<br /><br />I could go on, but the point is that this laundry list of converging realities must be mined for maximum insight and entertainment. That is what I plan to make my mission from this point forward. But right now there's a rare moment of quiet in the house. It will end, abruptly, at any moment. I must use it to recharge my batteries for the next round of battle.<br /><br />(UPDATE 10 min later)<br />Random unrelated thought: Doesn't my 13-year-old realize the irony of using Axe's "Dark Temptation" soap once every 3-4 days? Trust me, by day 3, the audience of those "tempted" consists of a stray dog, a family of racoons, and 73 cockroaches.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-47576575924856867862011-05-26T11:01:00.000-07:002011-05-26T11:52:26.160-07:00Time to Pay the PiperAs we are now in Max's 18th month, certain behaviors are starting to crop up, making the parenting job a wee more challenging, and reminding me why I've been so panic-stricken about the prospect of having another. (A prospect, for the record, that appears to have evaporated as Sarah has finally had her come-to-Jesus realizations about how draining parenting is.)<br /><br />Mind you, these behaviors are completely normal, and quite often side-splittingly hilarious. But they are also the reason that parents with toddlers have little choice but to live like participants in a witness protection program, holed up inside, afraid to go out into the world lest they become the helpless victims of a public catastrophe.<br /><br />Consider the traditional battleground of restaurants. It should be noted here that Sarah and I like to eat out. A lot. We live in an area that affords so much choice, we can revel in exposing Max (and to a lesser degree, Jackson) in a procession of international foods: Mexican (traditional or taqueria style), Thai, Indo-Nepalese, northern Chinese, Italian, Ethiopian, Middle Eastern, Japanese, Vietnamese--you name it, it's probably within 5 minutes of us. And I didn't even mention burgers, which are a to-go staple for just about any house with a 13-year-old boy in it.<br /><br />So the other night, Sarah makes it clear she doesn't want to-go, she wants to venture out into the world and be waited on, so we head to Barney's, a nearby gourmet burger place. Prior to this meal, Max had become a bit louder in restaurants, but nothing unmanageable. He'd also been developing a habit of flirting with pretty much any woman he sees. On this night, it all kicked into overdrive. We were confronted with 45 minutes of him bending and contorting to see women all over the restaurant. To get their attention, he screams joyously, or grunts loudly, looking at us every so often for our reaction. Which I'm sure is a cross between amusement, horror, frustration and resignation. 'Cause those are pretty much the stages you go through. First, you find it funny as he flirts, lets out chirp-like screams and bats his little eyes. But soon the screams are louder and longer and coming more frequently, and no matter what you do or say, the child doesn't stop. Then the horror sets in as you realize that any hope you had of a civilized meal was clearly a delusion. The frustration arrives as you helplessly try to allay the situation, quickly discovering that if there's one thing you can't do with toddlers, it's allay them. At last, you settle back into your meal, oddly content to eat with one hand while using the other to fight off what seems like a demon with 43 arms sitting in the high chair next to you. Dishes fly, crayons get thrown, food gets spread all over the table, other diners look on in shock, and all the while you're stuffing fries and bites of burger into your mouth, hoping to polish off your plate before the demon decides to begin the real meltdown.<br /><br />Naturally, that meltdown came at Barney's as we were waiting for the check. This is relatively good news, because with us both having moved on to the indigestion portion of our meal experience, Sarah is now free to take Max's path of destruction onto the street. Meanwhile, I deal with the bill and provide the appropriately apologetic body language when staff arrive at our table to discover the devastation they'll have to clean up.<br /><br />Things are no less insane on the home front now, where the once smooth napping schedule has been thrown into disarray and no one is safe from the barrage of objects and little hands that come flying at us throughout the day. Yesterday, Max packed this all into a watershed afternoon marked by two failed nap attempts and, ultimately, a reluctant nap that came only after after Sarah went out to run a couple of errands and I left him in his crib babbling and yelping for well over an hour. (A guy's gotta get some things done!)