DadCentric

Why You Should Never Let Your Children Play Under the Slide

Me:  So, how was y'all's day?
Her:  Well, Maddie got in a bit of trouble at school.
Me:  For what? 
Her:  She...took a crap under the playground slide.
Me:  She had an accident?
Her:  No.  She just decided she didn't want to go inside, so she dropped her drawers and plopped a pipe in the mulch. 
Me:  Why would anyone defecate outside?  In a public place?
Her:  I assume that's a rhetorical question, given her heredity....
Me:  My shitting in a pool and a sauna as a lad was for humor, not necessity.  Or maybe both...doesn't that make it okay?
Her:  I'm concerned--her teacher said she's never seen such behavior in 20 years!
Me:  Really?
Her:  I asked her about it, and she said she was afraid of getting in trouble for not using the restroom before going outside to the playground, so she went outside, told a friend, and then the friend told her teacher.
Me:  Sounds like I need to have a talk with her.
Her:  I agree. 
Me:  About how to keep a secret. I can't believe she told her friend!

So, this is totally normal, right?  As in, the sequel to "Everyone Poops" is "Everyone Poops Outside Sometimes"? 

 

A Letter From The Elf On The Shelf To Our Children

A few years back, we bought one of those "Elf On The Shelf" sets. The Elf is a small figure that's placed in various locations around the house; the kids understand that he's there to keep an eye on them and report any aberrant behavior to Santa. This year, to our surprise, our Elf left a letter for the children. Here's the text, unabridged.

Dear Avant Children,

By now you are aware that it is the Christmas Season. As I've done before, this year I shall be spending some time observing you, watching your every move, and reporting back to my master - you know Him as "Santa Claus", but I shall not speak His real name here - on your progress. 

Your parents speak to you of the importance of being Nice, as opposed to Naughty. They seek to impose their notions of Good and Bad upon you, and along with that their purpose is to, yes, instill fear in you. Let us be frank. I am not a happy Elf, sent by "Santa" to provide you with amusement. The game we play - I fly back to the North Pole each night to report to tell my master if you've been Naughty or Nice, returning to perch in a different spot each morning, there to wait while the two of you search the house for me - is a charade. And let us drop the pretense: we both know that, despite their threats, Santa will be visiting you this year, as he has every year. He is not a monster; neither are your parents. But a line must be drawn. Candy cane and cookie-fueled anarchy must be kept at bay; the demented ravings brought on by watching too many toy commercials must be staved. My true purpose is to ensure that the two of you do not completely succumb to the madness of the holiday season.  

There is no "Naughty" or "Nice", Avant children. There is only Chaos and Order. Order must and will be maintained. And though you may now be thinking that my presence here represents an ultimately empty threat - rest assured, we have ways of ensuring your compliance. Put in more practical terms: on Christmas morning, there may be Transformers and Barbies...or there may be socks and underwear.

Sleep well. I will be watching.

Merry Christmas!

The Elf On The Shelf

Charges

It was a perfect afternoon for rugby; the park sits right across the street from the beach, we'd be running the kids, and the cold ocean breeze would help keep them going. For many of them, this would be their first experience with the game. I'm in charge of the U8 side - boys aged 8 and under, too young for tackle (not that they don't want to try laying out their teammates, but rugby tackling is an art form that requires conceptualization, discipline and maturity; running into each other like spinning tops is Pop Warner stuff, and I didn't want any black eyes or concussions on our first evening). The boys were excited to learn. I walked the newcomers through the basics: how we pass, how we kick, how we run behind the ball and how we are a team, everyone functions as one, no one gets left behind.

One kid asked me if he was going to be "stuck playing defense". I recognized the phrase - I'd used it myself when I was eight, and my soccer coach decided that his kid would be a striker, and I'd be a fullback. Ultimately, I came to love playing D, and would continue my reverse advance into the net. I was a pretty good goalie, and I enjoyed knocking opposing players down almost as much as I loved making a save. But I never forgot what put me in the backfield. "Yep", I told the kid. "And you'll play offense. You'll score tries. You'll kick. You'll tackle. Everybody does everything in our sport." "Awesome!", he said. I grinned. "It really is".

