DadCentric

Trifling

I never thought it would happen to me; but my kids have arrived at that age. 

They used to call it the "Terrible Twos," but I've read a lot of literature (okay, blogs) arguing that three is worse, and four is even...um, more worse.  In any case, my formerly angelic 2.5-year-old twins have crossed the threshold.  They've always had the capacity to be fussy, of course; but now, with their enhanced cognitive and language skills, they can do so with much greater focus and intention.

Some days are better than others; and even on their worst days, I forgive them by the time they've been asleep for a couple of hours.  I even look forward to seeing them conscious the next day.

But some days are pretty bad, and I must say in all fairness, it's their fault, not mine. 

SAHD Protagonist: Interview with "Fathermucker" author Greg Olear

Ever read a novel written from the point of view of a stay-at-home dad?  I thought not. 

I don't know if Greg Olear's Fathermucker is the first of its kind, but it's definitely the first one I've read.  I found it gratifying to be able to relate to the main character/narrator as a guy whose overarching concern is his children.  Not just in an abstract sense--providing for them or thinking about their futures--but actually taking care of their day-to-day needs. 

The main plot in the book is a very compelling and adult one, but the world the narrator lives in is all about parenting.  Like the familiar heroes of page and screen who can't escape their offices, superhero duties, or criminal enterprises, Josh can barely attend to the crisis that lands on his doorstep, because he's juggling playdates, fieldtrips, babysitters, and meltdowns.  And unlike many (perhaps most) dads in novels and other media, Josh is much better at parenting than he is at other aspects of his life.

I got a chance to chat with Greg Olear via email, and we talked about his book, the writing process, and parenting.

"Up All Night" Seems Like a Pretty Okay Show

I obviously had to check out this new NBC show, depsite my pretend disdain for television.  It features Will Arnett as a stay-at-home dad; and, as a real stay-at-home dad, it's my job to make sure no unflattering portrayals of us go uncriticized.  We can't have TV audiences thinking that dads are bumbling idiots who don't know how to do the laundry, can we?

So I watched the pilot and...eh, it wasn't bad.

Frankly, my expectations were unrealistically high, given Arnett's genius performances on Arrested Development and 30 Rock.  He's funny in Up All Night, but, as he said in a recent interview with Terry Gross on NPR's Fresh Air, this is one of the first times he has played a character that's not over-the-top.  And that's a little disappointing for those of us who love him in his typical over-confident idiot roles.

Of course, if he played an over-confident idiot SAHD, I would have to be indignant.  So there's really no way Arnett could have lived up to my expectations without offending me.

Anyway, the premise is very simple: couple has a kid, wife (Christina Applegate) goes back to work as a TV producer for her wacky Oprah-esque boss (Maya Rudolph), husband (Arnett) stays home with kid.  The pilot didn't feature any gags about Dad being an incompetent child care provider, but focused instead on his isolation, anxiety, and borderline clinginess to his wife.  There are a lot of the standard sleep-deprivation and diaper-changing gags, and they work fine.  The cast is great and the writing is pretty good. 

I'm going to give this show a chance.  If they come up with some good storylines, it could be pretty funny.  But they need to get Arnett into some situations that call for over-the-top behavior (while being careful not to stereotype men as incompetent parents, of course.)

The preview below shows pretty much every funny part of the pilot, or you can watch the whole episode on Hulu.

 

"As you wish."

One of my least favorite words: "rheumy". It's the state of being booger-eyed, and I was, contending with sockets full of sleep-snot, brought on by Zoe, who strolled into our room at about 3 this morning. "I had a dweam." So four hours of kick-filled "sleep" later, and both of them are on the couch. I'm directing TV traffic; first she gets to watch My Little Pony, then he gets to watch Scooby-Doo (which apparently is "not fair because we both like it!"). They don't want eggs, they want cereal; they don't want Kix, they want Honey Nut Cheerios. She hits him, he shoves her back and it's five for fighting: go to your rooms, on the beds! No reading! No toys! I almost - almost - pour the milk before I realize that it'll sit there for five minutes and the cereal will get soggy and the older one will blame the younger one for that. I still haven't made the coffee. I'm still rheumy.

Up in the office: work work work. It's Friday but being a work at home parent means nights and weekends, as the job description might say. I'm sorting through everything. Emails, schedules, documents, news on the ticker that is Hootsuite. Their voices drift up the staircase; the higher the pitch, the more I flinch. They're a pack of two, and they're both alphas. For the most part they get along, until they don't, and then the fur flies. It takes me exactly 8 seconds to get from my office to the TV room. I've timed it. Had to: I'm on the clock. I take a minute to see what's going on in the outside world. Peter Falk died? Well, fuck. "Ok. All right. The Princess Bride, by S. Morgenstern." That line always cracked me up, for some reason.

