Your father’s music

“David, we’re late,” my mother says, stuffing me into cold weather clothes. Before I can reply she’s whirling around the kitchen grabbing lunchboxes, backpacks and her own coat and hat with the dexterity of a quick-change artist. She opens the door and the cold air hits us like a board.

“Into the Embarras-mobile,” she says. “Go.”

The Embarras-mobile was an ocean blue Ford Galaxy 500 with no hubcaps, fist-sized rust holes and discolored patches of unsanded Bond-O. It was huge — with a hood like a helipad and bench seats half a mile long.

I climb in. The windshield is covered by a thin sheet of ice. My mother cranks the defroster and peers through a shoebox-sized hole in the frost.

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The saddest part of Halloween

Next month is October, and that means Halloween, one of my favorite holidays. When I was young, my aunt decorated her house like the set of a Vincent Price movie. She wore an elaborate witch costume and greeted kids in character, cackling and over-acting. I don’t know what was more fun: anticipating how she’d outdo the previous year or watching the unsuspecting kids poop themselves when she threw open the door.

When I say she gave out candy, I mean the good stuff. No “Fun Size” candy bars, no generic gum, no popcorn balls and no freaking apples. I’m talking about the full-sized Snickers and Bazooka Joe. Primo.

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Noogie and Sally C Cups

The following is a throwback post from my days blogging for Parenting Magazine, re-published here for posterity’s sake. And because it’s funny.

The kids have invented a game called The Door Game. It goes like this:

Grace goes into her bedroom and closes the door while William stands in the hall on the opposite side. Then Grace throws the door open. William laughs hysterically and then pulls it shut, which causes Gracie to laugh hysterically. She then throws the door open again just as William runs out of the way.

The game usually ends with purple fingers and/or tender feet that have been bashed by the door. Despite these deterrents, as well as my own stern-voiced requests to end The Door Game once and for all, they continue to play.

Hanging from the doorknob is a pitiful rabbit holding what is essentially an arch of piano wire over its head like a mafia hitman. Since William can’t reach the doorknob, he uses the rabbit to shut the door. Being a highly intelligent problem-solver, I deduced that removing the rabbit would end The Door Game.

I slipped it off of the doorknob.

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School Daze

Earlier this week, I brought two quarters to the bank and asked the teller to exchange them for a half dollar. I took the coin and walked back to the car, remembering when I was just 4 years old.

I have scattered memories from preschool, like the little hut with grapes and vines on the ceiling. I also remember napping on a braided rug and the musty smell of it. One time we made some sort of potato concoction on a hotplate like a college student would use. My friend Peter and I cowed those things down while sitting crossed-legged on carpet squares. I also remember the stone-floored lobby. But mostly I remember crying.

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Five things I miss about babyhood

Last weekend I visited friends who are pregnant with their first. It was fun to hear the excitement and anticipation in their voices. Though I must admit, I had to stifle laughter when dad-to-be said, “I’m not worried about it at all. I mean, my life’s not going to change….”

You just keep telling yourself that.

Amid stories about Babies R Us and some really good pizza, I started to think about all of the “baby things” that my kids don’t do anymore. While I don’t miss changing diapers at 3:00 in the morning, there are several things I do miss. They should tell me, “Dad, this is the last time I’m going to do this. Pay attention, because this is it. Ready?”

Here’s my list of five things I miss about babyhood.

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Where the mild things are

Floor d’Oeuvres

The following is a throwback post from my days blogging for Parenting Magazine, re-published here for posterity’s sake.

Earlier today, I was playing “Pretty, Pretty Princess” on the floor with Gracie (I was TOTALLY winning. I had two earrings, a necklace and a ring. She only had two necklaces) when William walked into the room, chewing.

“What is William eating?” I called.

“He’s eating something?” my wife answered from another room.

“Yeah,” I said. “He just walked in here chewing.”

“What does he have?”

“Don’t know,” I said, inspecting his empty mouth. “It’s gone now.”

No worries. It was just what we’ve come to call Floor d’Oeuvres.

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Kitchen or kids?

Kitchen or kids?

It’s the proposition that follows dinner in our house. It basically means, “Do you want to clean up the post-dinner mess or kick-start the kids’ PM routine?” Don’t jump too quickly. There is no easy answer.

Answering “kitchen” could mean scrubbing a mountain of dishes and/or pots and pans, plus cutlery, the counter tops, the table and so on. With some luck, the dishwasher will actually be empty (a rarity), the trash can won’t be overflowing (hasn’t happened yet) and the evening’s “chef” would have tidied up while cooking (a bona-fide miracle).

Selecting “kids” is even riskier.

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Same planet, different worlds

I like to think that I have a handle on the 3-year-old language. “Doesn’t your three-year-old speak English?” you ask. Well yes, but she uses the toddler dialect. Here’s an example.

Earlier today, we were at the grocery store picking up diapers and milk. On the way home, Grace announced that she wants to play with “…that toy” when we got home. “Which toy is that?” I ask her. “That toy you put on your knee,” she answered.

My mind set to work on the problem. “Grace,” I said, “What is the toy that you put on your knee?” “You know that toy,” she said, laughing dismissively at what must have been a joke.

“Oh, no, I sure don’t,” I thought.

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The Parenthood Club

Earlier this week, I took the kids to the YMCA for Gracie’s swimming lesson. In preparation, I packed my travel bag with Goldfish crackers and a few toys, meant to occupy William while we waited.

Everything was going well until we walked in the door. William freaked. I’m talking about the red-faced, fist-clenched, curled-toes howl that makes onlookers think “Oh, look, here comes the world’s worst father, evidenced by his own son’s five-alarm wail.”

I’ve got a theory about William’s odd reaction. It seems he only does this when we’re in commercial buildings that have a receptionist area. Call me crazy, but I’m sure he believes were at the pediatrician’s office.

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