Well, I guess it’s safe to go out in public again with Parker.
Parker is 3, and one of the requirements for being a 3-year-old boy is complete and utter disregard for anything remotely resembling safety. And now that his very fine shiner has gone away, I feel I can venture out without people staring in a disapproving manner. (I always make a point of leaning in to the people and whispering, “The first rule of baby fight club, you don’t talk about baby fight club.”)
This is the third black eye he has had. The first two were courtesy of an aggressive coffee table that assaulted him on two different occasions.
His latest shiner came courtesy of a playground pole. And it also came with a valuable lesson: Pay attention. He was sprinting across the playground - which is currently the only speed he has right now - when a little girl called out to him. Poor, poor Parker. Learning so early that you CANNOT be distracted by the fairer sex. He turned to give a little howdy, and turned back around to WHAP! From the play-by-play I got, the pole stood its ground. Parker? Not so much.
When I got home from work, my wife called from upstairs. “I’m warning you - it’s bad.” When Parker came running to see me, I saw the shiner, and the first words out of my idiotic mouth were, “WHOAAA! AWESOME!!!”
I know, I know. I’m a horrible person. But there is something hard-wired in guys that when they see something like a shiner or a scar or 10-12 nails protruding from someone’s head, their immediate response is “COOOOOOOL!!!!” Parker, of course, thought his shiner was cool, too. Every few minutes, he would run up to me and said, “Daddy - look at my eye!”
Now, some of you out there may be reading this, gap-jawed that someone would be rather blasé about a kid getting his noggin knocked. Keep in mind a few things: (1) I knew he was fine by this point, as it had happened many hours prior and (2) I, at one point, was a 3-year-old boy, and three decades later, I still have the occasional injury type day. As I type this, my left foot hurts where I inadvertently banged it on the coffee table. And my mouth has a nasty sore spot where I bit into a piece of really hot pizza the other night. And, for some reason, my wife was able to (a) walk around the coffee table and (b) let the pizza cool off. Hmm.
As Parker gets older, I also find that he is, more than likely, part monkey. As I was as a boy, he is a climber. Loves to climb. Trees. Fences. Shelves. You name it. Perhaps he is trying to get back to his tree canopy home.
It is really wild to see the difference between Parker and his sister. Allie, who is almost 6, has had her share of bumps, bruises and scrapes. But she has always been a little more cautious than her feral brother. For example, I don’t recall her ever climbing to the top of the couch and jumping into a pile of laundry. (And I know what you’re thinking: “Who was watching him when he was allowed to do that?!?!?!?” And that is very similar to what my wife said. I explained that it was, in fact, not only safe but fun. She disagreed.)
It’s not that Allie is completely cautious. She loves tromping outside and playing on playgrounds and such. And fences? Made to be climbed. But she does it with, well, some planning. She plots out the climb and the descent and everything in between, whereas Parker will just end up on the roof somehow. (Relax. He’s never actually ended up on the roof. That his mother knows about. Ha! Kidding there. Seriously.)
One thing that is different with Parker and Allie is the way they deal with injuries. Parker doesn’t cry much from them, and when he does, it’s usually for a short spell. Plus, he’ll do the “Shake It Off” Dance, which always makes me chuckle. If Allie gets hurt, she would much rather just curl up in your lap and kinda be sad for a bit. Both, of course, think Band-Aids are magical cure-alls, and often go to bed with 15-20 on them. I don’t think you need a Band-Aid on your stomach when you have a tummy ache.
So although Parker will undoubtedly get banged up again, I hope it is minimal, and, although cool at first, I certainly hope he doesn’t get another shiner. (My last quality black eye was in the third grade, so he’s still got plenty of time to match me.) It’s hard to keep a boy from being a boy, so we’ll just have to make we’re there keeping an eye out for him. And that my wife is there to overrule.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Some sage advice
We have well established that I am the world’s greatest dad, as evidenced by the fact that I just called myself that. So, to that end, I feel it is important to offer up some parenting tips to share with all of the world. The format will be Q&A, with the questions carefully screened from a detailed batch of questions I just made up.
Q: My 3-year-old son is constantly throwing things at his 5-year-old sister. What can I do?