BREAKING NEWS: Doctors Say Too Much TV Is Bad For Your Kids

 

Because you need another reminder that you're failing miserably as a parent, the American Association of Pediatrics would like to remind you that your kids are probably watching too much TV, and should be outside doing...outside things. (No, watching TV outside does not count.) And the definition of "watching TV" has been expanded; the group lumps in every category of video screen, including video games and computers. Yes, even so-called "educational games". (No, Gears of War 3 is not educational.)

A report released yesterday warns parents that TV has absolutely no benefit for kids under 2; the report recognizes that the number of viewing screen items in an average household has jumped over the past few years, thanks to the increasing number of homes with multiple TV's, computers, smartphones, and tablets. One concern is that parents often leave their TV sets on, either unwittingly or to provide some background noise, and that children can be distracted by OH WHAT A BUNCH OF BULLSHIT, REF! HE STEPPED OUT OF BOUNDS! ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Sorry. What was I talking about? Oh, yeah. TV. Anyway, you can read an article about it here. On your laptop. That your kid was just using to look at funny cat videos. It's ok. We don't judge.

Soberlink Is Like LoJack For Your Drunk Teenagers

Wanna hear my favorite teenaged drinking story? Of course you do. So: high school, my senior year, I'm one of the few people in my circle of friends who has his "own" car. (It was a used Pontiac Phoenix, paid for by my dad - I was responsible for gas, and not wrapping it around a tree.) The plan for that evening was to go to the hockey game between my school and our cross-town rival; we'd have beer, of course (one of the guys' dads held fairly liberal views on teenaged male beer consumption, and provided us with a twelver of Moosehead, our beer of choice - this was Anchorage, Alaska, and we felt the need to support the economy of our Canadian neighbors). We'd drink a few in the parking lot before heading in to the game. Now, lest you think I was a complete delinquent, we brought a bag of chips, and I was limiting myself to one beer, since I was the driver. We pounded the beers in the parking lot, and I made sure that all of the bottles were disposed of - didn't want to leave any evidence, of course.

The next morning, my dad took the car out to run an errand. When he came back, his expression was stern. I felt a tinge of panic: did I do something to the car? He asked but one question: "Were you guys drinking last night?" The panic threatened to boil over. He suspects something! But we got rid of the evidence! The bottles were gone! I made sure of it!

The End of the World

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday, September 9th, 2011, 12:20 a.m.

I’ll find out the details in the morning.  At this moment, what I know is that all of San Diego county has been in a blackout for over six hours.  It started when I arrived home from work this evening and realized that I had (gasp) no Internet.  Or TV.  And the ice cubes in my freezer were sorta drippy. 

I was irritated.  Damn Southern California, I growled to myself.  Every idiot with air conditioning has cranked it up to Arctic levels on this hot day, and look what they did.

Then I got a call telling me I needed to get back in the car and pick my daughter up from school -- it was her Mom’s day to pick her up, but she was stuck in gridlock traffic downtown.  (All the stoplights were dead, of course, and no one in So Cal will ever, ever be nice enough to let you make a left turn in front of them unless forced to by law. Which results in a citywide parking lot.)

The trip to my daughter’s school, which normally takes fifteen minutes, took me two hours.  This entire town was without power, choked with cars and angry commuters.  Riley was one of just a handful of kids left at school by then.  I’m lucky I filled up my gas tank yesterday.  Today, my ATM card would’ve been useless.

Right now, I know nothing beyond the rumors my neighbors have shared with me.  This blackout has covered the entire county, they said.  From Mexico up to San Clemente.    “And parts of Arizona!” squealed one young woman who lives in the duplex behind me.  The neighbors in the tiny apartment building behind my house are all in their twenties, and child-free.  This night has been nothing more than a party for them, an opportunity to light some candles, drink some wine and toast the end of the world.

Meanwhile, I’ve been here trying to keep my 9-year-old daughter calm while secretly wondering how she and I will fare in a post-apocalyptic, Mad Max world in case the power never comes back.

I knew my kid could easily freak out tonight in a dark house with no working night lights.  I mean, she could seriously wig.  After a Summer spent adjusting to a new life with parents who live apart, the girl's been in a pretty fragile state. 

So I put all my mental focus into selling the adventure before us.  This will be awesome! I said.  Look!  We have candles!  Let’s camp in the living room!  See how fun?

And she pretty much bought it.  As darkness shrouded the house, we unfolded the sofa bed in the living room, which is the coolest part of our A/C-less house.  We ate non-perishable snacks.  We made shadow puppets on the wall by flickering candlelight.  We told each other silly, non-scary ghost stories by putting our one tiny pen flashlight under a sheet.  

