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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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?

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

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“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.

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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.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “Daddies know how to do this.” In fact, the mommies are snickering at me. I see them from the corner of my eye. “Cover your eyes. This is going to go all over the place.”

She places her hands over her eyes and I wave the can around her head as if I’m sealing a lawn chair with Rustoleum or applying insect repellent. I press my hands on her sticky head and form a crisp shell. “All right, that’s good,” I say. “Now lips.”

I open a tube of lipstick for the first time in my life. “OK, um. Look up at the ceiling.”

“Why?” she asks. It’s a good question, and I don’t have an answer.

“So I can see what I’m doing.”

I grab her chin and start. I’m not applying lipstick so much drawing on her mouth. But, it doesn’t look too bad. It’s just stage makeup, I think. She’s supposed to be … bold. Just to amuse myself, I draw some Amy Winehouse-style flourishes around her eyes, which she seems to enjoy.

“Can I go now?” she asks, and I nod. She joins the running girls, burning off some nervous energy.

This scene isn’t completely foreign to me. I recall my sister’s ballet classes, and her huge instructor, Mr. Ramov. Mr. Ramov carried a wooden walking stick at all times, which he’d knock on the floor to get the girls’ attention. He knocked it at me, too.

Knock, knock, knock, he’d come walking towards my mother and me on the hard, wooden floor.

“Ve don’t have any boys,” he said in a heavy Russian accent. “Vhy von’t you come and dance vis us?”

Knock, knock, knock.

I stared up at him. His was the first foreign accent I had ever heard. Also, I had never known anyone carry a stick around all day long. He terrified me.

“I don’t think he’s a dancer,” my mother said, rescuing me. She put a hand on my hair.

“Vell,” said Mr. Ramov. “Ve always need boys,” and walked away.

Knock, knock, knock.

A women came into the room carrying a clipboard. “Soldiers, mice and sweets!” she announced. “We need you now.”

“That’s us, daddy,” Grace says.

“Yep, let’s go,” I say, and we walk up to the wings. Grace and the girls receive their cue and dance out onto the stage.

Clara and the nutcracker watch as each girl dances in turn. Grace does a modest spin and curtsy, and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

Just like that, it’s over. We’re back downstairs in the beehive, waiting for the final bows. When the time comes, the snow gently falls from above and the girls can’t resist running around like lunatics. Grace drops to the floor and makes a snow angel.

Can dad prep a 6-year-old to dance in “The Nutcracker?” Oh, yes he can.

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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.

My parents would stand at the end of the block and wait while we performed from house to house. We had to sing, dance, tell jokes, or do something more than knock. One year that I went as Jimmy Carter and a friend was Ronald Regan. We went from house to house performing the mini “debate” we had worked out. Boy, I was a dork.

By comparison, my own kids’ Halloween is dull. Last year, Grace wore a Snow White dress that she already owns. Paired with her red ruby slippers and blond hair, she was a mish-mash of fictional characters (I called her Snow White in Oz). William wore an Old Navy dog costume that was just a glorified coat and hat.

Strangest of all is the trick-or-treating. We went to Main Street around 4:00. The shopkeepers “decorated” (if a skull Xeroxed to orange paper counts as a decoration) and handed out candy to the kids. The whole thing is profoundly strange. First, we were out during the day! What the hell? Secondly, we visited stores, not people’s homes. Nothing says “Halloween” like a bag of Twizzlers from the head shop. However, Main Street was packed with kids and their families, so I guess we aren’t the only strange ones.

We got home around 7:00, and that’s when I performed the Saddest Part Of Halloween. Gracie has a peanut allergy, which means I must divide her loot into two piles: “Edible” and “Lethal” (see above). It’s sad to deny her a portion of her candy, but even sadder to slam an EpiPen into her leg and rush to the ER.

So, that’s our Halloween. Different than I remember, but still fun. Mostly.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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