A: This is a prime opportunity for you to impart some very sage wisdom to your child. Sit the child down, make eye contact, and say firmly, “When your brother has a Matchbox car in his hand, run. He’s going to throw it. Get out of the path.”
Q: Uh, I meant what do I say to HIM?
A: Recite the Gettysburg Address. Sing the lyrics to Eric Clapton’s “Layla.” Doesn’t really matter what you say, because all that is going through a 3-year-old’s head is “Throw the car. Throw the car. Throw the car.”
Q: My daughter has been getting scared at night, occasionally having nightmares. What can I do?
A: Well, you can stop her from watching the Orbitz gum commercials, in particular the one where the giant bird takes off with the man. I can only surmise that is why a 5-year-old would sprint into my room at 2 in the morning saying she just had a dream that an eagle flew off with her and took her to a nest. Oh, and the next morning, don’t sneak up and make squawking noises behind her.
Q: Despite trying to teach my children the proper way to play sports, they both adopt their own unorthodox style of batting, kicking, throwing, etc. What can I do to straighten it out?
A: Nothing. They will either develop their awkward style into pro-caliber performances, or will look so strange doing it that other children will mock them on the playground, driving them inside to the comfort of their textbooks. You win either way.
Q: My husband and I disagree on discipline. How do we reconcile this?
A: It is important to be level-headed and consistent with discipline, which is why it should be left up to you. Your husband will waffle between drill sergeant-like strictness and then, as soon as his daughter bats an eye, will melt and say, “Fine, you can go ride your bike. Your brother’s hair will grow back. And here’s a dollar.”
Q: What is the best way to get children to eat a proper, well-balanced breakfast?
A: Convince yourself that Pop-Tarts are a proper, well-balanced breakfast.
Q: What is the best approach to potty train a child?
A: Books. Buy every book you can on the subject, and read them cover to cover. By the time you have finished them all, your child will be about 15, and will have figured it out on his own.
Q: When my children get sick, the medicine they get smells really good. It’s fruity or bubble game flavored, and the kids act like it’s candy. But when we were children, medicine tasted like oxen sweat. That hardly seems fair.
A: That’s not a question.
Q: OK, then, did pharmaceuticals just discover cherry flavoring?
A: Actually, their oxen died, and they had to find a replacement. Cherry was the next cheapest.
Q: My son has developed a strange habit of not wanting to get out of the tub until all the water has drained out. Why is this?
A: Because your son is strange. And he will grow out of it.
Q: Are you sure? Because he’s 25.
A: Uh ... pass.
Q: My daughter has a vivid imagination, and often holds tea parties, games, etc. with the various stuffed residents of her room. At what point should I curtail this?
A: Never. You should encourage this. And tell her that stuffed animals are good, kind friends, whereas boys are bad and icky and should be avoided at all costs. And, when you are older, if you put enough stuffed animals into your car, there will be no room for boys in said car.
Q: What makes you think you are qualified to give parenting advice?
A: Because I have a PhD in child psychology, a master’s degree in early childhood development, and have done extensive research on childhood behavior.
Q: Seriously?
A: What do you think?
Q: That’s a question, not an answer.
A: This could go on a while. No, I am not serious. I have the same qualifications anyone else in my shoes has: I have kids.
Q: Any final words of wisdom?
A: Yeah, skip “Layla.” Go with Kenny Rogers’ “Coward of the County.” It always makes me chuckle.
Q: My 3-year-old son is constantly throwing things at his 5-year-old sister. What can I do?
A: This is a prime opportunity for you to impart some very sage wisdom to your child. Sit the child down, make eye contact, and say firmly, “When your brother has a Matchbox car in his hand, run. He’s going to throw it. Get out of the path.”
Q: Uh, I meant what do I say to HIM?
A: Recite the Gettysburg Address. Sing the lyrics to Eric Clapton’s “Layla.” Doesn’t really matter what you say, because all that is going through a 3-year-old’s head is “Throw the car. Throw the car. Throw the car.”
Q: My daughter has been getting scared at night, occasionally having nightmares. What can I do?
