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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Telling Teens and Toddlers Apart: A Primer
Quiz 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.
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.
(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.)
More than anything, it has become impossible to ignore the numerous similarities between teens and toddlers. To wit:
-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.
-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.
-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.
-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.
-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.
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.
(UPDATE 10 min later)
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.
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.
(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.)
More than anything, it has become impossible to ignore the numerous similarities between teens and toddlers. To wit:
-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.
-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.
-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.
-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.
-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.
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.
(UPDATE 10 min later)
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.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Time to Pay the Piper
As 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.)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!)
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Short-Attention-Span Parenting
I'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...
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...
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.
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?
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...
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.
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?
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Screw 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...
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.
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?
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I certainly can't argue with that. And the meatballs don't hurt either.
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.
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?
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I certainly can't argue with that. And the meatballs don't hurt either.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
This is One Parent Who's Not Feeling Funny
I 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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Anxiety-Free Parenting? Not Possible
First 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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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