Monday Morning Quarterback: Parenting Edition

I just passed my three year anniversary of becoming a stay at home dad. There was no ticker tape parade. There were no high-fives or any smacks on the ass. The mail got delivered today, the Little Man's preschool was open and there are no known Burl Ives' songs released about this day. I also forgot all about it. It was just any other day.

Until yesterday.

Over the last three years, I have learned a thing or two. We're talking about practical, useful information, the kind of insight that people would kill for if it was political or religious. Then again, maybe you like to read parenting books or have more than a platonic relationship with your Kindle Paperwhite. Then feel free to move along.

The thing with parenting handbooks (aside from baby and toddler 411, those two were gems for us), aside from there being too many to list, is that they are all useless. They all have the same mundane and you're-a-moron-if-you-don't-know-this general knowledge chapter list. If you have seen Knocked Up, you are prepared, or at least as prepared as the books can get you and whatever questions they answer. I'm not saying that they don't serve a purpose. For the Mrs, I think it was more mentally soothing to her to read about what would be happening or what to expect even though it all went out the window as soon as we arrived home with The Little Man for the first time.

Here are a few practical, useful things you should know that no one or at least not may people will tell you before you become a parent. These are things I wish I had known beforehand. Things they never mentioned in the all day birthing class - instead we watched the birthing video (awful thing to make people watch), we learned what the size of a baby's stomach is at one and two months (that turned out to be oh-so useful at 3 AM when The Taz couldn't be soothed; that's not even useful as a fun fact) and lastly how to put on a diaper (let's just get this out right now, if you can't diaper your child without professional instruction then maybe parenting isn't for you). No. This will cover none of those topics. And for that you're welcome.

1. Diapers leak.
They sure do. A lot. And we're not just talking about pee. Try as you may, but if your child has bowel issues, the elastic only holds so much. You'll try to size down in diapers. Then maybe size up. You'll switch brands. All to no avail. Infant poop is not like your poop. It's...well...it's different. The intestines are all getting worked in. Perhaps new foods introduced either physically or maybe through mom's milk. It's going to happen. Hopefully you'll be lucky and the explosion (they're not always as simple as a leak...think more of pipes bursting...yeah you got it now) will happen at home, but it can happen anywhere and you will undoubtedly will not be prepared. At least you are now forewarned.

2. Like your Doctor.
The interview process is fine and dandy and even recommendations from friends can be helpful, but in the end it's you in there with the Doctor and your kid(s). Your personality may not jive with theirs and if it doesn't, then switch doctors. You don't need to have the "it not me, it's you" conversation, just call the office and ask to switch doctors (and FYI, it's always them and it is never you). Assuming you are planning to stay where you are, it's important to like and feel comfortable with your child's pediatrician. Some of them are there because they love what they do, and some are there because they are doctors. It's easy to tell the difference, just trust your gut and move along.

3. Kids get sick. A lot.
This has been the hardest lesson to learn and more so to accept. But this is an unfailing truth. Your kids are like sponges for two things, curse words and viruses, and after three years of staying home with the boys I'd rather them cuss me out than have to administer another dose of Children's Tylenol. However, I suspect, that I'll get that wish in about 12-13 years if I play my cards right. And if you have two kids, it's generally even worse as they volley the virus back and forth until they knock it out or off to you. What's even worse is that there is often little you can do to help them. When you get to your third or fourth sick visit to the doctor's office in as many months, you start wishing for stupid things like infections. Infections have cures. Viruses take time. We have dealt with RSV (respiratory scyntial virus) for the past two years. Hearing your kids cough like 80-year olds with emphysema is not pleasant and the doctor's comment that "just think of it as each cough is one cough closer to health" doesn't make it better. The good news: year over year the infections get less and less dramatic. The bad news: they continue to happen year over year.

4. Rectal temps are the only temps.
I had a hard time with this one. I wanted to use every other device out there from temporal thermometers to underarm readings. They are useless. I don't know what it is, but popping a thermometer up your kids poop chute is going to give you valuable and accurate information, as much as it may pain you to do so. It is better to know this going into things than vice versa. It will save you money and time. And as much as you think your four month old may hold this against you later in life, you are wrong. Just lube it up, put it in and move on.

5. Having two kids is twice the work.
I am an only child. I don't know what it's like to have siblings. But I had one son before I had two. I naively thought that I had this whole infant thing down pat. Diaper, feed, rock, repeat. Even on basic levels, my boys could not be anymore different. The Little Man was relatively easy as an infant. Taz, not so much so. The Little Man was a vegetable hoarder. The Taz...what are vegetables? The Little Man has always been a cautious little guy. The Taz just wants to be let out of the cage. Aside from the fact that I have diapered and fed both boys, nothing about them is the same. What one likes, the other may not. Unless the thing liked is a toy, then they both want it because the other one has it; this is one of the few eternal truths of siblings. What works for one boy, may not work for the other. One may require no child proofing of your home, while the other may require a SWAT team level of security. Don't assume. Don't ever assume. When you assume, you end up like me.

6. You. Will. Never. Sleep. Again.
I used to judge good sleep by a solid, uninterrupted night of 8-10 hours. I now find myself thinking that 5-6 will get the job done and that 3-4 is good too. Even when I have the opportunity to (which I can count on two hands over the past almost four years), I still don't sleep soundly or late. I wake up naturally, albeit groggy around 6 every day and either get out for a run or scour the internet on my phone for an hour or so until the kids are allowed to get up. This is not the result of a few early wake ups as much as it is years of Pavlovian experiences when my kids wake up screaming at odd hours. I used to go into their room to check on them, but have learned that 99% of the time that they just have bad dreams sometimes and then quickly get themselves back to sleep or into a better dream. Give them 5-10 minutes to sort it out and then if they don't get back to sleep then check on them, if you don't hear anything then try and get yourself back to sleep. Try is the key word. Now my dog scratching himself at 3 AM, the Mrs tugging on the sheets or the AC/heat kicking on wakes me up and keeps me up for about 30-45 minutes at a time. The stupid thing is I still set an alarm.