A: Well, you can stop her from watching the Orbitz gum commercials, in particular the one where the giant bird takes off with the man. I can only surmise that is why a 5-year-old would sprint into my room at 2 in the morning saying she just had a dream that an eagle flew off with her and took her to a nest. Oh, and the next morning, don’t sneak up and make squawking noises behind her.
Q: Despite trying to teach my children the proper way to play sports, they both adopt their own unorthodox style of batting, kicking, throwing, etc. What can I do to straighten it out?
A: Nothing. They will either develop their awkward style into pro-caliber performances, or will look so strange doing it that other children will mock them on the playground, driving them inside to the comfort of their textbooks. You win either way.
Q: My husband and I disagree on discipline. How do we reconcile this?
A: It is important to be level-headed and consistent with discipline, which is why it should be left up to you. Your husband will waffle between drill sergeant-like strictness and then, as soon as his daughter bats an eye, will melt and say, “Fine, you can go ride your bike. Your brother’s hair will grow back. And here’s a dollar.”
Q: What is the best way to get children to eat a proper, well-balanced breakfast?
A: Convince yourself that Pop-Tarts are a proper, well-balanced breakfast.
Q: What is the best approach to potty train a child?
A: Books. Buy every book you can on the subject, and read them cover to cover. By the time you have finished them all, your child will be about 15, and will have figured it out on his own.
Q: When my children get sick, the medicine they get smells really good. It’s fruity or bubble game flavored, and the kids act like it’s candy. But when we were children, medicine tasted like oxen sweat. That hardly seems fair.
A: That’s not a question.
Q: OK, then, did pharmaceuticals just discover cherry flavoring?
A: Actually, their oxen died, and they had to find a replacement. Cherry was the next cheapest.
Q: My son has developed a strange habit of not wanting to get out of the tub until all the water has drained out. Why is this?
A: Because your son is strange. And he will grow out of it.
Q: Are you sure? Because he’s 25.
A: Uh ... pass.
Q: My daughter has a vivid imagination, and often holds tea parties, games, etc. with the various stuffed residents of her room. At what point should I curtail this?
A: Never. You should encourage this. And tell her that stuffed animals are good, kind friends, whereas boys are bad and icky and should be avoided at all costs. And, when you are older, if you put enough stuffed animals into your car, there will be no room for boys in said car.
Q: What makes you think you are qualified to give parenting advice?
A: Because I have a PhD in child psychology, a master’s degree in early childhood development, and have done extensive research on childhood behavior.
Q: Seriously?
A: What do you think?
Q: That’s a question, not an answer.
A: This could go on a while. No, I am not serious. I have the same qualifications anyone else in my shoes has: I have kids.
Q: Any final words of wisdom?
A: Yeah, skip “Layla.” Go with Kenny Rogers’ “Coward of the County.” It always makes me chuckle.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
King size goodness
Never again will I use a nightstand for a pillow.
I know you’re probably thinking that there are plenty of softer items to throw on the bed than a nightstand. And you are correct. But I have not dragged a nightstand into bed. Rather, I am free from my recent torment of waking up, my body on the very edge of the bed, my head resting on my nightstand, one hand gripping the nightstand, the other planted on the ground to keep me from falling out of bed.
Needless to say, this was not the most comfortable way of sleeping.
But now, I have a new bed, and I am free from the terror. My wife and I have abandoned our queen size bed and replaced it with a king size, which is roughly an acre.
A queen size bed used to be plenty big. And then children came along. Combine mobile kids with fairly heavy sleeping parents, and you have a recipe for a bed chock full of Gibbons. On nights when the little rascals sneak into the room, I rarely notice it. In fact, they could drive an SUV onto our bed and I would not notice it.
So what happens is they sneak into bed and nestle themselves firmly in the middle. Then, over the course of sleeping, the begin their expansionism. And for those of you without children, I can say that the single most powerful force in the universe is a sleeping 3-year-old’s legs. (The only thing that can even come close is the leg power of a sleeping Basset hound.) Somehow, Parker has the ability to stretch out and gradually move me or my wife out of the way, taking over about 60 percent of the available bed space. By the morning, I have reached the edge and am hanging on for support, my head resting on the nightstand.
