Why do I have to eat this?

Yesterday, I tried to live blog cooking with William on Daddy Daze’s Facebook fan page (you’re a fan, right?). It didn’t really work because Facebook is a pain in the ass. But that’s not important. What’s important is why I did it: It’s our responsibility, our duty to make the dishes we grew up with, to honor the women who prepared them and to teach our own children to do the same. By eating green bean casserole, polenta and spinach and chicken with mushroom sauce we show our respect for the hard-working women who fed a hungry family on a razor thin budget.

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.

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Toy of the Week: Magnetic tile building set

Buying toys for kids is hit-or-miss. Often times you’ll labor over a decision to buy. “Will she really like this? Is it worth fifty bucks? OH MY GOD DID I JUST CONSIDER SPENDING FIFTY BUCKS ON A TOY FOR THAT INGRATE?”

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.

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Enter sandman

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.

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Dentist trip

1st dentist trip and not happy about it. Click to view full photo. More daily pics.

The parenting guilt of Generation X

“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.

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Me, Grace and Herr Drosselmeyer

I’m in a room brimming with estrogen. The air smells like Aqua Net, makeup and rented tutus. Quick flashes of pink, sequins and tulle buzz in my peripheral vision. Tiny, sparkling girls run in all directions.

I feel like an interloper in this frenzied beehive of femininity. Can daddy prep his little girl to dance in “The Nutcracker” all by himself?

I’m shaking a huge can of hair spray. “Grace, look at me,” I say. “I just need to flatten your hair down.”

“Maybe a mommy can do it,” she says, eyeing the women in the room.

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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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Where the mild things are