7. Development charts are not the end all, be all.
A lot of pediatricians live and die by the developmental charts. They are these sometimes overly generalized and absurdly specific lists of what your child should be doing by what age. Some doctors use this chart as an accurate measure of developmental success and failure, while others realize that kids all have their own time tables. The Little Man did not start talking until about 16-18 months. Taz is 19 months and doesn't say much besides his grunts for "yes" and "no", "dada" is an all encompassing term, "cat","dat" for when he points at something and supposedly he said "dragon" the other day for the Mrs (I am sure that is going to be a useful word going forward). Both of the boys have had tremendous comprehension from an early age, it's just their speech that has been slower to come around. We've never been terribly concerned. We have The Little Man in speech therapy now and he is doing fine. Our sole goal is simply to do as best we can to see that he is starting on the same playing field as his classmates when he enters kindergarten. Maybe we will have to do the same with Taz. Who knows? But don't put too much weight in or lose sleep over the chart. If your child is healthy, happy and active, then you're doing a great job. Everything else will fall into place as it should.

Hope that some of this helps you out. I think this sort of information would have been useful to me earlier on. But then again, maybe I would have forgotten it all as soon as we got home from the hospital that first time.    

 

    

Please Just Eat Your F*cking Food

Yes, I am using a similar and often the same meter as Adam Mansbach's original ode to his kids of "Just Go The F*ck To Sleep".  I am well aware of this, that shit was genius.  There is no intent on my behalf to make any money from this gem, simply to entertain you all, so I think I should be okay to move forward with it.

And no, I doubt Samuel L. Jackson will be reading this anytime soon, but if Morgan Freeman is available and you know him, then let him know.

Without further ado, for your reading pleasure, here is:

Please Just Eat Your Fucking Food

I hear your tiny tummy rumbling now,
I asked what do you want, you said "you choose".
Then taco Tuesday it is tonight, my prince.
Now, please just eat your fucking food.

Look at your brother, he's a goddamn disposal.
You used to eat well, what happened to you?
No chocopuffs or yogurt pops, buddy.
Just eat your fucking food.

You're not watching TV, you're not having ice cream.
Ground beef plus tortillas equals tacos, dude.
Yes, you can have that banana as soon as you clean your plate.
But for now, eat your fucking food.

You have to take a piss?  Fine, go ahead.
Your tacos are cold, but what's that to you?
Don't forget to wash your hands,
and get back and eat your fucking food.

I appreciate your robot impression
and I love all your hugs, really I do.
I'm getting hemorrhoids just sitting here,
Hey C3PO, Johnny 5 says eat your fucking food.

Yes, I see the grasshopper on the window.
Yes, tomorrow you are going to school.
No, I'm not a teacher but here is a spelling lesson,
eat your f-u-c-k-i-n-g food.

It's 7:45 and I served you at 7
Your brother and I are bored so just chew!
No I don't want to try your taco, know why?
'Cause I ate all of my fucking food.

Angry?  What makes you think I am angry?
Oh...because Dadda is coming unglued?
Well, yes, I'm sort of miffed after an hour
and I see half a fucking plate of your food.

Your brother is screaming and you still need a bath.
Here, I'll show you what you have to do.
Just eat all of your vegetables, this taco meat
and then you'll o-fucking-fficially have eaten your food.

Bath time is over, time to get ready for bed now.
What?!?  Your hungry?  Va fungoul!
Tough titties, life sucks, so sad, too bad
Guess who should have eaten their fucking food.

You and your brother are in bed now, finally,
I can sit down and crack a brew.
Then I hear you yell:  "Dadda, I pooped in my diaper, come change me."
How is that possible without eating your fucking food?

Potty Rockers

For some insane reason, I really wanted to have a horrific potty training story.  I wanted to tell you that we had poop everywhere.  That everything from the dogs to the newel post had been pissed on.  That I went in as a naive stay at home dad, but came out an R. Kelly supporter.  I wanted to have some real useful information for you parents or soon-to-be parents out there who were looking for comfort or direction.  Alas, there is no goopy, smeared up, or inadvertent golden shower end to this story nor is there any real direction (well...maybe a little, but you're really going to have to look hard).

We started potty training the Big Guy in April.  I had this not so glamorous idea of hammering it out through what is called the 'commando plan'.  You let your kid run around buck naked for the weekend, don't leave the house and keep placing them on the toilet until they start to get the sensation of needing to go to the bathroom.  The point to keeping them undressed is so that they can see the action instead of it be even remotely held back by pull-ups or even underwear.

All of the write ups on this method certainly gave warning to the possibility of mass accidents, that it would be a miserable weekend for all involved, but that in the end, we would have conquered the almighty porcelain god...or in our case, the duck potty.

This never happened.

So we went with the easier approach.  The ol'just-pop'im-on-the-potty-every-fifteen-to-twenty-minutes-until-something-happens-and-go-from-there method.  I don't really think that is a per se method, but you get my drift.