Now I know the first thing you are thinking is that we should not let our kids in our bed. And I assure you we do not. I am fairly convinced they have the ability to dematerialize and reform in our room. Most every night, I vividly recall putting both of them to sleep in their own rooms. And then – poof! – there they are in the morning. So anyone who is critical of the kids finishing up their deep sleep in our room is MORE than welcome to come over and play kid goalie from midnight to 7 a.m.
Additionally, I am fairly certain that the kids will grow out of this. Allie doesn’t come in very often, and when she does it’s when she’s had a bad dream. (Apparently, “The Shining” is a poor choice for a bedtime story.) Parker will also grow out of it, but he’s three right now, so his general outlook on life is: “What Parker wants, Parker gets. And Parker wants to sleep in there.” For the record, we do not adhere to Parker’s life outlook. But we pick our battles. For example: While Parker DOES get to pick out his shirt on occasion, Parker DOES NOT get to pick out Mommy’s shirt. And he certainly doesn’t get to pick it out for himself.
So when the king size bed arrived, I was amazed at how much bigger it seemed. It’s only 18 inches wider, but it just seems gobs bigger than our old mattress. After it was put in the room, my wife looked at it and said, “It kinda takes up the whole room...”
“Well,” I said, “it is called a BEDroom.”
My wife just stared at me, not sure whether I thought I was being funny or was the master of the obvious. She does that a lot.
So the first night of the big new bed, we were amazed at how much more room there was. (We brought cell phones so we could say goodnight.) When the alarm went off in the morning, I awoke and was amazed to find myself firmly and solidly on nothing but bed. No nightstand. No floor support. Just...mattress. Hmm. Guess the kids stayed in their room. I got up to turned off the alarm and turned back to see that, there in the bed, were two twisted contorting little ones, both taking up their own little quadrants of Bedland. Outstanding.
So while the issue of little ones sneaking into the room is less of a pressing one to resolve, I am at least glad that my wife and I can get a good night’s sleep if they do sneak in. And like I said, they will grow out of this as they get older. They have to. We don’t have room for a bigger bed.
I know you’re probably thinking that there are plenty of softer items to throw on the bed than a nightstand. And you are correct. But I have not dragged a nightstand into bed. Rather, I am free from my recent torment of waking up, my body on the very edge of the bed, my head resting on my nightstand, one hand gripping the nightstand, the other planted on the ground to keep me from falling out of bed.
Needless to say, this was not the most comfortable way of sleeping.
But now, I have a new bed, and I am free from the terror. My wife and I have abandoned our queen size bed and replaced it with a king size, which is roughly an acre.
A queen size bed used to be plenty big. And then children came along. Combine mobile kids with fairly heavy sleeping parents, and you have a recipe for a bed chock full of Gibbons. On nights when the little rascals sneak into the room, I rarely notice it. In fact, they could drive an SUV onto our bed and I would not notice it.
So what happens is they sneak into bed and nestle themselves firmly in the middle. Then, over the course of sleeping, the begin their expansionism. And for those of you without children, I can say that the single most powerful force in the universe is a sleeping 3-year-old’s legs. (The only thing that can even come close is the leg power of a sleeping Basset hound.) Somehow, Parker has the ability to stretch out and gradually move me or my wife out of the way, taking over about 60 percent of the available bed space. By the morning, I have reached the edge and am hanging on for support, my head resting on the nightstand.
Now I know the first thing you are thinking is that we should not let our kids in our bed. And I assure you we do not. I am fairly convinced they have the ability to dematerialize and reform in our room. Most every night, I vividly recall putting both of them to sleep in their own rooms. And then – poof! – there they are in the morning. So anyone who is critical of the kids finishing up their deep sleep in our room is MORE than welcome to come over and play kid goalie from midnight to 7 a.m.
Additionally, I am fairly certain that the kids will grow out of this. Allie doesn’t come in very often, and when she does it’s when she’s had a bad dream. (Apparently, “The Shining” is a poor choice for a bedtime story.) Parker will also grow out of it, but he’s three right now, so his general outlook on life is: “What Parker wants, Parker gets. And Parker wants to sleep in there.” For the record, we do not adhere to Parker’s life outlook. But we pick our battles. For example: While Parker DOES get to pick out his shirt on occasion, Parker DOES NOT get to pick out Mommy’s shirt. And he certainly doesn’t get to pick it out for himself.
