After undergraduate school, I lived in a basement apartment about the size and shape of a phone booth. At one end was a twin bed, and at the other end was a love seat. Next to the bed was a narrow, wooden crate. I kept my alarm clock on that shelf and my TV — an appliance I received as a pity loan — balanced on top. At the foot of the bed was a closet so shallow that the corners of the hangers bumped the back of the door.

Between the bed and the love seat was what I called the kitchen. A white enamel counter top followed the wall for about five feet before bending into an “L” and extending for another two feet. In the center was a sink about the size of a large dictionary. Next to that were two electric burners — a glorified hot plate.

Beneath the stove, just before the “L,” was a small refrigerator that may have been designed by Fischer-Price. Inside was a freezer about the size of a shoebox that sealed itself closed with ice every seven to ten days. Typically, people place things into a freezer for long-term storage. If I failed to eat my frozen goods quickly, I had to free them with a hammer.

I had no phone (I used a pay phone in town) and no car.

What I did have was food.

For first time, I alone was responsible for what I ate. In college I went to the cafeteria. Before that, I lived at home. So I started cooking. Each weekend, I’d grab my backpack, climb onto my bike and ride to the small grocery store about a mile away. With my haul strapped down with bungie cord, I’d ride home.

Combine 1/4 oz. 2 lbs. cremini mushrooms (halved if small, quartered if large); 1 onion halved and sliced thin; 2 tsp. olive oil; 1/4 rinsed and dried porcini mushrooms; 1 tsp. minced fresh rosemary; 1/4 tsp. salt in a large Dutch oven. Cover and cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are softened, about 10 minutes. Uncover, increase the heat to medium-high, and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until vegetables are slightly browned, 5-6 minutes longer.

At first, I prepared the simple foods I enjoy; chili, hot wings, fried chicken. The chili gave me food poisoning and the smell of greasy fried chicken was in the air for a week.

Elaborate cooking was difficult (with only two seven-inch electric burners, almost everything qualified as “elaborate”), but I still held dinner parties for my non-claustrophobic friends. One particular summer evening my girlfriend, her friend and my sister visited to eat lobsters. I bought several sticks of butter for dipping and a large bag of oyster crackers. I was very proud of the huge lobster pot I had bought just for the occasion and filled it 3/4 full of water, set it on a burner and turned up the heat.

Half an hour later, small bubbles had just started to form at the bottom of the pot, we had eaten all of the crackers (after dipping them in the melted butter) and my girlfriend suggested that we ask my landlord the caterer if we could use her “normal” stove to boil the lobsters, who had begun to show signs of hope and relief on their little faces.

Eventually, I returned to the foods I enjoyed on cozy Pennsylvania evenings: soft string beans in steaming cream of mushroom soup, topped with crunchy, fried onions; dry toast dipped in hot coffee for breakfast; elbow macaroni with butter and grated cheese; my grandmother’s creamy polenta with vegetables. With each plate I remembered not only how to prepare these dishes, but why.

Stir in 2 minced cloves of garlic and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add 12 ounces of spinach, one handful at a time, and cook until wilted. Stir in 2 cups of halved cherry tomatoes and cook until softened, about 2 minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Cover and take off the heat.

My mother made green bean casserole because her mother did, and maybe even her mother before her. The ingredients were inexpensive and could feed a hungry family. That’s all they had, and that’s what they used.

Meanwhile, bring 4 cups of water and 1/2 tsp. salt to a boil in a heavy-bottomed pan. Slowly add 1 cup coarsely ground cornmeal, whisking constantly.

Today, we eat these dishes because we ought to. We eat them to know where we came from, to acknowledge the sacrifices that our parents and our parents’ parents made to feed their children, their spouses, their friends. We dip our bread into simmering pots of pasta sauce to taste our family culture. We eat meatloaf sandwiches to remember the simple meals that nourished our forebearers. We sit at the table to honor our grandparents, our parents, ourselves and our children.

Bring to a simmer, stirring constantly. Reduce heat to low, cover and cook, stirring vigorously (be sure to stir the corners of the pot), until the polenta becomes soft and smooth, about 10-15 minutes. Off the heat, vigorously stir in 6 tbsp. of grated Parmesan cheese and 1/2 stick of butter, cut into 1/2 pieces. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Divide the polenta among 4 bowls. Cover it with the vegetable mixture and sprinkle on some additional cheese. Serve hot.