<br /><br />Sometime after we'd lost the second battle to get him to nap, he achieved a new record--seven consecutive timeouts for hitting Mommy, after each of which he'd run straight back to Sarah, who was lying on the couch, to whack her boobs with the full force of both of his little palms. Needless to say, we had a very hard time keeping straight faces by the time we got to the fourth or fifth timeout. But we did our best to keep a united, stone-faced front, hoping (dreaming?) that our program would eventually spur behavior change.<br /><br />The little twist in all of this is that Max definitely saves his worst, most defiant behavior for when Sarah's home. When she goes to work, as she did today, he's a little angel for me. He went to bed for a nap an hour ago, very easily, and I haven't heard a peep from him. He'll probably sleep 2-3 hours, and wake up with a big smile. I'm sure this quirk has everything to do with the intense mother-child connection. While I'm often envious of that connection, it's times like these when I'm grateful not to have it.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-2733906829075412682011-05-17T09:12:00.000-07:002011-05-17T10:05:24.949-07:00Short-Attention-Span ParentingI've always been a big fan of the three-dot column, and it has occurred to me that I might be able to ride that approach to more frequent posts here...so here goes...<br /><br />Max woke up at 5:30 this morning, screaming his lungs out, which is highly unusual (the 5:30 part, not the screaming). After 5-10 minutes with no end in sight, Sarah brought him to bed with us, which calmed him down, but he proceeded to lay there, wide awake, grabbing at my beard, cooing, and generally showing no signs of sleepiness. Unfortunately for him, we do NOT wake up that early, and we were not about to start today, so I decided to put him back in his crib, which was not a popular decision with him at all. I told Sarah to be strong, which she was, and after another 5-10 minutes of screaming, blissful silence arrived. The payoff? He slept until after 9...when he's not sleeping, he's engaging in his new favorite routine, which is to find something in the house he's not supposed to have, grab it, and run away from us, and then, when we finally corral him and take it away, drop to the floor and bang his head once in protest. It's absolutely hilarious...also hilarious is his new penchant for walking around the house with his hands linked behind his back. When he's wearing his little cap and jacket, he looks like a tiny old man waiting to head to Denny's for the early-bird dinner special...<br /><br />Yesterday, while Sarah and Max were visiting the Little Farm in Berkeley's Tilden Park, a bigger toddler put his hand on Max, extended his arm, and instructed, "Move!" To which Max apparently responded in a state of semi-shock, mouth agape. Get ready for more of this, buddy--toddlers are a brutal bunch, and I'm sure you'll do your share of unintended bullying before all's said and done...for now, however, he's content to bully us. Every day brings timeouts for smacking Daddy in the face or pulling Mommy's hair. What a little meanie!...To the rest of the world, he's still an angel, though. Everywhere we go, people comment on his beauty, fueling my joking insistence that we have a DNA test to prove he's mine...then he goes and bangs his head against something, and I feel a lot better.<br /><br />One of my favorite little behaviors he's taken on is each night, when Sarah or I tell him it's time for his milk, he eagerly runs into his room and attempts to lay down in his milk-drinking position on his boppy (a horseshoe-shaped nursing pillow, for the uninitiated)...this is contrasted by the hitting and hair-pulling. Or the growing tendency to dribble whatever liquid is in his sippy cup all over the house. Or his fascination with banging hard toys against our carefully painted doors. Or his seemingly unstoppable habit of throwing whatever food he either is done with or doesn't like onto the floor...of course, a few minutes later, he's stealing all of our hearts again by bouncing from Sarah to me to Jackson, lips puckered, collecting as many kisses as he can, and making the "mmmmmmwah!" sound every time...in case it's not obvious, toddlers are a schizophrenic experience...no wonder our martini hours seem to have progressed from a couple of nights a week to a nightly ritual...in fact, how many hours til the next one?TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-68015370154723498792011-03-26T11:08:00.000-07:002011-03-26T11:53:20.621-07:00Screw Disneyland: I'm Taking My Toddler to Ikea!The management would like to apologize for the unnecessarily maudlin nature of the previous post. Those responsible have been sacked. We now return you to your regularly scheduled slice-of-life programming...