So when the king size bed arrived, I was amazed at how much bigger it seemed. It’s only 18 inches wider, but it just seems gobs bigger than our old mattress. After it was put in the room, my wife looked at it and said, “It kinda takes up the whole room...”
“Well,” I said, “it is called a BEDroom.”
My wife just stared at me, not sure whether I thought I was being funny or was the master of the obvious. She does that a lot.
So the first night of the big new bed, we were amazed at how much more room there was. (We brought cell phones so we could say goodnight.) When the alarm went off in the morning, I awoke and was amazed to find myself firmly and solidly on nothing but bed. No nightstand. No floor support. Just...mattress. Hmm. Guess the kids stayed in their room. I got up to turned off the alarm and turned back to see that, there in the bed, were two twisted contorting little ones, both taking up their own little quadrants of Bedland. Outstanding.
So while the issue of little ones sneaking into the room is less of a pressing one to resolve, I am at least glad that my wife and I can get a good night’s sleep if they do sneak in. And like I said, they will grow out of this as they get older. They have to. We don’t have room for a bigger bed.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Time to party
As a 5-year-old, my daughter has reached the age where she attends roughly 40 birthday parties each weekend.
Whereas my weekends used to be carefree exhibitions in laziness and occasional yard work, the new first order of business at the start of each weekend is to determine when and where the parties will be. On Friday night, my wife will stand over by the fridge where she keeps an excessively detailed calendar. “OK, Allie’s got a party at 2 and 4.”
“Sounds good. I’ll plan my nap from 1:30-5.”
That has yet to work.
On occasion, I will take Allie to the birthday parties. My wife usually does the birthday circuit, while Parker and I hang around the house being guys. On occasion, I will take the lead, though, and accompany Allie to a party. I remember the first one I attended was at a gymnastics place. I am fairly sure I was the only parent asked to stop jumping on the trampoline.
The most recent party I went to was at a miniature golf place. To kick off the party, those in attendance spent some time in the video arcade. They weren’t actually playing video games, since none of them had tokens. But they were having a blast pretending to play. One of the games was a motorcycle game where you actually sit on a motorcycle. Allie had a blast sitting on the back of the motorcycle while one of the boys from her class pretended to ride the motorcycle, complete with sound effects. I hope she enjoyed herself, since it will be the closest she ever gets to actually riding on the back of a motorcycle with a boy from her class. Don’t get me wrong — I have nothing against motorcycles or people who ride them. I have everything, however, against my daughter riding on the back of a motorcycle with a boy. I also plan to have issues with her riding in a car with a boy, getting on a bus with a boy, being in the same time zone with a boy, etc.
I know that you are thinking I am setting myself up for a world of rebellion. Well, you may be right, but who, I ask, will unlock the handcuffs that link her wrist and mine? (It’s for her own good.)
But back to the birthday party. When it came time for mini-golf (for the record, 5-year-olds are not interested in a discussion on the term “Putt-Putt” and its proper, trademarked use), about a dozen kids swarmed the course. I was thinking that it would take forever for them to play. Man, was I wrong.
When a hoard of kids hits the mini-golf course, they attack at once. At any given time, there may be five or six kids on the same hole. And they play some sort of hybrid golf-hockey game, where the ball doesn’t have to actually stop before you hit it. Oh, and if you feel the hole it taking too long, you are entitled to pick up the ball, drop it in the hole and sprint to next hole.
After the golf, the kids returned to the arcade and were given some tokens to play games. The first game Allie wanted to play is the single greatest game ever invented: skeeball. For those of you not familiar with skeeball, I order you to stop what you are doing this moment, go to Chuck E. Cheese and play a round.
While I take more of a finesse approach to skeeball, Allie takes more of a reckless-abandon-brute-strength approach. She has on more than one occasion launched the skeeball off the ramp and into the arcade. This makes skeeball far more entertaining, since there is always a chance you may get to fetch ice for someone’s rapidly swelling bruise.
After skeeball, she and another friend decided to play air hockey. For this machine, two tokens bought you a game of air hockey, with the game continuing until someone reached seven goals. I am fairly certain that eternity is best defined as the time it takes two 5-year-olds to finish a game of seven-goal air hockey. Fortunately, their patience was even less than their air hockey skills, so they abandoned that after a while.