William stars at me from across the table, a steaming plate of creamy polenta with vegetables before him. “Why do I have to eat this?” he whines, crinkling his nose into a knot.

“Because that’s what we do,” I say.

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“That’s just a stick, honey,” I said. “Let’s see what else we can find.” She accepted my non-explanation and turned the page. I, however, was still thinking about that stick.

When we first suspected that my wife was pregnant, we got one of those over-the-counter pregnancy tests. I remember sitting on the bed while she was in the bathroom. I also remember floating on the ceiling and watching myself sitting on the bed, which I believe is what they call an “out-of-body experience.” She returned from the bathroom with the used test and a puzzled expression.

“That looks blue, right?” she asked, handing it to me.

“Well…yeah,” I said. “I mean, I think it does. Sure. Yes…right?”

Here were two grown people, one of whom holds a master’s degree, suddenly unsure if we had ever seen blue before.

“It’s not supposed to get bluer than that, is it?” I asked. She examined the box while I read the printed instructions. There had to be a color wheel or a Pantone chart or something that would tell us exactly what to look for: Robin’s Egg — Pregnant; Indigo — False Alarm; and Azure — Partly Cloudy with a 30 Percent Chance of Rain.

We bought three more tests from the drugstore ($20 each!). Later that evening, at my sister’s wedding reception, we were dancing with a roomful of people who had no idea that we had just left sixty dollars’ worth of Robin’s Egg Blue in a hotel bathroom.

When we were pregnant for the second time, my wife surprised me with a wrapped present. “Wow,” I said. “It’s amazing what you have to go through to serve divorce papers.”

“Just open it,” she said. Inside, there was a tiny blue jumper, hat and socks. William was on the way.

While I’ll never forget that deer-in-the-headlights moment in the hotel, I really enjoyed the thoughtful surprise that announced our second. Since then, I’ve heard of other women telling their husbands/partners/parents/in-laws, etc. in clever ways, such as hiding an ultrasound snapshot in a briefcase, or vomiting uncontrollably every morning for about a month. All of this has got me wondering: What’s your story? How did you break the news? Share your tale in the comment section below.

As Grace and I looked at the photos, I reflected on how lucky I am to have the two of them, how exciting it was to confirm my wife’s pregnancies and how, God willing, we’ll never, ever do that again.

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Others you toss down onto the floor in hopes that it’ll keep their pie holes sealed long enough to get dinner on the table.

Then there are those magical toys with near-hypnotic powers. They keep the kids engaged — appropriately engaged, not assaulting each other — for an hour or more. The next day, they’re still playing with it. And the next day. It’s a miracle, and in that moment you don’t care how much the damn thing cost.

This magnetic tile building set is one of those toys.

We “borrowed” this set from my wife’s classroom one weekend and the kids loved it. Convinced that it was the novelty that had them enthralled, we kept it around for a week. Their interest never waned.

My son, 5, builds all kinds of interesting and creative structures: Towers, castles, cubes, pyramids, houses for this action figures. My daughter, 6, builds by color and shape. They play cooperatively with them and extend the fun beyond simple construction. They hid things inside, knock them down and set up whole “towns” of brightly colored, plastic homes.

This thing meets all of my criteria: 1.) There’s no definite end, so play can go on and on; 2.) It can grow with the child, staying appropriate as their interests and skills change; 3.) it’s damn hard to break.

Yeah, a set is fifty bucks. But the kids will play with it for a long, long time, you can work lessons into it and finally, isn’t it worth it to go 60 minutes without playing referee?

Previous entries

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“Moms, don’t pay attention to the way Dad does things.”

Now let me make it very clear that this is NOT one of those “silly fumbling Daddy just can’t get the poopy diaper right” deals that seems to pass as comedy these days. I detest that nonsense and, frankly, find it insulting. However, it is true that my wife and I do certain things differently. For example:

• I have washed my son off with the sprayer in the kitchen sink. I’m pretty sure my wife has not.
• I told Grace that sticking raspberries on the ends of her fingers is “funny.” I think “rude” was the word my wife used.

• I’ve noted that I think it’s a riot when Grace’s  poo-poo “looks like tortellini,” and encourage her to compare it to other nouns in her world: Animals, toys, even Dora the Explorer.

The biggest discrepancy is hair. I suck at girl hair. I can pull it up into some semblance of a ponytail, but there are always wispy stragglers waving about her face. I defend my “daddy-do,” as it’s called, as “natural-looking.”