The main reason for going about it this way was I was simply too much of a pansy to make a go of the 'commando plan'.  Call me crazy, but I didn't want full fledged piss streams with mini logs running through my house.  I hate getting even remotely close to poop.  After wiping one of the boys, if it happens to touch my skin somehow, I nearly lose it.  You'd think that after two kids that I would have more than gotten over this.  But I haven't.

Just yesterday, the Big Guy said he need to take a dump, then once he was on the toilet he said "my poop won't come out, Dadda".  But apparently he had a turltler (for you uninitiated, that's a poop that just breaks the barrier and is just itching for a reason to drop or smear somewhere).  Because when I came back to the bathroom I saw a small ball of something outside the door, thinking it was dirt I went to pick it up...it was shit.  Now while I really do try to curb my foul language around the boys, when fecal matter is involved, I invariably drop a few bombs.  Nothing too imaginative, just your usual 'son of bitch', 'fuck my life' and 'are you fucking kidding me' variety.  Then to compound the problem, the Big Guy then changed his mind and said he really did have to take a poop.  After wiping him, we needed to get his underwear back on (which he had happily shed upon his false alarm), so as I held his Toy Story 3 underwear for him to step into, I noticed a grape sized smear of crap on his ankle.  As my stomach began to sink, while I realized that there must be the rest of that smear near by, I noticed that the other half was closer than somewhere, it was running down the knuckle of my finger.  And the cussing re-commenced.  But I digress.

Truth be told, the first day of potty training went better than expected.  We had two accidents and one success.  Since we diaper the Big Guy at nap time and bed time, we missed out on a few.  But overall I was happy.  From then on, it wasn't too bad.  The only real trouble is that while he was a wiz (no pun intended) with peeing in the toilet, he had yet to take a poop in it.

That would take a few more months.  Like I said, we took the scenic route.

Now that he is pretty well trained (though we still do nap time and bed time diapers for him), we run into other somewhat awkward issues.  Just things I never expected.  Such as teaching him to wipe.  As natural as it is, just try to (assuming you haven't had to yet) explain the concept and motion to a three year old.  It's hard enough to explain the sun rising or why Momma works, let alone a backwards crank of the shoulder, mixed with a twist of the wrist, very specific targeting and the inward/upward motion that is ass wiping.  With my aversion to getting excrement on me (or as would be in this case, being around other people with crap on them), it makes it difficult to want to explain to him how to wipe himself.  I know I will have to, but I can just imagine all the crappy hands I will be cleaning and just the thought alone of that makes me ill.

Right now we are dealing with 'itchy butt' and 'Dadda, come wipe me'.  Just today as we were having the house sprayed for insects (I now have the advantage of knowing the difference between a smoky brown cockroach, the standard wood roach - also known as the American cockroach and the apparently very fertile German cockroach...and knowledge is power), Benj yelled from the top of the basement stairs "Dadda, I have itchy butt".  To which I told him to go ahead and scratch it, otherwise I would check him out after I was done speaking with the exterminator.  He yelled back "but I have itchy butt now, Dadda".  What's a guy to do?

A few weeks ago, as I was canceling my Direct TV service (since our new house would unfortunately have no line of sight of the southern sky), Benj declared that he had to poop.  He likes to tell me that he has to go to the bathroom.  I am not sure why.  Probably because it is still pretty new to him that he is doing it mostly on his own.  Or perhaps, maybe he is some sort of excrement exhibitionist.  I don't know.  Either way, when he finished, he loudly demanded (of course during a moment that the Direct TV rep was quietly researching something):  "Dadda, I went poop.  Now you wipe my butt".  The Direct TV rep enjoyed this to no end.

All in all, I guess I am happy that my stories aren't more gruesome or that I don't have to wonder where the smell is coming from or why the carpet is wet.  It was a surprising turn of events for me, but like most other things with the Big Guy, I suspect he has something in store for me in some other regard.  Something that will make me want to crawl out of my skin.  Something that will drive me nuts.  Almost certainly something I haven't even thought of yet.  And then there is the Taz.  They remind me a bit of myself.  Crafty, conniving, mischievous prone and ill timed bladder having little shits.      

Cruising For A Bruising

Whoever said "payback is a bitch", never had to discipline a child.  Sure there are bad things such as when your kids are sick, when they're sad or when they get hurt.  But disciplining eats those other things for breakfast.  When your kids are sick, you feel for them and want nothing more than to be able to take their sickness from them and give it to yourself so that they don't have to deal with it.  When they're sad, all you want to do is comfort them and somehow make them laugh.  When they get hurt, you are willing to put your lips to a bloody knee and make it feel better.  Ice cream is always a great equalizer and never use hand sanitizer to clean a wound.  Unfortunately you can't provide rewards, comfort or try to make your kids smile when they've done something bad and that in a nutshell is what makes it a miserable undertaking.

There are three main problems when it comes to discipline:  determining what actions to discipline, being consistent in your approach and finding a punishment that dissuades the bad behavior permanently.  

If you don't have kids, let me save you the suspense, they do a lot of bad shit.  The good news is that it takes about two and half years for that stuff to start.  I know what you're thinking, the terrible twos.  Well...yes and no.  The Big Guy hasn't been that bad during his life's sophomore year, certainly nothing I would label as "terrible".  Around December of last year he started showing signs of turning the forbidden corner.  It wasn't crazy, outlandish attacks that would make Henry Evans blush, it really just started out as an incessant whine (which I wrote about here) mixed with stubborn "no's".  However it grew into something a bit more than that relatively quickly.  Within just a few months, the Big Guy started laying on top of the Little Man.  We're not just talking his head...this was his whole body.  And just to put it in more visual perspective, the Big Guy weighs 33 lbs, while the Little Man at the time was probably about 18 lbs (now a hefty 21 lbs.).  From there, we experienced our first push, nothing intentionally violent but clearly testing the waters.  And then finally, the coup de grace, the first punch.  This brings me to our first point, determining what actions to discipline.  