<br /><br />Lately, I've been taking Max to the nearby YMCA for a morning "baby gym" session. For the uninitiated, the Y's baby gym essentially consists of a basketball gym lined with padded floor covers and filled with all sorts of baby-friendly objects--padded things to climb on, small musical instruments to shake, and more plastic vehicles and rockers than I've seen in one place, Toys R Us included.<br /><br />This week things changed, though. Max, who started taking his first tentative steps about a month ago, is now close to full-time walking, and that gave this week's baby gym visit a whole new air of discovery, as Max walked quickly from one thing or person to another, pointing at each and exclaiming, "Gah!" He also got into several tiny conflicts over toys, although by conflict I merely mean that he and another kid both had their hands on something for a brief moment before the stronger (or more determined?) of the two ripped it away. It seems there's a direct relationship between the ability to walk and the propensity to get into conflicts over possessions. Who knew?<br /><br />Toward the end of the class, I overheard another dad telling his son, who was about 18 months old, that they had to pick up a friend and head to the nearby Lawrence Berkeley Hall of Science. Being the sheepish, demure soul that I am, I immediately blurted out, "Hey, dude, is that a good place to take kids this age?" as I pointed at Max, hopeful that I had an exciting rainy day option. The other dad gave me one of those uncertain "eh" expressions, and said it was borderline. But then, as if he were reading my mind, he offered up a thoroughly unexpected suggestion. "If you really want him to have fun on rainy days, take him to Ikea."<br /><br />Normally, I'd grab a nearby sock filled with horse manure and smack the guy in the head with it. Take my son to one of modern society's great symbols of cost-conscious materialism? But with the relentlessly persistent rain we've had the last few weeks, coupled with the fact that we are the walking definition of house rich and cash poor these days, I was pretty receptive to new ideas.<br /><br />The next day, I awoke to--surprise!--more rain, and declared that I would take Max to Ikea and test that dad's advice. Sarah would be working a 12-hour shift, and sitting around the house throughout a bleak day sounded like a recipe for a daddy vs. toddler war. Rather than peel food off the kitchen wall, try to stop Max from bashing his toys against doors and windows, and rescue numerous objects from almost certain breakage, I'd unleash my little terrorist on the unsuspecting displays of the Emeryville Ikea.<br /><br />Well, I'm here to report, that dad's suggestion was a smash hit. It started when we arrived and went directly to the Ikea cafe. (And let's face it, the only reason men eagerly agree to go to Ikea with their wives is the knowledge that there's a delicious plate of Swedish meatballs and mashed potatoes in the offing.) I ordered myself the aforementioned meatball plate, and got Max a kids' mac-n-cheese plate, which comes with steamed veggies. I also got myself a green salad, a soda, and a large dark chocolate bar, and the total cost was just over $9. But I digress.<br /><br />I balanced my tray on the sun cover of the stroller, pushed Max to a window-facing table, and settled in for our meal. Not only did Max devour every last morsel on his plate, there was a major bonus: The cafe at the Ikea in Emeryville overlooks the MacArthur Maze, one of the country's biggest freeway intersections, which rests at the eastern end of the Bay Bridge. Max was mesmerized as he ate, and watched countless trucks go roaring by and under and over the various freeway ramps. When he wasn't watching trucks, he was gawking at our fellow diners (yelling "gah!" throughout), and marveling at the exposed ceiling rafters and other architectural design elements. In case it's not clear, I have a very observant little monster on my hands.<br /><br />After lunch, we moseyed through the store, lingering longer in the children's section, of course. All the while, Max was beyond entertained. He was visibly ecstatic to put his new powers of exploration--i.e. walking--to use, Frankensteining his way from one bin to another, stopping to point and declare "gah!" at every new product we came across. Naturally, I couldn't resist buying him an adorable stuffed hippo that was priced at a ridiculously low $15 considering how well it's made.<br /><br />During our adventure, we came across numerous toddlers with their moms in tow (no dads, though). And if there was any doubt we were all there for the same reason, it was erased by one of the moms I walked by as we exchanged knowing glances at each other: "Best rainy day park ever," she said.<br /><br />I certainly can't argue with that. And the meatballs don't hurt either.