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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“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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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.

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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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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.

At launch, a friendly rabbit family waves hello and prompts your kid to choose between single player or multiplayer mode. In single player mode, he’s shown a piece of fruit or vegetable. Once play begins, the rabbit tosses a bunch of produce into the air. Jr.’s job is touch his target item. As he moves along, the number of items increases and the background color changes (tricky when it’s the same color as the target). The clock ticks away and at the end he’ll see how many he’s gathered (hint: flip the iPhone/iPod around at the end).

In multi-player mode, each player (up to 4) selects a piece of fruit or a veggie. The rabbit tosses them up in random order, and the object is to be quick enough to tap your item. Or, if Jr.’s well-off friends are around, they can each play with their own iPhones or touches.

It’s a bit memory, a bit beat-the-clock and a whole lot of reaction time. The best part is Pickin’ Time isn’t a game with a definite end. Sure, a session ends, but you can always restart with another target item and try to beat your best score.

In Daddy Daze’s Official Toddler Testing, Pickin’ Time is a winner. The kids get excited, laugh and have fun, which gives me a few minutes of peace in the grocery store. Spend $1.99 [App Store link] for a toy that does all that? You better believe it.

[View with PicLens]

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“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 ….”

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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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