Your kids will do things that need correction.  You need to decide what those things are, as it is different for each parent.  What type of parent are you?  I think more often than not, the kids determine the parenting style.  It's all fine and good to sit down with your spouse and talk this stuff out before your kids get here (as our useless prenatal class instructed us to do...talk about a waste of time), but until it's real, until you are smack dab in the middle of it...you're talking out of your ass.  Once you have figured out what actions need to have repercussions then you can decide how consistent you are going to be.

This portion of the problem is simple.  If you are not consistent, your kids will rule your world, the world around you will hate you and the eyes people are giving you...yep, they are definitely judging you.  Setting an imaginary, movable boundary with your children is like staging a Biggest Loser competition in a Krispy Kreme factory.  Your kids thrive on boundaries, real ones where they know what happens if they cross the line.  Move the line once and you have created confusion.  The Mrs and I get into these debates (to put it nicely) all of the time.  She doesn't like playing the bad guy or inconveniencing herself or the kids to keep discipline consistent.  Guess what?  Neither do I.  But I know that if we are at the grocery store and the Big Guy blows into a full tantrum or hits me, that taking him home that instant is the best thing I can do for all involved.  Yes, the shopping cart if left full and yes, I have to come back and do the grocery shopping all over again.  Which brings us to the final countdown, the punishment.

We have gone through a myriad of punishments with the Big Guy and what I have learned with him is that extended time outs and simply time are the answer to curbing bad behavior.  We tried taking away toys, videos, treats, special day trips we had planned (Sea World, museums, zoo etc) and nothing worked.  As soon as time outs were involved, I started to see an understanding from him.  After I have put him in time out and given him time to think (it has been as short as 2 minutes and as long as an hour) he is then asked to explain what he did wrong and then right that wrong (which usually means he has to apologize...usually to his little brother).  If he chooses to not right the wrong then the time out continues.  I am also not a nice guy during this time.  Time out means just that, so no toys, no talking...just good ol'fashioned sitting and thinking.  Once he rights the wrong, however, we can hug it out.

Now, I am a fairly strict parent by my own view.  I see a lot of other parents let their kids get away with things that I typically frown upon.  These are the dreaded kids-will-be-kids type of parents...to each their own, I guess.  But if your kid pushes, throws something at or punches my kid for no reason, don't expect me to have that same tree hugger approach to him or to you...yes, I will parent your child if you make me.  Too many parents today want to be their kids friends first.  They want to do away with the word "no".  They want there children to be confident.  They want to level the playing field.  Newsflash:  you were a parent before you became friends, "no" is one of the best words your children can learn, confident kids are bratty kids and the playing field won't be level until your kids have kids.  Being the bad guy isn't so bad.  So settle in for the ride and in about 20 years the two of you can have a few laughs about all of this over a few beers.       

The Slippery Slope

March 13, 2010 was my first official day as a stay at home dad.  It was an exciting as well as a frightening change in my life.  I was used to going to an office everyday, talking with and sometimes getting chewed out by clients, chatting with co-workers and sitting in rush hour traffic to and from my workplace.  Suddenly, I was just getting up to feed the Big Guy (back then he was more of a little guy), hitting up the zoo, going to our Gymboree classes, trying out sign language for infants classes and going on hikes.  It was pretty great.  Sure I had some bad days, and the learning curve of taking care of the Big Guy full time and balancing responsibilities at home was steep for me, but overall I was having a great time.  After a few months I had a system.  Mondays we went to the grocery store.  Tuesdays I did laundry.  Wednesdays we had Gymboree.  Thursdays I cleaned the pool.  Fridays...well, those were mine, lunch at Station Tavern with a few beers while the Big Guy played in the tavern's playground.  I had it down.  I was the master of my domain.

Then came the Little Man.  Perhaps it was having the Mrs home for four months, maybe it was having two kids to look after thus doubling my parenting duties, maybe it was I was getting a touch of senioritis (a debilitating disease to high school and college seniors about 1-2 months prior to graduation which causes the infected to play video games, hang out with friends and avoid school work at all costs) and maybe it was a combination of all three.  Whatever it is, I haven't really gotten on a schedule.  My days are somewhat a bit of the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants variety.  The Big Guy wants to go to the park, sure.  Some fellow SAHDs want to get together, I'm in.  There's a premiership soccer match on, let's watch that.  

There are some other factors too:  I am taking some photography classes and trying to start a family/couples photography business (you've seen my pictures here, if you like them then HIRE ME!), writing a blog and the Mrs has been working 12-18 hour days seven days a week for the past 2 1/2 months.  In addition to a few other factors which have come up recently, though I can't go into them just yet (I'll share those details in a few months - but no, it's not another kid.  Let me rephrase that, hell no, it's not another kid), I have been slacking in my duties at home.  

To give you a picture of my now:  I have a basket of laundry that hasn't been folded in five days,  I have a load of clothes in the dryer that has been done for 24 hours and hasn't been touched, I haven't picked up the dog poop in the backyard for four days, I haven't changed the bed sheets on our bed in three weeks, for three months our dining room has been filled with bags and boxes bound for Goodwill and I haven't showered in two days.  Luckily, we have a house cleaner who comes every other week - so we don't live in complete filth.  If you aren't slack jawed yet, then we should be hanging out.

