Baby it’s cold inside

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.

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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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Toy of the week: Pickin’ Time

You spent a couple hundred dollars on an iPhone or an iPod touch. Then you find yourself in the mall with Jr., pushing the obnoxious rental stroller. He’s got the look on his face that says he’s about to go Chernobyl. Do you hand over the iPhone? Well, what’s worse — a scratch on your precious or a red-faced meltdown in the middle of Baby Gap? Exactly.

Of course, you don’t want Jr. checking out the SI Swimsuit App [App Store link], so launch something appropriate. One of the best is The Iconfactory’s Pickin’ Time.

Forget that Pickin’ Time’s graphics are gorgeous. Forget that it takes seconds to learn or that the down-home music stays with you all day. None of that matters if the kids dislike it. Fortunately, kids love Pickin’ Time.

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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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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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