Back to work. A few Replys and Accepts and Updates later, I hear small footsteps behind me. "Daddy, can I have a ponytail?" Later she will have a screaming meltdown because she wants to wear the fancy dress, but no, she can't because Beth's taking the kids to go play and it'll get ruined. But that's in the future, and it doesn't have any bearing on my answer and never will.

"As you wish."

 

What Will the Garbage Man Think?

On Wednesdays and Thursdays, a good part of my parenting energy goes toward defending my twin toddler girls against the perceived threat of the garbage trucks that patrol our neighborhood.  I'm hoping the dread fear that leaves them sobbing and clutching at my legs and gibbering about "jurbage chucks" for much of those two days is just a phase that will soon subside.

In the meantime, part of my strategy to deal with their fear is to give them opportunities whenever possible to watch the terrifying machines, from a safe distance, while I comfort them and talk about what they're seeing: "Now the  garbage truck lifts up the dumpster...now the garbage goes in the truck.  Yay! Garbage truck is our frieeeeend."  That kind of thing.

One thing I try to do as part of this de-sensitization regimen is to get the trash collectors to wave at the girls, so the girls will understand that we like the garbage truck and the people who live inside of it.

Time-Out

Oy, the yelling. Loud frustrated bursts. Raw throated exhaultations to "pleeease stop!" Red faced, chest-heaving exclamations at triple digit decibel levels. I don't know how the kids stand me.

I've been yelling too much lately. Way too much. My brain is no longer properly processing the ups and down of parenting. Instead of functioning synapses, I just have that big, multi-colored spinning pinwheel in my head, alerting me that thought process is still loading.

So. I'm on a break. I've retreated to the public library.  I sit and peck away on a reserved computer. Only 13 minutes left. I feel guilty for needing the break. Grateful to my wife for giving it to me. Relieved to be alone. Out of the house. Unfettered by the needy screeches and pointless stories. "No kidding Peanut? That's your princess barrett? Thank you for telling me. Again. The fourth time's the charm, right?  Of course, The first three times daddy was too busy to hear you because he was trying to fill his ears with fire ants . Love you too, honey."

And the Pumpkin Man. He has reached that point in his developement when his interests have turned to science. He is constantly testing the Law of Gravity and principles of Velocity. Often, like his predecessor Newton, with apples. Unlike Newton, he doesn't stop at apples. Yogurt, milk, Cheez-its (wasting Cheezits! The hubris!) blocks, pasta, the cat, his own bulbous head, all instruments of scientific discovery. He's nothing if not thorough.

And the screaming. The screaming. 

Spilling and dropping and throwing and screeching. It's like being locked in a hotel room with Led Zepplin. No Charlie Sheen references, please.

So I'm on this break. I walked to the library. Picked up my book. Reserved some others. Sat down at this computer and whined a little. 

Then I left. Took a little walk through what you could call our restaurant district. It has some restaurants. Walked home with my book tucked under my arm. Made dinner. Snuck out because the ice cream stand down the street has opened for the season. Everyone ate ice cream and then we danced to the Alvin and the Chipmunks version of Bad Romance. Or maybe it was Shake Your Grove Thang. Either way it was abominable, but still good enough for a family dance. Why did I need a break again?

 

 

 

Outside is Always Better

A while ago, I was whining on another group blog about what an ass-pain it is to take kids on out-of-town trips.  I still maintain that the benefits of exposing toddlers to a new environment that requires sleeping under a different roof barely outweigh the onus of hauling all of their equipment to that location.  Unless you're going to see Grandma, you might as well just go to the vacant lot down the street as take your kid across the county line.  I honestly believe that a two-year-old can't tell the difference between Chuck E. Cheese and Disneyland.  So they certainly wouldn't be any more impressed by Yosemite National Park than by the abandoned rock quarry just outside of town.

Despite the hassles of traveling with youngsters, I was reminded just yesterday of a very valuable and probably completely obvious lesson: it's almost always better to get the kids out of the house than to coop them up for long stretches of time.  I always assumed this was the case, and have hardly ever kept our twins at home all day since they were born 20 months ago.  But yesterday they seemed pretty tired, having been out late at a dinner party/playdate the night before.  In fact, they had done so much fun stuff the previous week that they were pretty run down.  Or maybe I was projecting my own condition onto them.

Nap Time

We lay down together on the couch. My arm is tucked just so, between his hips and his rib cage, at the small of his small back, buried slightly in the couch cushions. This is the best way to get him to nap. Lucky for me.

My rough, worn, time-scarred face presses lightly up against his soft, smooth, cool cheek. 