The amazing part is that I don't actually feel like I am slacking, I feel that most days are fairly busy.  "Busy" is a term I use loosely, by the way.  I don't want to give the impression that I am crunching numbers, scanning documents and facilitating multi-billion dollar company mergers, I did mention I was a stay at home dad, right?  But I am changing diapers, giving baths, feeding two boys, getting in a workout, heading out on playdates, working on potty training (not me, the Big Guy...though some people may argue that I could use a refresher) and acting as a jungle gym/doctor's patient/horse/block builder for my boys.  It may not sound like a lot, but wrap all of that up in 12 hours and it's a full, full day.

I was at a friend's daughters first birthday a couple weekends ago.  While the Big Guy slowly warmed up to the crowd (these days he hides behind me and tucks his chin into his chest/turns his head away whenever anyone he is not entirely familiar with looks at him, however, this does not include strangers at the store, who he happily waves to and says "hello"...if you figure that out, let me know), I sat down outside and starting chatting with some guy who I never figured out the relation to the hosts as well as another SAHD.  The other SAHD was right in my shoes.  Grass on his lawn was looking more like a wavy field of golden wheat, laundry was backing up, dishes were done less frequently, and the house was a bit of a mess.  He had also just become a father x 2 in the past 3 months.  I felt relieved to know I wasn't alone.  We reminisced about our beautiful schedules from a year ago, we laughed about how easy just one child was and that we never quite appreciated it, and we agreed that two was enough.    

The other guy sitting there remarked how we would get the hang of it again soon.  He sounded so certain of it, it was not like he was trying to make small talk.  This guy was an Iowan dairy farmer, I don't think they do small talk there.  This guy works hours I don't ever want to be familiar with, is responsible for the livelihood of more living beings than I have friends on Facebook and yet he wishes he had more kids.  He told us we would regret not having more kids.  Are you nuts?!  Did I mention I was 180 minutes late, also known as three hours, to the birthday party?  I can't get to anything on time these days.  If I am 15 minutes late, that's early for me.  If we had another kid, I would never see anyone.  I would end up speaking like Curious George.  I would invest in stretchy pants and a matching Snuggie.  Babysitters would put us on the too many to sit list.  Things would not be good.  

I'm sure the dairy farmer is right.  I'm sure I will get the hang of this two kids things soon.  I may even show up (dare I say) on time to a few get togethers.  The laundry will get folded.  The dishes will get cleaned.  The bed sheets will get changed.  All will be right with the world again.  But I may just go another day without a shower.

       

Do You See What I See?

Fortunately or unfortunately for my kids, I'm with them all day everyday and the camera is often with me. So the other day I decided to record the day.  For my kids sake, I left the lighting equipment at home (yup, I often use that on them when we're at home, they are not exactly the best models...but they are free).  I also wanted to make a time-lapse movie of something completely ordinary, so the Big Guy and I weeded the pool area (I've been a little neglectful of some of my duties lately...to be covered in my next post) and got this.

For whatever reason, this file is a lot jumpier and shorter than the original..ehhh, my first foray into time-lapse.

We hung out in the backyard while the Little Man napped.  We even watered the garden I can never grow (bit of a black thumb), and cleaned up the dog poop that I hadn't picked up in a week.  From there it was off to lunch with Papa who was in town.  Then some good ol'fashioned play time, bath time and then bed.  Here's what it all looked like, enjoy the story.

I know, I know...I have it rough.

Boys Gone Wild

I love the outdoors.  Sunshine or snow (not that we get snow near downtown San Diego) it's always great to be out and about.  I love running in the rain, and though a torrential downpour can be disheartening at first, once you are soaked to the bone it's actually not that bad.  All of the sights and sounds (as long as you can get far enough away from the sounds of traffic passing) can really take you away.  That being said we rarely get out into the great outdoors, at least not in the grander sense.  Sure, we make it to playgrounds, we take walks around the neighborhood, we go to the beach and sure those are all outdoors but I wouldn't label any of them "great".

Luckily in San Diego we have a few national and state park areas that are close enough to reach in under 45 minutes but still placed just far enough or are just deep enough to escape the urban reality.

Yesterday, the boys and I as well as a fellow SAHD and his two boys headed out to Torrey Pines State Park.  Hands down it is one of the best spots to go in San Diego county.  If you love the beach, it's there.  If you love trails, they're there.  If you want history, you can find it there.  And if you want to experience a section of the great La Jolla Half Marathon known only as "the hill" (a one mile long ultra-steep grade switch back paved road leading from the beach to the trail heads), you'll find it here.

The trails are always in great condition and even with the overcast and marine layer you still have the beautiful and aptly named Torrey Pines.  The trails offer a little bit of everything from steep stairs, to smooth dirt trails, to rocky tops (not like West Virginia) and steep switch back descents.  Just get yourself a map and pick a route.

We chose an almost 2-mile loop and the older boys (almost 3 and 4), were able to handle the whole loop with little to no fussing.  We took our time as both Dads were strapped with an extra 15-20 lbs of sub-1 year olds, and the older boys wanted to stick sword fight, dig in the dirt and generally horse around.  We had a great time, and though I can't speak for the Big Guy's friend, I can say that the Big Guy crashed for 2.5 hours as soon as we came home.  Even the Little Man was washed out by the time we got home...or as you'll see below...he was done when we reached the car.

The only downside is that I was shooting with my D80 and left the ISO at 500...the D80 doesn't shoot much without grain over 400 so the pics weren't blow up keepers, but they'll do for the ol'blog.