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-8405383422920615932011-03-24T22:11:00.000-07:002011-03-24T23:11:30.995-07:00This is One Parent Who's Not Feeling FunnyI like to try to be at least somewhat funny in my posts here, but these days, I just don't feel funny. It's hard to look around at the world today and maintain one's sense of humor. The headlines read more and more like end-of-the-world stuff--wars breaking out all over the Middle East, crazy natural disasters occurring with increased frequency, a state of persistent financial crises, the very public meltdown of Charlie Sheen--okay, so there are still some things to laugh about. <br /><br />But my point is, here I am, watching this little toddler turning into a person, and I can't help but wonder what we've brought him into. It's hard to imagine what the world will be like when Max is my age. It's even harder to imagine things will turn out well. This was the theme of an ongoing discussion I had with a buddy during a two-day ski trip earlier this week. After listening to my gloomy predictions, he declared me the most pessimistic person he knows, but I beg to disagree. I'm not pessimistic, I'm realistic. I have plenty of reasons not to have faith that humankind can dig out from under the mess we've created. <br /><br />While driving home from our trip, my friend said he believes that by the time Max is an old man, we'll have inhabited other solar systems. Naturally, I told him he was nuts, that we'll never come up with the money, and that it was more likely that some feudal, post-apocalyptic society awaits us. Then again, maybe I've just seen too many doomsday-themed movies.<br /><br />But the real question is, does any of this even matter? Should I fret about what the world will be like in 80 years, or just accept the relentless march toward whatever awaits us, and hope that I can help Jackson and Max to be decent people who do what they can to help our species continue to evolve?<br /><br />In our day-to-day lives, I try to keep myself focused on the immediate tasks before me--meeting deadlines to make ends meet, enjoying and investing in my relationship with Sarah, trying my best to love Jackson and Max as much as possible, enjoying the time I get to spend with family and close friends. I try not to dwell on the fact that I may one day be deemed professionally obsolete; that Sarah and I inevitably will have to say goodbye to each other; that huge parts of Jackson's and Max's lives will unfold after I'm gone; or that, if I'm lucky, I will one day watch helplessly as family members and friends meet their makers.<br /><br />Likewise, in my role as a parent, I realize that I have no choice but to block out all of the menacing developments rising around us, and to focus on getting Jackson and Max through each day relatively unscathed. I have to accept that I have no control over whether one of the many enemies of the United States might blow up an airport or a bridge or a sports stadium. I can't prevent the huge earthquake that will inevitably rock the Bay Area and may or may not leave our neighborhood intact. And I certainly can't do anything to redistribute the disgusting amounts of wealth that our richest corporations are sitting on.<br /><br />All I can control is my little family, and even on that small scale, my hold is tenuous. But I'm going to keep holding on for dear life, because nothing else is more important. I'm not about to let a little global chaos derail my efforts at successfully launching these two boys into adulthood--not to mention keeping Sarah, my partner in life, feeling safe and loved along the way. Here's hoping I get to finish the job.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77972238444912464.post-31536790485869715372011-01-18T07:45:00.000-08:002011-01-18T09:18:44.790-08:00Anxiety-Free Parenting? Not PossibleFirst things first: I was horrified to realize just now that my last post came just a few days after Max's first birthday, yet I didn't mark the occasion. That's dads for ya--birthdays are forgotten quickly. Conversely, Mom is probably already planning for next year. Of course, having a birthday on December 22 is a tricky affair, and we celebrated with a very small party a few weeks before Max turned 1, and then watched as relatives showered him with more gifts over the holidays to create what I just might get Max to call "SuperChristmas."<br /><br />But I digress. The point of my post today is anxiety--mine. For the first time in years, it's reaching a crescendo, and in their own ways, my two offspring have a lot to do with it. Not that it's their fault, but they're fueling it in different ways.<br /><br />Let's start with Jackson. To put it bluntly, he's breaking my heart, perhaps unwittingly. It's hard to know if a 13-year-old is saying and doing things to hurt their parent(s), or if they simply don't know any better. Yesterday, Jackson returned home after being gone 30-plus hours hanging and having a sleepover with with his skate-punk crew, and naturally, I was forced to do some nagging when he got here. There were chores to do, responsibilities to tackle, things that needed to be discussed--you know, a teen's favorite assortment of topics.