His eyelids, heavy, tinged with purple, half cover dark sleepy eyes. He sucks his thumb. I snuggle closer. Breath in his still sweet baby smell. This won't last fore-- oh, hey kitty. Hey pretty cat. You gonna take a nap t--ok now. Don't attack his feet. That's fresh. Get down.

 His breathing slows as does the motion of his mouth pulling on that ever present thumb. Ok you. Get that bum down and those legs back under the blankets. There we go.

I feel his body relax. He has no worries to make his shoulders rigid with tensi--Oh hi again kitty. Ok you need to get down. What? You want to pat her? Ok there you go. Now she needs to go. She's gotta nap too, honey.

My calloused hand lightly strokes his perfect forehead. Passes over his eyes. Encourages them to close. He turns toward me. He throws his free arm over my neck. The fingers on his thumb sucking hand flex, then release, brushing my face. Goddammit, get down cat. No more patting, it's nap time. You're hungry? You just ate. After nap.

His chest rises and fal-Get outta here cat! No, Pman, you can't go play. Because it's nap time. I pull him in tight and--I know you're hungry but--wait. Where are you going? No no, it's nap timeFUCK OFF CAT. I think maybe this time I'll join him in slumb-- Ok sweetie, what are you doing? Lets . . . you have poops? Let me check . . . you don't have poops, you liar. We warm each other under Wait where are you going? You're a scary monster? But, it's nap time.

Or not, I guess. Ok.

 

 AHHHH! A scary monster!

 

It was nice while it lasted.

 

Shoveling

It's fucking cold. It's cold and windy and the skcchh of the shovel is getting on my nerves. Look at her playing in the snow. Little yellow shovel. So cute.

"Yes honey. You are helping me shovel. Oops. Here's your shovel back. Ok honey. That's good, but why don't we throw the snow the other way. Not where we just shoveled. Yes it is hard work."

Skcchh.

"Are you getting cold yet, honey?  Are you cold? You're not? Yes I'll show you how to make a snow angel. Uhhnn. Ok. There you go. Not there though honey. Daddy has to shovel there."

Skcchh. Skcchh.

"What? Yes honey, I'll help you make a snow man. First you make the ball. Then you roll it in the snow. Right, til it gets bigger and bigger.

Sk--"Not there though, honey. Not there. Ok."

Skcchh. "You cold, honey? You are? Yeah, why don't we take you in."

Skcchh. Skcchh.

So much snow. 18.2 inches Heavy. Really heavy snow. I heard it on the radio.

Jesus. I'm fat. And old. How'd I get so old so young? I promise, after this, I am going to start eating healthy again.

This is really gonna hurt. Thank God I took my blood pressure pill. Ok just gotta . . Phew. Ok 20 shovel fulls and then rest.

I swear to god if someone looing came along right now I'd offer him 10 bucks just to do this snow bank.

We don't have any cash on us.

It hurts.

I should just go in the car and turn on the radio and have my heart attack.

I wonder what they're doing inside right now.

Gotta do it. Gotta at least do enough for us to be able to drive out.

I can't wait til the kids are old enough to do this.

I'd barter one of them for a snowblower right now.

I'm hungry.

Fucking Jesus.

I wish we bought a condo. I don't want to live somewhere warmer, I just don't want to shovel anymore.

Maybe I'll lay down and pull a Little Match Girl.

"Grandma. Your lap is so warm Grandma! So Waaarrrmm . . . uh. Heh."

How long have I been out here? It's still light out.

Ok. Fuck. Ok. Finally. Now just salt, sand, clean off the car.

I'll have to rustle up snacks when I get in.

I'm exhausted.

"Daddy, did you shovel the path for me?'

"Yup. Yes I did little girl."

"Thank you daddy."

"You're welcome baby girl. You hungry?"

 

 

 

Flop Sweat

Our pick-up and drop-off area--the one for my daughter's class at her pre-school-- is always cold, always windy; even on warm days. It's a corridor of concrete and chain link fence and aluminum siding. Squeezed between a large multi-family house and the school itself, sunlight is an afterthought.

We stand and wait in this little wind tunnel, making small talk with the mostly mom populated group.  I listen to the Peanut when she talks.  Note the names she mentions most often.  Match those names to the kids.  The kids to the parents.  

Playdate targets identified.  Gonna get our friendship on. 

As we wait for the Peanut in the afternoons, I hatch Operation Charming Bastards. The Pman is wildly handsome and a hell of an entertainer and I'm pretty personable, so I work the angles. Send the Pman out to flash his smile and do a funny little soft shoe as I lay down the friendly chitchat. 

It goes well. I really think it goes well. I think all I'll have to do is say the word "playdate" and the Peanut's social calendar'll fill up like her stocking on Christmas day.

I forgot one little thing:  My penis.