This Won't Be Pretty

I can be a little tough on my kids, more so on the Big Guy, as he is almost three.  I have these moments where I get it stuck in my head that I can help him reach that next developmental milestone...or simply catch up.  The Big Guy has been developmentally slower than average, but he is by no means stupid.  He grasps most things just fine, however, there are a few things that he really struggles with which really drive me nuts.  

The problem (besides me, of course) is that as a parent we are given all of these abstract ages by which our kids should be doing certain things.  Books and doctors tell you that your kids should be able to walk, talk, hop, skip and jump between X months and Y years.  Then if your child goes over that amount they just say that you should wait a little while as it may start happening any day.  And if you go past that, then they send you to developmental specialists...and having been to one before for the Bug Guy, I have little faith in their expertise.  

There are no step-by-step instructions on how to help guide your kids to success, if there was I would be fine and blogging would seem a waste to me.  So some parents subscribe to the ultra casual approach of "they'll get there when they get there".  Good for them, but I think that mentality is a bunch of horseshit.   To me it seems lazy, then again maybe it is pure genius (I'm leaning more towards the prior). 

That brings us to tonight.  I had gotten the Big Guy's bath ready and it was time to get undressed.  I asked him to take off his shirt and he starts pulling it in all sorts of directions and making these obnoxious grunting sounds.  All of his moves are over exaggerated, he keeps dropping his hands to his side, looking up at me and breathing heavy as if to say "well...I gave it the ol'college try, Dadda.  Now you do it for me."  So I sit down and I start telling him how to do it.

"Grab your shirt sleeve and pull it out.  Then pull your arm back in" I say.  He goes back to the abstract tugging and grunting.  "No, that's not what I said.  C'mon, we've been over this a hundred times.  You know how to take your shirt off, just grab your shirt like this," I say as I grab the bottom of my t-shirt sleeve and pull it out towards my outstretched hand to show him, "and pull your arm back like this".  He proceeds to grab the top of his sleeve and pulls it across his chest, while trying to pull his sleeved arm back the other way.  It's obvious that this is not working, but he keeps going (and so do I).  

Next I tell him to quit that method and to try another way.  

"Grab the back of your shirt like this," I say as I grab the neck of my shirt from behind my head, "and pull it over your head like this".  He grabs his shirt and pulls it on top of his head, and while I am about a 6 out of 10 on the frustration scale I still find it hard to not laugh as he looks like Beavis playing Cornholio.  He keeps pulling the shirt up as the neck of the shirt gets stuck under his chin, so I tell him to just pull the front of his shirt over his face.  He just keeps doing the same thing, looking at me like I am speaking another language.  

This has now been going on for 15 minutes.  Frustration scale is now 7 out of 10.  A smart man would give up here and just do it, a smarter man would never have started this in the first place and I am neither of those two men.

I tell him to go back to the other method, because this is clearly not working and as I have seen him do it the other way successfully, I figure we should just stick to it.   The tugging in odd directions and exaggerated grunts starts again.  I sit watching him for 5 minutes.

Frustration has reached 10.

This is where I unattractively lose my cool.  The "oh gods" come out, my face drops into my hands, the stare down begins and I punch the floor (my hand still hurts as I am writing this).  I told you this wouldn't be pretty.  

So I walk out of his room, close his door and try to cool off.  At this point, I keep thinking two things:  why does this matter to me and why can't he do what he has been able to do before?  

I know the answer to the first question; if I knew the answer to the second then I wouldn't be writing this.

Newsflash, kids are mean.  If you aren't at least normal, you are cast into the loser group.  To make matters worse, we now have social media so other kids who aren’t as cool as they think broadcast our kid’s not-so-cool attributes all over the Internet.  

When I was a kid, if you weren't one of the cool kids or at least somewhere in the middle, then the worst part of your day was at school.  Now that crap can follow you home.  I get that he is almost only three and it is probably a couple years before kids get really mean, but I don't want to wait until some kids are making fun of him.  So yes, I put a lot of pressure on myself to teach him these things and consequentially a load of pressure is dropped on him.  At times like these I feel like I'd make a better Bela Karolyi than I do a Dad.  It's unfair to both of us and frankly ruins evenings or even whole days depending on when the charade starts, but somehow I feel like this is all for the greater good...though I am not entirely sure how.  

I come back in the room, not cool as a cucumber...more like a squash which in case you didn't know is not so cool.  He climbs out of his bed and I tell him to try again, but this time try the other arm first.  He pulls his arm right out of the sleeve like he's been doing it for years, like I have seen him do before.  I am ecstatic!  I tell him to do the other arm.  He does it in a flash.  He takes his shirt off and tosses it in the hamper with a huge smile on his face.  

"That's my boy," I say "let's try it again".  So I take out his shirt and put it back on him (this is where I imagine hearing a resound "what an asshole" from my readers).  This time he struggles like he has never taken his shirt off by himself ever before in his life.  He is putting his arm up through the bottom of the shirt, pulling on the neck, making the grunting noises and raising my frustration level again.  So I tell him to drop his hands and just relax, then when he is relaxed I tell him to try again.  He pops his right arm out and then his left. 

I am smiling and laughing.  He has a big shit-eating grin on his face.  I offer him up a high-5 and a fist bump.  He is swelling with pride and frankly so am I.

I give him a hug and tell him I love him.  He gives me a kiss and off to bed he goes.  

Now was that so hard?  Yes.  Yes, it was.  Who knows?  Maybe he'll wake up tomorrow and he won't need my help getting dressed or undressed anymore.  But if you believe that, then I have some beach front property in Idaho that I'd love to sell you.  