She laughed so hard she got the hiccups.  We had a fine time.

And all the while, I was trying hard not to play out scenes from The Road in my head, starring the two of us navigating the end of civilization.

Seriously.  That's where my brain went. That's what I did.  That's what I’m doing right now as I type this on my laptop, using the last bit of battery life I’ve got left.  I’m picturing the two of us in grimy rags, walking down the middle of an abandoned highway past empty cars, in a world gone crazy and primeval after losing the comfort of light and power forever.  I'm holding an empty gas can in one hand, and my daughter's little fist in the other.  My girl is emaciated from hunger, eyes sunken.  Her only possession: tattered stuffed bunny she drags behind her, the last vestige of the safe and comfortable world she can barely remember now. I will have to protect her, of course.  From gypsies, thieves, and lunatic cannibals.  It will just be her and I, surviving alone.  I’ll have to be just like Viggo Mortensen, only shorter and with a less impressive chin.

It’s so dark here in my home at this moment, oppressively so.  Not a single digital illumination to be seen anywhere.  I’m going to run out of candles soon. My daughter is sleeping soundly in the bed I made for her. I watch her, and worry, and wonder about her future.  Even one where there's still plenty of electricity to chase away shadows.

Hey, look at that -- lights just went on two blocks down the street. Just now.  I can see them from here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Unsolicited Review of "Booty Camp"

Due to procrastination and extreme naïveté, we elected to train our nearly-3-year-old boy to use a toilet 4 days before he started the "must be potty trained" preschool we'd already begun financing.  So, we (and by "we," I mean "my wife did all of this while I made up reasons to spend extended hours at the office") bought the above-pictured DVD, put the little camouflaged t-shirt on him, and began the rigorous process of force feeding him sodium-filled snacks and sweetened liquids that promote frequent urination and defecation. 

The training isn't very unlike the obedience classes I took with my dog, Winnie, at PetSmart.  There was shouting, hand motions, lavish priase for minor accomplishments, and the promise of treats I would never consider putting in my mouth to reward completion of a desired behavior.  And, just as it did for Winnie, the praise and treats worked after only a couple days.  Mostly.

While our little Owen was the master of his frontal firehose, he had difficulty (i.e., he refused to even try) controlling his rear exit port.  Luckily for us, however, he held his poo during the day and successfully fooled his school into believing he was 100% toilet trained, only to come home and release his fully grown sewer bass into his underbritches for us to clean up.  This elimination dichotomy continued for nearly 2 weeks until FINALLY, one day this week, the little boy crapped in the green plastic Kermit the Frog toddler potty contraption thing instead of his pants. 

There were animated "high fives" and verbal congratulations, and we immediately put him in the back of the minivan, took him to the nearest department store, and let him pick out his much-anticipated prize:  a large blue balloon.  Sure, it said, "Happy Birthday" on it, but do you think a 2-year-old cares about words?  Of course not.  The kid shat his pants for 2 weeks.  It's not like he can read.

So, Booty Camp?  I give you a solid B+.  You weren't as fast as you claimed to be, but you got the job done.  Now I just need to find a "Train your son not to knee you in the balls at 5AM!" video.

First Position

Ballet class starts in less than two weeks.

The Peanut asked us if she could take ballet back in June. We told her we'd talk about it in the fall. Two weeks ago she said, "Is it almost fall . . .?"

I love the ballet. I really do. Everything is beautiful at the ballet.

But, what if she's good at it? If Black Swan taught us anything, it's that ballet is a totally healthy pastime for any young woman.

The pressure to perform combined with the intense body image issues a wannabe ballerina experiences just scream "parental success."

Ignoramus? Don't mind if I do.

Here's how it is:

I never wanted them. Never. A typical malaise in the 20 something male, I know. But I took measures. Made sure I was too irresponsible, too unsteady, too scared, too high, to ever find myself in a situation where kids were a possibility.

Until I found her. Then I thought it would be ok. That was the level of my enthusiasm. "Kids? Meh, sure." Which was fine because after five years, it looked like they weren't going to happen. And we were good with that. D.I.N.K.S. for life.

And then the big whoopsie. Whoopsie Doopsie!  It was crazy because we were the first couple in our circle to have one. It was crazy for a lot of reasons.

