Daddy Daze » Fatherhood

Enter sandman

Dave — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 01:15:42 +0000

We live by the beach, and we’ve got a sandbox in the backyard, so the kids are around sand all of the time. Since we’d like to keep as much of the sand outside of the house as possible, we’ve taken the steps that help a coastal family survive a sandy summer.

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?

Baby it’s cold inside

Dave — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 21:49:33 +0000

I try to keep myself organized. Not “Martha” organized, but somewhere between her ideal and the aftermath of a nuclear detonation. This past weekend I was going through old photos (remember when “going through old photos” involved shoe boxes and rubber bands, not computers and hard drives?), which is a risky task. I invariably get distracted by the nostalgia of it all, and the next thing I know, four hours have passed and I’ve accomplished nothing.

And, wouldn’t you know — I paused when I found the shot you see above.

The picture was taken in December of 2005, on the first of three nights we spent without power, following a terrible wind and ice storm that tossed a pine tree onto my wife’s Nissan. Ah, New England. It’s so nice here.

Grace was just 2 years old at the time and William was an infant. The only candles we had were scented, so our dark, frigid house smelled powerfully of “Fresh Linen,” “Lilac,” and “Mountain Breeze” all at once.

“This must be what it’s like to visit a brothel in northern Alaska,” I told my wife. She didn’t think I was funny.

The house got very cold as soon as the sun went down. We stuffed the children into their entire winter wardrobes, and to quote Jean Shepard, Grace “looked like a tic that was about to pop.”

I fretted about the kids being uncomfortable (or worse), I obsessed about the food that was going bad, I worried that the pipes might burst. The darkness made me increasingly stir-crazy. And I couldn’t bear the uncertainty: How much longer would we be without power? An hour? A week?

‘Ol Dave was coming unhinged.

Staring at that photo of Grace shivering and chewing American Cheese slices by flashlight, I couldn’t help but think of the cold mornings of my own childhood.

Our house in Pennsylvania was heated by a coal furnace. The basement of our thin home had a dirt floor and stone walls, and even as a 9-year-old I had to stoop to avoid scraping the ceiling. At one end was a great blazing furnace that sat next to the “coal bin.” This was no more than a boarded-up corner of the room, filled to the top with apple-sized chunks of coal. A corkscrew device pulled coal out of the coal bin and into the furnace as needed. The spent ash fell into a steel “ash can” beneath the fire that had to be periodically swapped out for an empty one.

If there’s one thing coal fires like to do, it’s extinguish themselves. They’re the most suicidal of all fires. Some mornings I’d wake up and smell smoke, and I’d know my father was in that dank basement, trying to get a new fire going. In the kitchen, my sister would be wrapped in a blanket, perched on a chair in front of the oven, its door wide open and the heat blazing. Pots of water simmered on the stove top burners. I’d climb onto the empty chair that awaited me next to my sister.

My mother would call us to the kitchen sink one at a time, where she’d have us stand on a chair and lean in. She’d wash our hair with just the right blend of warm water from the stove and cold from the tap, and I’d listen to my own breathing in the sink while she scrubbed my soapy head. Then, with our hair washed and dried, we’d eat our Cap’n Crunch or Rice Krispies back in our stove-front seats.

Eventually, my father would return to the kitchen (the basement could only be accessed by first exiting the house, which made these winter morning surprises that much better), covered in soot and aggravation. The fire was lit and soon the house would be warm.

I was jolted from my memory by Grace’s voice. “Remember that, Daddy?” she said, pointing to the picture of herself with the flashlight.

“Yeah,” I said. “What a weekend.”

“That was fun,” she said.

Fun!?! I thought. I was a nervous wreck! I though you two were going to freeze to death! I was going bonkers in all that darkness!

“I like those flashlights,” she said, and then wandered off.

I guess I make a lot of assumptions as a parent. Not only about what the kids’ll want to eat on a given day or what games they’ll want to play, but also about how they process our shared experiences. I wonder if my father did the same.

I really loved those frosty mornings of my childhood — the soap smell and the swirling water; the blue flames in the oven and that hot, dry air on my face; my feet dangling above the cold linoleum. My father, I know for a fact, did not. It’s a funny thing.

And I still haven’t sorted my pictures.

The parenting guilt of Generation X

Dave — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 02:35:30 +0000

“Go outside and play.”

“But…”

“No ‘but.’ Go.”

I looked at my mother through the dirty screen door. She wore bright yellow elbow-length rubber gloves and a look of determination — “You are NOT coming back in this house.” I turned around and walked into the yard, defeated.

A few hours later, when my mother was again talking to me through the screen, the conversation was quite different.

“I said come in here now! It’s time to eat”

“No! I want to stay outside.”

“David, I am not kidding…”

Such were my childhood summers. I spent a lot of time outside so that my mother was able to get things done unburdened by a whining, needy kid.

Today, I feel guilty if I don’t spend every waking moment on the floor, exploiting every educational opportunity that presents itself. I recently read an article that described this phenomenon as a generational thing, more prevalent among parents in their thirties than previous generations.

Call it The Parenting Guilt of Generation X.