     

Play Ball!

I've been going to baseball games for as long as I can remember.  My dad took me to games fairly regularly when I was a kid.  We lived in southwestern Connecticut, so the Mets or the Yankees were the games we went to.  I can't say that I had any real allegiance to any team (and still don't), but the experience of going to the park was always a good one - even if my dad wanted to quiz me on all the goings-on of the game (of which I still know relatively little and I played the damn sport up through 7th grade).  At the games, my father preferred to listen to the game on his bulky, wireless, am/fm, school bus yellow headphones.  I always thought he looked like a dumbass with them on and had no desire to listen to what he was listening to when he would offer me the chance.  I guess I just don't appreciate what subtle nuances there are to the game, I just want to see home runs, damnit!

Since those days, I haven't gone to baseball games all too often.  I'm just not a big baseball fan.  I love sports, but baseball is relatively low on my list:  it's a slow sport, too much stop and go and the season is god awfully long.  There are twice the number of games as compared to basketball and ten times the number of games compared to football.  One would think that with more games there would be more excitement...not in my opinion.  You know a sport is aware of it's relative dullness when they play games mid-day in the middle of the week.  But baseball became a social interaction for me.  If friends were going, it was always "yeah sure, I'll come along".  Until I became a father.

Whether sexist or not, boys are to baseball what bacon is to...well...everything.  Sure girls get into it, but for the most part let's be honest...it's a guy thing.  So when the Big Guy was born, my interest in the sport was somewhat reinvigorated, at least as far as going to the games.  We went to about 10-12 games his first year and continued that during his second and third as well.  We even got the Little Guy out to his first game two weeks after he was born.

This year, however, I thought it would be fun to hit up Opening Day.  I don't think that I have ever been to an opening day here or anywhere else for that matter.  Tickets are usually impossible to get unless you are on top of it when sales open up.  I was on top of it this year, Opening Day as well as about 8 other games too.  So we are set for the season now.

Opening Day was just this past Thursday (April 4th).  The Padres played the Dodgers.  Game time: 4:05 PM.

I wasn't sure what to expect, but if you've never been (and I can only imagine how crazy it is in major markets like Boston, New York, Philadelphia and Chicago) expect traffic and lots of it.  The thing about the Padres is that in a month everyone will more or less forget about them and getting to the game and finding parking will be a breeze as always, this day however, it was terrible.

So after being re-routed around the stadium and back out to the freeways, only to come back in the same way.  I decided to hit up my go-to in a pinch parking garage.  It's $30 to park, but you have the convenience of being just two blocks from the stadium.  However, this time the gate to the garage wouldn't open.  It's one of those gates where you stick in your credit card to open it, and then when you leave you place the same credit card in the exit gate to be charged and then you're off.  Today, it would not be that easy.  To make a long story short (about a 20 minute long ordeal), we finally made it to the game relatively unscathed.

The Big Guy wanted a new hat and seeing as I love hats, I was all too happy to oblige.  So we got him his very first fitted cap!  Sure, it's a little big on him, but if you've been here before you may have noticed his humongous noggin.  It won't be long before he fills that S.O.B. out.

I made the boys hang out with me on the grass while I tried to take in a few innings of opening day baseball.  I had dealt with the traffic.  I coughed up the money for parking.  And I didn't choke out the people who found it necessary to cut the guy (ahem...me) off with the child strapped to his chest and one in the stroller while trying to go through the turnstiles.  "Hurry up fatties...they may run out of triple extra large, chinsy Padres shirt give aways in the next 30 seconds".  Bunch of schmucks.  But I digress.

I told the Big Guy that after four innings we would go to the playground (Petco Park has a great little playground and mini ball field for the kids, needless to say it is awesome).  And though that is what we did:  between trying to get the boys to stay on the blanket, feed the Little Man and keep the Big Guy from running into everyone and everything, I maybe watched a total of one inning (my usual when with the boys).

We made it to the playground, the Big Guy got his ice cream and aside from the additional hassle of getting out of the parking garage after we left the stadium, the day was a pretty good day.  It was a first for all of us and there aren't many of those that I get to hang on the wall:  an experience we all share for the first time, where no one has the clif notes.  I know that neither of the boys appreciated the fact that this was a big deal in the sporting world and for us as guys, but that's cool.  I enjoyed it.  I won't do it again next year or any year thereafter (okay...maybe when the boys are older and perhaps beg me to take them), but I enjoyed it.  I'm looking forward to when San Diegans forget about the Padres, we're about three weeks away from that inevitability!  Oh yeah, and the Padres lost...shocker.  Go Padres!

We Are Still Our Father's Sons

Before I get started, I want to be clear that there was nothing scientific (not even a little shred) about this post.  I didn't confer with any of my fellow SAHDs.  I didn't do any internet research.  I didn't check out books on the topic either (does anyone use the library anymore?  My local post office closed but yet the library is open and there is always a line out there at 8 AM on Saturdays).  This is simply my view of things, no more and no less (okay...maybe a little less).  Now that I have finished my little disclaimer I feel that I can hear you eagerly chattering "what's this all about?  Tell us!  Tell us!  Tell us!"  Since you asked so nicely, I will oblige you.  Today's topic is...drumroll please...seriously, drumroll...thank you...SAHD Groups and more specifically why they are the red headed step child to their counterpart, SAHM Groups (I think you're smart enough to figure that acronym out).