My wife, on the other hand, brushes that mop until it gleams and manages to get all of Grace’s hair into the elastic through what I suspect is a miracle. Plus, once up, her hair stays in place all day. It’s really something to see.

Dress is another issue. William has a T-shirt that I absolutely love to put on him. It says “For Sale: $75 or best offer.” It’s a hit at story hour and really shocks the blue hairs at the grocery store. My preferred outfit for Grace is a New England Patriots jersey and some jeans. My wife prefers to, “dress her like a girl.” She is cute in a dress, but does she really need to look like Holly Hobby every day?

Finally, let’s talk about the nighttime routine. I admit that I’m a sucker. Our routine is, roughly:
• jammies
• teeth
• books
• kiss and hug
• bed

Grace is extremely skilled at suckering me into “just one more book.” She blinks those little Bambi eyes and next thing I know we’re on book number seven. I emerge from the room wiped, and my wife is smirking on the couch. “How many books did you read tonight, dear?”

“Three,” I say.

“Liar,” she says. “You’re a sucker.”

Yeah, I probably am.  But the way I figure it, that makes up for everything else.

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First of all, the outdoor shower is up and running to rinse the kids. As soon as we get home it’s swimsuits off and under the shower. Also, the clothesline has been strung up for the swimsuits and Strawberry Shortcake beach towels (as an aside, nothing says “Manhood” like pinning Strawberry Shortcake beach towels and princess swimsuits to a clothesline). I’ve also mounted several hooks to the ceiling of the tool shed to hang bags of toys, beach chairs and so on.

It sounds like we’re well prepared, but Bill still manages to smuggle sand into the house.

In his butt.

The kid eats sand. I don’t mean a few stray grains make their way into his mouth, I mean he’s shoving it in like it’s cotton candy. I can only guess that it’s salty, and that’s what he likes. Or maybe dried seaweed and stray hermit crab parts make quite a nice seafood salad. Either way, we tell him, “No, William, we don’t eat sand,” to which he grins and shoves sand into his mouth. I’m fairly certain I don’t have to tell you what happens at diaper-changing time.

I’ve been on Google researching “eating sand” (because I’ve convinced myself there’s something “wrong” with him), and it seems that it’s rather common and eventually goes away.

What has your experience been, dear readers? Do your kids treat the beach or sandbox as their personal buffet?

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Years later my aunt brought me to an Indy Car race. I saw Mario Andretti’s car up close, stuffed myself with junk food and then threw it all up again on the way home.

As the years went on my sisters and I buried three dogs, two cats, and a brown rabbit named Rainbow. These are the things that a child remembers: Feeling special with dad; a fun outing with a favorite aunt; burying the family pet.

Last week Grace piped up from the car seat. “Dad, remember when you played that funny game where you put my green coat on your head and marched up and down the hallway? That was funny.”

“Yeah,” I said, and the weight of what happened in that instant was suddenly overwhelming.

“Dear God,” I thought. “I’m responsible for their childhood memories.”

I started to do the math. “Okay,” I thought. “William is only four ….” I searched for the oldest files in my mind — what I could recall from being 4. I clearly remember the boy who ate all the purple crayons — and ONLY the purple crayons — in kindergarten. I must have been 4 or 5 years old at the time, which means that William is in The Danger Zone: he might recall what I do from here on out. I felt a mild rising panic as I proceeded to try to identify any “standout” events from the past year.

There was the night I inadvertently dropped the F-bomb in front of him (not that there’s anything wrong with that), which he was thrilled to repeat. I’ve been known to let him paint shoulder-length “gloves” on himself, but only for formal occasions. I’m still regretting the night I laughed hysterically as he compared his poo to tortellini.

I was still obsessing over all of this as I put the kids to bed. Usually, my wife tucks William in, sings his lullabies, and asks about his favorite part of the day. But since she was stuck at a PTA meeting, I had to do it. I followed William into his room. He got into bed and I turned out the light.

“Mom’s not here,” I said, “so I’ll sing your lullabies tonight. What songs does mommy sing?”

“She sings that mommy one,” He answered.

“Well, what’s it called?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just a mommy one.”

I could see that I was on a dead-end street, so I changed tactics. “Well, I know ‘Rainbow Connection,’” I said. “Would you like me to sing that?” He nodded, and I sang.

When I finished, he said, “Okay, that’s the Daddy Lullaby.”

I smiled, and asked him, “So what was your favorite part of the day?”

He said, “Your lullaby.”

It ain’t pulling the guts from a fish, but it’s a start.

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