What’s going on, Gen X’ers? Is it the parenting shows on TV? The magazines? The repeated viewings of Reality Bites?

I don’t know when it happened, but at one point someone impressed upon me the notion that my kids’ development and education is all-important, and something that I should ensure at any cost — even my own happiness. “Parenting is about sacrifice,” is the mantra I’ve somehow gotten in my head. But how much?

My mother had no problem letting the kids play on their own, so why can’t I?

Anyway, 30-somethings, tell me I’m not alone. Do you struggle with this as well? Life was so much easier when we were wearing Dr. Martins and black T-shirts, listening to The Smiths, and sulking. Ah, the good old days.

Your father’s music

Dave — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 00:23:16 +0000

“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.

She clicks the radio on. “Another Saturday Night” by Sam Cooke floats through the speakers. “Ugh,” she says. “Your father’s music.” She shifts it into drive and hits the gas.

My father listened to the “oldies” station with a smile on his face. “Someday,” he’d tell us, “I’ll take the car to the car wash, drive through the spray and the brushes and when I come out on the other side … it’ll be 1963.”

“That’s an odd wish,” I’d say, but he wouldn’t answer. He was far away, lost in blissful memory.

My mother turns the corner and the icy windshield suddenly shimmers with sunlight. “I can’t see,” she says.

I roll down my window and stick my head outside. “Don’t worry, mom,” I say. “I can see. Keep going.”

“Are you sure?” she says, hitting the brake.

“Yeah,” I say. The frigid air makes my eyes water. “Just keep going straight ahead.”

The collision throws me hard against my seat belt. We hit a parked pickup truck.

“I thought you could see?” my mother says.

“I thought I could, too,” I say. Now the radio was playing “Put Your Head On My Shoulder,” and I was wishing for a magical car wash.

* * *

Last week, my wife and I took the kids to the playground. After three days of bickering in the house, we needed to get out.

We pulled out of the driveway and my wife turned on the radio. A Van Halen song blasted from the speakers.

“Jeeze, hon!” she shouted, turning the volume down. “Don’t leave it on like that.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“What was that?” Gracie asked from the back seat.

“Your father’s music,” My wife said.

“Someday Grace,” I told her, “I’ll go to the car wash ….”

Noogie and Sally C Cups

Noogie and Sally C Cups

Dave — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 00:27:38 +0000

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.

“No,” Grace said. “That’s Noogie’s rabbit!”

“What?” I said.

“That rabbit belongs to Noogie, not you! You put it back!” She was yelling and angry. “He’s right there and put his rabbit back.”

“Right where?” I said.

“There,” she said, pointing to the toddler-sized chenille easy chair in her room. The empty toddler-sized chenille easy chair.

Uh-oh.

“Is he there now?” I said.

“Well he’s not there right now,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, and left to find my wife.

“Are you aware of ‘Noogie?’” I said.

“What’s Noogie?”

“I think Grace has an imaginary friend.”

“Oh?”

I relayed the story, including the part about my impressive problem-solving skills, and asked if I should locate a child psychologist right then, or wait until morning. My wife, who is the rational one (and who has a master’s degree in early childhood education), assured me that it’s normal for 3-year-olds to have imaginary friends.

“But why ‘Noogie’?” I said. “I mean, it’s such a ridiculous word … ‘Noogie.’ What does that even mean? How’d she come up with that?”

“Who knows,” she said. “Kids like to make words up.”

Well that’s true. When my sister and I were very young, we spent our afternoons tormenting our mother while dad worked. She tried to keep us “on task” as often as possible, having us “help” with the dishes, color, use Play-Doh or make crafts like paper bag hand puppets, which we used to put on little shows. We even had recurring characters, including the infamous Sally See Comps.

I don’t remember who came up with the name but, like Grace, we were young enough to enjoy nonsensical words. My sister and I would make our own ornately decorated Sally See Comps puppets to be featured in our shows. For some reason, my mother hated Sally and demanded that we either change her name or stop making her altogether. This only ramped up Sally’s Awesomeness Level, and most of her shows revolved around the loud repetition of her name.

Years later we learned that mom thought we were saying “Sally C Cups.” I wish I could lay claim to such wit as a 6-year-old, but I’m afraid I can’t. To this day, I still snicker whenever I see a paper bag.

Maybe “Noogie” isn’t so bad.

School Daze

Dave — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 23:26:36 +0000

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.

Every preschool in the world has that kid who can’t separate from his parents. The kid with the striped shirt and uncombed hair who sobs and falls to the floor.

I was that kid. What a pleasure I must have been.

One day at home, my father told me, “I have something for you.” He pulled a half dollar out his pocket and asked, “Do you know what this is?”

“No,” I said.

“It’s a magic coin,” he told me. I had never seen one like it, so I decided that it must be true. “Here’s how it works. Keep it in your pocket, and whenever you feel scared or sad, you just rub the coin, and you’ll feel better.”

The next day I went to school with my magic coin. I clearly remember reaching into the pocket of my corduroys and rubbing John Kennedy’s face. The fact is, it worked. The coin made me remember my father’s kind words and attention. I also recall the day I handed it back and said, “I don’t need this anymore.”