Two years ago, when the Mrs and I decided that having me stay at home with the Big Guy was the way to go, I knew that I had to find some sort of group.  Some fellow parents to share stories, tips and simply some adult time.  I began my internet search and not surprisingly I found tons of SAHM groups.  They were meeting for lunch, meeting for play groups, meeting for movie night and of course the juggernaut of them all, they were meeting for exercise (the infamous Stroller Striders, like the Navy Seals of the SAHM hierarchy).  However, I didn't want to join a SAHM group.  In case you haven't read my quick bio, I'm a guy and I like guy stuff.  I realize that SAHM groups are not all frilly lace and tea parties, so keep the sexist card in your pocket.

I wanted to hang out with other dads.  I wanted to feel the camaraderie that only men can offer: the kick in your pants honesty when you're whining too much, the below the belt jokes that roll off the tongue just as easily as they roll off your back, the sports chatter and of course the banter about what a pain in the ass our wives and kids can be.  However, the wonderful inter web left little to be desired.  I found a couple of groups, sent in emails and heard nothing back.  I assumed that I must have come off as a miscreant and was not to be allowed into the SAHD pride (as in herd, not the gay variety - though I'm cool with the gay pride too, just don't approach me about it when I am leaving Target with a full cart and my two kids).  So I sort of gave up.  A year later, I would become part of a SAHD group by way of a random chat I had with another SAHD at a local eatery.

I was ecstatic, to say the least, to be a part of a group now...my own wolf pack if you will.  And while we met up a few times and the guys I met up with were good guys, I noticed that the email list was about 30 names long and only about five or so of the same guys ever showed up.  At my first meet up, I was told that these guys were the "core", but I just assumed that they had started the group or something to that affect.  Nope, "core" meant the only guys who ever show up or ever respond.  And since then, emails for meet ups have been sparse and the number of core members has been cut in half.  I think the main reason is that a couple of the guys had side jobs which have since graduated into near full time gigs, but they're gone nonetheless.

One of the common issues for the lack of communication was that invites were sent out and there were either no responses or all of the responses were saying they had other things going on.  So the emails stopped, yet I would run into some of these guys while I was out and about with the boys.  Some of the guys were out by themselves and some were actually out with moms.  What was everyone up to?  And I don't dismiss myself from the problem.  There were certainly plenty of times that the meet ups just didn't work with my schedule, I simply didn't want to take the boys to that place or maybe I had been there the day before.  But it was clear to me that there were really only one or two people tossing in meet up suggestions and even if you got a response that people were coming, the chance that they actually showed were slim to none.  And believe me, I get that kids can eff up your day and cause things to not happen or cause things to change.  What I didn't get was why did I never hear about this with the mom groups?  Maybe it was just numbers.  You have a hundred moms on the email list and about ten show up every time.  Or maybe there was some sort of sense of community in the moms groups and the need for that interaction that kept the women religiously coming back.  I'm betting on the latter.  As for the dads, maybe we are too "tough" or dismissive to bond like that.  If we meet up, we meet up.  If we don't, we don't.

The SAHD group is something that is wrapped in bacon (everything is better wrapped in bacon...problems, prawns, bourbon...you get the idea) and a bit shrouded in mystery.  Anytime I tell people that I am a SAHD and am part of a SAHD group, people look amazed.  They ask me "Is there really such a thing as a stay-at-home dad group?"  To which I obviously say "Yes.  Yes there is".  But there still remains that look of disbelief on their faces and always the question; "So what? do you guys just sit around and drink beer and talk about your kids?"  To which I say again "Yes.  Yes, we do.  Well except for the one guy who doesn't like beer so he drinks booze or wine."  People just don't know about us.  We aren't out in packs.  We don't take over Groupon deals at Gymboree.  And we don't careen down paths at the park in large groups screaming "ON YOUR LEFT!" shooting by with our B.O.B strollers.  We are a little more civilized and a lot less social.

We are men.  We are supposed to be rugged and tough and built to withstand shitstorms.  We grow beards.  We drink beer (or wine).  We have customary terms like "breaking balls" and "busting chops".  When other dads don't have time, like the Honey Badger, we don't give a fuck!  Why?  Because we are men and we can hold our own.  We are, alas, a bit primitive.  There I said it.

I won't lie.  I like the SAHD group time.  It is therapeutic for me when I meet up with these guys.  I wish we did it more.  We have taken on what, until very recently, has been seen as solely the woman's role:  to cook dinner, do the laundry, buy the groceries, clean the house, research the school systems, go to the doctors, pay the bills, raise the kids etc.  So I think we are still defining what and who we are.  A lot of us find solace on the internet by reading each others blogs and finding community there, and I love that aspect and that instant realization that you are not alone in your quest to not be the worst parent ever.  Go ahead and call me old fashioned, but I also like that personal interaction (no matter how much I sweat at that first meeting).  I welcome and relish the opportunity to not talk about playgrounds, Elmo or try to answer the question "why" for the 100th time that day.

Mom's have had this stuff figured out for a long time now, but they've been doing it longer than we have.  They had their mothers to talk to about these things first, and then they got their groups.  My father could sell a pacemaker to an olympic athlete, but he wouldn't understand the first thing about diaper rash cures, tantrum diversion tactics or age appropriate activities (I grew up watching baseball or open heart surgery and I couldn't tell you how many bars I fell asleep under as a kid - I just know that if you curl up just right, that foot bar is mighty cozy).  And I guess, in a nutshell, that's still the issue: we are our father's sons.  We are capable imbeciles.  I look forward to seeing what role my boys take on when they are old enough to have kids (with any luck, that'll be at least 25 years from now), but they'll probably have an app for that by then.