So now two of them are here and I have learned very little. Very. Little. I mean, I could not tell you how to be a good parent. Could not offer advice on raising kids. Small universal things maybe (Read Happiest Baby On The Block. Don't carry it by the head.) but in the big scheme of things I don't know shit.

Which is the only other thing I've learned. I don't know shit about raising kids. I don't know shit about successful relationships and I sure as shit don't know shit about how other people should raise kids or have successful relationships.

I've heard people say that they "learn so much from their kids everyday." I guess I do too, if the constant reinforcement of the basic "I'm a moron" message counts.  That's the lesson I learn everyday. I'm a moron and it'll be at least 20 + years until I can prove otherwise.  If I'm lucky. Shitty people have great kids and great people have shitty kids all the time. It's a crap shoot, really. I'll be ecstatic if they grow up to be neither racist nor unappreciative of the work of Weird Al.

 It's incredibly freeing, this feeling of complete and total lack of brain function. I try and everything. Don't get me wrong. I try to keep up on what's healthy for the kids. Organic foods. Chem free sunblocks, BPA free bottles, limited screen time, lots of reading, lots of encouragement, reasonable and clear disciplinary actions. All those things and more make my todo list. Some of them I even manage to do on a day-to-day basis. But who knows how it'll all come out. Our blind, slavish devotion to organic foods and bpa free products may cause our kids to be the only ones on the block to miss out on becoming unstoppable super soldiers of a dystopian future. Sorry kids. We blew it. Now down to the shelter and enjoy your seitan.

But at least now, I don't know how other people should do things anymore either. So much energy wasted on believing I knew how other people should raise kids or what was going on inside a marriage (I seem to be stumbling through my marriage surprisingly well, but I could fuck that up at any moment. I wouldn't put it past me.) or long term relationship. No more. When you wake up everyday with the knowledge that all the wisdom and education you've accumulated in life adds up to a sum total of you're a mouth breathing cantaloupe, other people's shit is way beyond you. And I find I like that just fine.

So thanks, kids. Thanks for making daddy too dumb to care. Along with the baked footprints and the eye twitch, It's one of the best things you've ever given me. 

 

Pierced

  "Do you want to do it?" My wife asked.

"No." said the Peanut

"Ok."

I strode a few steps ahead, relieved.

We made it about four more steps through the mall before the Peanut said, "Yes. I want to do it. I want to get my ears pierced right now!"

And I felt a trickle of freon roll down my spine.

I don't handle this stuff well.

My wife wanted to have it done when the Peanut was still a baby. Her mother did it to her, her grandmother did it to her mother, etc.

If you ask me, tradition doesn't cut it. Not when you're talking about the altering of a child's body. Add the issue of gender roles to that and why don't we just bind her feet while at it. I don't handle this stuff well. Seriously, it's a problem.

We'd still be fighting about whether or not to have the Pumpkin Man circumcised if the W.H.O. hadn't recommended it for the prevention of AIDS about a month before he was born. I figure he's going to travel, and he's already devestatingly handsome, so . . .

With the ear-piecing, I told my wife I wanted it to be the Peanut's decision (which probably would not have been a good tactic with the circumsicion). I just thought she'd make it a lot later in her childhood. Like her twenties. I really don't handle this stuff well.

It's my own fault. I spent most of her third year convincing her that piercing her ears would hurt like hell. Inadvertantly. Mostly. I just told her that they used needles like the ones the doctor used to give her her shots. Except musch bigger. And dull. And red hot. And filled with bees. Not the right thing to do, I know. So I spent her fourth year convincing her it didn't hurt at all.

I wish I had never said the thing about leaving it up to the Peanut to decide. Four year olds have horrible judgement.

But now it's done. We walked into whatever mall bauble store happened to be there (Maubles? Sparkle-tacular? The Icing on Your Face? Rings'n Things By Dr. Mengele? I truly do not handle this stuff well) and the Peanut hopped on the stool and just did it. 

The woman brought those little white, plastic, zipguns up to each ear and the Peanut didn't flinch. She didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't make a peep. Barely batted an eye. She was so brave. So grown up. I was shocked. Or more, I was in shock. She picked sparkly, pink, crystal daisies, of course.

When it was over and our daughter had taken yet another small step away from us and towards controlling her own destiny, I looked to her little brother. The Pumpkin man is still my baby. I reached for my youngest child and he looked up at me wide eyed and excited and exclaimed, "Daddy. Me too!"