Before we knew it, the party was up, and we were heading on our way. It was actually a lot of fun. It’s kind of a bonus for me because I get to go hang out in an arcade and, rather than looking like a very geeky and possibly disturbing old man, I can simply say, “Birthday party. For the kid.”
I am sure this weekend will be more parties, and I will be plenty willing to take her, if need be. I have to remember that there may come a day when she doesn’t want me to accompany her to parties. And she is entitled to feel that way. Of course, she’s not entitled to the handcuff key.
Whereas my weekends used to be carefree exhibitions in laziness and occasional yard work, the new first order of business at the start of each weekend is to determine when and where the parties will be. On Friday night, my wife will stand over by the fridge where she keeps an excessively detailed calendar. “OK, Allie’s got a party at 2 and 4.”
“Sounds good. I’ll plan my nap from 1:30-5.”
That has yet to work.
On occasion, I will take Allie to the birthday parties. My wife usually does the birthday circuit, while Parker and I hang around the house being guys. On occasion, I will take the lead, though, and accompany Allie to a party. I remember the first one I attended was at a gymnastics place. I am fairly sure I was the only parent asked to stop jumping on the trampoline.
The most recent party I went to was at a miniature golf place. To kick off the party, those in attendance spent some time in the video arcade. They weren’t actually playing video games, since none of them had tokens. But they were having a blast pretending to play. One of the games was a motorcycle game where you actually sit on a motorcycle. Allie had a blast sitting on the back of the motorcycle while one of the boys from her class pretended to ride the motorcycle, complete with sound effects. I hope she enjoyed herself, since it will be the closest she ever gets to actually riding on the back of a motorcycle with a boy from her class. Don’t get me wrong — I have nothing against motorcycles or people who ride them. I have everything, however, against my daughter riding on the back of a motorcycle with a boy. I also plan to have issues with her riding in a car with a boy, getting on a bus with a boy, being in the same time zone with a boy, etc.
I know that you are thinking I am setting myself up for a world of rebellion. Well, you may be right, but who, I ask, will unlock the handcuffs that link her wrist and mine? (It’s for her own good.)
But back to the birthday party. When it came time for mini-golf (for the record, 5-year-olds are not interested in a discussion on the term “Putt-Putt” and its proper, trademarked use), about a dozen kids swarmed the course. I was thinking that it would take forever for them to play. Man, was I wrong.
When a hoard of kids hits the mini-golf course, they attack at once. At any given time, there may be five or six kids on the same hole. And they play some sort of hybrid golf-hockey game, where the ball doesn’t have to actually stop before you hit it. Oh, and if you feel the hole it taking too long, you are entitled to pick up the ball, drop it in the hole and sprint to next hole.
After the golf, the kids returned to the arcade and were given some tokens to play games. The first game Allie wanted to play is the single greatest game ever invented: skeeball. For those of you not familiar with skeeball, I order you to stop what you are doing this moment, go to Chuck E. Cheese and play a round.
While I take more of a finesse approach to skeeball, Allie takes more of a reckless-abandon-brute-strength approach. She has on more than one occasion launched the skeeball off the ramp and into the arcade. This makes skeeball far more entertaining, since there is always a chance you may get to fetch ice for someone’s rapidly swelling bruise.
After skeeball, she and another friend decided to play air hockey. For this machine, two tokens bought you a game of air hockey, with the game continuing until someone reached seven goals. I am fairly certain that eternity is best defined as the time it takes two 5-year-olds to finish a game of seven-goal air hockey. Fortunately, their patience was even less than their air hockey skills, so they abandoned that after a while.
Before we knew it, the party was up, and we were heading on our way. It was actually a lot of fun. It’s kind of a bonus for me because I get to go hang out in an arcade and, rather than looking like a very geeky and possibly disturbing old man, I can simply say, “Birthday party. For the kid.”
I am sure this weekend will be more parties, and I will be plenty willing to take her, if need be. I have to remember that there may come a day when she doesn’t want me to accompany her to parties. And she is entitled to feel that way. Of course, she’s not entitled to the handcuff key.
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