Holy Crap, Am I Sick of Poo

If I never see another pile of someone else’s poo—never mind. Not gonna happen.  At least not for a few years. But it can’t get any more poo-themed than recent months have been for me.

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.

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.

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.

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:

The Scream-n-Smear

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.

The Impromptu Outhouse

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.

The Checkout Challenge

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.

Mayhem at the Memorial

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.

The Squirter

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.

The Bedroom Bombing

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.

The Buzzer Beater

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.

Needless to say, we’re open to suggestion.

Seven Years Later, My Boy Stands Strong

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Dear Jackson:

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?

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.

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.

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.)

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!).

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.

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.

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.

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.

I love you, Jackson. Your mom would be proud of you. I know I am.

Love, Dad

It's Official: I'm Now the Frontrunner for "Dad of the Year"

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Yessirree, I’m one progressive man. Now what the hell did I do with that screwdriver?

Solving the Nation's Problems, One Dad at a Time

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!)

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.

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:

“Oh, the troubles we could solve in this country if we put one of you in every home.”

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

Yep, it’s a good day to be me. Gotta enjoy those when they come.

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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!

Calling for Patience in Reacting to Newtown

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.

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.

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.)

In fact, David Hemenway, a Harvard professor of health policy and director of the Harvard Injury Control Research Center, told The New York Times 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.”

Yikes.

No wonder my brother, Greg, posted this search for sanity on Facebook over he weekend: “...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.”

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.

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.

(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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

So THIS is What Parenting a Baby is Really Like

I 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.

Guess who turned out to be right? 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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!

UPDATE (Added after realizing that I posted this in a hurry initially and probably should have saved to finish later):

All kidding aside, the past six weeks have given me some great gifts:

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.

2) I've also learned how many gassy vegetables there are, as Sarah has become disturbingly dependent on zucchini.

3) I've developed an even greater level of appreciation for the first months I spent with my other, non-gassy, non-fussy children.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

Severing the Kontzer Bloodline--and My Youth

During 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."

Sister, you said a mouthful. Oh, yuck. Probably could have worded THAT better.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

Amazing how symbolic a little snip can be.

Dinner and a Baby

Quite 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Love That Almost Withered Away

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.

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.

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...

Sunday, August 31, 2008

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…

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.

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.

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 Owen (my stepchildren), and down the road, not our little baby Jackson.

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 Jackson 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.

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 Jackson heads full-bore into puberty. And quite honestly, if I was in her shoes, I very well might make a beeline for the hills.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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, Jackson 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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Even Parents Need to Get Their Freak On

So 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

By the way, if you're interested in getting to know this goth mom better, head over to the blog she writes for, Offbeat Mama. Her handle is Hunny Du. (And the blog in general is fabulous anyway.)

Please 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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

-My car insurance rates just went up 600 percent in reaction to the news.

-I'm a big brother. I know what big brothers do to little brothers. I also know what Max is capable of. Yikes.

-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.

-All those hours spent debating girl's names? Total waste!

-Worse, we have to spend those hours once again, this time debating boys' names.

-I'm going to be stepping on a lot more small, plastic, painful toys soon.

-I'm also going to be breaking up a lot of fights over those small, plastic, painful toys.

-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.)

-Oh, goodie, we get to be urinated on during diaper changes again!

 Now, on to the good:

-Throwing Max and the new arrival in the same bedroom just got a LOT less complicated.

-Barring unforeseen circumstances, I should never have to pay for any weddings.

-Our future budget for toys just got a lot smaller.

-There'll be another face besides mine for Max to claw and grab. Oh, wait, maybe that shouldn't be on the "good" list.

-I never have to worry about being ganged up on by the women in my house.

-The Kontzer Men's Club membership will reach 6, triggering our "free bowl of matzo ball soup" promotion.

-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.

-I won't ever be accused of beating my daughter's teenage boyfriends.

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.

When 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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

When Moms Attack II: The Horror Continues

When 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.

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.

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.)

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.)

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.

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.

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?"

Uh-oh.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.