<br /><br />Needless to say, the evening didn't go well. It started with Jackson demonstrating his typically picky and frustrating eating habits, declining to indulge in leftovers, declaring that he wasn't that hungry, and instead focusing on downing half of a batch of Pillsbury crescent rolls--not exactly the path to health and mindfulness. Later, just before his bedtime, he announced that NOW he was hungry, to which we said, okay, eat something of nutritional value. In other words, not the chips he was pestering me to let him eat.<br /><br />After eating a pile of salami and an apple, which he declared "not filling at all", he started asking for chips again. I said no, and now I was pot committed. There was no way he was getting chips, even if he was buying in at a table in Vegas. I suggested a number of other, healthier choices he could have, none of which met his needs at the moment. After much drama from him about developing a headache and feeling nauseous, I stood my ground, and tried to give him a hug good night, which was greeted by zombie arms. He absolutely refused to hug me back, and while this has happened before, this time it was different. This time, it was clear we'd gotten to the point where he really can't stand me. And as much as I know you're not supposed to be your teen's friend, it's still a very hard adjustment trying to accept that your teen really doesn't like you, and probably won't for several years. Oh, goody. There goes the rest of my 40s.<br /><br />Now, that brings us to Max. Wonderful, joyous, amazing little Max. (Before you say anything, I used to describe Jackson in such glowing terms--the hedonistic little suckers, as the author of a parenting book I've been reading likes to call them, really wear you down over the years.) Max's role in my anxiety is much more indirect. When I see Max, I can't help but see years of servitude. I think of our gigantic mortgage, and whether we can afford it in the long term. I think of a second child who has to be clothed and fed and taken on vacations, who will one day become a disaffected teen himself and probably need braces and, hopefully, go to college. I think of the fact that one year in, we have yet to save a dime for him. And I think of Sarah's burning desire to have one more--a playmate for Max, and (perhaps, if we're very lucky) the girl we both would love to raise.<br /><br />Draped across these overarching parenting concerns are a litany of related personal anxieties--worries about having enough business to continue paying the mortgage, and about whether I even want to stay on my current career path. Worries about Sarah's desire to go back to school to get a master's degree so she can be a nurse practitioner and get out of the operating room, a path made more likely given some nagging minor back issues that are lingering in the wake of a minor car accident last year.<br /><br />Ah, Sarah. She's not off the hook, either, but rather is a source of unintended anxiety beyond her career conundrum. Every day I'm reminded that I made the decision to again hitch my trailer to another person--albeit a MUCH easier person to co-exist with--and that this means a lot of compromise about everything. Compromise about how money gets used, how we spend our days, what color a room will be, what's for dinner--the usual. It's stuff any sane person should expect to be part of a long-term relationship, and make no mistake, we compromise very well. But it's still stuff that can cause anxiety at times, and let's not forget she and I are only three years into this crazy journey.<br /><br />And then there are the anxieties that have only to do with myself--the overwhelming sense of failure to make the kind of artistic impact (either through music or writing) I always envisioned. The projects I've conceived but never actually worked on. The saxophone gathering dust in my basement. The glorious travels I always desired but have never been able to make happen on the scale I pictured.<br /><br />In time, these anxieties will wash away--this knowledge is what separates me from people who lose themselves in their anxieties. I know that all of my worries are temporary. Either the situations will solve themselves, or I'll grow more comfortable with them, or I'll simply learn, again, how to contend with them.<br /><br />Of course, I have to get from here to there, and therein lies the rub. In the meantime, I think I'll go join Max in playing with his toys. There's no anxiety in that.TKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09923449893473933257noreply@blogger.com0