Now it’s my turn to play magician. Last week was William’s start as a “Downstairs Boy,” or his second year of preschool. It’s been hit or miss. On Wednesday he was enthusiastic but that waned on Thursday and he spent Friday morning wailing. This week is up for grabs. For all I know, he’ll love every minute of it.

If not, I’m ready.

Where the mild things are

Dave — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 02:16:40 +0000

I’m the parent of that kid.

Do you know the kid who stares at his feet while everyone else sings at story hour? The one who won’t sit on Santa’s lap or acknowledge a seldom-seen relative? Do you know that kid? That one puttering in the sandbox while the other kids enjoy the bouncy castle? I know that kid.

He’s my son. And he wants to play soccer.

He doesn’t have the eye of the tiger. More like the cheekbones of a meerkat. So when #8 slipped into his jersey and doll-sized shin guards, dad was nervous.

“How much did this cost?” I asked my wife.

“Fifty dollars for eight weeks.”

“We could have just tossed two twenties and a ten into the fireplace. This will end poorly.”

“Try and be positive.”

“This will probably end poorly.”

The coach called them in to stretch. William sat in the semi-circle and reached for his toes. He reached for the sky. He lined up for a turn at kicking the ball. I skittered across the edge of the field, snapping pictures wildly, certain that the photo op would end soon. And abruptly. With pouting.

He ran and kicked, taking his “position” on the field. I’m felt optimistic. Just as I snapped the photo to the left, he walked off of the field. “I quit soccer,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, feeling strangely vindicated. “See?” I thought. “I knew it.”

“Everyone is faster than me,” he said.

“You’re doing awesome, William.” I said. “I saw you running up and down and getting some good kicks! Look, here comes the ball. Now, go out there and get it! Here it comes!”

He was still. Poof! The Devil of Disappointment appeared on my left shoulder. Zap! The Angel of Optimism on the other. “What did you expect?” said the Devil. “Another typical day with William. Get used to it.”

“Just hold on,” said the angel. “Give him a minute. Let him work it out. He’s almost there.”

Five seconds passed. Then ten.

William ran out onto the field.

“See?” said the angel.

He made two more trips to the sidelines, but always went back out onto the field. That night, I asked him for his favorite part of the day, as is part of our routine.

“Soccer” he said without hesitation.

Yeah, he’s a meerkat. But he’s the baddest meerkat you ever saw.

School Daze

Floor d’Oeuvres

Dave — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 01:55:09 +0000

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.

While Grace was pretty good at finding Floor d’Oeuvres in her younger days, William is a master. Like a shark that can detect a single drop of blood within the vast ocean, this kid can hear a Cheerio hit the floor from clear across the house. He immediately drops what he’s doing and zooms towards the wayward treat as quickly as his short, stubby legs will carry him.

Here’s an example. William and his mother were at the beach earlier in the week. At one point, she noticed that he had a warm, oily, sand-covered corner of cheese.He heard CHEESE hit SAND. This kid’s got a career in international espionage ahead of him.

So what happened to it? “I don’t know what ended up happening to the cheese,” my wife said. So if the whole spying thing doesn’t work out, he’ll at least be able to win a few bar bets.

Same planet, different worlds

Dave — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 04:17:17 +0000

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.

Once we got back home and I had put the groceries away, she repeated her request. I told her that I’d help her look, hoping that she’d lead me to some sort of clue. Soon we were searching the house for something that she couldn’t describe and I couldn’t imagine. I felt like Robert Langdon from The Da Vinci Code (minus the priceless art and exotic locales). The pursuit ended with her in disappointed tears and me in annoyed confusion.

Hours later, with the whole business forgotten, she shouted at the top of her lungs, “Here it is!” She came marching towards me with her thin arms thrust forward and her tiny fists clenching … Band-Aids.

Band-Aids are “…that toy you put on your knee.” Now you know. Grace and I live on the same planet, but different worlds.

The Parenthood Club

Dave — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 04:06:56 +0000

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.

He screamed at the front desk. He screamed in the locker room as Grace changed. He screamed poolside as we waited for Gracie’s teacher. He screamed in the hallway (they boot parents from the pool area during class). The Goldfish failed me, as he swatted them away. The toys onto the floor. We were pacing the hall when I spied a beautiful Pre-K classroom.

“Oh, look at the toys, William,” I said. He stopped crying. “Do you see those toys in there?” He looked through the window, snotty but quiet. Just then, a custodian opened the door, flicked on the lights and was walking into the classroom. I blurted out, “I’ll give you $100 to let me in there for half an hour.” He looked at me and said, “I’ll let you in for free.”

I put William down and he bolted from play area to play area, a look of ecstatic joy on his face. After thanking the custodian profusely and making a mental note to construct a candlelit altar in his honor at home, I said, “You have kids, don’t you?” He just grinned and said, “Two.”

It was as if we had revealed identical battle scars. Call it “The Fraternal Order of Parenthood.” In the end, I got a private half hour with William in a beautifully appointed preschool classroom, Grace had fun swimming and a deep understanding passed between me and a YMCA custodian.

I hope he didn’t mind the Goldfish in the hallway.